I admit that sometimes I use photography as a means to not see.  I don’t know if taking pictures is really the best way to let magnolias get inside the springtime part of me.  Like almost all love in the real world, I have to endure the tension between the dream I want to experience and the magnetic imperfection of the beloved – and, it follows, my own self.

This pair of images seems to illustrate an answer to that riddle – yet they really only frame the question: Which is the dream and which is love?  That answer is not to be found anywhere, I think — except in something yearning, and yellow and too slow moving to be revealed in 1/1000 of a second.

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