Edward and I crossed paths a few times, a while ago. We were both chasing similar perspectives of the architectural landscape at the Academic Village in University of Virginia.
He'd set up his portable easel anywhere, transitioning from one corner to another, from a rooftop to forgotten parking lot, or peeking over a serpentine brick wall from a secluded garden. We moved around on bycicle. I, on the other hand, roamed with my camera on foot.
Eventually we met and decided to visit one another. I came to his house in Charlottesville one afternoon. It was mesmerizing labyrinth of concealed rooms and tunnels, each corner offering an opportunity to scape, to paint, unwind, meditate, listen to music or read. Or do nothing at all, or think about doing nothing and then change your mind.
Edward Thomas was a Renaissance man, and inventor of sorts; he was a tremendous artist with a smile that trascended boundaries and words.
I find peace in the fact that his name has circled back to me, and I wish I could simply pick up a fucking phone and give him a call. Thant won’t happen tonight. I suppose this conversation with myself, and this photograph will have to do.