Bucky Miller

Rediscovering pictures of Houston's Galleria sent me spiraling back over the madness of the past two years. This, in turn, made me wonder what other lost photographs I could unearth from the depths of our first quarantine.

I can recall a skeleton Elvis I once saw. The scary pompadour works.

I was worried about the bears. Had they been phased out in my short time away? Had my last essay been an unwitting elegy?

I am transfixed, and must immediately spend some time with these bears.

In reviewing the pictures, now, I question the amount of chaotic energy my memory has ascribed to the cat.

I have assets: I collect snowman art.

They rise round and smooth from fields of concrete as if gently nudged upward by a giant underground fingertip. 

Bone theater. It is probably art. It is thrilling, impractical, odd, a little vulnerable.