It's strange when you read your friend's book. Much more so when it's a book of poetry. Especially when all those poetry used to come into your mailbox. It's weird, not like reading a diary, but more like reading a blog - that is, if you discount all those written by kiddies that don't seem to go anywhere or say anything - it's like catching up on what you've missed in his life, what's happened thus far, except... except it's printed in a book.

So makes me to think how much like a book blogs are, and how some people get printed and others don't. But even stranger that I'd use a new invention as an analogy for something that's been around for so long - I think poetry and blogs have pretty much in common - in that how little fragments make up the whole person that we are. Only that poetry is much more matured, much more artful in its ability to put more contemplation into the same number of words, and much more elegant when it starts to deceive.

Which brings me to the same conclusion that Art is whatever you deem worthy to be called Art. No, don't get me wrong - I'm not putting forth a recursive definition; maybe I should say that Art, to me, is whatever you deem worthy of contemplation, of meditation - and have such labelled as Art. Which I think is exactly what photography does. It's the promise of having a depth beyond the surface, the promise that says, "chew on this, you'll learn something here". And that, to me, sets the artistic eye apart from the scientific eye. So, what does the scientifiy eye say? Ah, that would have made a separate post.