Up Sky — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
Howdy, folks. I’ve been off the sunset grind for a few weeks now. And as I bust out my handy-dandy excuse maker’s guide the half-finished flowchart reveals it’s a combination of conflicting schedules, lots of stormaction, overcast skies, work, and also a human need to relax a bit. In the absence of anything recent, I’m throwing it back to July 20, 2016, where I already posted one killer sunset from a high caliber evening of Good Shots™. As much as I may not want to admit it summer has begun to wind down. Le sigh. While we’re still a few months away from the Great Browning, an astute observer will have already noted the day shortening sculptor chipping away at both ends. While I’ll be sad to see the summer glory go, there’s much to be excited for as the year winds down. Most notably: sunsets. (And MakersFest!) Sure the days will shorten and the air will grow cold, but with it will come a steady stream of sparkling evening skies. For now, though? Let’s keep this summer fire burning. Cheers!—and as you were.
They Came From Behind — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | EXP 2.5 sec
Gold Five to Red leader, lost Tiree, lost Dutch. I copy, Gold Leader. They came from… behind!
Now that the titular Star Wars reference is out of the way, I’d like to throw it back to last Monday, July 25, 2016, when some serious thunderstorms had us dead to rights in southern Ocean County. After making my first capture on the western most end of Cedar Run Dock Road (where the marsh opens up from the woods), Jon and I made our way to the east most point of the marsh. Posted up at the boat ramp, we aimed our lenses westward toward Antoinetta’s restaurant and dug in to watch the rapidly approaching storms. Meanwhile in my head a story was set in motion: eager diners going about the machinations of a pleasant dining experience full of fine meals and good conversation before some astute weather observer inside took a westward glance out the many windows to notice the beast barreling in from the west. At which point all attention would divert from the chicken parmesan and risotto to impending doom. One customer would lament a power outage while in the same breath some haughty sir insistent on keeping his head firmly entrenched in the sand would bombastically declare ‘there’s no way that’s going to hit us!’ It is, after all, your world and we’re just living in it.
Monday, July 25, 2016, saw severe thunderstorms batter much of the mid-Atlantic; the early morning hours featured the first round, a natural alarm clock potent in its own right, only to be outdone by the main event during the afternoon and evening hours. The widespread storm outbreak managed to hold together all the way to the New Jersey coast. The perfect storm of high CAPE values, substantial sheer, diurnal heating, and sky high dew points and temperatures fostered a caustic atmosphere for powerful storm development and continuation of the line for hundreds of miles.
Out on Cedar Run Dock Road, Weather NJ’s JC and I did our best to document the essence of the storm. While I didn’t pull down any good lightning shots—they continue to elude me—I did manage to make a few photographs that convey the anger and intensity of the sky and the subsequent winds that came with it. Even in the shot above, which was made a good 15 minutes before the severe warned storm hit, you get a sense for the ferocious nature of the ever changing cloud deck. Converging air masses were seemingly ripping the sky apart. The marsh betrays the wind intensity that would be otherwise invisible to a photograph. Even at a 1/4 second shutter speed, you can clearly see the foreground marsh grass folding like a tent. At this point I would guess winds were in the 30 MPH range. (With peak storm nearly doubling that speed.)
On a personal level the pressure of the moment becomes a lot to deal with. You know you’re under the gun. You know strong winds and high voltage is fast approaching. You know wind driven rain will soon be upon you rendering a camera effectively useless thanks to soaked lenses. Rolling thunder in the distance coupled with lightning strikes on the horizon gets the heart rate up, and it’s a real struggle against nature and your best instinct to remain calm and patient enough to make good shots. It’s a far cry from the relaxed pace of a predictable, slow moving sunset that’s for sure. Of course, it’s this adrenaline surge that’s a big part of the fun.
In the meantime I have one or two other photos to post from Monday, and JC went live on the Weather NJ Facebook page and produced the following video (approximately 36,000 views at the time of this posting!) documenting deteriorating conditions peak storm. Check it out.
Flip Side — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
Baby, I’m a marsh man. I’m a marsh man, baby. This summer has shown off some scintillating moments out on the Cedar Run Dock Road salt marsh. I haven’t been there to capture all of them, but damn, I’ve managed to make the most of a quite a few—I’m not just talking photographs here, either. An idyllic amalgam of mild temperatures, a steady sea breeze wafting with it the unmistakable salt air that kisses your olfactory just so. Ahhhh… Then there’s the seabirds singing, the terrapin turtles crossing, and of course, the light show nature puts on as day transitions into night, painting cotton candy clouds with the unmistakable brushstrokes from the masterful hands of the ultimate artist. It’s pretty much perfect, you guys.
Wednesday, July 20, just so happened to be one of those nights. It all came together. Yeah, the green heads were there doing their green head thing, too, but for whatever reason they seem so spare me the worst of their attention. I tell ya, I can’t even attract a fly. Anyway, instead of my usual southwest post-up along the roadside, I hopped over the north side guardrail, into the rock bed, and got low for a north-by-northwest exposure. Having done this sunset things a few times now, I have a good sense when the flip side from the conventional sunset orientation will light up with plenty of pastel drama. This is great, too, as it affords me the opportunity to use the oxbow lake feature that forms as the estuary meanders around the marsh section you see featured in the middle ground. Couple this with a foreground of marsh grasses and you invite the viewer to come on in to a sublime summer sunset scene.
I’ve been having plenty of fun making photographs of my daisies this year. To close out the month of June I put down my macro lens and went with the 35mm aperture set wide open at f/1.4 to keep the depth of field as shallow as possible. By getting my lens as close as possible to the daisy in the foreground—the flower in focus—I was able to facilitate a scene where the area of acceptable focus was roughly one quarter of an inch think. At most. This helps deliver the buttery smooth bokeh that predominates the shot—both the out of focus elements as well as the array of blended circular features milling about the square format exposure.
During my five minute photo jaunt at my parents’ house this past Fourth of July—just before I made this black and white hibiscus macro—I set my 100mm lens upon a plant I had known for years but to which I had not the pleasure of knowing its name. How rude? After quick a conversation with one in the know, my Mom, my ignorance was shed. Enter the hosta, legitimized by name. A wonderful broad leaf flowering plant wont to grow in close proximity to the ground while fanning out quite wide relative to its modest height. When the time comes it extends its blossom skyward from the center of its leafy body. This season my Mom’s hosta plants are blooming with gusto, and I’m most pleased with the delicate mood this macro photograph evokes. By design, selective focus keeps the sharpness limited the blossom’s apex, while its petals spread out and fade away into smooth, buttery bokeh.
When I Think of Summer — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
I’m on record as being firmly in the sunsets are better in winter camp. And while I’m not backing down from that claim, I cannot deny that when all the pieces come together for a summer sunset the results are damn near impossible to beat. After all, one thing you will not get here in the mid-Atlantic come winter time is lush green marsh grass to compliment a sublime sunset—no matter how vivid the sky lights up. The best you can hope for is some quality ice flows, or some other appealing foreground to mask the unmistakable look of the great browning.
Last night I was hemming and hawing about whether to shoot; I’m sure glad the manifestation of motivation won out. What initially looked like a decent to slightly above average sunset steadily ascended the sunset potential charts. Cirrus clouds built in across the sky, and some 20 minutes before sunset I knew I was standing at the doorstep of a good one. Come on in, nature was calling. Of course the green heads were calling to, but I did my best to avoid the sharp bite of our most fierce winged foe. A few well timed hand slaps went a long way, too. Sorry, not sorry, flies.
Before long the great sun disk dipped below the horizon and the pastels began to build. Pink and purple hues first began stretching from east to west steadily arcing over the sky; they were well met by orange and yellow hues pulsing to the west were only minutes before the sun went down. About 10 minutes after official sundown this colorful cascade merged in perfect harmony backed by azure blue skies. What a scene. My best sunset capture since May.
It’s been a good long while since I’ve made a black and white photograph. A quick look at the archive reveals other than a onetime blip back in April, it had been since August of 2015 that I had made a proper black and white. Too long!
Interestingly enough this photograph was yesterday’s output of no more than a five minute photo detour I took along my parents’ side yard before transitioning to camera-less Fourth of July activities. It’d be wrong to categorize the 16 exposures as throw-away shots, but I’d be lying if I said I knew I was going to walk away with at least three keepers from the brief session. The lighting seemed unremarkable and the wind was blowing just enough to frustrate any handheld macro shooter; and yet the results populating my Lightroom catalog run entirely to the contrary. (A good reminder that I still have plenty to learn.)
I really like black and white, and I really like this shot. It’s sporting all the key ingredients required for a well executed black and white photograph—macro or otherwise. The composition is strong, moving the eye from the deep darkness of the bottom left corner up and through the stamen and pistils of the hibiscus flower. The selective focus adds moodiness and depth to the photograph, enhancing the sharpness of the pollen resting atop its anthers. But what really kicks this into black and white overdrive is the contrast; the dramatic shifts from near total black to the intensity and brightness of near total white. The image runs the grayscale gamut and locks away the final dimension necessary for a fine low key finished product.
Oh, and check out this post if you’d like to learn more about the anatomy of a hibiscus flower. This will help clear up some of the flower parts I referenced in the paragraph above if you’d like to further your learning. The post features some solid macro photos, too! Related: I can’t believe this is the first hibiscus photograph I’ve posted in the now two and a half year history of this website. I would have definitely lost that bet…
Time is weird, man. While I feel mired in quicksand, struggling to move in chronic slow motion I am juxtaposed by the fast moving reality that it’s July. In 2016. Or so I’m told. Somehow, somewhere, I’m still stuck in April 2006, but hey? Any Multiverse theorists want to take this on? So here I sit watching Nintendo Voice Chat pounding out a post on my computer one evening removed from the Fourth of July—my favorite holiday by the way. Even though overcast skies and incoming rain may put a damper on tomorrow’s firework festivities, I’ll embrace the fact the calendar is turned to the month added in honor of Julius Caesar. We’ve reached high summer—the Saturday of summer—as much as it doesn’t feel like it.
