Ezra Tischler

Making our way along the forest floor,
We hear the Motmot.
His deep, hooting laugh
Reverberates through the understory.
Perched motionless in the trees,
He watches us awkwardly navigate
The many obstacles at our feet:
-Slick lichen covered rocks,
-Buttress roots jutting from uneven soil,
-The marching lines of leaf-cutter ants,
-Tarantula nests, eyelash vipers, and any other creatures that bite or sting.
He laughs at our plodding pace.
The Motmot reminds us to look up.

Art, no matter the form, is reflective by nature. To create it the artist must be able to look within, to reflect on their experiences. If effectively communicated, Art also has an ability to guide the audience toward reflection. This is a sort of dialogue, happening across a revolving two-way mirror. Artist and audience on opposite sides, with each entity getting a glimpse of the other as they simultaneously examine themselves. As the mirror revolves, the separation between artist experience and audience experience dissolves. 

Some things get old,
And certain matter will decompose,
While others hardly change with age.
But where does it all go,
When it's dead and gone,
When petrified wood and polished bone
Are indistinguishable from common stone?
-
For instance, You'll always be
Six and a half years older then me.
Yet in reality,
My carbon is no younger than yours.
Still, here I breath
Getting to blow out my candles,
While you stay the same age,
Never getting any older.

Sometimes
You walk into a room,
Or turn the corner
To find the light
Slanted at just the right angle.
An ostensibly perfect,
Picturesque moment,
When reality aligns
With aesthetic precision.
You think to yourself,
"This must be a dream,"
Then you blink twice,
And remember
Dreams end, but this could last forever.
Nothing left to do
But smile, smile, smile.

There is motion
In the stillness.
An image of
Simultaneous chaos and calm,
Of history to be told.
This place is old,
Not ancient, but aged.
I suppose that is everywhere.
We lay our tracks
In the footprints of others.
No place is new,
No ground is untrodden.
So we follow the arrow of time, as the increase of disorder
Distinguishes the past from the future.

On Sept. 16, 2012 I spent the day kayaking on the Maurice River with my wetland ecology class. We ended up at the Heislerville Wildlife Management Area where the river empties into the Delaware Bay. We learned about the massive efforts underway to repair the wetlands along the river, damaged from decades of agricultural activity. This picture, taken from within the tidal marsh, shows a view of the East Point Lighthouse, originally built in 1849.

She walks a middle path
between season & season,
changing with reason.
Under Winter's sky, grey with wrath.
Toward verdant Spring meadows
filled with leaves of grass.

You were only given youth,
A blink of time,
A glimpse of stolen truth.
Yet, there is some solace here to find
As memories of you dance about my mind.
If I can remember the dream,
Then it is possible to float between
These delicate realities of my own making,
--to drift beyond what is seen
--to feel, what otherwise is unreal.
O, I long to remember
The multitude of lives & existences,
The infinite universes
Where you got to grow old.
If I can remember, then it is possible.
Try to remember.

Sunset over the freshwater tidal marsh. We came upon this clearing just as a blue heron sailed in from the north, landing beyond a stand of trees at the water's edge. I heard it before I saw it when the bird let out a series of harsh croaks notifying us of its arrival. Just a glimpse. Then its slate feathers dissapeared among the backlit silhouettes of waterhemp and broadleaf arrowhead.

Detritus in the golden hour.

Wetlands are often neglected, yet vital pieces of nature. These areas act as kidneys for our forests, river systems, and shorelines by collecting and filtering organic matter. For this reason, wetlands are rich in biodiversity and serve as nurseries or migration routes for many species. Wetlands are also important features in stormwater management and flood protection. Unfortunately they are not aesthetically pleasing to humans because they are perceived as "dirty" or "smelly." This lends to their degradation through development and pollution.

The Martian-esque landscape of Joshua Tree National Park. Looking out at the vast floor of dusty footprints, I can't neglect those who made a mark here before me. From pre-Columbian tribes to the first American western settlers to inspiration-seeking artists, like Ansel Adams. The Mojave Desert plays a pivotal role in how we view the American southwest.

The ancient Blue Ridge mountains, once towering pointed peaks, show their age against a sunlight horizon. A mighty oak stands leafless in early autumn. Its silhouette of a thousand branching limbs resembles some bronchiole bunch found in our own lungs. It is not lost on me that we need both, the tree and the lungs, to breathe in this world.