On Dark Matters of Contrast — 100mm | f/3.5 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/50
Black, white, and all the shades of gray coloring the in between. Mix in a dash of soft focus and toss with a hit of certainty in a cauldron of abstraction and you have yourself a recipe for creation. While it may not jive with many folks, I love this kind of photograph; varied shades of grayscale values distilled down to abstract forms painting with light and movement.
In this photograph I am making creative use of daffodil stems. Photographed at close range, a distance of about 15 inches, with a 100mmmacro lens with an f/3.5 aperture. This arrangement allowed me to execute a shallow depth of field, juxtaposing the foreground of focused daffodil stems flowing free while rendering plenty of bokeh across the photo’s blurred background.
When I look upon this photo my mind sees the flowing movement of long grasses underwater. Submerged and swaying with the rush of the tide. It’s a balanced fluid motion, a soft rocking back and forth carrying us away to far off places. Relaxing spaces full of soft beds, kind hearts, and unbridled hope. Just because a thing is void of color does not mean it is void of life, energy, complexity, and passion. Let this be a lesson in all things.
Flowered Sun | 100mm | f/3.5 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/320
Looking close and slow upon a flower is a practice in patience with which all should partake. Particularly true to heal closed hearts and open stagnant minds. It is both window to the soul and outlet to the universe and it unveils the underpinnings of nature’s truth.
Take this nascent echinacea blossom. Still early in its development, it will soon blossom into its wonderful purple array. Yet here, in this moment of transition, if we look close we see the vast universe mirrored atop a small flower. With my first glimpse this blossom has the look of a sun. Star powered energy pouring forth from a solar atom foundry in its energetic prime.
Or is it teasing us with the esoteric nature of spacetime? The pliable fabric Einstein predicts by way of his theory of General Relativity? The spiraling spires trigger my imagination. I look and I ruminate. I see space curving and folding in response to mass. I see the universe as it is—all atop a flower in transition.
Or do I look only but upon a flower? Should it be so than it would all be worth it for the beauty of the world sets forever before us.
Wisteria in Black and White — 35mm | f/1.4 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/500
Those who have been following along for a while may note I don’t go in for straightforward photo titles. A literal labeler I am not. Yet here I am breaking my own rules with a boring name. Sometimes it is what it is; I beg you allow me this exception.
This photograph has several notable attributes that excite my artistic sensibility. It’s black and white. It presents a strong visual contrast between light and dark. Wisteria blossoms are its primary feature. There is a strong allotment of negative space gives all the elements room to breathe. And finally an abstraction blurs enough of the frame to call the mind to parse out what it thinks it sees.
I recognize this is a far departure from my colorful landscapes. Sometimes we need to put away the calling cards and dial up our passions even if they are less mainstream. It’s the cryptic and weird that makes me feel more creative. So scratch that artistic itch sometimes and be not concerned with Instagram likes. Portraying less concrete subjects in a presentation falling outside perceived norms is art. Art as an end in and of itself free of any other expectation. So get out there and get weird.
Winter rains descend unceasing. Blanketing the land in fog and gray. Dampness seeps into every corner. An unquenched avarice tasked to steal warmth wherever it may lay. There is no quarter. The wheel of time erodes the land upon its grindstone. Unconcerned with the changes wrought churning out universal meal. Always turning. Destroying. Creating. Transforming. Always turning.
We grow. We flourish. We wither. We die. We renew. The great circle of all things coiling back upon itself. The world snake consuming its own tail. We are come. We are gone. We are return. And so the long night of winter with slow and ever present speed withers to the brighter light of spring. The rebirth is coming. The resurrection of that which sets withering upon the tree of all life ready to bud.
As it is with most felines, my cat loves to bask in the warm sun. She waits patient at my sliding backdoor for my daily opening of the shades. This morning the sky broke clear and blue, and the sun’s power was further fueled by a fresh snowpack. The light was strong.
Aware of the opportunity I grabbed my camera, affixed my 100mm lens and not so smoothly laid belly down on the floor aside my cat. For whatever reason my cat Daisy is not overfond of a camera pointed in her face. (But hey, neither am I.) At most I’ll have 20 seconds before she makes her escape, put out by my camera’s presence.
During our brief stay I managed to make off with two photographs. Each playing up her majestic main and deep, probing stare. She is as a lion set firm in the fullness of life, content in her wisdom and station. As for me, I am lucky for her countenance and company.
I present my new partner in crime. Daisy “Chain” Cat. She’s a Maine Coon cat loaded down with fluff and stuff enveloping a pronounced air of dignity. When she’s not traipsing to and fro from food bowl to litter box she’s setting up shop on a comfy bit of furniture near you.
Daisy is my first pet. The first I can call my own. I grew up with cats and dogs—dogs mostly—but I never had one under my own care. Since my grandmother moved out of my house I have been living along full time since the summer of 2011. Guys, let me tell you, the years of talking to myself has grown stale.
Enter Daisy, my co-conspirator in indolence and shag floor lounging. She likes to hang and laughs at my poor jokes—OK, she doesn’t laugh so much as offer disgusted blank stares. This black and white photo doesn’t serve justice to her robust mane of hair. And it’s not reserved to her mane, she’s loaded with hair—everywhere.
Daisy comes to me as a middle-aged dowager feline. Rounding out her back nine I have welcomed her into my home. I will do my best to offer a relaxing, if not glorious retirement. She gets the peace and quiet—dumb jokes aside—she has long sought, and I get a buddy to disrupt my decade of solitude. As an added bonus I now have a ready-made photo subject. Though she has yet proved disposed to the task.
He once received a single red rose. On a break from the bustle at an ivy league coffee shop he sought refuge on a rooftop perch. It was his perch. Behind the cafe, cloistered in a brownstone alley he sat overlooking the parking lot he knew so well. Elevated, and hidden from the world set in motion below. Familiar chain linked fencing, dumpsters holding the byproduct of business, and the backside of the vintage record store a touch off in the distance contained a modest lot with parking meters marking each full space. It was a Friday evening and the town was alive. Princeton is a place that will stir the spirit. Academics, industrious students, professionals, bohemians, and tourists all come together in suburban paradise. Somehow modern, yet frozen in time. It’s equal parts tiny city and friendly home town from a bygone era full of thinkers, doers, dreamers, and seekers.
He loved this place and he loved her. Yet the rhythm of it all fell flat that night. A modest disagreement sent him to work amiss. Pulling espresso shots and crafting drinks he thought of her as he always did, though this time there was angst over their parting. Never did they fight and rarely did the disagree, but today they hit a bump. Somehow sensing his unrest with her colossal emotional intelligence she settled all without a word. She had a prodigious knack for such things. She always knew what to say. What to do. How to be. She could put anyone at ease with striking intuition. Somehow sensing the perfect greeting for a perfect stranger. This struck him more than anything. She fascinated him in all ways, but it was this trait the stood without equal. It was genius.
So there it was he sat. Perched alone, churning over the day’s events and fretting away the moments of his 10 minute break. It was then among a sea of red break lights he saw those red break lights. Out from the driver’s seat popped the striking silhouette of the finest young lady. Bearing no ill effects from the afternoon’s transgressions she bounded weightless from her door to a car windshield in a sea of nicer autos. It was there, under the driver side windshield wiper she placed a single red rose. Laid with all the care as if the world was watching. She never could have known he set up there watching. Stunned atop the rooftop his eyes filled with tears and he knew things were all right.
You know the grind. You feel it. It weighs heavy as you mire through life’s ebbs and flows. You cherish the highs and bury the lows. It’s in the space between you grind for purpose. Two steps forward. Two steps back. Captured in inescapable reality, caught in the throes of a fated cosmic dance.
You adorn your triumph and bury your loss. Unobserved to others the loss is still as real. No less massive, no less an equal equal force in the intwined gravitational balance. Only buried, left to rot and consume. Of course this is life. An impartial duality to remind you of inherent vitality sprinkled with uncertainty. The fearsome dive to the depths releases you to relish the inevitable rise to new heights. Actions need balance. Yet the weight of it all will pull you back to the grind. Working. Churning. Struggling. Steadfast to best understand what it all means. You’re tired. It is in these moments where you are best to open up; to show your full self warts and all. Let the world see you as you are, adorned with hope, fear, and the grinding middle ground we all feel.
Heh—”Lovely Rita” just cued up as I began writing up this post. Things are looking up on what has otherwise been a rather pedestrian Saturday in the cellar cold that is February. So pedestrian, in fact, my right shoe found itself planted in some fresh dog poo as I was making sunset photos, but I digress.
Before any of those shenanigans took place—as “Being For The Benefit of Mr. Kite!” randomly fires up, #winning—I was leaving an art show on Long Beach Island just as golden hour was casting light upon the 18 mile sandbar. I figured what the heck, may as well check the beach for a photo op. I. Am. Glad. I. Did. Had lethargy won the day I would have hopped in my car and driven home, belting out off key harmonies alone in my salt crusted sedan. Instead I took a short walk across a wide road.
Once on the oceanside my nose was greeted with fresh salt air and my face a gentle breeze. More often than not ocean winds are ripping, especially in winter, and this can foul up your day real quick if you’re not dressed accordingly. Of course I wasn’t dressed accordingly. I wasn’t a boy scout so to hell with preparedness, am I right? Oh, “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” now? This Beatles block is something. Fortunately the breeze was little more than a whisper adding little in the way of extra bite to a high temperature that sat in the low 30s all day—Fahrenheit, yo.
With the tide up and the steep cliff face still looming from where the last nor’easter went all Pac-Man on the berm, I was limited to shooting along the East Coast Ave beach entrance only. Led Zeppelin’s “Dancing Days” (live) is playing now for those keeping score at home. Clearly iTunes has a British rock thing going tonight. Fortunately I needed not go any further than the entryway. I had an attention grabbing bit of sand fence exposed at the crest of the sand dune calling my name. “Steve!” It said. But I paid that no mind this dune was mine. The small section of fence has been doing its thing, maybe a bit too well, holding up sand and continuing to build and protect life and property. “Straight Outta Compton (Remastered 2002)” now up. Straight Outta Sand Dune? Alternate title, perhaps?
Anyway, this minimalist feature was calling my name yet the magic didn’t really happen until I got home. During my obligatory first pass photo inspection in Lightroom I knew immediately I wanted to go with a super contrasty black and white treatment. Into Silver Efex Pro 2 I went and the rest is low key history. With that it looks like I am closing out this post with “Here I Dreamt I was an Architect” by The Decemberists. If “Africa” by Toto comes up next I’m declaring this run of tunes damn near perfect. Thanks for listening.
