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.
Moments after a snow squall moved through that wrought dramatic clouds cast in a pink orange glow, the color palette transformed almost instantaneously as a soothing sunset appeared wedged between storm cells. A five minute respite in an otherwise turbulent Friday afternoon. It was all a weather/photo geek could take. Now I’m not one to normally use parking lots as a primary feature of my landscape compositions, yet for a while now the sandy lot of what was once Rand’s Marina has caught my eye. Its pockmarked puddles with their dark pools and alluring reflections performing sublime feats with the light that dance upon their sheen have long begged for my attention. As it was I laid out a foreground and as the sun broke free just atop the horizon I was ready, camera in hand.
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.
A boy’s fascination runs deep. For as long as I can remember streetlight worship of steady snowfall has been a most welcomed seasonal companion. Growing up obsessed with snow I would eagerly strike days from the calendar in anticipation of winter weather. Winter was magic, and snow the tangible proof. Countless hours I’ve spent whiling away watching snowfall from any window that would have me. The daylight hours afforded easy, unobstructed viewing of my favorite weather. Come night fall, however, the snow scaled back to a more demure display. Hidden by darkness only in streetlight could I once again lay reassured eyes upon the flakes.
And so I would watch for hours on end, eyes focused sharply between finger wide gaps in the window blinds. No curtain was safe, no window dressing untouched as I bounced from window to window, streetlight to streetlight, maintaining an ever watchful eye on the falling snow. Mixed with the sense of wonder, small fits of worry would work in as I’d fret over the snow letting up. Inevitability taught me early what is good must always end, and so I took to my post with purpose in hopes to maximize as much snowfall watching as possible. Sensible adults would often chime in with raised brows noting I’d grow out of this first love with age and responsibility. Wait until you have to drive in it, they said. Wait until you have to shovel it, they said. First came the shoveling responsibilities, and I loved it—still do. Then came the driving responsibilities, and I loved it—still do. I suppose Miss Snowfall is a keeper, fickle as she may be.
All these memories came flooding back last night as I walked under the streetlight amidst a snow globe style snow squall. For 20 minutes my hometown was transformed into a convective array of heavy snowfall. Precipitation moved in and out just as a warm summer storm, but for a few minutes at least I was kid again standing tall at all those windowsills.
Once More Unto the Breach — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/400
People, can we take a moment to talk about this photograph? I try my best to avoid any and all self aggrandizement while beating my chest set atop a majestic horse who itself sets atop an ivory tower, but man, I am in love with this picture. Let’s start with the truthful reckoning: I in no way shape or form set out to make this photograph tonight. I went to what’s left of Rand’s Marina along Great Bay Boulevard in search of a sunset—the kind you’ve all seen here time and time again—yet I came home to find this diamond in the rough waiting for the figurative drill and polish. To be brutally honest I made this as something of a throwaway. I was doing my usual handheld single shot investigation of the premises trying to lock in my final composition where I’d then set my camera upon its tripod only to mill about, fiddle with my phone, and wait for the sun to set. And while I remember staring down the viewfinder when making this one-off I had a brief, well this has an interesting look to it thought fly in and out of my skull. It was the ramp descending into nothingness that was noteworthy at the time. From there I went to a different spot entirely to take my sunset position and wait.
However once I got home and imported into Lightroom its potential started to command my attention. With a few preset and slider manipulations I landed on this brooding, low key wonder. It was perfect. The intensity. The mood. The loneliness. The power. All of it speaks to me in ways I struggle to articulate. I can’t say I’ve ever been moved quite like this by my own work before—even falling back to my art class days of painting and drawing. Somehow something has clicked here. Perhaps it’s the far departure from my typical work? Maybe it’s the happy accident that led me here? Or maybe still it’s something I can’t yet figure out? All I can say is that I pleased by the emptiness and depth this image evokes.
Before You Go — 35mm | f/1.4 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/800
After last night’s negative tilt trough supreme wrought a 30 degree temperature drop; rain, snow, and sleet; and gusts of winds the Anemoi would be proud of in the span of roughly three hours these leaves are now gone. But 24 hours ago they were still here, so hey, maybe almost does count? Such is the onslaught of winter. One minute you’re hanging around LBIF dropping off photos on a 66 degree day and the next minute you’re running for the coat closet. Weather mood swings be damned, I’m happy I got to see my first flakes of what I hope will be a good old fashion snow-down for the winter of 2016–2017. Big snow, people—big snow. Measured in feet. (Meters would be even better.) I’m what they refer to in nerdy weather circles as a cold weather snow weenie. I’ll own it.
As for this photo it’s a bookend of sorts. Made one week ago it’s something of a mirrored close-out to I Saw Red which was made back in April when this very maple was in spring bloom. This tree of mine makes for a great subject as 1) it looks cool, and 2) it sits right outside my front door standing sentry at the House of Greg. This keeps things easy. Just load up the 35mm lens, set the aperture wide open, and step outside in my soft pants to squeeze off a few frames. It also gives me a chance to work on my vertical orientation game which I often ignore. Many a skilled New Jersey area landscape photographers do a great job exploiting the fall and documenting its seasonal change. As you’ll note by my lack of autumn type leafy photographs through the years you can surmise I have been measured and left wanting in this arena.
Another exposure from last Saturday’s exemplar sunset. At the time of this shoot the Cleveland Indians and Chicago Cubs were midway through a World Series for the ages. Two legacy ball clubs met in the Fall Classic, each seeking to end championship droughts that run so deep the scorched earth of their past seems to predate the respective clubs storied existence. Cleveland last won it all in 1948, and for the Cubs you have to go all the way back to 1908—you know, before the planet was embroiled in its first world war. Despite both teams fielding plenty of championship caliber ball clubs over subsequent decades neither could ever seem to escape the bowels of their own history—the likes of which makes you take serious the voodoo of a cursed destiny. It’s a nasty business, goats be damned. For a fan of neither team, this made the 2016 matchup all the more special—one of these clubs was going to break the hex and send long entrenched narratives to the editor’s waste bin. I would be entertained without the agony/elation precipice these two passionate fanbases precariously stood upon. As a Yankees fan on firmer ground I was all in for the Cubs, though I would have been equally satisfied had Cleveland claimed the prize.
And so it went. Cleveland stormed out to a 3–1 series lead, firmly secure in their already established home field advantage. A lights out bullpen spearheaded by Terry Francona’s willingness to deploy the near unhittable Andrew Miller in the fireman role, backed a Herculean effort from Cy Young winner, Corey Kluber. Kluber, more throw back than modern day starter, was more than willing to pitch until his arm fell off this postseason. Shades of CC Sabathia down the stretch for the Brewers in 2008. My hat tips for you, sir. In the end, though, it was the Cubs’ time. Storming back to bring the Series to an elimination game seven, the two teams met for one last trial before fate and in the process produced an all time game seven experience. Despite an inspired Cleveland comeback, and Rajai Davis’ unlikely late game home run heroics, the Cubs were able to make history and set fire to a narrative that has shrouded a great franchise for far too long.
Tend Your Craft — 35mm | f/1.4 | ISO 160 | EXP 1/30
So this is how pots are made—or fired, anyway. Last night I dropped on by the old yacht club—Long Beach Island Foundation (not a yacht club). Ceramics lead guy and all around bearded fellow, Jeff Ruemeli, was working the soda kiln with an eager assistant whom I do not know well enough to use her name without permission. Over the next few hours I watched the taring of scales; encountered esoteric recipes as ingredients were weighed, measured, and mixed. Saw water boil—with my own eyes! Even listened to some Journey. Then there were (was?) the burritos. Not the edible kind which was a real bummer since I was hungry enough to eat a fist. Apparently after you mix all the powdered chemical ingredients with the boiling water you lump them out onto old newspaper and wrap them like burritos. Cool enough from a learning perspective; hardly satisfactory from a hunger perspective.
Once these machinations were complete I made for my trunk and grabbed my camera—also not edible. Behind LBIF we stood around the soda kiln in almost ritualized fashion. My mind turned to our ancestors from a far distant past. There is something quite literally ancient about pottery. While I don’t know much I do know this—its roots are firmly entrenched in a past long gone, and little has changed throughout the millennia. Was this how it was for Athenian potters? Laboring tirelessly under the yolk of a towering Acropolis and roundly dismissed in their time? Like too many other masters their skill and higher purpose was not recognized until they had long passed on. To the vested Athenian these were mere vessels for keeping grain and wine. Complete myopia beyond functional utility. Historical perspective brings a greater meaning to the here and now where three people who have never been in your kitchen found themselves on Long Beach Island honoring proud traditions born of misunderstood beginnings.
Back in the present and on my way home I stopped for Taco Bell.
I am suffering from an itchy shutter finger. Photos have been few and far between lately, and once I saw a spot of afternoon light touch upon my backyard quick fire hydrangea I popped on the 35mm and squeezed off a few shots. I set my aperture to a wide open f/1.4 in hopes for soft focus and smooth, buttery bokeh. Going for a dreamy feel to wash over weary eyes I imported exposures into Lightroom where cross processing seemed the obvious choice—I wanted to bring out a red warmth through a diffuse hue. Intentional soft focus at the center fades away to increasing blur as the eye works out toward the edges in all directions. Up is down, left is right; a square format crop further facilitates this spatially agnostic end game.
