The Last Word

When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried, When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it -- lie down for an aeon or two, Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew!

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair; They shall find real saints to draw from -- Magdalene, Peter, and Paul; They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame, But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!

L'Envoie by Rudyard Kipling

Writing poetry is akin to creating sculpture. The sculptor imagines the work that lives within a piece of wood or a block of stone and begins the process of freeing it. Excess material is cut and chipped away until the art begins to take form. It is lovingly shaped until the final product emerges. Within every piece of wood and block of stone lives a masterpiece, waiting only for the right person to come along, the one who can see into its heart.

When Rudyard Kipling wrote L'Envoie, he started with the whole of the English language. He chipped away at it and removed the excess. That which was left was lovingly sculpted until it had the right feel, the right look, told the right story, carried the right memory. Within in every dictionary lives a masterpiece as well, waiting for the caress of a poet.

Photographers are not the painters of light, but the sculptors of it. We immerse ourselves in the totality of our environment. We look beyond the obvious, imagining what could be. We look not only about ourselves, but also within ourselves.

And then it begins.

The uninspiring sky gives way to the scatter of raindrops across the surface of a pond. An oft-overlooked tree bleeds with the pain of the approaching spring. A riot of texture and detail becomes visible in a patch of weeds.

Each time we pick up our cameras we are surrounded by masterpieces. We just have to see beyond the surface of our world. To peel away the excess photons. To bring forth order from chaos. To shape the meaning of what we see.

We are the sculptors of light. We are the visual poets, and we will free the beauty of the world.

by Sean McCormick
Art Director, Circle of Confusion

Sean is a photographer living in Kirriemuir, Alberta. You can view his photography online at digiteyesed.com.