Richard Risemberg
Stories (2/0)
Our Own Day Here
Suppose...that you knew that your culture would disappear, and that no one who came after, not your children nor anyone else's, would speak your language, sing your songs, hope your hopes, or comprehend your concerns? What would be the meaning of your life?
By Richard Risemberg4 years ago in Futurism
Crow Call
In the city, you are never in one place at a time; multiple worlds occupy the territory you think of as your own, which you define largely by what you choose not to notice. The corner you stand on waiting for the light to change is entirely different to you, to the potbellied Black businessman at your side, to the cyclist balancing on his pedals at the curb, to the weary bleached blonde woman slumped in the driver's seat, to the homeless man crouching by his ragged blankets in the shade. I once walked along the concrete banks of the Los Angeles River near Long Beach with a friend of mine, also a photographer, and at one point I stood immediately behind her—she was very short—and shot a photo over her head, of distant freeway ramps looping over the water. Our very similar cameras clicked almost simultaneously. The two pictures were so different when we compared them later (this was in the days of film) that they could have been taken a thousand miles apart. Yet we were close friends who discussed our craft endlessly and had similar artistic philosophies. Even in our own little closed-in world, we were worlds apart.
By Richard Risemberg5 years ago in Wander