The images keep drawing me back, something about them seemed timeless to me, almost ancient, as if I had been drawn back to an old ritual, a pilgrimage, the apprentice journeying long hours to come and see the Master Photographer, famed in his day, still creating but pushed aside a bit by the rush of the unthinking and fickle world. I could picture a castle, a monastery, an old stone house doubling as a studio, a workspace, crowded streets, cold spaces.

The older man, a master at his craft, having climbed to the top of his world on genius and drive, stepping back as his world changed, fading from site. The room was small, dark, cold, lit by an old heater in the center of the floor. He was always being discovered, there were always pilgrims and students, artists and writers, people who came to see him, learn from him, meet him,  this timeless homage paid by creative souls to genius, there were always those who could not forget, would not forget.

Genius cannot be forgotten.

The apprentice, a writer, and the old man connect right away, he is always surprised and pleased by her attention to his work,  he is humble and gracious about the world, uncomplaining, she is enthusiastic and hopeful,  mesmerized by the beautiful works he pulls out of drawers and out of closets and behind chairs – postcards, bookmarks, breathtaking photographs, brilliant and moving images, dusty prints in old frames. This one, he said, was taken from the 40th floor, this one at dusk, this one a triple exposure, rare and surprising. She is delighted, amazed, wants to see everything he can show her, astonished at the low prices.

He takes pictures, he says, and he sells the work of other artists now. Things have changed, he says, his sentence drifting off…

He is surprised, pleased to see the work has not lost it’s magic, to see the writer light up, kneel in front of his cluttered desk to ask him to sign the photographs she had purchased from him, he leans forward, signing his name carefully and slowly,  the scene seemed to take on a life of it’s own, the light from the window shining on this Master, lighting up his disorganized desk and the paintings that always surrounded him, each painting seemed to join in their  own chorus,  and suddenly the scene became a parable, an old story, a fairy tale of creativity, a mystical place of creation.

A sacrament perhaps, to those who believe, to those who can see, a moment that lingers, shimmers, flickers in the mind, the young and the old, the future and the past taking turns with one another. A creative connection, you can see it. The Master dusts of the prints, pulls envelopes out of drawers, finds tissues in the dark room, wraps the photos carefully, familiar work for his fingers.

Genius never dies, or fades away, the artist with the open heart is always drawn to it, a moth to the flame,  no matter where the currents flow.