OBJECTS — ORDINARY AND GRAND

The most ordinary, familiar objects have a meaning we can easily miss.  Take the humble clothespin—does it also have grandeur, mystery?  Once, I didn't think so, but here are some of my findings, based on my study of Eli Siegel's definition of the word relation from his landmark work, Definitions and Comment: Being a Description of the World.

"Relation," the American poet, critic, and founder of Aesthetic Realism writes, "is the having to do of a thing with another thing."  And in his comment to the definition, Mr. Siegel describes, surprisingly and logically, twelve ways that an ordinary clothespin is related to the sun.  Here is the first:

It has a reality relation to the sun.  That is, the clothespin is of reality and the sun is of reality.  Wherever two things have something in common, they have relation.  This means that all things, no matter what—strange or ordinary, unthought of or thought of—since they have reality in common, have to do with each other: reality is the great joiner.  Of course, in ordinary terms, or in everyday terms, "homely" existence, we can see that a clothespin and the sun have a relation by thinking that the sun can make a clothespin warm by shining on it, and that the sun looks different when you look at it between a clothespin, or with a clothespin in the way.  Yes, reality-sun and reality-clothespin have to do with each other conceptually; and quite evidently, say, on a farm in South Dakota.

This definition and comment show thrillingly how the more we see an object's relation to other things, to all things, the more value it has for us.  Studying the meaning of relation changed forever the way I saw the world, and inspired this series of photographs.

In Clothespin and Sun no. 1, I placed the clothespin on the energetic white diagonal of a clothesline against a background of rich, blue sky. I wanted to show it existing proudly in infinite space, warmed by the golden light of the sun.

In no. 2, I positioned the clothespin between the sun and my camera—and both sun and clothespin look different because of it. They are now similar in size, while the familiar clothespin has anonymous monumentality.

In no. 3, we see inside the fork of the clothespin with its lovely wood grain. It sits on a bright clothesline that trembles as it stretches into the dark. This clothespin seems alive to me—to have an inner life—related to the great unknown.

Mr. Siegel writes in his comment that motion is a basis for relation because "the sun moves and the clothespin moves." This is why in no. 4, I asked Harriet Bernstein to toss the clothespin in the air against a background of sky and clouds while I "panned" the camera on a slow shutter speed. The clothespin is like a rocket traveling toward the heavens.

This definition and comment are invaluable because if two things as different as the sun and a clothespin are related, then what can't be seen—with utter logic and beauty—as related, including ourselves and other people.  How hopeful and vitally important this is!