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FLEET OF THE DAMNED
IT IS IMPOSSIBLY DIFFICULT TO BE
ALIVE IN YOUR LIFE. DAILY EVENTS - NO MATTER HOW UNIQUE - BECOME
MUNDANE, DREARY, LOOSE THEIR CHARACTER AND NUMINOSITY, GROUND DOWN
TO MERE BACKGROUND NOISE BY THE MILLSTONES OF NECESSITY.
FOR TEN YEARS I WATCHED THE ALASKAN
FLEET COME AND GO FROM FISHERMAN'S TERMINAL WITHOUT REALLY SEEING
THEM, UNTIL I WAS JOLTED INTO VISION BY A MISTAKE.
FOOLING AROUND ONE NIGHT, I SNAPPED
SEVERAL SHOTS ACROSS THE SHIP CANAL TOWARDS THE TERMINAL. THEY WERE
DARK AND UNDER EXPOSED, CHEAP DIGITAL CAMERAS DO NOT WORK AT THREE
HUNDRED YARDS - BUT AS I WENT TO DELETE THEM, I NOTICED IMAGES BURIED
IN THE GLOOM AND DREDGED ONE OUT.
BINGO! WHAT EMERGED IN BLACK AND
WHITE HAD THE IMMEDIACY OF A TRAIN-WRECK, THE ELEGY OF A DYING MOMENT,
THE WHISPERING TENSION A WAR-TIME SPY PHOTO.
I HAD UNCOVERED THE FLEET OF THE
DAMNED , THE BATTERED, WEARY SURVIVORS OF A ONCE-PROUD FISHERY,
MOORED JUST THIS SIDE OF VALHALLA.
THESE ARE THEIR PORTRAITS.
JIM MITCHELL - MARCH, 2006
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