One can get tired of being an apologist for one’s work, especially if one is pursuing some sort of bullshit fine arts masters degree that one’s ex-husband once pointed out was a really stupid thing to do, especially in this economy.

And by “one” I mean me. I totally, definitely, mean me.

I’m tired of justifying it all.

Sometimes, taking a picture is fun.
That’s all there is to it.
It may not be the best and most wonderful picture, or it could be. It could just be adequate– a picture that says little else other than “meh.”
You see it, you get on with your life. In twenty minutes, it’s gone. But it doesn’t need to mean much.
Because if I tell you the deeper layers of meaning — how I tried to line up Venus and Jupiter with the dome of the Capitol in an attempt at lining up hypothetical power with mythical power; how I pushed my camera’s ISO in a futile attempt to show that the machine can be mightier than the night sky and by so doing, reflecting on the true source of the city’s power; that the beam of light is supposed to guide your eye directly toward the celestial bodies; that the overexposure of the dome is supposed to be a mime of the planets– then I would put any future art critics out of business.
What’s the point of explaining anything if there is an entire industry of people out there, raring to explain and defend your work for you?

That is, if your work ever sees the light of day.

Until then, it’s just you, me, the planets and the bots.