Set Down — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
It was easy living at sunset yesterday afternoon. A soothing burn caught fire over the calm water and quiet sky at Stafford Forge. Alone in the stand I stood, taking in the slow smolder and making my brackets. So easy was the pace I was able to step back from my camera equipment to breathe in the scene. A steady moment of respite to quiet the cacophony of life.
In my head I like to letter grade sunsets. The familiar range from A+ to F- that would either make or break your parents’ hearts. Without hesitation I slotted last night a B+ effort. Not Mother Nature’s most profound work, but worthy of recognition and praise regardless. I laughed to myself as B+ manifest unsolicited in my head, noting how my letter grade habit sort of just happens. I’m still a slave to the report card it would seem.
Better than an assignment of grade, however, was the value of being there, present in the moment. Quiet and alone taking in the master work of the natural world even when it’s not A+. It was there I stood taking in the cool fall air and eyeing the fire as the light of day set down.
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.
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.
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.
Fall Ahead — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
Each sky is different. Yet some remain the same. This is the paradox of the light chaser. Last night on Great Bay Boulevard I welcomed fall. Or spun to the proper hierarchy of things, it was fall who welcomed me. I have no power over seasons and remain her humble servant. It is in accordance to such peerage I will observe my station. Putting the power of things aside it was Mother Sky set in the seat of high honor. This fulfills a trend of quality sunsets in and around seasonal shifts. Confirmation bias may be at play but this seems the case over my now six years of shooting.
As I suggested at the start of this story last night’s sky brought me back to a mid-August evening in 2015. The twin skies bore striking resemblance to each other. To further the symbiosis was the location itself. I was also shooting on Great Bay Boulevard at sunset that night. On both occasions the marsh held sway in comparable colors—green pulling back to brown. The sky cast in a clean, piercing blue gaze. All this was set aglow moments before the sun set low beneath the horizon. In a rare showing, low set clouds lit up brief and bright, breathing fire to a scene of peace.
The Old Wood Span — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/30
To the romance of wood. The fuel of the hearth. The bones of the home. The backdrop of the written word. Nailed to the story of man wood’s place in civilization’s ascent is both secure and unsung. Its importance overshadowed by the power of stone, bronze, and iron. Perhaps there being no Wood Age—nor great monuments to its own—lends to its secondary status. Regardless, the power of the trees have freed us from the land and we should not forget.
While it has not the historical cachet of stone, bronze, or iron, it does invoke the warm feelings of a simpler time. This is where my mind runs when I look upon old, well-fashioned wooden structures. From an early age wood crafts, buildings, bridges, and even roller coasters fired my interest. The fine tuned skill and the care left behind from the souls who put all into their work. Underneath that work is history. Who built this? Where did they master their craft?And with whom? When was it built? How long did it take? And what of the material? Is it oak? Is it ash or pine? Where was it milled? From forest to work site to finished structure is where the grand narrative sits. For while this is the story of but one bridge, it’s the story of the bulwark of our civilization writ large. For ours is a story warmed by it, built upon it, and sheltered underneath it—the shaded age of wood has never ceased to be.
