Circles
of
Return
A Portfolio of Palladium and Cyanotype Prints
from Pinhole Photographs
by
Jan Kapoor
Decamber, 1996
Autumn
Memory
Spirituality
The Cycle of the Seasons
Mystical Interconnectionsof Man and Earth
The Coexistence of Past and Present
Death
Transformation
Rebirth
This project began as a straightforward, historical
portrayal of time, past and present, in the small North Georgia town of Roswell.
To a degree unusual in post-Sherman
Georgia, Roswell's ante-bellum past has been spared and is lovingly nurtured
by its people.
Summer's Dirge: A Fragment
Bring dead flowers for
the maiden's head,
Bring dead flowers for her feet;
They mind us of the hopes that
led
Us on, with gay and gladsome
tread,
To meadow lands, where ruin spread
Are not for passers fleet.
Bring dead flowers for the maiden's
breast,
In silence lay them down;
Then lay her pallid form to rest
Where earth has donned her crimson
vest
In the gay chamber of the West,
While Autumn claims her crown.
W.E.P.
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Click on small images to see a larger version
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As I began making these photographs,
larger, more universal themes surfaced, manifesting themselves with a power
which could not be ignored.
The southern landscape is not pristine virginal
wilderness. Hunting ground and home of generations, both Native American
and European, it is a palimpsest, containing many layers of meaning, of time
and traditions.
Trails developed from animal tracks; roads
evolved from old trails. In the woods, crumbling walls merge with the
earth, hidden in lush vegetation.. The land has been surveyed, mapped,
parceled out and named, over and over again.
Much has been forgotten, much has faded,
much has been transformed beyond recognition; yet to those who listen, the
land is a speaking presence and living witness of the past.
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The Days Gone By
By D. Hardy, Jr.
How fair and beautiful
they seem,
The days, the days gone
by,
Their light is resting
on us yet,
Like star-gleams from the
sky;
Their memories come thronging
'round,
As fancies in a dream,
Or mist-shapes, that, at
eventide,
Sail down upon the stream. |
We
ever love to wander back
To childhood's sunny hours,
When earth seemed all so
beautiful,
Our life-path filled with
flowers;
Out from their lone sepulchral
halls
A thousand fancies start,
Then, like the hues of
sunset skies,
The fleeting dreams depart. |
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