Navigating my way to the harbor of gratitude has not come easy. For too much of my wayward adolescence, followed by protracted adolescence, and followed still by reluctant adulthood I have sailed headlong in the seas of bitterness. Tired and alone. For long years the song of the Seirênes would see me crash upon the rocks left bereft and embittered. Aimless I sailed rudderless and without wax. All too eager to hear their song, giving in myself to ease and complaint. Alone on a leaking vessel, left to lament and stew instead of acknowledging privilege and blessing.
Whether it the natural course of aging, health scares, or a seaman’s search for home, I am want to release the angst. To avoid the call. To stuff my ears full with wax. I am ready to stretch the lines and grow to embrace that which is important and true. Long yet I must travel, though on this Thanksgiving I sail one leg closer to the warm embrace and calm shores of gratitude. May your own journey find its port of purpose.
Sunset Story — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
Cold creeps, it stretches and subsumes as light runs eastward to darkened horizons. Birds swarm and spool, spiraling along supplicating breezes sent to steel them. Solemn avians stand tall. Stoic sentries stalk shallow pools steadfast in search of sustenance. Shrieks and squawks signal sounds of supplication. The search sated. Air stings cold yet life sings passion. Soaring above the sacrifice of sunlight sequestered.
Cold Movement — 35mm | f/1.4 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/100
I’ve been listening to Walter Isaacson’s, Leonardo Da Vinci, on Audible. While I haven’t enjoyed it as much as his biographies on Steve Jobs, Albert Einstein, and Benjamin Franklin, I find I am connect more though Walter’s latest work. Being something of an interdisciplinary and a procrastinator there is a resonance with the famous Florentine. While at only a fraction of a percent on Leonardo’s scale I, too, have a wide array of interests powered by curiosity. A Jack-of-all-trades I want to know a little something about as many things as possible. Of course Leonardo took this to a mind-boggling level; a Leonardo-of-all-trades and the master of all. He stands as the pinnacle Renaissance Man, even if he left most of his work unfinished or unpublished. Of course, he was more interested in pursing art, mathematics, engineering, optics, fluid dynamics, and stage craft to acquire knowledge for its own sake. He was less concerned with finishing things and reaping external rewards that motivate many of us.
Much of Isaacson’s biography covers Leonardo’s work as a painter. While I was a mediocre and frustrated painter at best who never enjoyed the practice, these chapters have sparked connection to my photography. Isaacson tells us Leonardo was a master of movement in his works. He instructs us that a work should not capture a moment as frozen and rigid. Instead it is necessary to convey what was happening one moment ago in the past transitioning to what will happen in the next moment in the future. This fundamental cornerstone built an emotional and narrative quality in Leonardo’s work. He wrote about its importance many times across the decades in his famous notebooks.
Taking this maxim from the preeminent Renaissance master has me thinking I would do well to incorporate movement into my own work. I want to create photography that flows from one moment into the next. Better this than a stale image, emotionless and locked in time. In a weird way, armed with Leonardo’s thoughts on the matter, I can picture him judging my work with cutting critique. In this way I want to be sure I it will pass muster.
Last night on the marsh I had my first chance at capturing movement under the auspices of Maestro. The first arctic air mass of the year arrived in New Jersey yesterday. With it a biting north west wind to serve as wake up call that winter is coming. The sky was cast with a deep orange-purple glow that only shows when a serious winter trough swings through. Set to this dreamy backdrop, invasive phragmites bent low before the stiff breeze; bowing in unified motion under the power of wind. Here was my chance at movement. Using my 35mm lens, soft focus, and a hint of blur the viewer can imagine where the phragmites were a glimpse prior. Now compare that with where they will be in the next eye blink. The movement brings action and reality to an otherwise still looking scene. This better conveys the cold, windy, unsettled reality on the marsh last night. This stands in narrative opposition to what could otherwise look like a placid blue hour on the marsh.
Color the Season — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/40
The calendar flips, it’s getting short on pages. The daylight wanes and I take stock of my photography. Judged on quantity alone this will be my least productive year yet. Fewest number of posts since starting this site in January 2014, and the fewest number of photographs since I began shooting in January 2012. Such a surface level analysis falls short, leaving the scene unfinished. When assessing the quality of my work I take more solace in my production. My photography continues to improve, and that’s the metric that counts. Though I’d be lying if I said my reduced output hasn’t gnawed at me. Yet the story doesn’t stop here.
The best, and most surprising development in 2017 has come by way of writing. My photography has always been the feature on this site, and that will not change. Even so, writing has assumed new prominence and personal joy. I would go so far to say I experience more intrinsic reward writing when compared to shooting and processing. I’m not going to contend I am great—or even good—at writing. But I will contend it stretches my mind and creativity in unexpected ways. The reality that writing does not come as natural to me as photography is a factor here as well. There is reward in the effort.
In previous years I’d make a photo, post it here and write a paragraph or two about the shot itself. If not that I’d discuss the motions I was going through in making said shot. It was little more than a narrative recounting of the scene I was capturing. Of course, a well made photo can do a far better job of conveying a scene. Lately I have been poring more energy in telling stories. I let the photograph trigger a thought, idea, or suggestion and I run with it, even if it has next to nothing to do with the photo itself. This freeform flow follows a similar trajectory to how I have always settled on my photo titles. I most always let the first thought or phrase that comes to my mind stick. And now so it goes with my writing exercise. It creates a nice companion piece to stand aside my photo work. While it may not be for everyone it helps me grow as a person and as a creator. It also makes me more excited about my own photography.
There’s no reason to expect this trend will not continue as November turns to December, and as the calendar reloads with a fresh stack of pages come 2018. I will continue to take more risks with my writing, letting my mind stroll where it is wont to go. My hope beyond this is that I can work more creative risk taking into my photography. To take new steps, take more risks and infuse more creative to my work. A lot can happen in a year, and not all of it expected.
The Moon Was a Crescent — 100mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | EXP 1.6 sec
The moon was a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. A pale sun rose and set and rose again. Red leaves whispered in the wind. Dark clouds filled the skies and turned to storms.
—Bran III, A Dance with Dragons; volume five in A Song of Ice and Fire.
Author George R. R. Martin, in one of his strongest, and most rhythmic chapters in A Song of Ice and Fire brings the reader into long, uninterrupted passage of time. Written with exacting precision, we, along with the moon and the characters therein, cycle through time as Bran trains with the Three-Eyed Raven. “The moon was fat and full… The moon was a black hole in the sky… The moon was a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife.” The cycle repeats no fewer than three times as readers work through Bran’s journey. Cold and lonely in a cave unseeing yet aware of the cold, cruel world outside. We endure the passage of time with our protagonist. Aware of both repetition, effort and duration. This takes peculiar significance with Bran who himself is able to take over the minds of others, man and beast. As readers, Martin is imploring us to do the same through his language. We become Bran in that cave.
Recalling how I felt when I first read through this chapter I marvel at what Martin had done. His use of language, tone, rhythm and repetition stirring my imagination. I saw the moon. I experienced the time. I was with our hero feeling the burden of the work and paralyzed with the task ahead. I am not a prodigious reader, nor am I schooled in language, grammar or creative writing. Yet this chapter left a mark as though made from a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. It took the habit of reading, and thereby the art of writing, to a new level of appreciation. For the first time I perceived how exacting words can move mind, body and soul. It was tangible evidence that reading is essential to better writing. It is the key to better storytelling. The key to better understanding of our world and our audience.
Standing out on the marsh last week, watching a sunset fade, I saw the moon was a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. Immediately transported I saw all the sickled moon blades I’d witnessed over the years. In the same moment I was Bran. At the same moment still I was reading Martin’s words, seeing again all the sickled moon blades I’d witnessed over the years. Sharp as a knife, black as a hole, fat and full. Anything… everything happening at once, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife.
A Farewell to Flowers — 100mm | f/3.5 | ISO 400 | EXP 1/160
Some pink to delight. A touch of green to soothe. An easy beige to calm. A spread of brown to hasten. Fall is upon us as much as this colorful bouquet would show otherwise. If looks could deceive this quick fire hydrangea would take a bow in the starring role.
Come spring this bush blooms plain enough. Simple white flowers open up, as unassuming as they are unremarkable. Over the next few months playing host to a litany of eager pollinators. As the days turn to weeks and the weeks turn to months, a most curious transition occurs. Once simple white flowers transition into a colorful panoply of pastel beauty. A shield device painted by the unseen hands of the master power. By late fall the color sets in a striking kaleidoscopic array. One last reserve serried up in full regalia ready to wage one last battle of life before winter takes the war. And winter always takes the war.
Midas on the Marsh — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
What is it about gold? It’s beauty renown; it’s appeal universal. Coveted across cultures and throughout ages, gold transcends. An economist may chalk it up to scarcity. A philosopher may cite an intrinsic modality difficult for lesser minds to parse. An historian would describe it as a mechanism to transact both conquest, trade, and subjugation. While the artist muses on its form. A keen jeweler lauds its malleability and costly demand. The scientist matter of factly notes its place among the stars.
I like to think humanity has somehow known gold’s unique origin. An inbred sense of understanding its special creation. A creation that happens in the immediate aftermath of an exploding star. This is where the heavier metals come to be—the cauldron of a supernova factory. Through this gold shines through, connecting heaven and earth, culture and tribe, epoch and epoch. Whether in the search of avarice or beauty, gold calls to us all.
Come Again — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
No two sunsets are the same. It is known. Yet in my half decade of chasing light, either patterns, clouds or color often share a degree of similarity. Last night felt different. Driven by three distinct cloud decks, a high level layer of cirrus sat above low level clouds arrayed across most of the sky. Undercutting those two distinct cloud decks was a fast moving marine layer firing near ground level clouds westward off the ocean. Three levels, each moving in different directions at different speeds.
A three-tiered cloud deck isn’t something I happen on too often, yet on its own is not exactly uncommon. Helping to stage the rarer setting was the well spaced gaps marking the reticulated cloud pattern. I’ve done this enough times to know the sun wasn’t getting underneath this layer of clouds. Which is to say they were not going to color up thanks to an unworkable angle. However, the high cirrus deck exposed behind the breaks in the lower level clouds offered a backdrop that could color up vividly. And that’s exactly what happened. A sunset light show ignited high above a layer of clouds that could have otherwise sent me home without a shot.
It was not only timing and spacing working in my favor last night. Nature threw out another solid by working in hints of purple. Purple is the color I happen upon least in all my sunset expeditions—which is now well in the hundreds. I am certain there is a physical explanation for why purple shows itself least. Perhaps owing to having the shortest wavelength and highest frequency of all visible light? I don’t know. Regardless hints of it worked into last night’s palette. You can see where the pink pastels begin to fade back to a deeper violet hue. This is most visible toward the top of the photograph, in the center. It’s reflected in the tide pool marking the foreground.
All in all it was a great night shooting—one I want to come again.
To the Point — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
I’m brining it back to last Friday evening on Great Bay Boulevard. To my final set of seven brackets on what was an excellent first fall night. It was only moments earlier I scored this sunset before turning my camera vertical for blue hour. It was in this moment I thought about the past.
Vanishing points fascinate me. First introduced to the concept back in grade school art class I’ve been keen ever since. It unlocked the secrets of depth, proportion, scale and scope. Suddenly I could make my drawings fall back into the page, perspective now conquered. To an eager grade schooler it was akin to sorcery. The shroud pulled and in a single lesson my mind expanded.
The precepts from all those years ago are on display in this photograph. Here to the right Great Bay Boulevard itself retreats back to a single point at the center of the scene. It’s met with the parallel power lines and telephone poles falling back to said point. Everything here drives back to the same point on a line, shrinking as it goes. The marsh and puddles serve as more lines—albeit natural. Even the clouds are working it. All over lines leading the eye to the one vanishing point, the singularity of this world. And yet it’s a farce. Pursue as you may, you will never make it to the singular spot. It will keep its distance with cunning allure. It will remain as unconquerable as the rainbow and as elusive as its pot of gold. Still it is a wonder to see the world collapse down to a spot so small.
