We Are Still


We Are Still

  • Original digital photograph
  • Premium thick-wrapped 20" x 30" x 1.5" canvas print
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Growing up in Michigan has given me the opportunity to observe and interact with deer. They are animals which you will rarely find if you are looking, rather, they seem to be present the moment you release your wanting of them. I've wrestled with the dichotomy of shooting with both rifles and cameras, as both are permitted. Although the trophy never spoke to me, that our land was abundant with life to sustain life always held reverence within me. I dare not pass judgement on the hunter, and rather empathize with the animals, the deer being one of the most passive and powerful Nature offers. They are as cautious as you are, and without your guard, they will graze the grounds beside you.

We Are Still was composed in a hidden field off a hidden trail, and is one of my favorite places to visit. Sometimes the early evening will reveal deer walking through the tall grass, often only showing their white tails as the exit in the distance. It stands as a reminder that patience is rewarded outdoors. The more still you are, the more you will experience. No poetry better describes my posture.

The Tables Turned
—  Williams Wordworth —
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; 
Or surely you'll grow double: 
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; 
Why all this toil and trouble? 
The sun above the mountain's head, 
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread, 
His first sweet evening yellow. 
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: 
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 
How sweet his music! on my life, 
There's more of wisdom in it. 
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! 
He, too, is no mean preacher: 
Come forth into the light of things, 
Let Nature be your teacher. 
She has a world of ready wealth, 
Our minds and hearts to bless— 
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can. 
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— 
We murder to dissect. 
Enough of Science and of Art; 
Close up those barren leaves; 
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.