Maxwell Sobieski



It is in the woods and in the waters of upstate New York I grew, coming to understand beauty as something that is as abundant and omnipresent as it is transient and fragile. This motion of waters, plant life, and creatures through the endless passage of time, propelled by gravity and wind through estuaries, forests, and valleys, with roaring power or gentle grace. When left undisturbed, nature is able to dance, even when everything seems completely still, the energy of a higher power reveals itself through textures and silent gestures.  Moments and textures, whose beauty makes my life worth living, absorbed by my senses and translated into something else. The texture of cool waters as they caress my palm, the scent of ozone as snow descends upon a grove of balsam firs, making eye contact with a Red Tail hawk a basks in the warmth of a setting sun, the crisp taste of  young branches from a silver birch. This innate mystery of the organic world I can’t help but search for a meaning to, secretly knowing that any real answer would relinquish the power of that experience, and be inadequate in its explanation. I am left only with my memories which blur through my mind behind my closed eyes, for each precious moment is fleeting and there is no way to capture them eternally.