Grounded: The Art of Looking Down (Part 3)

More in my ongoing series of taking offbeat pictures of my feet. It has become an interesting reflection on the places I have been.

Matt and I during our visit to the Maitland Art Center. It was drizzling and we stopped to admire a blooming patch of wild mushrooms.

This photo was taken after working in the DRIP warehouse. I was carrying a can of black paint and dropped it over my foot. The contents spilled over my shoe and covered the floor. After the cleanup I realized that the paint and soaked completely through my socks. 

A brief moment of piece. This was taken before DRIP's big show at Isleworth Golf and Country Club. I had stopped at Dandelion Tea for lunch before I set out start the show. I put my feet up on the chair across from me, took a deep breath, and centered myself for a beautifully crazy day.

This photo was taken during my trip to Virginia. My friend Laura and I went to the Rappahannock River to explore. I dipped my feet in and enjoyed the contrast of minty toenails against the muted pebbles.  Something about being in the wilderness just makes you feel refreshed. 

This photo was taken while I was working with John building part of a DRIP set. I was holding up the frame when I noticed the composition of tools arranged on the concrete.

This is a photo of my roommate and I with her new puppy Lexi. We took her to the Fleet Peeples Dog Park to romp around. Such a cute dog, although we joke that she will most likely grow into a wolf. 

This was taken in my parent's pool when I came home for Father's Day. My sister Jenny and her boyfriend were casually floating around in the water. I waited for the perfect moment as they drifted by to take this shot. 

The Workshop Table

From time to time I help John create DRIP props at his warehouse downtown. On this particular day we were working in the parking lot and had his tools set up on a small wooden table. After a while it began to rain and we rushed to move everything inside. Despite the chaotic moment I became fixated on the table.

Marbled wood overlaid with crystal beads of rain. Organically out of place with all the dark metal and lifeless tarp hanging over the makeshift walls of the rental unit. 

John laughed as he saw me take a photograph of his table. I'm sure that to him it was just a simple surface, devoid of anything except a mess that needed to be cleaned. Through my eyes it looked completely different. 

Cast with the warming light from above it became an endless glossy field of texture. I wanted to run my thirsty fingers across the stippled grain; smearing droplets as though they were paint on a canvas blank with potential. Breathe in deeply as I destroy beauty in order to experience it. The photograph of this instant remains that tantalizing moment before you just give in. 

The Drum Circle

I came to the drum circle not knowing what to expect.

As I moved timidly toward the lot I could hear the steady pace of the drums grow louder. They were calling me out of the dark and pulling me closer to common ground.

Light from the flames flashed across the faces and rhythmic hands of the drummers closest to the center. Belly dancers moved hypnotically; they struck lightning to the rolling thunder of the drums. The fire rose, a hungry demon to lick the night.

For a moment I sit back and watch; breathe deeply and take it all in. I wonder how many times throughout history have small groups gathered around fires. How much of our humanity is tied to moments like this?

I've seen anthropology exhibits before. I've walked through the hushed rooms and I have gazed upon the skulls. But history is not quiet. We are so much more than bones.

Before cities, before agriculture, before written language; what did we share? Lost in darkness surrounded by beasts we huddled together. We used our hands to pound out noise that would become our identity. This scene, so prevalent throughout our history, is something most of us do not experience today.

I sit on the edge of the Drum Circle. The dancers feed off the steady pulse that fills the air. I remember the tattoo on my back. Six hands representing my family resembling the handprints left on cave walls by our ancestors. Another reminder of how small gaps in time can be. Now those hands seem to push me forward. I can't stand still anymore. I move into the circle and begin to dance. I want to be part of history.