anghara (anghara) wrote,
anghara
anghara

So, this photo show. You can't make it? Let me bring it to you....

Every one of my photos in the show that I'm currently part of has a story. And PEOPLE ARE STOPPING TO READ THOSE TALES as they pause by the photos. This is wonderful to see.

Back at the Artist Reception, last Sunday, a computer savvy visitor friend basically said, "Have you thought about putting these images and their stories into aa booklet or an ebook? I can help!"

So, with that help, I can now announce that the Books Are Here.

They are available, currently, in PDF and EPUB formats (but I will probably be adding Kindle versions soon...) - so here are your current options.

As the button below will tell you if you toggle the fold-down menu, you can do one of three things.

You can order the physical, printed copy of the book which I can print off here, perhaps even sign if you want it thus, and then mail to you through the good graces of the post office. You get a printed, colour booklet to hold in your own two hands and flip through in real-time at your leisure. All the photos and the stories are included.

You can order, for a slightly cheaper price, the thing as a PDF file which I can email to you, and you can do your own printing at home if you so desire - or you can view the PDF file on a display device of your choice.

Or you can order, for a slightly HIGHER price, a copy of the PDF file (for possible printing and physical viewing) and a copy as an ebook (currently, as I said, EPUB, but working on more...) to be viewed on, perhaps, your iPad or similar device.

(Also, BTW, if you get the book and fall in love with a particular photo, they're all available for purchase as prints - email me for details...)

Here's the Buy Button with those options:




options!






And now, just to give you a hint of what's inside and to

Almost Perfect

“Almost perfect”
“But there is a bug.”
“And so…?”
“It isn’t perfect. It isn’t flawless. There is this thing, right there, and it mars it…”
“It mars it? In what way does it harm true beauty?”
“Look. There is a bug.”
“Very small. Tiny. Almost invisible.”
“But it’s there. And I can’t see past it.”
“And if it wasn’t there?”
“Then the flower would be perfect.”
“And what would you measure that perfection against…?”
“Perfect just is – you don’t have to compare…”
“But without that tiny, tiny flaw – what would you find to focus your gaze on? And how would you know that what you saw was truly without flaw, like you can see that this flower is, behind the bug? Look, and learn well. A tiny flaw sometimes only serves to make the unbearably perfect something that it is possible for us to actually see.”

the Heart of the Flower

“The heart of the flower”
Most of the rest, standing around her, were still tight and half-furled, the waxy petals folded protectively around one another, demure, coy, Victorian ladies making sure their gowns did not reveal too much ankle, gloved and buttoned so that barely any skin showed to tempt a stray eye.
One or two were teetering on the verge, almost fallen women but not quite there yet, clinging to gentility, still keeping the shape although it was loose and blowsy, a woman lounging back in a half-made bed with laces untied so that someone stepping softly into the room could see the soft rise and fall of the curve of her breast.
And then there was one. HER. The one with the petals who had fallen open, whose secret heart was exposed, out there for all to see, naked and vulnerable.
And you looked upon her, and felt pity, and sorrow, and pride. Because there are times that you were that flower. And you hoped people would be kind.

Memory of Windmills

“The memory of windmills”
“Do you see it?”
It was hard to miss, really, the windmill resting picturesquely in the midst of the tulip fields, but it was clear that the old man who had whispered those words was seeing something that wasn’t quite the same thing that I was looking at.
“Yes,” I said carefully. And waited.
He heard my silence and turned his face to mine – and his expression was strange, a smile barely tugging up the corners of his mouth but his eyes filled with tears.
“You are young,” he said, reaching out to pat my hand with his own gnarled and twisted fingers. “You will understand. The day will come, for you too, when you remember who you used to be. Who we all were, when our passions were storms and the windmill wings whirled and whirled in the bright air. Look now, and feel now, and store it all up, and some day you too will remember.”
“Remember what?” I asked, mystified.
The smile broadened, and one of those tears broke free from his eye and ran down the wrinkled leathery skin of his cheek.
“Remember,” he said, “when the day has long settled into night that once you, too, were Don Quixote.”

The World Below

“The world below”
“Oh look,” one of them said, “look. Is it us?”
And every flower bent its lovely head, and there in the puddle at their foot, there they all were, nodding back, cool bright beauty gazing straight back at them, straight out of the brown muddy water.
“They are more beautiful than us,” said some, and hid their faces in shame, and did not look again.
“They are the same as us!” some said, and did not know what to do, and whether to accept their mirror image as their equal and their friend and their brother or to close up their petals and pretend that they had never seen anything at all.
“They are more glorious than us! More perfect! Better! They are gods!” some cried out, and yearned towards that other, and drowned in the mud.
And in the World Below, the reflections looked up and said nothing at all one way or the other…



Come look at this wonderful world of ours with me, through a lens on my camera, through the words that the pictures inspired. Come walk through the flowers with me.
Tags: photo show
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