It was September 2005, and I was, after a year and a half in Oman, hungry for intellectual stimulation. I found it one Friday morning as Steve and I sat in his studio/gallery/house perched on a limestone hill overlooking the sea. There was a bit of vague jazz in the background, just about audible through the haze of our cigar smoke, and the paintings running helter-skelter over the walls in disarray. Steve was in signature disarray too, with his hair beginning to curl, a bit of stubble, and we drank coffee and talked of art and pretended to be artists. It was everything a man could ask for.
Now it is November 2008, and not much has changed, which is a good thing. We’re examining rocks in the dying light of Wadi Lehlu, still squeezing the art out of geology. Steve has lost the photographer’s jacket from 2005, trading it for a daily regime of black Harley-Davidson shirts and baggy jeans, while retaining artistic license over curls and stubble. I’m experimenting with extreme depth of field, so I open the 35mm to 1.4 and the shutter slams down over the evening. Somewhere over the next hill is Franci, and we know everything will be all right.
One Comment
Nice slug of art on the rocks