Photographs can be so noncommittal- it’s hard to determine if the subject matter enjoys the artist’s approval or contempt. I’m ok with either. I even approve of this image’s contempt for the artist.
I built this bookcase 12 years ago when we first moved here. In a hurry to finish the project I piled all of our books into it straight from the moving boxes, which has also been hastily packed. This might have proven to be a greater source of shame over the years had the north-facing room more available light, or had I not continued to buy books and guiltily stuff them unread into whatever space presented itself.
Recently I installed some artificial lighting to illuminate the shelves, and the disarray. It’s remarkable how much dust 12 years will bring, and how unsympathetic 24° spot lighting is to apathy. So I cleaned the shelves and books, and finally sorted the titles. All this reinvigorated my interest in the shelving a great deal, the sense of collection, classification, and the general order of things. Sadly, the writing therein not so much. So much busywork, reminiscent of gathering tiny discarded bottles of Rumple Minz, but out of the hail, and in a clean well-lighted place. Only, the photo itself seemed to work better in the dull natural light.