a view into my heart . my memories. 2012
-Henry David Thoreau
a beginning photo . a process of learning . 2011
a bbeeginnnin i g sketch. a proce cess ss of learning . 2011
a begi ginn gi nninng waatercolor . a pr p oc o ess of learning . 2008
“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”
a view into my heart . my memories. 2012
The Empathy of Strangeness . brent castro undergraduate thesis 9:38 pm : the roof deck and laundr y experience
“The sounds and view of the city bring me here, this is my space. Alone, I sit here awaiting the good company brought about by friends. I remember the sun setting in the west and I feel connected and ready.” ““There is nothing like the smell of fresh spring laundr y dr ying this summer night. The soft cotten graces my face -- I begin to help a friend hang the newly washed garments-- we laugh thinking about the pressures of our lives-- a good moment.
12:01 am : cafe att nighht
“The caffe sits here in reemembrrannce off the activities of the day’ss pastt. I allways feel at peaace wheen I speak k to Michhael, the caffe manager. We go back and fortth about the extremes of life. It has becom me a nightlyy rituaal after a longg day at the ofÀcee. I am m glad that i have someone too tur n to in this neew toown”.
a view into my heart . my memories. 2012
. . . Soon after, a faint drumming of a pen against a pant leg quickly taps out a beat that processes down the hall as the person passes. I open my eyes. Ahead of me is a cluttered wall in an unkempt room and a computer with my Tumblr account open, a blank page staring back at me. There is something to be said about the beauty of the unseen world, but that is for another time. I have to say that I had a blast drawing like a child again. The unregulated swirls are a thrill to produce, and the knowledge that your drawing is meant to be flawed is a considerable weight off of your back. It allowed me, for a short moment, to reach that lost joy that I once experienced while drawing. nate . 2.20.12 “Are you ready?” the guide calls out. We all nod our heads though uncertain at what is to come. I quickly look over to my friend beside me, his familiar face illuminated only by the small electric lantern held by the guide. With a small click, the light is turned off and we are cast into darkness. Our unified gasp at the abrupt change echoes out through the caverns that surround us. As our own noise fades out, the true sound of the cave reaches us- the endless pattern of water droplets. I sit and listen to this pitter-patter, the one soothing thing in the alien landscape around me. In a world hundreds of feet down from the Earth’s surface- a world unknowing of light- music still finds a home. hunter . Finding ‘Light” in Darkness 4.10.12
A dark empty plane lays waiting. Its bare surface stares upward in anticipation. A small click, light shines down, Illuminating the plane underneath with its glare. The stage is set. A sheet is placed by the pair of master hands, its boundary divine, its surface pristine. Lines emerge, carved in by expertly wielded tools, subdividing the sheet with space- with solid and void. The world unfolds. The North arrow and the scale are drawn, assigning the spaces a reality. Renderings fill the space, bringing life through element and shadow. The world is filled. Humanity steps into the world. The figure of Adam or Eve filling the space, giving purpose to its lines. Finally the master, or architect, steps back to view his work, a time of reflection, of rest, of a Sabbath. His job is complete.
hunter . A Creation Story . 4.3.12
a view into my heart . my memories. 2012
It was not till she was eleven that she first captured a glimpse of the hummingbird bee. At that time, there were always flowers in the garden, which was where she spent many of her days. She would scuff her feet on the concrete, kicking the mulch that had escaped the garden back in its place. The smell of mulch was one of her treasures— from time to time she would pick up a fragment solely to observe the tiny details of the wood and dirt, delighting in the rich brown dust it left on her fingers and its raw earthly smell. It became much like a routine in her childhood: kicking mulch into the garden, picking up a piece and marveling in its delicate beauty and uniqueness, gently placing it back with the others, and once again resuming to shuffle the mulch on the sidewalk with her frayed sneakers. On this particular day, while she busily went about her routine, something startling happened. She felt a tug on her arm and she was suddenly swayed back onto the step of the porch. The girl’s sister, gripping her arm tightly, whispered to her, “Look! Look! What do you think it is?” Though the she did not know it yet, this was a question they would hold for many years to come. Before them, hovering over the mulch and flitting from flower to flower with a soft hum was the hummingbird bee. The girl hadn’t ever seen anything like it before. It seemed to be an insect, with six spindly legs and a body the size of a large carpenter bee. Its mouth was narrow and long, like a small beak, sampling the sweetness of the flowers. Its wings trembled and beat quickly, much like a hummingbird, and it was only when it landed on a violet flower that the girl and the sister decided they seemed to be moth-like wings.
She struggled to piece together the details, to put to words the beauty of this magnificent creature. But all that could escape her tongue was silence. The sisters watched silently in awe, puzzling over how a creature could be so much like a hummingbird and so much like a bee at the same time. It gently flitted about for minutes that seemed like wonderful, beautiful hours and days. And then suddenly, it was gone. The girl saw very little of the hummingbird bee after that day. Time and time again she would run out to the porch in anticipation, but rarely would she catch sight of this perplexing and graceful insect. The memory of this creature has become much like a dream to me. Often, I wonder if I truly was the little girl, or if she was merely a gift from the sandman. The small details of the mulch, the sudden squeeze I felt on my arm, the beauty of the mysterious hummingbird bee, and that question, which forever spools in my mind: What do you think it is? What do you think it is? It is a memory so vivid, almost unreal. I am forever chasing after the hummingbird bee— it has led me into the crossing realms of reality and fiction, the depths of details and dreams. It is a memory of innocence and childhood, a memory of fragility and silence. Though I do not know if I will ever see the hummingbird bee of my childhood in the future, it will always flutter about within my mind, humming that same question as it flits from flower to flower: What do you think it is? What do you think it is? dana . Mulch . 2.14.12
a view into my heart . my memories. 2012
A memorial. . . upon the wooden steps, the rapids rush below my feet. A sea of countless memories of love and loss. I sit there holding a memory of my past. A tear falls to the ground. I traveled far to make this gesture. I clinch the object because of the hurt inside. A pain and love of the past. A memory and warmth that influences everything. This is not to help me forget, but to heal. A memorial. . . I begin to let go as I choose a spot. It locks as the sound of footsteps pass by me. The key is held. I smile. Then I let go remembering the memories that matter the most. . . A memorial. brent castro. 5.28.2011
a view into my heart . my memories. 2012
Before Alice Flights the Jabberwocky, in a conversation with the Mad Hatter . . . Alice: This is impossible. Hatter: Only if you believe it is. ... Alice: Sometime I believe as many as 6 impossible things before breakfast. Hatter: That is an excellent practice.