Garlic Stalk | East Wenatchee, WA | January 2020
Aftermath is often an unappreciated condition. It can be as alluring or heartrending as the original object or event. I’m thinking of a field of untouched snow etched an hour later by hundreds of ski tracks. Or the stark, horrible beauty of a burned forest. Or the naked emptiness of a used-up garlic bulb (in photo). We’re drawn to this evidence of transformation — the process that shucked the familiar and left something new and different. One other example: My aged hand with its startling veins and wrinkles. How the hell did that happen? And why do I keep staring at it?