The side of a hull is interesting on so many levels. As an abstraction, photographed somewhat out of context, it becomes mysterious but engaging. I love its palette. And it's pure utility, ugly. It is also a record of events in every blemish, every pock. And there are many. It is a story of constancy, geography, erosion, branding, man-hours, torsional stress, and a perfect record of it all.
Church. That's what these magnificent places in our state are for me. I am humbled by the size, by the oddity, and by the great age of these land features only hours away. It is a privilege to behold them. I am happiest in these cathedrals. They compel me to do them justice. Humility can't even describe the state of wonder I feel in and amongst these formations.
My favorite example of a synecdoche is "the 'suits' walked into the room".
A photograph is a thing. Just like Magritte's painting of a pipe is a thing but not a pipe. But these photographs are paintings and not photographs. They are records. They are not ships nor painted over weathered graffiti. I often see this way-- one or two steps out from the thing that it is. I need this in my life for some reason.
I breathe deeper when a viewfinder is pressed to my eye. As I'm depressing the shutter, I'm holding it, but the whole process and approach to that moment, respiarations are slow, even and deep. Walking and looking with intention is very much an act of meditation-- a very healthful practice.
I was in St. John's the other week on a walkabout that would end encircling the St. John's Bridge, and this fellow was having his lunch. I said, "May I?", and he said, "Of course." The cat didn't give his permission.
These are my Mother's hands in death. A week in hospice was like an upper level college course on death and dying. But it was a week of pain and tears, laughter and insight in that very caring place. I was truly conflicted about recording something that would not deny the truth about death but be respectful of Mom. When I looked at her hands, I thought of her life in an instant-- that time when I was was five and we hit a puppy and had to find the owner. The time when I wanted to run around outside, and chase my neighbor Tony with a squirt gun-- but she said "No! Take a nap!".
I was with her when she passed. It was an incredible privilege.
Photography is crack. It is a drug that won't let you go. It brings out the worst and I love it. The worst are my biases and generalizations, my obsessiveness and lust for gear, my incessant need to share and get gratification from kudos. I love it because it makes me see these things and because I breathe when I do it and notice the tiniest things around me. I love it because it facilitates relation with others and transports anyone anywhere. In this case, the Painted Hills.
I am after them. The fading. The moribund. The aged. It is more imperative all the time. The faster life goes, the more motivated I become to hold onto these precious relics of that quieter, slower time. The stories of scars make them honorable scars.
The Peter French round barn in central Oregon is such a place. Inside, are star wars and bird dog fights.
Why are we so struck by the symmetrical (although this one isn't precisely symmetrical)? I guess reflections are fascinating for the same reason we like kaleidoscopes and myriad other distortions. I like it because suddenly our normal world takes on design references and makes the ordinary extraordinary. The Fremont Bridge here isn't ordinary as it is, but the shot begs to really get in there and explore around in it.
Surface and scale. These are elements I find attention grabbing. The subject matter here is entirely mysterious with no clues. That goes against my modus operandi because one cannot suss out what's up. But it drew me in and I like it.
These were enormous tanks for some kind of storage-- probably beer since a brewery is nearby. But it was such a gentle giant (there I go anthropomorphizing again), nestled into it's dark hollow. I found the surface so icy. It was an ice planet floating in space.