Way , way back to the original post . . . .
Murray, I think you have started a potentially interesting topic, and I don't think it's about the lighter matters of what materials to use, or what to shoot anymore. I think it's about a life passage, and as such might possibly be exempt from the charge of navel gazing. I have little or no respect for my own self-indulgence anymore. If I thought my current long dry-spell were self-indulgent, I'd kick myself in the, er, ass, so to speak.
This "Long dark Walk" has a well-documented history in the monastic traditions. There it is called the "Dark Night of the Soul". I thought I had gone through that with my divorce and some serious life changes about 16 years ago, but now I see I was just "growing up" back then. The dry spell I'm in now doesn't have a simple "go out and shoot what makes you excited" solution. The questioning is much more profound this time.
I'm 53, which is still just a punk kid to some of our members, and just boringly middle-aged to others. But it's safe to say I'm past the half-way point, and the old philosophical musings are starting to get, well, dark. I found photography about 25 years ago, and it was (and to some extent still is) the only thing I had ever gone after that I felt I "owned". I loved it like a kid at Christmas, like falling in love in high school. You guys know what I mean. I read every goddam book in the public library about B&W photography. (They still had libraries back then). Every new box of Super XX or pack of paper was like some holy icon.
And now I'm going deeper and deeper into a sense of the futility of making little monochrome images on pieces of paper in a dark stinky room. Beyond that, it is a questioning of how I could lose the fire, and what could replace it? And I guess that is what this passage is all about -- you either come out the other end with a renewed passion, or you fade out of it altogether. Maybe it's a test of resolve, maybe it's the fear of death - waiting out there in the woods, ready to take everything I love away.
Again, this ain't self-pity. This is a genuine hole into which I have fallen, and I know damn well it's up to me to get out all by myself. I don't think the author who coined the term Long Dark Walk was looking for sympathy. I think he was documenting a phenomenon all artists go through at some point.
Would Mozart have continued producing such brilliant work had he lived until 80? Does anyone think Ansel Adams made a truly breathtaking image after about 1950? Maybe this thing is a winnowing process, and my work will return with real depth and maturity. And maybe I'll take up pottery instead.