We were back at our regular table at the Circular Journey Café—window seat with a view of the street that offered just the right amount of distraction for deep creative thinking and a guy like me with an attention deficit personality to keep occupied.
“I’ve been looking for a new venue for the Ships of the Cape Fear series,” she said, eyes lighting up with that now-familiar spark of visionary momentum.
I nodded slowly, trying to look like someone who knows things about cargo ships. I'd try pretending to know something about abstract expressionism, but it's never worked before, so I gave it a miss.
“Ah, yes," I nodded. "The floating rectangles of industry.”
She ignored me sweetly. “Not just ships--they're abstract compositions. I’m fascinated by their structure—the precision, the engineering, the sheer audacity of them.”
I glanced out the window where a pit bull had stopped to stare at me through the window, as if to ask if I was going to pretend I could connect "audacity" to cargo ships.
"Audacity?" I asked. "That’s the word you’re going with?”
I asked the question after realizing that if a pit bull knew I was clueless, it could easily be proven against me in court, so why pretend? Would you have done the same?
She smiled. “Absolutely. These vessels are not just ocean-going machines. They’re like... mechanical poetry.”
“Of course,” I said, flipping my notebook to a blank page, in case inspiration struck me for a new blog post. “Mechanical poetry," I said to hide the fact that what I'd actually written was 'Help me!'
She sipped her latte and then, with a wistful look in her eyes, she said, “My grandfather was a structural engineer. He designed government buildings in Santa Fe. They were admired for their efficient design and functional utility, but they are also beautiful in their symmetry and purpose. That’s where it started for me. I appreciated how form serves function.”
I nodded, possibly too eagerly. “So, cargo ships are designed specifically to efficiently carry cargo across a great expanse of ocean, and yet, even though their design has nothing to do with beauty, it somehow creates an awesome, inspiring structure."
Ms. Wonder paused. “How did you do that?" she said with wide, admiring eyes. Her look gave me a jolt of feel-good in a way that old me I could coast through the rest of the conversation. I don't mind telling you, I was on top of the world.
"They're like colossal timepieces, in a way," she said. "Each gear, lever, and bolt work together at a level of harmony and scale that's beautiful. It’s abstract art born of industry.”
I took a thoughtful bite of my croissant, reminding myself that the less I said, the better. “I see,” I said, which was mostly untrue, but seemed safe. I looked back out the window at the pit bull and raised an eyebrow and waggling my head in a self-satisfied way. The dog looked at the human following on the leash behind him and then walked on.
“They’re not just ships,” Wonder continued. “They’re monuments to human ingenuity.”
“Hmmm,” I said strategically.
She laughed. “I know it may sound strange to you. But when the afternoon light is glancing off a curved hull, and the steel is marred by the action of wind and waves," her eyes took on that faraway look again, as if she were out on the river, the water calm and the sunlight reflecting from the water to light up the superstructure of a container ship.
"And I get the angle just right for the photo," she continued, "It's an emotionally moving moment. Almost tender.”
I squinted at my coffee. “It doesn't sound strange. I think Michael Jackson said it best: That's why you've got to be there.”
She blinked. “Who are you? And what have you done with the real Genome?”
“Okay," I said, gesturing vaguely while she laughed. “But tell me something, If someone thinks a cargo ship is a big metal box floating on the river, how do you help them see what you see?”
“My photography introduces abstract elements like contour, shadow, and color before the mind has a chance to categorize what they're seeing. Once someone realizes they're seeing something familiar in an unfamiliar way, their perception shifts.”
I blinked twice. “Like when I saw Beignet, that magnificent ragamuffin, on top of the fridge and mistook him for a loaf of sourdough?”
“Exactly,” she said, without missing a beat. “It’s all about perception. It's something cats understand naturally.”
I leaned back, pretending to reflect on her words, but I was really thinking about Beignet. “You know,” I finally said, “I think I get it now. Ships are like... huge kinetic sculptures.”
She looked amused. “Close enough.”
We sat quietly for a few moments, letting the idea settle—or we may have been thinking about once and future cats.
“Well,” I said, finishing my cappuccino, “I think this calls for a new exhibit. Big, bold prints. Maybe include a soundscape—distant foghorns, I think, don't you?"
Ms. Wonder’s eyes twinkled. "Obviously,” she said. “I’ll start contacting museum and gallery curators.”
"Great!" I said. "I think we’re on to something."
"I think I'm on to something," she said with a grin, "I think you're on something."
