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.
Flowers are but a bright spot in an otherwise darkening world. Acrimony, callousness, cynicism, and flagrant distrust envelope our better judgement as a plague. As corrosive distrust and patent injustice unfolds so too do the flowers. Impartial and ignorant to our schemes and machinations, spreading beauty with their grace. Too bad it not up to them to stand in judgement of our folly.
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.
Jane Says — 10mm | f/3.5 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/5003.5 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/500
I bought my home from my parents in October 2009. Built in 1993, my parents put in much work to cultivate a lovely yard through the years. Cue up yard work montage footage full of old clothes and dated hairstyle. And yes, I bought the house I grew up in. Under my ownership I have made great work undoing their great work. A once proud yard has fallen into disrepair under my watch. Where once there was lush grass there is the lingering remains of fescue. Where plants and flowers once thrived there is the unkempt overgrowth of perennials. All flanked by an uncontrolled spread of weeds. A groundskeeper I am not.
For whatever reason a shrub that had been for years on the brink, has returned to its former glory. A least in part. A Jane magnolia, photo above, has undergone something of a renaissance in my side yard. It has flowered up better than at any point in the last four years or so. With it injecting a most welcome infusion of purple to the yard. It’s a pleasing contrast to the yellow explosion of otherwise out of control forsythia marking the property’s edge. While the wheels have come off my lawn it’s nice to have some picturesque reminders of better days.
Daffodil Will — 35mm | f/1.4 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/8000
The pivot to spring you ask? More like the rusted cog seized in refusal to spin up spring. Mother Nature, have you no oil can? Have you no mercy? Despite a brief touch of warmth we have been summarily dismissed to low 40s, gloom, and biting winds. Winter in the Mid-Atlantic battles on. Another year, another backloaded winter. It’s a back door cold front the did us in this time. Further freezing seasonal gears in their ruddy place.
But never doubt the will daffodils. They are rocking in full shine. Sure they made headway two to three weeks later than usual, but in yesterday’s 70s they splayed in full glory. Crocus, hyacinth, and daffodils serve as standard bearers of spring. The first to push through and remind us warmer climes lay in wait.
It’s with fair certainty I’ve made an iteration of this daffodil photograph since 2012. It’s an exciting reminder that flowers are back and it never gets old. I talk often about revisiting photographs. I maintain it is good practice. No matter how similar, no two photographs are ever the same. So make them over and over again. The world is fluid and the arrow of time forever points forward. We’re always changing, aging, moving. The same is never the same—so capture those moments and lock away the moment. Now if you don’t mind I am off to don my winter coat and gripe more about things I cannot control.
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’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.
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.
