Gregory Meander

“To suffer is one thing; another thing is living with the photographed images of suffering, which does not necessarily strengthen conscience and the ability to be compassionate. It can also corrupt them. Once one has seen such images, one has started down the road of seeing more - and more. Images transfix. Images anesthetize.”  ― Susan Sontag, On PhotographyThroughout my study of art history, I always come

Dawn points, and another day Prepares for heat and silence.—T.S. Eliot, The Waste LandA solstice is always coming. Numerous landspeed records have been set on the Bonneville Salt Flats near Wendover, UT since 1911. My first visit to the Sun Tunnels was a morning in early June. There was one man from Bainbridge Island, Washington. He and his wife had been coming to the area annually for a gathering at their friend’s ranch since the 1960s. He had never seen the Sun Tunnels. He finally saw what all the

It is hard to write about people you think you know. I have yet to attempt to write about strangers. The artists and art I write about are friends. We expect the art to say something to us, to hold some sort of meaning for us, so why can’t there be a dialogue? I think there can be a conversation with the artist, no matter if they are living or not. People at an art museum always want the one right answer from the expert. I was in that situation often as a museum educator, docent, or tour guide. What

I have to be honest I am not the biggest fan of sunflowers. I know, they are the quintessential American flower. The bloom and stalk are larger than life and takes up much of the sun like Americans often do. I think there might be a few reasons I don’t like sunflowers. For one thing, they were the heaviest of the flowers we sold at the Ferry Building farmer’s market located at the now defunct Port of San Francisco. The farmer’s market is often ranked in the top 10 open-air markets in the world

Paris and I met in March on the eclipse of my thirty-second year after a torrid long-distance affair since I was a ten-years old. I got off the metro train at the Notre Dame stop and I was not sure what to expect at the top of the staircase. You know that feeling when you trust yourself to get off at the right subway stop, but you aren’t sure which staircase will take you to the proper street corner. I usually roll my luck. At the top of the stair case, Notre Dame stood, exactly one month before the