Overview: In this solo episode (ep 152), Adam Williams connects the dots of two creative works he made years apart. And he shares “Catch,” his poem of nostalgia and wondering about his last game of catch with “good ‘ol Dad.” (Released on podcast on July 25, 2023)
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EP 152 SHOW NOTES, LINKS & TRANSCRIPT
Connect with Adam Williams
Humanitou on Instagram: @humanitou
About Adam
Reverence & UnReverence photographic art series
Artwork
Podcast cover art and artwork below: Adam Williams
Music
“Old Rope” by Joe Johnson | joejohnsonsings.com
Original Written Version
Nearly five years ago, I published my poem “Catch” on this blog. In the time since, I’ve written and created many more works of various kinds. This includes a photograph of a found baseball in my {Un}Reverence still life photography collection.
Seeing a large, framed print of that photograph on my wall this morning brought to mind “Catch,” and a flood of memories, thoughts and creativity. The photograph had been shown in a solo art exhibition I had a couple years ago in Manitou Springs, Colo.
Given the pandemic circumstances of that gallery show, a limited number of people saw the work. “Baseball” has slept in a box in storage under the stairs in our house until I recently brought it out again.
It now hangs on the wall behind me as I write, filling a vacancy created by the showing (and sale) of my photograph “Feathers,” from my Reverence collection of work.
“Baseball” and the poem it conjures, a story of childhood and playing catch with dad, are now going to be pieces of a book I’m putting together: Reverence and {Un}Reverence.
But I felt motivated now to republish “Catch,” pairing it with “Baseball” here as a prelude to the book. And as self-inspiration for that project, the writing aspects of which I’m just beginning to focus on in a meaningful, cohesive way.
Reverence and {Un}Reverence will feature my two complementary still life photography collections of the same names, and poems and other writings.
“Baseball” by Adam Williams
As I write this, Reverence enjoys an exhibition this month at the Kinder Padon Gallery in the Center for the Arts in Crested Butte, Colo. It’s the first showing of Reverence that is more or less post-pandemic. The success of the show has offered an infusion of gratitude and ambition to continue shining the work.
Underlying all the creative work I do now, however, is the energy to do it for myself, to listen to the guidance of the muse and do the work I’m called to do. If nothing else, the book I’ve carried in the back of my mind for years will be a legacy of sorts that I leave on a shelf for my two sons.
All else that will follow, perhaps including your interest in the work, will be as it be. Out of my hands. The work must be the purpose. Sharing it publicly is part of the process.
Catch
I don’t remember the first time I played a game of catch in the backyard with Dad. Nor do I remember the last. But there was one. And there was one. Maybe Dad had cut the grass only minutes before. Maybe I had. Or maybe we were on summer vacation, standing so many paces apart like dueling pistoliers who’d stomped from the orange-striped pop-up family camper, wanting a stretch and father-son memory making.
If so, where did those memories go? Are they behind the backyard woodpile we stacked then left years ago, where a patch of soil welcomed our Dachshund-like dog? Are they clinging to the too-firm leather of a Rawlings baseball glove I inscribed first name and last with black marker and — what? Sold … lost … packed in a box and stowed?
Where? To await fresh release to once again cradle the pop of a grass-stained dingy white comet thrust from the aging hairy knuckles of good ol’ Dad? Maybe that glove could tell me about the last game of catch we had, whisper something of a secret about what it felt like and where when how.
Did we smile with our metronomic motions of catching, cocking, tossing? Did Dad wink and say, “Nice throw, Son,” before we answered Mom’s call to eat green beans and corn pulled from the garden over there? Just what exactly was our game of catch, its beginning and its end. There was one. And there was one.
Read more of my poetry. See more of my artwork in the galleries.
