I’m not sure exactly why I associated this photograph with “process”. Maybe it’s the movement. Or the segmentation. Or the bright colors that you would know, if you’d seen them in situ, was lichen growing on a rock wall in a cave in Sicily. THAT is process. I have no idea how long it takes a cave to grow skin, but it can’t be over night. Even the water is process, microscopically in the ebb and flow. And if you take the broader view, it has been salted or pure, clouds and rain. It has touch an alley way half way across the world, wet a girl’s hair, misted over the moon.
Process. To move, proceed. To advance. In photography, we process film and prints. A little like panning for gold, chemicals sift away the layers of emulsion to reveal the image.
This is part of the essence of life. This is the what.
There is a routine, a rhythm to process, any kind of process. Occasionally we lose that rhythm. Something in life jars us, and we fall out of tune. Process. It’s not stagnant. The environment and life events brush against it, shape it. One against another, one TO the other, they respond. A dialogue, they whisper, scream, moan. They intonate, shrill and deep. Each rhythm is its own, as unique as an iris and still, ever shifting.
Process contains the “what”, it is important, but what makes it anything is the “how”.