In a barn, in the woods, in the cold, somewhere in Connecticut near the house of that famous Oscar-winning actress with the blond hair and the capacity for speaking in accents from countries both far away and internal, there is a man who lives with dogs, with birds, with the sunrise and the sunset.
He keeps his camera in his hand, ready to record the pictures of light on snow, of sun on lake water, of ice forming then dripping from the porch sill. Then he takes these records and moves them into the computer and onto the screen and within a program that lets him manipulate light and, therefore, reality.
His name is unspoken as he lives all alone — except for the dogs, the birds, the woods. The famous actress, he knows her not at all. They live in separate worlds though separated only by small distance. But when called upon, he answers to many names: to breaths and sighs, to initials, and sometimes to needs that mostly go unmet.
“Yo! Dear friend!” she calls into the woods.
“Why, hello!” he replies, pleasant and positive as always. And each moves on, following paths unseen to anyone but themselves.
Farther down his path, deeper into the wood, his footstep become a paw, his breath becomes a pant leaving little fog movies in the air: the distant woman on the shore, the dreaming woman of the hills, the crazy woman with magic in her hands, the haunting woman who floats always at his side.
He returns home. He downloads his pictures. He spends the day blending, shadowing, fading and delineating light from shadow, color from form, the day from its own night.
Alone, he paints the world anew. If she knew, the actress down the road would call it fine art.