The trouble with Spring is that we, of the Northern hemisphere, eagerly await a beautifully orchestrated season filled with soft,warm weather that draws up legions of palely beautiful flowers, still yawning, from their comfortable winter beds to carpet the bosky clearings in pale green leaved forests as part of the acid fuelled fantasy that we remember as Spring. The Spring that we all remember only happened in a near identical communal memory, which we all luckily possess, enabling each of us to bemoan its absence to another in the full knowledge that we can both draw on similar detail from the mentally shared romantic illustrations of Primavere. Maybe my failure to capture the mythical essence of Spring in my images is because I’ve already decided that it doesn’t exist, or if it does, I fail to make it look like the Arthur Rackham illustration that has attached itself to my phychic retina. The thick clumps of wild flowers are bereft of pixies this year, so no point wasting good digital space on them. As it turns out, my attention span in the quest for the spirit of Spring is short as it takes very little time for me to realise that I would much rather find the spirit of William Eggleston. That might be because I already have a very clear picture of Spring which, if tampered with, will only whither and die.
As a postscript I want to mention that I get a great deal of pleasure from reading these two blogs - http://thekitchensgarden.wordpress.com/ and http://kateshrewsday.com/ - and I recommend that you look at them yourselves as these two people can write.