Last week I caught Lee T. Moran and Miriam Moran wrestling Atlantic Leo into a dock.  If wrestling–versus sacred dancing–it was, then the bout was one of slow but continous strain, where raw power overwhelms other raw power’s muscle fiber, strand by stand.  Diesel versus tide, or petroleum versus gravity, each almost evenly matches one with its counter.

Not that I usually employ this blog to toot my whistles, but this picture snatches me, and holds me, claws into tender skin,  in its clutches.  Double click to enlarge.

It could be the diagonal composition, the myriad tones of orangish-red superimposed with stains and reflection and bowsprite-like squiggles, whose recent additions I’ve found too infrequent,

the appearance of steel against steel as soft textured black cloth against softer  smooth brownish fabric, or the explicit exhibition of contact points,

the depiction of the  crew,  diminished by their work and yet struggling on.

but it holds me, like a scene of an infant or lover snuggling with huge matronly curves.

Fotos by Will Van Dorp.

I’m posting this very late . . . in the wee hours when judgment fails,  you know,  a risky time.  Will I still like this in the morning?  Let me know what you think.

See a focus on Laura K Moran here.

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