“The entire photographic process is a metamorphosis. The artist can invent a reality which is personally more meaningful than the one literally given to the eye." — Jerry Uelsmann, American pioneer of experimental photography

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

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My Eyes: Behind the Artwork

What do you do when your flight’s delayed and you’re stuck at the gate? Read. Listen to a book or music. Work. Eat. Nap. Talk with your travel companions. Talk on the phone. Do business. There are so many ways to pass the time. You can even use the time to make art—which is what this post it about.

Watching People
Back in 2015, I was waiting for a flight at Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport, on my way home to Boston with a layover in Detroit. The gate agent announced a 45-minute delay. Instead of pacing the concourse for extra steps, which is usually what I do when a flight runs late, I sank into a chair and watched arriving travelers ride the terminal’s people movers — some zoomed along using the mover as an assist. Others just let the machine do the work.

My seat happened to be next to the plexiglass divider separating the people mover from the departure gate, which put me in the perfect spot to watch the show as flights arrived and passengers streamed off. I set my unobtrusive Fuji X100T on the table beside me and shot hundreds of frames in bursts. By the time I boarded, I had a full SD card’s worth of images — and a serious culling job waiting for me back home.

Observing Architecture
Despite the delay, I still had time to spare at Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport before my flight home. I turned my lens on the concourse itself, focusing on its repetitive structural elements holding up a cavernous ceiling. All those geometric forms and parallel lines were a playground for the eye.

Putting It All Together
As soon as I downloaded the images, I started thinking of them as pieces of one artwork. I began by building “filmstrips” out of the passengers on the Minneapolis people mover, then layered in the infrastructure shots from Detroit, along with architectural details from my archives.

The goal was to capture the human kinetic energy — that particular sense of urgency you feel in an airport — by weaving people and architecture together. I spent a few hours experimenting: moving figures into different positions, layering the people mover against the architecture in different combinations.

Finding the Right Atmosphere
I started off with a black and white composite so I could get a sense of the various layers without the bright colors of the airport becoming a distraction. The result had clarity, but it also had a documentary distance. It felt more like a record of a place than the experience of being inside it.

Next, I gave each of the three filmstrips a slightly different blue tone. The color introduced energy and helped distinguish the bands of movement. But it also created three separate elements competing for attention.

To restore a sense of unity, I applied a single cool tone from top to bottom. The cyanotype-like blue rendered the architectural lines crisp and sharp. But the people receded, and the image felt more like a blueprint than an invitation to explore.

A purple gradient shifted the balance. I immediately noticed that it deepened the shadows, separated the human figures more clearly and, most importantly, gave the layered space a more mysterious, dreamlike quality. In short, it accentuated the sense of ambiguity that I was seeking. At that point, Arrival had arrived.

Done with Airport Art—for Now
These days, given the current state of travel, I would think twice before pointing a camera at airport infrastructure or at the people moving through it. The next time I’m delayed, I may simply walk the concourse or listen to an audiobook. Then again, I know myself: sooner or later, something will catch my eye.

Back to Your Eyes

With the story behind the image now in mind, spend another moment with Arrival. Where does the image take you this time?

“There’s something magic about airports — it’s like standing in a room with a thousand doors” — Atticus, The Truth About Magic

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“There are lots of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises.”
— Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

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My Eyes: Behind the Photograph

It’s so easy to miss nature’s best treasures as we barrel through life. But if you slow down (and often look down), there’s a world of marvels to behold—like milkweed plants on the verge of releasing their seeds to the wind. When I come across a milkweed pod that makes for a particularly elegant photograph, I typically clip the stem and place it in my lightbox, where I can control the lighting and take “focus-stacked” images (see details below).

Why This Milkweed
To me, one of the most exciting milkweed discoveries is a pod adorned with “unpacked” seeds tethered to the shell by the most tenuous connections and ready for flight at any moment. The unpredictability, excitement, and suspense are akin to raindrops clinging to the tip of a leaf. You never know exactly when the moment of detachment will occur.

While I had plenty of milkweed subjects to choose from the day I photographed Milkweed #6 (see below), I found this particular plant especially compelling because of its grace and elegance. I saw it as a natural sculpture with a beautiful curve and composition. I also loved the tension between the busy cluster of feathery seeds and the empty pod that housed them until it was time for their release. Nature is pretty clever: plants that distribute their seeds by wind, away from the parent plant, improve the species’ survival by cutting down on competition with the parent plant that made them, and by giving the next generation new ground to take root in.

In the Lightbox
While I photograph some botanical subjects in context, I generally place them in a lightbox, where I can match my camera white balance to the color temperature of the box’s LED lamps and shoot against a black background for subject separation and dramatic effect. It’s also very hard to build a focus stack (my preferred technique for botanical images) in the open air. Focus stacking entails taking multiple photos of a subject (35 in the case of Milkweed #6) at minutely different focal depths, then merging them into a single flattened image via software. The slightest breeze, or a visit from an insect, will throw off the stack.

At the Computer
The warm tones of the seed pod casing and its escaping seeds brought a Dutch still-life painting to mind. Everything I needed for that painterly feel was already baked into the subject. A few slight adjustments to overall tone and color saturation were enough to bridge the gap between what I’d envisioned and the final print.

More from the Field
Here are more botanical portraits from that same milkweed foray:

So as Not to Disrupt Nature…
When I’m done photographing milkweeds, I gather the seeds and let them take flight. Milkweed plants are critically important to the life cycle of monarch butterflies, whose caterpillars feed exclusively on milkweed leaves. My photo shoots are minor interruptions to my backyard’s ecosystem.

Nature on Display
Botanical photography isn’t my primary art pursuit, but it’s a satisfying way to reveal the extraordinary beauty hiding in plain sight. Some of my botanical images find their way into juried exhibitions. As I write this, Milkweed #6 has just earned an honorable mention in Photo Artfolio’s “Wild” exhibit, which invited work that celebrates “…the beauty, diversity, and wonder of the natural world. From intimate wildlife portraits to sweeping landscapes and quiet moments of ecological connection, we seek photographs that reveal the richness of life on Earth and inspire a deeper appreciation for the environments that sustain us.”

Back to Your Eyes

Now that you know the story of the image, how has your experience of it changed?

“The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson, “History,” Essays: First Series

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“Color is descriptive. Black and white is interpretive.” — Elliott Erwitt, American documentary photographer

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

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My Eyes: Behind the Photograph

I never tire of photographing Boston’s MBTA yard from the West 4th Street bridge.(Through the chain-link fence, actually — I own a couple of lenses with front elements small enough to shoot through the wire openings.) I cross that bridge every time I take the subway to my studio in the the city’s South End area.

While I’ve produced this image in color and have experimented with unusual framing and digital effects (see below), the high-contrast black-and-white version is my favorite, with its woodblock-like feel.

The B&W version is printed on sheer aluminum via dye-sublimation, a process that heat-transfers the image directly into a specially coated metal panel instead of laying ink on top of paper. On sheer aluminum, the lighter areas allow more of the reflective aluminum surface to show through, while the darker areas show as solid color. The high-contrast B&W, combined with the aluminum substrate, reduces the scene to its bare elements.

My goal was to create a view of Boston built on compositional tensions: the city’s angular geometry contrasted with the maze of crisscrossing, curving tracks below… the one living thing in the frame (that tree at the edge) standing its ground against all the steel and glass… and finally, the subway cars themselves, their rounded corners contrasting with the buildings on the skyline.

Color or B&W
For comparison, here’s the same view rendered in color. I very much liked the billowy storybook feeling of the clouds and the pops of red on the subway cars.

Variations on a Theme: Works in Process
Before landing on the high-contrast B&W version, I experimented with non-traditional ways of digitally framing and manipulating the scene. I’ll continue to iterate and transform. Stay tuned for a future post.

The Soul of the City

“When you photograph people in color, you photograph their clothes. But when you photograph people in black and white, you photograph their souls.” — Ted Grant, Canadian photojournalist

Grant was talking about people. But I think the same applies to a city. Strip away the color, and what’s left is the essence of the metropolis, stark and bold.

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“A photograph is usually looked at — seldom looked into.” — Ansel Adams

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

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My Eyes: Behind the Photograph

Terra Obscura shows the view that greets you as you drive down the road from Dyrhólaey, a 120-meter volcanic headland on Iceland's south coast near the village of Vík (Vík í Mýrdal). The scene begs hitting the brakes and stepping out to meditate on the landforms (and to enjoy relief from the intense winds atop the promontory).

A Microcosm of the Land of Fire and Ice
Beyond its sheer beauty, the scene was alluring because it captured the polar opposites I'd use to describe the country. In the blink of an eye the sky can change from bright blue and clear to cloudy and mysterious, from welcoming to hostile, and gentle to foreboding. Had I stayed ten minutes longer I likely would have left with ten very different images. I'll save that exercise for a future trip.

Color or B&W
I had initially visualized the photograph in black and white, and planned on converting it in post production. Black and white would have been well suited for a minimalist presentation of a scene built on layers dissolving into haze. But I was surprised at how much the color version resonated. The palette was so narrow — tans, browns, one thin band of green — that it already reads as nearly monochrome, with just a trace of warmth. Here’s the black and white and color side by side. Which do you prefer?

The Medium Impacts the Message
While I print most of my work on metal, this photo called for paper. Metal gives color a glossy, high-contrast punch. It’s dramatic, but tends to flatten subtle tonal shifts. And this image is all about subtle color variations in the water and the landforms. When visitors to my studio ask if I exclusively print on metal (most of the works on my walls are printed on aluminum), I show them the framed color version of Terra Obscura and ask them to trace the various tonal transitions. This always generates an “aha” and a greater appreciation of the photograph. And it’s a good reminder that the medium is more than a substrate for the image; it often determines what you can and cannot see.

“Everything we see hides another thing; we always want to see what is hidden by what we see.” — René Magritte, 1965 radio interview with Jean Neyens

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"To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And Eternity in an hour." — William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

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My Eyes: Behind the Artwork

The featured artwork is a composite of macro photographs of raindrops suspended on a spider’s web, pushed through heavy digital manipulation until only pure essence remains — a reduction to matter and energy, leaving light, form, and pattern where solid substance used to be. Hence the name, Of Matter and Energy. (With apologies to Albert Einstein, whose physics I understand just well enough to fashion a good title.)

The Components
The photographs used in the artwork were taken in a lush growth of Boston Ivy during two consecutive days of intermittent rainfall. The patterns changed hour-to-hour as the rain changed in intensity and winds jostled the webs. As I peered into the viewfinder and explored different sections of the vines, I saw planes of silk with unique contours and spatial orientations. Each was a microworld in its own right, dissolving into the void.

From Details to Distillation
I created Of Matter and Energy in 2017, using Photoshop to transform the photographs and layer them into a single piece. Along the way, I produced a number of layered intermediate versions. As with all my composite artwork, the process is always a matter of trial and error, a blend of intention and accident with lots of iterations. When is a work done? When my inner muse says so.

Here’s an iteration, side-by-side with the final, that stopped me for a while. It didn’t feel right and I had to figure out why the muses were mute.

To my eye, the iteration read as three discrete sections, left to right — leaves, drops, porous field — rather than a continuum. The final composition and treatment achieve what I was after: a dissolution from tangible shapes into the inchoate.

I also wanted viewers to experience a sense of motion, of being on a journey — as if bearing witness to the transformation from matter to energy. The final version does this compositionally. The leaf shapes hold the eye momentarily in the foreground before escorting it to the drop field in the mid-ground. The drops decrease in size through the mid-ground, easing the eye into the background. The angle of the composition further contributes to the sense of coming into a planetary field at a slant.

On the Wall

Corporate Settings
Of Matter and Energy has been a popular work in my portfolio. A 48” x 48” edition, printed on metallic paper, was previously displayed in Google’s Kendall Square lobby, and a 42” x 42” version printed on aluminum has been installed at several technology and biotech companies through corporate rental programs.

Gallery Exhibitions
The artwork has been in a number of juried shows, most recently in the Fort Point Arts Community (FPAC) exhibition, Distillations, at Boston’s Atlantic Wharf Gallery. This version in the show measures 24” x 24” and is printed on aluminum.

I thought the piece was particularly well-suited to FPAC’s call for art:

My statement for the submission:

The muses pushed me to keep experimenting until it was ready. I'm glad they did.

“The universe is transformation: life is opinion.”
— Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, IV.3

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"Shadow is the means by which bodies display their form. The forms of bodies could not be understood in detail but for shadow." — Leonardo da Vinci, Notebooks ("Six Books on Light and Shade")

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

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My Eyes: Behind the Artwork

You’re looking at a kohlrabi — or more precisely, its swollen stem, which grows above ground and resembles a bulb. I photographed this one just after it was trimmed down and before it was sliced for a stir fry. I confess to never having seen one until my wife brought several home from the farmer’s market; she knew I’d be drawn to them as photographic subjects. And she was right.

From Cutting Board to Light Box
I was immediately intrigued by the shape of the bulbous stem and its tentacle-like stalks; it looked like a steampunk contraption, something that would be at home aboard Captain Nemo’s Nautilus. Even more so, it looked like it belonged in a still life painting, the type of dramatically lit scene common in Spanish Baroque paintings.

I've always loved how those artists used chiaroscuro, Italian for "light and dark," to carve an object out of darkness with a single controlled light source rather than simply outlining it. A great example is Sánchez Cotán’s Still Life with Quince, Cabbage, Melon, and Cucumber (ca. 1602), in which quince and cabbage hang by a string and melon and cucumber rest on a stone ledge, while one dominant light source pulls every form out of the surrounding dark. (For more on the painting, including a contemporary artist’s video response, see the page on the San Diego Museum of Art’s website)

Fast-forward a few centuries and swap the brush for a glass lens, and you find some of the great early photographers capturing the beauty of raw vegetables, playing off light in a fashion similar to the European artists. Edward Weston's peppers and cabbage leaf photographs are great examples of chiaroscuro at play. He shot them against black backdrops with one dominant light, using a tin-can reflector to bounce light back into the shadows and carve out a sculptural, light-on-dark form. Imogen Cunningham, a contemporary of his in the influential f/64 group, often worked with softer natural light, but she also used light and shadow to reveal the essence of form in an ordinary plant.

In homage to both traditions (and apologies to the greats of yesteryear), I placed the kohlrabi in my light box against a black background, relying on the row of LEDs built into the top as my sole light source. After positioning it so it would seem to float in space, I shot a 50-image focus stack to get razor-sharp detail across the whole stem. My goals were to highlight the geometry of the stems — those arcs almost looked like choreographed dancers — bring out the rich plum color, and capture the skin’s subtle texture, including imperfections, while letting the green leaves quietly punctuate the whole composition.

About the Veggie
Kohlrabi is Brassica oleracea var. gongylodes, part of the same species as cabbage, broccoli, and cauliflower. The name comes from its shape and lineage: German kohl (”cabbage”) plus Swiss German rabi (”turnip”).

As a distinct crop, kohlrabi is largely a Renaissance invention — the Italian botanist Matthiolus first formally described it in 1554. By the late 1500s, it had spread across Austria, Germany, England, Italy, Spain, and parts of the eastern Mediterranean.

Botanically, kohlrabi has three parts: the swollen stem we actually eat, edible leaves on long stalks, and a shallow root system underneath. That swollen stem grows above or just below the surface of the ground, storing water and nutrients from the fibrous roots.

And Delicious to Eat
When I was satisfied that I captured what I’d envisioned, I brought the kohlrabi back to the cutting board, where it became part of a delicious stir fry — but not before I took a bite of it raw. It was as good to eat as it was to photograph.

Note: Raw Beauty is an occasional series on the vegetables (and other raw ingredients) that make me reach for the camera before the knife. More to come.

“It is classic, completely satisfying — a pepper, but more than a pepper: abstract, in that it is completely outside subject matter.” — Edward Weston, about Pepper No. 30, Daybooks, August 8, 1930

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“Abstract time became the new medium of existence. Organic functions themselves were regulated by it: one ate, not upon feeling hungry, but when prompted by the clock: one slept, not when one was tired, but when the clock sanctioned it.” — Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization (1934)

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

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My Eyes: Behind the Artwork

You’re looking at a composite artwork featuring the main concourse of Grand Central Terminal in New York City. I stood on the East Balcony overlooking the floor, taking dozens of photos as throngs of people ebbed and flowed through the morning commute.

The Components
I propped my camera on the balcony’s railing. Some shots were taken at very slow shutter speeds; others just fast enough to freeze motion and keep the human forms discernible. I also took a number of environmental shots of the concourse itself at speeds high enough to keep the architectural and iconic elements (the clock and info booth) crisp. I wasn’t sure what I’d do with any of it, so back home it all went into my component bank, which consists of thousands of images, tagged for search, waiting for the muses to suggest a composition. That might be the next day or a month, or sometimes even years later.

Inspiration
Almost a year to the day, the muses sang after I read an art call, “Off the Clock.” The juried exhibition sponsored by Fort Point Arts Community — of which I’m a member — invited works that “…investigate the meaning of timelessness and its consequences. What does it mean to exist outside of time? Or are humanity and time interlaced?” Accepted entries would hang at the Gallery at Atlantic Wharf in Boston’s Seaport, July 8 through September 27, 2019.

Reading the call, I immediately thought of that morning at Grand Central — the scores of photos of people swarming toward commuter rails and exits and their places of work — and of shots I’d taken later that same day of people rushing, as they always seem to do in New York. After hours of layering and manipulating images, I had two candidates for submission: Clock Rules and 2:55.

The Making of the Image: Clock Rules
For Clock Rules, the featured image in this post, I layered dozens of the Grand Central photos to create a chaotic stream of people, then added a radial blur streaming toward the clock (that connotes the “whoosh” sensation) and blue gradients to create a surreal mood. A semi-translucent digital frame contains all that fluid motion.

For a final touch, I overlaid a faint grid from another piece of my art, Metrovolution: Winter, a city I digitally sculpted from a photograph of ice on a window screen. (See below.) The loose grid added one more layer of abstraction, with a subtle Matrix vibe and attendant symbolism.

The piece went to the jury as Now Boarding (I occasionally retitle a work when a better name surfaces). Here’s the statement:

“Now Boarding focuses on the fact that a shared sense of time is inextricably woven into the fabric of our daily lives. What better place to illustrate our dependency on time conventions than a train station? The train waits for no one. My artwork consists of multiple layers of images taken in Grand Central Terminal, manipulated with digital tools to create a sense of motion. The analog clock atop the central information booth functions as a ‘light magnet,’ drawing the accelerated ghostly human forms into the center. The clock rules.”

Those last three words eventually took over as the title.

The Making of the Image: 2:55
The second piece I made for the call, 2:55, was also accepted. It looks at the human elements of time from street level — midtown Manhattan, shot from inside a Sixth Avenue covered bus stop through glass printed with decorative frosted circles. I debated removing the circles, then decided they were part of the experience of watching the crowds go by. Here too I added a radial blur and zoom to push the sense of rush, layered in several office buildings for an abstract feel, and overlaid a digital timestamp of the moment I pressed the shutter. (The numerals are a close-up of an LED display at a local gas station.)

It went to the jury as Time is Money, but I’ve since renamed it for the minute burned into its corner. Where Clock Rules watches the kinetic flow of people from above, 2:55 is inside the flow, cocooned in a glass bubble at sidewalk level, capturing everyone mid-stride. The statement for the artwork ends with: “While we participate in the mainstream of economic activity, we are never off the clock.” The show, remember, was called “Off the Clock.”

And Then Time Skipped a Beat
The show came down at the end of September. That December, the first cases of a novel coronavirus appeared, and soon it was turning the world — and our experience of time — upside down. For those in lockdown, time hung heavy. For those on the front lines, I imagine it flew scarily fast.

During those surreal days of the pandemic, I spent a lot of time processing photos from my work-in-progress folders, and my thoughts often drifted to the hundreds of photos I took at Grand Central. Images of the once-bustling hub in the news and on social media showed a scene devoid of humans, something out of the “Twilight Zone.”

The clock ticked on, but no longer ruled. We were off the clock.

"Clocks slay time… time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.” — William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

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Learn about the grid underlying Clock Rules

“There is no such thing as ‘away.’ When we throw anything away, it must go somewhere.” — Annie Leonard, environmentalist and author of the book/documentary, The Story of Stuff

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

First Impressions
Take a quick look before reading on.

• What word(s) describe your gut reaction?

• What story do you imagine behind this scene?

• What questions does it raise for you?

Look Longer
Try some slow looking and see what you notice.

• The leg rests are still attached, and snow has settled on the seat. What do those details suggest about how long the wheelchair has been there, and how it was left?

• The chair is parked as neatly in line with the bins. Does its placement suggest an accident or a purposeful act of disposal?

• Now take in the background. Are there any elements that factor into your reaction or bring additional symbolism to mind?

  
  

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

Life in the Trash Lane
The curbs of Cambridge, Massachusetts host all kinds of strange inventory. Within a two-block radius of these bins, walking with camera in hand, I’ve come across, among many other items:

• an X-ray machine (presumably defunct), articulated arm and all, lying on the sidewalk in front of a dentist’s office

• multiple pairs of perfectly good crutches

• a therapeutic boot — the expensive kind

• all manner of household and personal care items

• and, a few blocks farther on, a baby grand piano that had been left outside on an exposed porch all winter, now dismantled and propped up by a dumpster.

Some of the items were bound for the landfill, some for the recycling stream, some still quite usable, some rendered unusable through neglect.

All of them had a story. But the wheelchair-and-trash-bin juxtaposition gave me the longest pause. It wasn’t as absurd as the jettisoned X-ray machine or as sad as the piano (which earned a detailed study and a tribute of its own, coming in a future piece). But it packed the strongest message. Here was a working chair, leg rests attached, wheels sound, standing in perfect alignment with the trash and the recycling bins, waiting to be whisked away with the rest of the detritus. A wheelchair has one job: ferrying passengers who can’t get around on their own. Queue one up for disposal, and the trash begins to speak.

It Is What You See
As with all my found street compositions, I only photograph what’s there. This is my version of the Star Trek Prime Directive — just observe, don’t alter the scene. And while framing a scene is an editorial decision (context matters), here the framing decision was easy: just make sure all three elements were present in the image, with a bit of surrounding context. The scene would have looked the same if I’d staged it as social commentary.

There may well be a mundane explanation for these odd bedfellows. But the question I kept pondering: what’s the chair’s passenger doing now?

"What people have owned — and thrown away — can speak more eloquently, informatively, and truthfully about the lives they lead than they themselves ever may." —William Rathje, Rubbish! The Archaeology of Garbage (with Cullen Murphy), 1992

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“I stood on the bridge at midnight, / As the clocks were striking the hour."
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "The Bridge"

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

First Impressions
Take a quick look.

• Where do your eyes land first—the glowing tower against the black sky, or the curved walkway pulling you in?

• The sky is pure black, yet the walkway glows. What does the incongruity evoke?

• What does the color palette say to you: celebration, power, nostalgia? A different reaction?

Look Longer
Now try some slow looking and see what you notice.

• Follow the cables down from the tower’s peak. Do they read as engineering, or as rays of light?

• Look through the railing on the right: the small buildings and train tracks are tucked inside the structure. How does discovering them change the scale of everything else?

• The tower is shaped like an obelisk. Monument or machine—which does it feel like to you?

• The pedestrian walkway curves forward and disappears under the bridge. Are you willing to follow it into the dark?

  
  

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

I wanted to post something fitting for the 250th anniversary of America. Rather than going historical (the Revolution began at a simple wooden bridge in Concord) I went full-on contemporary, marking the occasion with artwork featuring another bridge, one of Boston’s grandest modern icons.

The Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Memorial Bridge is a cable-stayed span that carries Interstate 93 and U.S. Route 1 traffic over the Charles River. It’s become one of Boston’s most recognizable modern landmarks. Completed in 2003 as part of the city’s Big Dig project, it stretches 1,432 feet and soars 270 feet in the air. When it opened for business, the Zakim was the widest bridge of its kind in the world; its 183-foot breadth accommodates ten lanes of traffic.

The bridge has particular significance for Boston. It wasn’t the site of a battle that launched a nation, but its namesake, Leonard P. Zakim, fought battles of a different sort: against the divisions that separated the city itself. As the longtime New England director of the Anti-Defamation League, Zakim worked to bridge a Boston still scarred by the busing crisis. He crossed its hardest boundaries in person, meeting with Black ministers and helping establish an annual Black-Jewish Seder that grew into one of the largest in the country. Race, faith, neighborhood: where many saw barriers, Zakim saw opportunities for connection. There is something fitting about a structure built for physical connection being named for a man whose life’s work was building social and civic connections.

For the occasion of the nation’s 250th, I reprocessed an older series featuring the Zakim bridge, making the palette consistent with an American tradition — red, white, and blue. The white reads as cream, slightly aged, more of a vintage poster feel than a crisp new flag.

What Attracted My Eye

As a Driver
I’ve always liked the bold presence of the Zakim when I have to drive into Boston instead of taking the subway. The inverted “Y” towers stand like modern monoliths, evoking the colossal stone figures on Easter Island. Passing through them on the elevated Route 93 is, for me, a rite of passage for entering and exiting Boston. Ultimately, the bridge strikes me as a massive piece of public art with a utilitarian function.

As a Photographer on Foot
The featured image is shot from the North Bank Bridge, the pedestrian span connecting North Point Park in Cambridge with Paul Revere Park in Charlestown. Its curved walkway is the foreground of the image, with the Zakim rising behind. The walkway is a classic example of leading lines — contiguous elements that guide the eye from foreground into the composition. It becomes an invitation to enter the frame and become a participant in the image, rather than an observer.

The Making of the Image

Here’s the photograph before I applied various digital tools to abstract the scene to its essence and create a surreal mood.

And here are three “after” versions in blue, red, and black and white, plus the 250th edition that blends them.

The blue-black version gives the bridge a nocturnal, electric presence. The red version pulls it closer to a traditional poster. The black and white version emphasizes the bridge’s structure and visual tensions. The 250th edition blends elements of all three.

More Transformation

Given how the Zakim has become a key part of Boston’s visual identity, I often incorporate it into composites of the city. Here are two works in progress that meld the bridge into a digital cityscape collage (I’m still experimenting with toning).

Happy Birthday, America!

"By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled…"
— Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Concord Hymn"

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“We have always a resource in the skies. They are constantly turning a new page to view.” — Henry David Thoreau

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

First Impressions
Take a quick look.

• With everything going on in this scene, where does your eye go first? And after that?

• How would describe the mood of the photograph? How does it make you feel?

• What's your sense of scale here? What are your reference points?

Look Longer
Now try some slow looking and see what you notice.

• What tensions play out in the image?

• As you spend more time with the photograph, does your sense of scale change? How about your sense of depth?

• How would you describe the interplay of the clouds?

• Now that you’ve explored the image, has your emotional response changed? If so, in what ways?
  

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

Nature's Layer Cake was taken near the Wildcat Canyon Trailhead off Kolob Terrace Road, in the Kolob section of Zion National Park. The trailhead sits at an elevation of 7,000 feet, which affords an expansive view of the land below.

The day I took the photograph had been a wild rollercoaster, weather-wise. Solid rain in the morning—parts of Kolob Canyon would have been a natural venue for a mud wrestling competition—gave way to mist, which in turn morphed into another downpour, followed by a stretch of cloudy, and then bright, sunny skies.

After a short hike, I headed back to my car and packed up my gear. Sure enough, as an unwritten first law of photography states: the moment you put away your gear, you’ll wish you hadn’t.

The cumulonimbus clouds had reorganized into spectacular organic bands over the ridge below, and I was immediately attracted to the exquisite natural composition: a low tree line anchoring the bottom of the frame, snow on the rock face beyond the ridge catching the light in the middle distance, a separator layer of bright white clouds above, and finally the darker, more chaotic mass of billowing clouds at the top. Earth, mountain, cloud, and sky comprised a natural layer cake, hence the title of the image.

Sometimes a scene calls out to be rendered in color, other times in black and white. This one was clearly the latter. Color would have pulled the eye toward the foliage or the patches of blue sky and lost the progressive visual build from foreground to background. In black and white, the delineation of the bands becomes clear, as does the dynamic tension between the age-old rock face and the evanescent clouds above.

The drive along Kolob Terrace Road back to Springdale, where I was staying, turned out to be its own kind of second dessert. The scene was less dramatic, but the sky wasn’t done layering, calling for another pull-over-and-pull-out-the-gear moment. This time I had my camera and tripod at the ready: I wasn’t going to miss a ray of light piercing the clouds and punctuating the unfolding skyscape.

"Nature is ever at work building and pulling down, creating and destroying, keeping everything whirling and flowing, allowing no rest but in rhythmical motion, chasing everything in endless song out of one beautiful form into another."
— John Muir, Our National Parks,

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“To see a world in a grain of sand… / Hold infinity in the palm of your hand.”
— William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

First Impressions
Take a quick look.

• Where does your eye go first?

• What do you think you’re looking at?

• Does the image feel intimate, vast, or both at the same time?

Look Longer
Now try some slow looking and see what you notice.

• As you spend more time with the image, does your sense of scale change?

• Do the droplets feel random, or do you begin to sense an underlying structure?

• What role does the dark central space play in the composition?

• What details emerge that you didn’t notice at first glance?
  

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

You’re looking at a composite created from two photographs of raindrops suspended in a spider’s web after a light rain. The web itself was strung between two fence pickets roughly four inches apart, although the cropped image makes the scale hard to judge. Read on if you want to learn more about the making of the image.

The Setup
Essential gear: sturdy tripod and 105mm macro lens.

When photographing raindrops, I normally use focus stacking, taking a sequence of images focused at different depths and merging them so multiple planes of droplets remain sharp. That wasn’t possible here. The wind kept the web in motion, and focus stacking only works when the subject remains perfectly still between frames. Instead, I fired a series of burst shots, hoping to catch a brief lull in both the wind and the vibrations from passing trucks. I got lucky. One frame captured the web in near-perfect stillness. I then shot several other sections of the web. Once again, the environment cooperated long enough to capture usable shots that could be combined with the first.

The Transformation
Back at the computer, I blended two of the images and then used a number of Photoshop tools (masks, brightness and contrast adjustments, curves, and gradients) to reduce the scene to simpler, more graphic forms. I selectively posterized the surrounding leaves and deepened the blacks to heighten the visual tension between the luminous droplets and the dark central space.

My goal wasn’t simply to document a spider web. I wanted to reduce the scene to simpler forms and push it toward the boundary between representation and abstraction, creating a moment of uncertainty about both subject and scale. That moment invites viewers to look more closely, linger in the mystery, and experience the familiar in a new way.

The surrounding leaves became a natural frame around the suspended constellation of droplets, while the strong contrast helped transform an ordinary scene into something more mysterious and open to interpretation.

The Print
For some of my work I’ll intentionally print it small for a more intimate viewing experience. For Gateway to the Void, I went the opposite direction: large. I wanted to create an immersive visual presentation that draws the viewer into the depths of the scene.

A large print also accentuates the sense of scale: a 4-inch scene presented at 40 or 48 inches keeps the viewer guessing. The web itself, which in life would fit inside your two cupped hands, becomes a structure you have to step back from to take in its entirety.

On Paper
On paper, I use archival UltraChrome on Pearl photo paper with a satin laminate — a metallic-finish stock that enhances the luminous appearance of the drops.

The 48” x 48” photo paper version is on the corporate art rental circuit and has been displayed at Google’s Cambridge offices and in the lobbies and hallways of a number of software, biotech, and pharmaceutical companies.

On Metal
When printed on aluminum through dye-sublimation, the artwork takes on a different feel. For Gateway to the Void, I chose sheer aluminum, meaning that in the lightest portions of the image, the bare brushed metal shows through rather than being covered by ink. The brightest areas become reflective and ever-changing, shifting with the viewer’s position and the surrounding light. In effect, the piece is no longer black and white. It’s black and… nothing, except for the metal itself.

The Space Between
A spider web is not normally considered a gateway to anything—until you use art to transform the familiar into the mysterious. What begins as a few inches of silk and water becomes a passage into an imagined space, one that exists somewhere between “what is” and “what if.” The spider web remains a spider web. The rest happens in the space between observation and imagination.

“Nature uses only the longest threads to weave her patterns, so that each small piece of her fabric reveals the organization of the entire tapestry.”
— Richard Feynman

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“Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
’Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon’s verge.”

Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XV

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

Please take a quick look at the photo, then a longer one. I’d love to know your impressions.

Quick Look

• What’s the first element that your eye lands on?

• How does this image make you feel?

• What’s one word for this scene?

Look Longer

Now try some slow looking and see what you notice.

• What small details do you notice that you might have missed at first glance?

• Follow the wake lines. Where do they lead your eye, and how do they shape the composition?

• Put yourself on the boat. What do you hear? What does the air feel like? What else does the crossing stir in you?
  

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

This photograph was made late in the day at Reykjavík Harbor, beneath a distinctly Icelandic sky: moody and unsettled, always in rapid flux.

I immediately felt a sense of calm and serenity as my thoughts dissolved in the wake of the vessel. I’ve since incorporated the image into a meditation akin to traditional meditative practices in which you passively observe thoughts and distractions without paying attention or applying judgment. You’re just there, watching and ignoring.

What Drew Me In
The yellow boat was the first element that pulled me in. I’m always attracted to scenes (and artwork) in which a small burst of color or an unusual shape punctuates the rest of the composition.

I also loved the tensions in the frame: the glass-like body of water against the rippling wake, stillness and motion, calm water and brooding sky, and the lone boat in all that space.

In the Pause
Beyond the chill vibe, what held me was the liminality of the moment (liminality is a theme in many of my images). While you can plot the boat’s physical coordinates at any time, the little craft occupies a pause between departing and arriving. That state has no coordinates; you sense it.

The boat will dock soon enough. If I were on it, I'd be in no hurry to arrive.

“A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.”
Attributed to Lao Tzu

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“Insist on yourself; never imitate.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Self-Reliance”

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

Before I describe the backstory of the featured photograph, take a quick look, then a longer one. I’d love to know your take on it.

Quick Look

• How does your eye travel in this photo?

• What emotions does it evoke?

• Does the image feel static or does it convey a sense of motion?
  

Look Longer

Maybe stay with it a little longer. Slow looking lets your first impressions give way to curiosity.

• What do you make of the scale of the scene?

• Where does the light seem to be coming from?

• What sense of time does the image convey?

• What tensions do you perceive, and how do they make you feel?
  

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

The Watchman, seen from Canyon Junction Bridge in Utah’s Zion National Park, has been photographed an incalculable number of times.

So why another photo of this iconic scene, beyond capturing what, for me, was a memorable trip to the park? Because every photographer sees and notices differently. Each approaches the scene with a distinct vision for composition and framing, choice of lens, focal length, exposure, and numerous other technical considerations.

The Gazillionth Photo Is OK
Originality does not always mean finding a subject no one has ever seen before. Sometimes it means standing before a subject that multitudes have seen before and perceiving it differently. That is when an “overphotographed” subject becomes intensely interesting and provides an opportunity to exercise creativity.

There’s also the simple fact that the same scene is never quite the same scene twice. The majestic mountain may hold its shape, but the river moves, the clouds rearrange, the light shifts, and countless other conditions vary from moment to moment. Any one of those subtle differences can open the door for creative interpretation.

My Vision
There was so much to love about the scene—the leading lines created by the riverbanks and the delicious warm light bathing the mountain. The moment to press the shutter button arrived when the clouds aligned to form a natural ceiling that framed the image and contained the light on the rock face. The resulting scene had the compositional elements and painterly quality I was hoping to capture.

So I am happy to post yet another photograph of The Watchman. The gazillionth, maybe. But it is what I saw, and my record of the moment.

“The only true voyage of discovery...would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes.” — Marcel Proust, The Prisoner / The Captive, from In Search of Lost Time

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“Art does not reproduce the visible; rather, it makes visible.” Paul Klee

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

Before I tell you about the base photo, take a slow dive into the image. I’d very much like to know about your eye journey and how you experience the artwork. What emotions does the image evoke?

Quick Look

• Where does your eye land first: on the sail boat itself, the blue glow, or the reflection?

• Do you find the image calming, unsettling, or some other emotion?

• Does it evoke a memory or a scene you can relate to?

Look Longer

Now stay with it a little longer. Slow looking lets your first impressions give way to curiosity.

• What do you make of what’s not seen?

• Where does the light seem to be coming from?

• How would you describe the vessel’s presence—purely mechanical and inanimate, or is there something “alive” about it?

• Now that you’ve spent more time with image, has your first impression and feeling about it changed?

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

I photographed Dreamboat during a visit to Boothbay Harbor, Maine. In fact, it was taken only minutes apart from the craft featured in my prior post, “Behind the Veil.” In that post, the “ghost ship” was moored on the left side of the dock. Dreamboat, what I call this sailboat, was situated to the right.

The transformation from literal photograph to altered artwork nicely illustrates my two art practices. “The World as Seen” is rooted in traditional photography, while “The World Reimagined” entails digitally reshaping original photos into abstract or surreal pieces.

Some of my World Reimagined images involve numerous composited layers. Others, like Dreamboat, are digital reinventions of a single shot. The subject remains recognizable, but the presentation and mood change dramatically.

The Morning Scene
There was a lot to love about the initial experience of seeing the sailboat in the harbor at the crack of dawn. The thick fog created a sense of mystery, softening the background while leaving the boat visible. The water cooperated, too. The gentle ripples were just strong enough to bend the reflections of the mast and hull into abstract shapes, creating a pleasing tension between the actual and the reflected.

I chose to frame the image with the masts cut off at the top of the frame. That choice invites the viewer to connect the dots through the sketchy, undulating forms on the water’s surface. Again, it comes back to mystery. For images like this, I like to make the viewer work a little. I do the heavy lifting by providing the base image, then leave room for the viewer to complete what’s missing.

The Transformation
I experimented with a number of my favorite Photoshop tools and filters to shift the image from literal to reinvented. With each version, the mood moved further away from description, the actual boat, to possibility—what the vessel might look like in another dimension.

I ultimately settled on the version with the midnight-blue water and the deep black background. It represented the most complete passage from “what is” to “what if.”

In fact, I rather like the non-manipulated black and white version, too. Both adorn my studio walls, one printed on paper, the other on high-gloss aluminum. But the deep blue version moves me from a fond memory of an early morning photo shoot to the stuff of dreams.

“Seeing comes before words.” John Berger, Ways of Seeing

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“One does not see anything until one sees its beauty. Then, and then only, does it come into existence.” Oscar Wilde, “The Decay of Lying”

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

Here’s a dreamy image taken on a foggy morning in a small town in Maine. I’d like to hear your reaction.

• How does your eye travel?

• What emotions does the image evoke?

• Where does this image take you? Your own travels? A memory?

• Does a story come to mind? If so, what’s it about?

  
  

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

While I’m a morning person, I’m generally not a THREE AM kind of morning person unless I’m hoping to catch first light or a stellar sunrise. During one of my visits to Boothbay Harbor, Maine, I was willing to force my brain and body into gear in the wee hours so I could be in position for the beautiful wash of color the area is known for at dawn.

As it turned out, there was no spectacular sunrise to behold. When I arrived at the dock and set up my tripod, the scene was shrouded in palpably thick fog. As the fog slowly cleared, shapes began to emerge. I was immediately drawn to the liminality of it all—the way the buildings and boats gradually transformed from suggestions into identifiable forms. It was that betwixt-and-between state that I wanted to capture in a painterly fashion.

Once the fog had burned off, the lighting turned harsh and there was only one thing left to do: visit the nearby Red Cup Coffeehouse for breakfast delights and a great cup of joe. As I sat by the window, I found myself thinking that while I didn’t catch an epic sunrise, I did witness the subtle drama of a sleepy harbor coming into view.

Sometimes the early bird catches the fog. And that can be delicious, too.

“Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.” Attributed to Confucius, 551 BCE - 479 BCE

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“The test of the machine is the satisfaction it gives you.”
— Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

• What do you think this machine does?

• Does the machine remind you of anything?

• What does the driver’s expression suggest?
  

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

You’re looking at a road striping machine in the process of laying down lines on Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The scene was lit by LEDs, each casting a cool, harsh glow. One LED panel was mounted on a long pole attached to the machine, lighting the driver’s face from above and in front. I digitally removed the pole and light so the machine would become the central focus of the photograph. The crop also added to the mystery: where is that light on this bizarre scene coming from?

A Mechanical Chimera Lays It Down
I was immediately drawn to the machine’s surreal form. I’m fascinated by, and photograph, all manner of heavy road and construction equipment. But this! What a hybrid mix: part municipal equipment, part movie prop, part Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, part Jules Verne, and part steampunk, with its hoses, propane tanks, wheels, gauges, and other paraphernalia. No wonder the driver seemed to be enjoying himself so much. I’d love to have one of these as my primary vehicle; that would turn heads.

Beyond the sci-fi/dystopian appearance of the machine, there were all kinds of tensions that made for a compelling photograph. The driver was commanding the machine via a tablet device, and the glow in his pocket came from a phone or tablet. Modern digital versus old mechanical. Bright lights versus big shadows. High tech versus high touch.

Hot Stuff
The road striping machine moved at a glacial pace as it laid down lines of a thermoplastic compound made with binder resins, pigments, fillers, and glass beads. When heated (hence the propane tank), the compound becomes liquid. As it cools, it hardens into a reflective road marking. The markings wear down over time because of traffic, weather, road-surface conditions, and the quality of the original application, which makes repeat applications necessary.

I followed the road striper as it progressed down Mass Ave, and talked with the driver when he stopped. I didn’t want to break his concentration, or the reverie he appeared to be in. At those junctures he was eager to explain how it worked. More than that, he thoroughly enjoyed explaining the components of his rig and how it functioned. He knew the machine and talked about it glowingly, taking pride in the art and science of his work.

At One with the Machine
Our conversation made me think of Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Pirsig’s 1974 blockbuster resonated deeply with me; the book inspired me to take a year off from graduate school and explore the highways and byways of New England on a motorcycle.

When work is approached with care, Pirsig suggests, the separation between the doer and the object begins to soften. In his book, the doer is the mechanic and the object is the motorcycle. The machine is no longer just something being manipulated. It becomes part of a relationship. That’s what good work is all about—the relationship.

As I watched the machine plod along, I sensed a blurring of subject and object, between the doer and the device. The driver seemed to disappear into the work itself..

Hidden Gem
Most people will drive over the road striper’s handiwork without a clue about the backstory. I was fortunate to have witnessed the act of creation and the care that went into laying down a simple straight line.

“Craftsmanship names an enduring, basic human impulse, the desire to do a job well for its own sake.” ― Richard Sennett, The Craftsman

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“The cosmos is within us. We are made of starstuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself." — Carl Sagan

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

Here’s a small slice of the universe to ponder for a moment. As always, your take is as valid as mine—there are no right or wrong answers.

• What is your emotional reaction to this image?

• What are the tensions in the artwork?

• What scale do the elements suggest?

• What kind of story might you associate with it?

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

The Truth Is Out There…
The photo began with a visitor from the Oort Cloud: Comet C/2023 A3 (Tsuchinshan–ATLAS), a long‑period comet discovered in 2023 and widely nicknamed the “Great Comet of 2024.” (The Oort Cloud is a vast shell of icy objects that extends far beyond Pluto and surrounds the Solar System.) The comet, sporting a tail extending millions of miles through space, is a nonperiodic object that won’t swing back through our neighborhood for roughly 80,000 years—a very long time to wait for another pass.

When I pressed the shutter, the comet was tens of millions of miles from Earth, hurtling at roughly 140,000 miles per hour on its journey past the constellation Lyra, which also happens to be my granddaughter’s name. That linked a distant celestial event to someone very close to my heart.

The Truth Is Also in the Mail(box)
While the comet is real, the “cosmic dust” below it is anything but extraterrestrial. It’s actually the rusted top of my mailbox, digitally massaged into my imagined version of interstellar debris. Years of wear, oxidation, and everyday schmutz turn out to be a surprisingly convincing stand‑in for galactic matter once you strip away context and scale.

The star field is a composite of night skies I’ve photographed in Utah and Arizona, combined with stars near the comet on the night I captured it, all stitched into a single backdrop. For me, the image works because it bridges the gap between what’s “out there” and what’s right here: a real comet from the far edge of the solar system passing over a surface that has seen years of mail deliveries, nor’easters, and normal wear and tear. That, to me, is the essence of my World Reimagined art practice (see more details below).

But Don’t Take My Word for It
My next-door neighbor, Taylor Bashaw, a satellite engineer and accomplished astrophotographer, helped me point my 200mm lens at just the right patch of sky to catch C/2023 A3. Just as important, he gave my fabricated cosmos a thumbs up after seeing the final composite.

If a satellite engineer approves your comet‑over‑mailbox universe, it’s ready to launch. And launch it did, into 13Forest Gallery’s juried exhibition called “Space Odyssey,” which ran from July 26 to September 12, 2025. (The artwork is a dye sublimation aluminum print, 14” x14”)

An All‑Purpose Mailbox
I first photographed the mailbox after noticing a lacewing dangling above it, trapped in a strand of a spider’s web. The insect caught my eye, but the battered surface kept my attention. Later, through digital manipulation, that same surface became the raw material for two images in a series I call The Interplanetary: Reentry, featuring landings on Mercury and Neptune. Once I let go of its identity as “the thing that holds my mail,” the chipped paint and rust patterns transformed into planetary crusts and atmospheres.

From Hoodoos to Who Knows
I also tried a different route for the comet composite, starting from a photograph I’d taken at Bryce Canyon during a full moon. In that image, lunar light cast eerie shadows across the hoodoos—large rock spires sculpted by erosion over vast stretches of time. The hoodoos are otherworldly without manipulating them digitally. With a little toning and manipulation, in my mind they became a rocky asteroid, the perfect vantage point for watching the comet streak through deep space.

What’s Wrong with Reality?

Why do I spend time concocting non‑existent worlds when the real one is packed with exciting wonders just waiting to be discovered? That question sits at the heart of how I think about my work.

I divide my practice into two categories: The World as Seen and the World Reimagined. The World as Seen includes candid street scenes, found urban still lifes, detailed close‑ups of natural and human‑made subjects that are barely discernible, or entirely invisible, to the naked eye, and expansive landscapes that inspire awe and a sense of the sublime. My goal is to capture my subjects as closely as possible to what my eye saw, with minimal editing.

But I also love building surreal composites—that bend, break, and blend* multiple photographs into imagined realms. My World Reimagined artworks all start with traditional photographs (sometimes dozens or more) and, through extensive post-processing, blur the boundaries between “what is” and “what if.” My goal is to invite viewers to wander through alternative realities filled with mystery, suspense, and surprise as they move between the predictable and the unpredictable.

For me, imagination is how we transform elements of the real world into our own extraordinary private universes, whether those elements are a dazzling comet, a rusty mailbox lid, a common insect, or massive landforms. As mundane as some of them may seem, together they propel me on a creative journey.

“Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it we go nowhere.” — Carl Sagan

* I first encountered the concept of “bending, breaking, and blending” when I read The Runaway Species: How Human Creativity Remakes the World, a fascinating book by Anthony Brandt and neuroscientist and author David Eagleman. When I read those words, a light bulb went on—Dr. Eagleman had put into plain language exactly what I do in my World Reimagined art practice.

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“If you don’t like the weather in New England now, just wait a few minutes.” — attributed to Mark Twain

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

Here’s a close up scene from nature to ponder. As always, your take is as valid as mine—there are no right or wrong answers!

• What tensions do you perceive when you look at this image?

• How do the out-of-focus areas contribute to the mood?

• What do you imagine the droplet is waiting for: a nudge, a gust of wind, a slight shift in the stem that it's perched upon?
  
  

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

Note: This is the fourth in an occasional series of quick(ish) reads that invite you to shift gears, step out of the here and now, and enjoy a moment of contemplation.

I used to spend hours with my macro lens trained on rain‑laden flower petals, seed stalks, and every kind of vegetation, trying to catch the exact instant a raindrop let go. It all seemed straightforward: patience would eventually win out over gravity. Just set the camera to burst mode and wait; surely I’d catch a drop at the moment it released from the stem or, even better, in mid‑flight.

It turns out I was naive. It’s incredibly difficult to predict when a water drop will fall. A multitude of factors come into play—tiny vibrations, air currents, and the microscopic properties of the surface the drop clings to. Even the smallest variation can change the moment it finally lets go. The underlying science is well beyond me.

My futile quest to capture rain droplets at the precise moment of release reminded me about how hard we work to make the world feel predictable and certain. A droplet suspended at the tipping point puts into perspective how much of life is fundamentally unpredictable. The droplet falls when it’s ready to fall.

Maybe someday I’ll get lucky and catch that perfect moment when the drop finally lets go. In the meantime, I’m content to photograph these droplets in situ, poised on the edge between holding on and giving way.

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If you missed my launch post, here it is:

And here are a number of my previous posts

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

What’s your take on this image? There are no right or wrong answers!

• What colors, shapes, and textures do you see?

• Where does your eye go first, and where does it travel to next?

• What do the silky strands bring to mind, and what might their function be?
  
  

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

Note: This is the third in an occasional series of quick(ish) reads that invite you to shift gears, step out of the here and now, and enjoy a moment of contemplation.

You’re looking at a botanical portrait of a milkweed plant that I took in the late fall near my home outside of Boston. The plant’s pods are splitting open as the seeds prepare for a journey that will lead to the propagation of the next generation. The seeds are equipped with fine, silky fibers that catch the wind and carry them to new destinations. While a number of insect species depend on milkweed, the plant plays a key role in the life cycle of Monarch butterflies. Monarchs must lay their eggs on milkweed leaves as the emerging caterpillars depend on those leaves as their sole food source.

Aside from being a beautiful subject for a botanical portrait and a vital food source, the milkweed plant is an elegant example of natural design and engineering. A close-up view of a pod reveals how precisely those silky fibers are packed together, each seed nestled against the next.

At the right moment, the pod dries, splits, and the breeze does the rest. Traveling on the wind, the seeds increase their chances of landing far from the parent plant and establishing new colonies, giving both the species, and the Monarchs that depend on it, a better chance at survival.

So much in nature happens on an exquisitely complex and brilliantly choreographed timeline. Seed pods split when the air is dry enough and the winds are right. Buds open when pollinators are nearby. Caterpillars hatch when the right food is abundant. And these are but a minuscule subset of the remarkable acts taking place in nature’s evolving grand play.

When I look at a milkweed pod, I’m reminded that while humans have achieved mind-bending technological, engineering, and scientific feats, nature has been experimenting and innovating far longer than we’ve been on the planet and its achievements are astounding. With the rise of fields like biomimicry—the practice of imitating nature’s time‑tested forms and processes to solve design and engineering problems—perhaps we’re beginning to embrace da Vinci’s view of nature.

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If you missed my launch post, here it is:

And here are a number of my previous posts

“Time is the longest distance between two places.” — Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie

Your Eyes: What Do You See?

This is one of my favorite photos of the Grand Canyon. I’d like to hear how it affects you.

• What emotions does this scene evoke?

• Where is your eye first drawn and how does it travel the rest of the image?

• Does the landscape invite you to pause or reflect?

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My Eyes: Behind the Image

Note: This is the second in an occasional series of quick reads that invite you to shift gears, step out of the here and now, and enjoy a moment of contemplation.

Remains of the Day was taken from a precipice on the South Rim during the golden hour, when the light is warm and soft. The glint on a small stretch of the Colorado River attracted my eye and anchored the composition. It was also the basis for my exposure settings. My goal was to produce an photograph with a painterly and enchanting feel.

The scene was perspective resetting because of its physical scale; the canyon is 277 miles long, up to 18 miles wide, and about a mile deep. But I was thinking about another perspective, too: time. Much of the canyon was carved by the river during the last 5-6 million years. Many of the rocks laid bare in its walls were formed more than 1.5 billion years ago.

Against the backdrop of geological time, a human life is but a fleeting moment. Given our brief tenure on the planet, the canyon is a reminder to ask how we want to spend our time—what matters most, what has meaning, and what’s the legacy we want to leave. A philosopher friend liked to say, “You’re born naked and you die naked. In between, it’s your short story—so live it well.”

Big canyon, big choices.

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If you missed my launch post, here it is:

And here are several of my previous posts