42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

Well, I do know art, from an amateurish enjoyment perspective. I like art museums well enough and almost never think, I could do better than that.
 
I respect artists. Yearn for art in a way I can’t explain as poetically as I’d like. Yearn for it as I do a clear night sky where I can see all the stars crisp like pinholes in the sky. Yearn for it as I do for the best nap in the world, then waking up slowly to warm sunlight and soft cats. Yearn for it as a way to express the beauty I see.
But I can’t.
Any decent art teacher will say, art is somewhat talent but also takes a lot of hard work. You can make any person learn how to be an artist.
But you shouldn’t.
Not every person is going to be great at it, let alone good. And I’m somewhere in the category of bad or somewhat bad with lots of coaching. So I yearn.
 
I’ve also had some of that frustration with my writing. Except I know that perhaps I could be good, but not brilliant. But I lack motivation these days. I don’t know when I’ll ever find it. 
 
I know when to give up. I can appreciate the beauty of the creations of others. That is my lot.
That’s part of why I’ve enjoyed my new interest in photography, because I can capture beauty and create art at the same time. Except I consider myself a mere learner, an apprentice without a master. I bumble about merrily with my nice camera and shoot a bunch because I can. Because I’m only limited by my imagination, the size of my memory cards and how much photo editing I want to do.
 
But I also have no illusions. I once fancied myself pretty good, until I started looking at photos posted on Flickr. I may impress my friends, but I’m still a poser. Still I yearn. I reach up to touch the stars and find it they are unbelievably far away.
 
So this weekend, we went to Yosemite National Park and stayed in nearby Mariposa. I wanted to stay longer in the park for a change, so I could capture some of the golden light of a waning day. Always, I’ve had to push through day trips and the threat of having to drive down the mountain in darkness.
But though we left the park a little later, we were really really tired. Tired from a hike that others would consider only moderate exercise. I didn’t get the photos I wanted; maybe never will until I can get my endurance up enough to get to some more out-of-reach places and stay long enough to capture that golden hour.
 
But it still was a marvelous day full of sunshine and varying degrees of warmth.
 
We considered getting up before sunrise to make the trek back to Yosemite or even to get into the foothills. But lots of exercise combined with an inability to rise early meant that didn’t happen either.
 
Instead, we got up later and started a trek for breakfast. We thought we’d hit the touristy shops, but it was a little too early for them. And besides, the windowshopping suggested we wouldn’t like the shopping.
Instead, we stumbled into the Mariposa Cemetery and I took a lot of shots there. Many more than in Yosemite. Mostly because we’d just been to Yosemite a few weeks before. And after that, we wandered into a homespun sort of museum, chronicling the Old West and the days of the Gold Rush. It was more interesting than I thought, and I think I found a different appreciation of the history here.
 
Then, a perfect day coming to a close, we sat outside at a coffee shop, drinking in the 70-degree air and sunshine as much as the drinks. We then headed over to Oakhurst, a larger mountain town that is another gateway to Yosemite.
 
There’s a set of galleries I’ve always meant to go to, but never had the time, or somehow felt intimidated. I know I don’t look like I have money, and that’s because I don’t have money. I still gasp at the prices on pieces in galleries, and challenge myself to do it so I can’t be heard.
We went into three of the six galleries. One was mostly photos with some folk-type or textile art. Expensive expensive expensive. I found myself coveting, wondering how much I’d have to break my budget to have this item or that.
Found a beautiful print of dark storm clouds and valley foothills with the vibrant green of grass that can only be seen here for two or three months. Almost bought it but then decided to see what the other galleries had to offer.
The second gallery had some amazing photorealistic paintings that the artist calls magical realism. When I saw them from outside, I thought they were pictures of river rocks. Scornfully, breaking my own rule, I thought, that’s nice, but surely I could do that.
Until I got a close look and realized it was oil painting. And then lost my heart as I realized I couldn’t even afford a giclee (high-end print) reproduction.
The gallery manager was very nice, but surely she could smell the lack of money. Everyone does.
 
Then we went to the third gallery. The woman at the gallery explains it’s like an incubator for artists; many of them go on to have their own galleries. And the prices here, in many cases, are slightly more affordable.
 
I don’t disparage prices on art. I know that artists need to make a living. I know it takes a lot of hard work, and that innate, intangible thing, talent, that I don’t have.
But those who appreciate art need to be able to afford it.
 
Making conversation, the woman at the gallery asked if we were artists. A little stab of pain. No, I say, but I’m an amateur photographer.
 
Her ears sort of perked up.

Oh, really? What kind of equipment do you use?

I thought I said amateur so now my face is burning a little. I don’t want to say. It’s a lovely prosumer camera, but I probably can’t expect to do serious photograhy on it. Many artistic photographers are starting to warm to digital cameras, but the best, I suspect, still sniff at them. And while mine is good and affordable, it probably still is something to be sniffed at. But I tell her anyway, stressing again, that I’m an amateur.

A little of the politeness goes away as she says, oh, it’s just that my husband (who is sitting nearby) is a photographer, and you know, you all are techies, and you love to talk about geeky things.
That’s true enough, but in no way did I expect to embarrass myself in front of a photographer who makes a living at it, presumably.
 
Attempting to make myself feel better and digging myself deeper into the hole, I finish lamely and say, I’m building up my equipment slowly. I never have enough money.
 
Isn’t that always the case? she asks.

True. I always wondered about the people who can plop thousands of dollars down for a single lens while I agonize and sigh over a piece of glass that is only $400. I still don’t have it.
 
After that, she pretty much left us alone, secure in the fact that she’d fished out yet another poor nonbuyer.
 
I salivated over a number of expensive pieces, including smaller giclee reproductions of a storm over Half-Dome at Yosemite.
But I kept going back to a modest watercolor of a woman writing.
It was also in the almost affordable range, which made it even more attractive.
 
An additional benefit was that it was an original piece of art, not a reprint. The photo print at the other gallery was lovely, but it was something that could be duplicated. And besides, I like the photos on the wall to be mine. 
 
So then I surprised the woman, I’m sure, when I bought something. Even when it was one of the most inexpensive pieces there.
 
I’m an art owner. Of a tiny watercolor.
I can look at something I can never do.
At least I didn’t buy the photo.