I’d be lying if I said the hosta plant was high on my list of favorite flowers before getting behind the lens. In fact, I’d be lying if I said I ever took much note of them at all. Here again photography proves a great teacher, turning attention to where before there was none. More precise, it was this time a year ago I first fixed focus on a hosta with my macro lens. In a frame not dissimilar to what I share today, a hosta bloom unfurls with a kindness into a delicate array of petals bathed in pastel tones. Layers peel away and lend depth to provide a softness and intimacy that passed heretofore unnoticed. Unnoticed at least to my once uncultivated eye.
Hobbies are great. Hobbies that teach us, humble us, surprise us are even better. It’s one thing to find something you’re good at and helps while away the hours. It’s a whole other thing to find something that challenges you in unforeseen ways and breaks the well worn foundations which bind us to our ways.
Picked by You — 100mm | f/3.5 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/400
Oh beloved flower macro forever I hold dear. Time and again I’ve written about macro’s special place in my photographic journey. Were it not for my 100mm lens during 2012’s daily photo project I’m most positive I wouldn’t be the landscape photographer you know today. In truth, I wouldn’t be any kind of photographer today.
Specific credit must go to flowers. A legacy of my home’s previous owners—my parents—is an array of perennials the liven up the property from April through October. Cutting my teeth in 2012, flowers, beautiful and without judgment offered an approachable muse for this shy shooter. Allowed to hone my posture, technique, and stillness I took to handheld macro shooting with some dexterity. Learning to depress the shutter between breathes as becoming an able marksman.
From there I built upon composition principles. Applying the rule of thirds, maintaining balance and symmetry in my frames. It was during this nascent stage my eyes opened to the mechanics of bokeh and depth of field. Once oblivious I had no idea lenses produced areas of non-focus in such an appealing manner. Taken by this effect with earnest, I’ve been an advocate of open apertures for my entire body of non landscape work ever since. I even made a connection to my adolescence as a struggling painter. In all my works I tried to paint all aspects of the composition with perfect rigid detail. Had I eased and let non essential portions blur focus I would have brought more attention to the subjects that mattered. This is vital in portraiture or a still life that features a key subject—akin to the flower above. It’s remarkable to learn your lesson over a decade later from little expected places.
To come full circle I made this photograph at my parents’ new house. Ensconced yet again by a rich array of perennials. Here it was a breed of Black-eyed Susans that called to my camera and me. You may recall I published one photograph already from the batch of photographs I made last Sunday. I was glad to dust off my 100mm macro lens to revisit from whence I came.
Editor’s note: Shout-out to everyone on Instagram and Snapchat who came to my aid. You helped me decided between color and black and white for this photograph. This title is a hat-tip to you. More news: I published a column for Breaker Zine’s debut Beta Issue and my article is now online. If you enjoy reading about how I got started with photography be sure to check it out. Thanks!
Yes this was published on a Monday, but yesterday when I was making what I’m ready to declare my best series of flower photographs in years was in fact a Sunday. I have it on good authority that not only is Sunday is a day that ends in ‘Y,’ it always precedes a Monday. Allegedly. But don’t take it from me and always check your sources.
My title is an exercise in layers. At the surface is a shot out to Trey Ratcliff and the eponymous Lightroom preset, Sunday Alone. Next, and as already worked over in paragraph one, I made this photo on a Sunday. As it so happens on a Sunday I was feeling particularly alone. I assure you the pairing of chosen filter and said mood was one of pure coincidence. The last layer is not without a touch of irony—the Black-eyed Susans pictured here are hardly alone. This is a thriving bloom of eager and lively coneflowers packed together in close quarters. Since Saturday I’ve been in full swoon when I first noticed this rudbeckia variety aside my parents’ walkway. I see you Saturday, coming before Sunday like you’re all that. Alone on a Sunday as I may have been, these flowers are serving up a healthy dose of joy.
I proclaimed at the outset that yesterday, a so-called “Sunday,” was my best flower photo shoot in years. With any luck you’ll feel the same as I am going to be posting at least three more photos—though more are likely. Most will be more compositions of Black-eyed Susans, but there will be at least one hostamacro in here.
Shout out to Sassafras Hill Farm for coming through with the identification on the rudbeckia so praised here.
Nothing on the Top — 35mm | f/1.4 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/1600
In most any work you attend you’re bound to hit the plateau. Elongated sessions of flat expense flanked by monotony—or worse yet—nothingness. It’s the grind. Lacking the mania and output of the peak, yet devoid the pain and failure of the valley. It’s an uneventful period of low growth. It’s difficult to parse lessons when you’re going through the motions. Instead the best you can do is convince yourself to trust the process. Give yourself the stick with it pat of the back trusting this inglorious stretch, too, must end.
This is where I’m at with my photography. Going through the motions. It started when my iMac died in April. With my workflow disrupted I’ve been struggling for inspiration to get out and shoot. It also hasn’t helped that I’ve missed out on a few great sunsets too. These things happen, though, and I must continue shooting to find it. I’ve been here before and have worked through it each time.
Another caveat in my travail is stagnation. I’m at a point with my work where it all seems more of the same. A shallow veneer atop the same photo we’ve seen before. Salt marshsunset; wash, rinse, repeat. At least I’ve been making more flower shots this year than in years past, and that’s been a welcome break. Yet I itch for more. Can I scratch for different? A break from the comfort zone feels in order. For some time now I’ve had the urge to dip my toes into portraiture. Ever eager to talk myself out of things, this projected change is ripe for excuse making. First there is the gear investment: lenses, lighting, and some screen type apparatus. Yet it’s the second hill that seems hardest to climb. I need subjects. Real life humans willing to sit and work with a guy who is cutting his teeth with something new. I’ve floated the idea past friends and none are keen to engage. And if they are they’re keeping things coy.
Anyway, thanks for listening to my midnight ramblings as work my thoughts aloud by way of blog post. And besides, now is not the time to get too down—it’s summer!
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.
I’m not one for literal titles yet here I am. Strange things, man, they happen. In their death throes now, my peonies had their proverbial moment in the sun in late May. Pink and glorious, oversized bulbous blossoms beautified my shrub bed with their bounty. Tissue paper petals bunched together in a gift package of pink, ready to welcome a newborn child. Hardly long for this world they bring a respite of joy to eager viewers keen to seek them out. Many people I know laude the coming of the peony, and I am happy to count myself among their rank.
On another note, does anyone have a trick to keep these things from bending under their own weight? Not long after bloom the flower heads take on the oppressed posture of a people suffering under the yolk of a tyrant. It’s unbecoming of their beauty and power. My peonies could use some support, you guys. It is clear The Man (me) has got them down.
May 2017 brought the rain. With it came puddles of mud and big blooms of flowers. Currently on display are the peonies. I have four peony plants about my front and back yards, each a slight variation of the species. I’m no botanist and cannot label the differences. Two of the peonies are of the pom-pom variety. Bulbous fluffy flower petals with plenty of fluff. The two others are more sparse of petal and unfurl to reveal a large bundle of pollen rich yellow stamen. The pink version is the one you see above. Its purple counterpart will not be in bloom this year thanks to an overgrown spirea.
My brain gets the best of me. Often I wrap myself sideways in details that stand meaningless to most. Mired in Minutia: A Greg Molyneux Memoir. Case in point, I present this photograph. I’ve been scrutinizing Google images for days, sweating over proper bee identification. Is it a bumblebee? A carpenter bee? A rusty patched bumblebee? Which until yesterday I knew nothing about; bombus affinis is one cool species name, though. Or is it some other bee I don’t even know about? Ah yes, the endless fretting of a runaway mind.
Taxed and unable to commit I sent a photo of my photo to Ben Wurst today. South Jersey’s Captain Planet, Ben’s the clear choice for local wildlife identification. Almost immediately Ben confirmed my suspicion. Declaring this here bee of the carpenter kind. Whew! Are you tired from this tedium, too?
Speak softly and carry a macro lens. And that’s enough Teddy Roosevelt for this post. Besides, I’m quite a loud talker. Despite being sans computer for the better part of the past month I was still out in my yard making photos. I’m sure my Mid-Atlantic flower peeps noticed the stellar wisteria bloom that manifest this spring. It was something else. When these little beauties go they create one of my favorite flowering spectacles. Tentacles of blossoms unfurl with columns of flowers serving as would be suction cups upon chlorophyll tentacles.
Centered in my backyard sits a small wisteria. It annoys me to know end come late spring; stretching without mercy to attach itself to most anything. These bad boys grow at an alarming rate. The only way to greet it is head on—trimming shears in hand—and on a regular basis. But during the years they bloom en masse, all the invasive conquest that comes later is worth it.
As for the photograph above we’ve got a few things working here. Some good and some accidental. The good? The light play. Rich afternoon light set up ideal conditions to capture the petite blossoms. The accidental? I was shooting handheld with my 100mm lens and not paying enough attention I dropped a 1/80 second exposure. As a general rule I like my exposure to be greater than or equal to the focal length of the lens. In this case an exposure greater than (re: faster than) or equal to 1/100 second. Holding to this formula helps keep your handheld shots sharp. Yet in this case the accidental soft focus builds on the photo. It drops a layer of whimsy onto the frame; a warm glow calming the soul. Sometimes our mistakes work in our favor.
