I wrote a published, erstwhile obituary for Ted that highlighted the romance we have with life, of the remarkable suffused with looking back to remember, to reconstruct the vanished as an image and in return I received an unexpected letter from his widow that thanked me for recognizing what she saw through him as a painter of images. A sense held in the heart that is inexpressible in the historical world and yet plays against it as one writer \ photographer said.."straight and true"
What is left unsaid speaks louder than words. The painting at the top of this post speaks to me of steel and velvet, of raw mornings at dawn with the outposts of machinery set in motion to pause at the center of a universe no one can describe.
Years ago I sent a letter to a Mrs DeHartman, the author of "Our Life With Mr Gurdjieff", a tale she finished composing after her husband had passed away that recounted a journey perilous over the Caucasus Mountains, wedged between the White and Red Armies of the Russian Revolution.
What touched me was her inscription at the beginning.."I write this for you so you will not forget.."
The onset of another journey was in her reply.
What remains in the traces unencumbered by words often strikes me as miraculous and confounding at once as a poetry that all and no one in particular is the author of..no signature in the corner, no copyright and no attributions required. It is, was and will be between the lines.