Magic...

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Have you ever sat at symphony to hear the counter melody building from below... at first it's subtly low but recurring while the primary theme soars on the highest strings - until you're stirred and moved. But no, the left hand becomes insistent, growing - a fury blowing out the lacy harmonics of the violins and violas. It bursts through from below - and... and overwhelms all in its volume and unsettling, unresolvable, minor key. It storms its way through everything in harmonics that irritate... growling to a crescendo... dominating...

Then the disruptive figure in the bass falls silent, and the sweet romantic chords regain your attention... your spirit, your soul.

I have a visual obsession with counterpoint. Some have called it operatic. It comes out, more often than not, in my signature skies. And yet skies are so mystical while what's below them is unrelated fact. To believe that the heavens and earth are in cahoots is to believe in magic. But so frequently they form a stormy foreboding metaphor in my images. They seem to be as much a part of my visual voice as the disruptive symphonic bass line is to symphony.

Interesting how much we reveal about ourselves in a simple sunrise snapshot of a listing cottage atop a sand dune overlooking Cape Cod Bay. Are these clichés? Do you see this image and go, "Omagawd Ted, not more snarling clouds. Enough already!" Is there more to discover in this relationship, or has it been mined now for all its worth? Is it time for this disruptive figure in my bass to fall silent?

Gotta think on that.... (Grows quiet: peers at monitor sitting quietly rubbing his beard). "Hmmmmmmmm..."