“A one-eyed man is able to see,
a lame man is able to tread.”
I-Ching
Naming a lake “Eden” sort of raises the stakes,
don’t you think? Though that may have been the point
at Black Mountain, where the men and women who arrived
came ready to work. Rice with his Socratic attacks on placidity,
Albers’ to make open the eyes, and Olson’s all-night rants
(with breaks to frequent the local tavern). Heaven above,
the lake below, the I-Ching chants, assuring us that all’s right
when the inner and outer achieve equilibrium. Picture this:
Hazel in her wheelchair, camera in her lap. Someone’s helped her
to the field by the lake, or she’s roughed the ruts on her own.
Merce has begun his next course in soaring. Earthbound seer,
airborne spirit, inhabiting reciprocal grounds in our frame.
What strikes me when I flip through Hazel’s series of Merce
is that absolute stillness has been coupled with essential motion.
But don’t the eye and finger flick and the body in space come
to momentary rest? Not standstill but progress, the German Wilhelm
explains to elucidate the Eastern philosophy. Simple conduct,
progress without blame. In each new shot, Merce defies even
our idea of gravity. He floats out of the frame, hang-time
galore, then drifts across the lens’ ground, a balloon in his own
parade. Hazel? She’s in the middle of it all, the traffic of everyone
else’s simple creativity swirling around her. At still
center, the flag of her vision flapping on its pole, each unfurling
clap a shudder click. Each breath a hurling jump in the air. Off
in the distance, out of the cropped frame, Black Mountains rise in
an old staircase dance. The water on the lake makes its topographic
music. Soon it will be time for dinner, a much needed break to reload.
for Alice Sebrell
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