I apologize for my brash entrance. It's just that I've been sauntering back and forth across the internet, going from blog to wiki bio to blog for hours, and I'm rather cranky. There is a woman, her name is Sally Mann, and I believe she sucked all the good photographs straight from the rest of America's inferior lenses and ate them for breakfast.
I don't know how one person can..... feel so much. Express so much. So successfully. Coalesce thought and concept and execution so magnificently that all *I* can do as a viewer is stare at the finished product with my mouth hanging wide, bits of awe-induced drool slobbering down my (probably unclean) sweatshirt. What happened to critiquing? I practice PLENTY of that in the why-so-serious Art Department at LSU. Good Lord. Everyday is a critique. Let's critique our rough comps. Let's critique our....uh....ideas. Let's critique our wardrobe choices for the day.
I should be able to critique Sally Mann. I should look at her like a fellow artist and try to actually pick apart the inner workings of her mind. But I don't do that in the face of greatness, and it makes me angry. I get stupid. I go cross eyed. Ugh.
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