See You Again — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
Stirrings on the marsh. Signs of life are springing up along Cedar Run Dock Road. Ospreys are back, herons are skulking, and tender sedge is starting to pop through. The great browning has seen its end.
After a slow start to spring, fresh warmth has made its way to Ocean County, New Jersey, this week. It’s a welcome feeling hitting the marsh in minimal clothing with a warm breeze kissing your face. It’s made all the better when the warm pastels of summertime color the sunset sky.
My photo output has waned woefully in 2018 and it’s bumming me out. I’m not sure if it’s only a phase or an inauspicious sign of things to come. While I hope I get back on the grind, churning out quality photo content on the regular, there is a growing chorus of doubt in certain corners of my conscious. I can hear the small voice whispering here it is, another hobby ready to drop. We’ll see. Maybe it was just a phase and this is the beginning of a turnaround?
Things were quiet on the salt marsh tonight. A subtle blue hour affair in our slow march toward spring. While the calendar insists spring starts tomorrow, winter has other ideas. And so here I sit griping about three backloaded winters in a row. Backloaded meaning winters that will—not—end.
March 2018 has been active with coastal storm after coastal storm. Wreaking havoc with rain, snow, sleet, thunder, lightning, flooding, and power outages. Most of which happened at the same time. This spot I made photos tonight has been underwater quite a bit this month. And now here we are, set to welcome spring with a winter storm watch. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Le sigh.
Now if you’re thinking, wait a minute, Gregory Hypocrite, I thought you loved snow? Well you’re not wrong. But while I love snow I am not its biggest fan once March hits. I am all about furious rates of maximum dendrite growth from December–February. But once March rolls in, with longer days and all its hopes for spring and summer I am ready to move on dot com. Yet again, as it was in 2016 and 2017, it looks like we are going to have to wait. As it is, winter holds.
We are near on March and this marks only my third sunset photograph of 2018. I could chide myself for slacker ways, but I am taking it easier on myself these days. I am more willing to take things as they come—no need to force issues and ratchet up pressure were there should be none. Thanks to a cooperative sky and my willingness to step away from an A Link to the Past replay I made it to Dock Road in time for sunset action.
This evening was all about peace and calm. The marsh was sedate. The tide was out. The winds were still, and the air made clean and clear from crisp winter air. The visibility had that extra sharpness that doesn’t come to often. It felt like living in real life HD vision. The recipe made for ideal photo making.
The heavens brought the finishing touches to a restorative evening. A tack sharp crescent moon cut the sky casting a wry, cheshire smile. Later still Venus took to glowing bright and bold. The evening star lending companionship to the cycling moon waxing through its youth. May these reminders of our small part in a much broader universe never cease carving smiles on my face.
Once Forgotten — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
Last month revisiting all my photographs for my 2017 best of list I came across this image in Lightroom. Made on the same February 2017 afternoon as “The Observer” I remembered, oh, I meant to post this picture, too. It was post-processed and everything—fully baked and ready to post. For whatever reason it didn’t happen. The back-burner of forgetfulness won the day. It’s a shame, too, as this is a fine shot. Showcasing sparkling sunset colors and an ensnaring reflection. Better still, it’s composed in a portrait orientation. Which is a fancy way of saying vertical. A composition I little utilize and struggle to execute.
Of course this has me wondering what other forgotten gems have I buried away in my backlog cache? A trove of photographs that now measures in the tens of thousands. It’s been my wont no to do much looking back on my work—annual retrospectives aside. So maybe it’s time for something new?
Coda
The irony is not lost on me that on an evening I made a photograph entitled “The Observer” I made the mistake of overlooking another shot.
Another Year Sets — 14mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | 7 Bracketed Exposures
Hours away from 2018. Time surges. The accelerant of our lives. Time. The hidden force running faster and more elusive than each year to come before. Our grammar school time but a distant memory. A patina etch from the halcyon days where the conquest of the calendar year stood more daunting than Odysseus’ long voyage home. The annual primary school quest that needed parceling into such small chunks that still made weeks feel a feat of strength. A month felt an accomplishment worthy of new construction paper cutouts to mark out each day on the classroom calendar. The marking period quarter pole left us grizzled vets of the mathematics wars. But by year’s end, learned and wizened, came the triumphant return of vacation. The final march off the bus sounding the horn of endless summer. It was over two magical months the youthful burden of time paid off. Endless weeks spanned on forever to our heart’s content. But now when years pass as eye blinks is is our deepening wrinkles and our tired bodies signal the passage of time. Replacing construction paper cutouts with stress, fear and anxiety. W look no farther than our own aging as the clear marker in the unstoppable acceleration of time.
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.
Cold Movement — 35mm | f/1.4 | ISO 100 | EXP 1/100
I’ve been listening to Walter Isaacson’s, Leonardo Da Vinci, on Audible. While I haven’t enjoyed it as much as his biographies on Steve Jobs, Albert Einstein, and Benjamin Franklin, I find I am connect more though Walter’s latest work. Being something of an interdisciplinary and a procrastinator there is a resonance with the famous Florentine. While at only a fraction of a percent on Leonardo’s scale I, too, have a wide array of interests powered by curiosity. A Jack-of-all-trades I want to know a little something about as many things as possible. Of course Leonardo took this to a mind-boggling level; a Leonardo-of-all-trades and the master of all. He stands as the pinnacle Renaissance Man, even if he left most of his work unfinished or unpublished. Of course, he was more interested in pursing art, mathematics, engineering, optics, fluid dynamics, and stage craft to acquire knowledge for its own sake. He was less concerned with finishing things and reaping external rewards that motivate many of us.
Much of Isaacson’s biography covers Leonardo’s work as a painter. While I was a mediocre and frustrated painter at best who never enjoyed the practice, these chapters have sparked connection to my photography. Isaacson tells us Leonardo was a master of movement in his works. He instructs us that a work should not capture a moment as frozen and rigid. Instead it is necessary to convey what was happening one moment ago in the past transitioning to what will happen in the next moment in the future. This fundamental cornerstone built an emotional and narrative quality in Leonardo’s work. He wrote about its importance many times across the decades in his famous notebooks.
Taking this maxim from the preeminent Renaissance master has me thinking I would do well to incorporate movement into my own work. I want to create photography that flows from one moment into the next. Better this than a stale image, emotionless and locked in time. In a weird way, armed with Leonardo’s thoughts on the matter, I can picture him judging my work with cutting critique. In this way I want to be sure I it will pass muster.
Last night on the marsh I had my first chance at capturing movement under the auspices of Maestro. The first arctic air mass of the year arrived in New Jersey yesterday. With it a biting north west wind to serve as wake up call that winter is coming. The sky was cast with a deep orange-purple glow that only shows when a serious winter trough swings through. Set to this dreamy backdrop, invasive phragmites bent low before the stiff breeze; bowing in unified motion under the power of wind. Here was my chance at movement. Using my 35mm lens, soft focus, and a hint of blur the viewer can imagine where the phragmites were a glimpse prior. Now compare that with where they will be in the next eye blink. The movement brings action and reality to an otherwise still looking scene. This better conveys the cold, windy, unsettled reality on the marsh last night. This stands in narrative opposition to what could otherwise look like a placid blue hour on the marsh.
The Moon Was a Crescent — 100mm | f/8 | ISO 100 | EXP 1.6 sec
The moon was a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. A pale sun rose and set and rose again. Red leaves whispered in the wind. Dark clouds filled the skies and turned to storms.
—Bran III, A Dance with Dragons; volume five in A Song of Ice and Fire.
Author George R. R. Martin, in one of his strongest, and most rhythmic chapters in A Song of Ice and Fire brings the reader into long, uninterrupted passage of time. Written with exacting precision, we, along with the moon and the characters therein, cycle through time as Bran trains with the Three-Eyed Raven. “The moon was fat and full… The moon was a black hole in the sky… The moon was a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife.” The cycle repeats no fewer than three times as readers work through Bran’s journey. Cold and lonely in a cave unseeing yet aware of the cold, cruel world outside. We endure the passage of time with our protagonist. Aware of both repetition, effort and duration. This takes peculiar significance with Bran who himself is able to take over the minds of others, man and beast. As readers, Martin is imploring us to do the same through his language. We become Bran in that cave.
Recalling how I felt when I first read through this chapter I marvel at what Martin had done. His use of language, tone, rhythm and repetition stirring my imagination. I saw the moon. I experienced the time. I was with our hero feeling the burden of the work and paralyzed with the task ahead. I am not a prodigious reader, nor am I schooled in language, grammar or creative writing. Yet this chapter left a mark as though made from a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. It took the habit of reading, and thereby the art of writing, to a new level of appreciation. For the first time I perceived how exacting words can move mind, body and soul. It was tangible evidence that reading is essential to better writing. It is the key to better storytelling. The key to better understanding of our world and our audience.
Standing out on the marsh last week, watching a sunset fade, I saw the moon was a crescent, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. Immediately transported I saw all the sickled moon blades I’d witnessed over the years. In the same moment I was Bran. At the same moment still I was reading Martin’s words, seeing again all the sickled moon blades I’d witnessed over the years. Sharp as a knife, black as a hole, fat and full. Anything… everything happening at once, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife.
