The Hearts of Spring

One of the dangers of an inquisitive mind, and also one of its greatest pleasures, is the unexpected tangent. The train of thought or subject of interest, that when prodded and examined can lead to wonderfully surprising places. Today's unexpected journey began with a flower.

One of my favorite plants, commonly known as the Bleeding Heart, is a spectacularly beautiful and unusual flowering perennial. The scientific name, Dicentra spectabilis, meaning “two spurs worthy of notice” is aptly chosen. The blooms, though small, are one of the more interesting common flowers, borne in multiples strings of numerous blooms on hanging stalks. These little lovelies are presently in the peak of their blooming season in our garden. I caught one of the plants in a pool of late afternoon sunlight and grabbed a couple of photos with the 180mm macro lens. In the course of processing the images I became curious about the history and origins of these unique flowers and off I went. Here is what I learned.

The plant is native to Eastern Asia, growing from Siberia to Japan. The Chinese name is Hang-pak-monton-wha, or “pink and white flowers of the mountain”. One of the most successful of the Victorian horticulturists was Robert Fortune. Mr. Fortune, a member of the Edinburgh Horticultural Society, left Britain for China in 1842 and, among many other now commonly recognized garden plants, introduced the Bleeding Heart to Britain in 1846 after he discovered the species in the Chinese mandarin gardens. The popular cottage garden flower found its way to America about two decades later.

(click image to enlarge)

Such a popular and well loved flower is bound to have some folklore attached to it, and the Bleeding Heart does not disappoint. It has several different symbolic references attached to it. One is that it represents “undying love”, apropos for a perennial! Another is “hopeless – but not heartless”, which is rather less inspiring. Another bit of lore uses the the flower to divine your lover's true feelings: “if you crush the flower 'bleeding heart' and red blood flows, your love has a heart full of love for you; but if the juice is white, he loves you no more.”

A rather more fanciful and romantic story involves a brokenhearted prince and an arrogant princess. One of the unique characteristics of this story is that it incorporates the various parts of the flower into the story. The proper way to tell the story is to disassemble the mature flower as you go:

The Story of the Bleeding Heart

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful princess. Young men from far and near came to try to win her heart. But the princess was very vain and would have nothing to do with any of them. A young prince from a neighboring country fell deeply in love with hear. She ignored him like the others, though he tried and tried to win her over. One day the prince found a pair of pretty pink rabbits at the market.

(Peel away the two outer petals and you get two pink 'rabbits')

He sent them to the princess thinking,"these will surely melt her heart." But the princess went right on ignoring him. Then the prince sent her a pair of beautiful Oriental slippers.

(the two long petals from front and back of flower split into separate slippers)

Still the princess would have nothing to do with him. The young prince was so heartbroken that he took his dagger and drove it into his heart.

(break off the stamen and pierce the remains of the flower with it)

As soon as the prince was dead, the princess realized that she had really loved him. "As long as I live, my heart shall bleed for my prince," she wept.

(click image to enlarge)

The world is a complex, multi-layered and interconnected place. Even our gardens can take us on a trip through time and space if one applies a little curiosity and wonder. The Bleeding Heart, a flower of the world.

Road Trip

Time to get away for a day. Too much going on at work, too much going on home. Time to grab the trophy wife and head for the door! With the camera gear loaded in the back of the Jeep, we hit the road.

It is actually a bit early in the season for touristy stuff as we found out when we checked with our first chosen destination: the Japanese Stroll Garden – not open til next week. So, east it was. I put together a quick itinerary of possible places of interst, starting with the Horton Point Lighthouse. As a former sailor, I have a particular fondness for lighthouses and will eventually have photographs of all the twenty four (!) lighthouses on or near Long Island. Today was not the day, however. Upon arriving at the lighthouse grounds after an hours drive, we found the lighthouse closed. Discretion being the better part of valor, combined with the observation of a truck parked behind the lighthouse, we decided to honor the 'Closed' sign and moved on.

Next on the exploration list was a spot that I'd been wondering about for many years. On the North Fork, in East Marion, the island pinches into a very narrow passage, with the Long Island Sound and Orient Harbor separated by a few hundred yards of mostly marshy flats. There is a small bay with some interesting rocks visible from the road, but with no clear access into the area. A study of satellite imagery had indicated a trail system, so I figured it would be worth a closer look and it was. An easily missed, tiny, unpaved driveway lead to the Dam Pond Maritime Preserve.

Dam Pond (click on images to enlarge)

A delightful little jewel of a preserve, Dam Pond offers some very unique features. Of particular interest to me were a series of rocks scattered around the small, enclosed bay. We followed the trail around the shoreline and set up a few quick shots. We were unable to cross a marsh without a messy bushwhack, so headed back to the Jeep. I will come back to this spot for some dawn light shots, as the orientation of the rocks and shoreline is just right for morning light. We next headed further east – Orient Point, next stop.

Part of the draw was just to reach the end of the North Fork,which we hadn't seen in several years. We found a ferry getting ready to depart for New London, Conneticut and I quickly set up and grabbed a few shots of this very purposeful looking working craft. We then walked east along the stone covered beach towards Orient Point and it's lighthouse. Switching to telephoto, I took a few shots and then sat in the sun with Nancy for a few minutes to enjoy the scenery.

Our last stop of the day would be the town of Greenport. In spite of the early season, the sunny, if brisk, weather had brought out quite a few visitors. We grabbed the last parking spot in the municipal lot and walked around town for a bit. Not too much had changed since our last visit, but there were some new shops and sights. The most notable, and obvious, was the Bounty. Built in 1960, this ship was built for the film “Mutiny on the Bounty” and it was also used in “Pirates of the Carribean”. The Bounty happened to be in Greenport for a few days. It was an excellent opportunity to shoot such a wonderful, complex craft. The sky was overcast and the light on the wrong side for the detail shots, but I took a series of images anyway. Even less than ideal conditions can give interesting results if a little imagination is applied in processing and opportunities should never be passed up.

The Bounty

We visited a few shops and stopped in the Terrence Joyce Gallery. Mr. Joyce was in the Gallery and we hit it off immediately. By the time we left the Gallery, I had been invited to display my work and details had been arranged. This was an unexpected development, but I am excited about the opportunity to show my work in a new market. We broke for a late lunch/earlydinner of fish 'n chips at Claudio's and finished by taking some photographs of “Morning Call”, the 9/11 Memorial in the form of a stunning wire sculpture of an osprey perched atop a recovered beam from the World Trade Center.

'Morning Call'

A full day, all-in-all, and just the mental break I needed after the crazy business of the last few months, topped off by the excitement of a new gallery for showing my work. Definitely a good day.

Yard work

Yard work is not the sort of thing that tends to inspire one to creative heights. But one must make the best of the opportunities provided. Fortunately, our yard offers plenty of surprises left over from years of horticultural experiments, most of which are left to fend for themselves after the initial planting. Our yard could be considered a bit of a test lab for which nursery plants are of the rugged individualist type.

Happily, spring flowering bulbs are a big winner here. Crocus, narcissus and daffodils not only seem to thrive, but they actually spread. Flowering trees and perrennials are another winner. We have peach, apple and crabapple trees that bloom enthusiastically in season. Much of the tedium of the work is relieved by admiring these transient beauties around the yard.

Here are some of this season's floral finds:

Evening Peach Blossom

Dawn Daffodil

Bleeding Heart coming into bloom

Dawn Peach Blossom

Some consider photographs of floral subjects to be a bit passe, and on some level there may be something to this. I still enjoy taking some fairly straightforward floral shots when the light is interesting just the same. The real fun is using the natural beauty of flowers as the starting point for the creative impulse. A good macro lens is indispensable to fully realize the endless artistic potential to be found in flowers. Interesting angles, unusual lighting situations, extreme closeups can all be used to create interesting images.

Full sunlight is usually avoided in photography, as the available light tends to exceed the dynamic range of the film or sensor and care must be used to adjust to these conditions. Late (or early) in the day, as the shadows lengthen abd the midday intensity of the light backs off a bit, opportunities start presenting themselves for the observant. Such it was that I noticed some late afternoon sunbeams on a patch of tulips. The sun was still too bright for a straight-on shot, but I wasn't much interested in that anyway. What caught my attention was how the sunlight was passing right through the tulip petals from the backside. This would call for a difficult exposure, shooting towards the sun.

Hot Tulip I

The trick is to meter off the brightest part of the subject and let the rest of the scene go dark. If the conditions are right, and your technique is on target, you can get some really interesting lighting and color effects. I worked the tulip patch for about 30 minutes or so and obtained two images I found satisfactory. The results can border on the abstract.

Hot Tulip II

Notice how the everything around the tulip has faded to black. The actual scene was well lit, but metering to the brilliant sunlight on the flower petals, the rest of the scene fades to black, leaving an image almost searing in its intense light and color.

(Click on images to enlarge)

The Canyon, Then and Now

Over the years, photographers will tend to build up a rather formidable collection of old images. It is typical for me to select something like five or ten images out of every hundred as 'portfolio' quality after a backpacking weekend. A typical dawn shoot will return two or three potential keepers out of fifty to seventy-five shots. So what happens with all the others?

At least half the images are tossed into the 'bit bucket'. These are the images with clear defects or are backup duplicates of the keeper shots. The remaining inventory are likely to be of interest for one reason or another and I am loath to toss an image with at least some potential. One of the advantages of inexpensive storage is that it very easy to set aside these less-than-perfect images for later review. Unfortunately, the near constant influx of new image files makes it all to easy to forget what one has buried behind the metaphorical cobwebs. This is especially the case when the new work peaks my interest such that the old files barely get a thought, much less a revisit. I was reminded recently of the importance of not being so dismissive of the older images.

One of the things we tend to forget is that we are constantly changing as individuals. Our days and weeks and months and years of cumulative experience change us. Not only our appearance as we age, but also our opinions and how we perceive the world around us. The person who views the world at the age of fifty the same as he or she did at twenty has wasted thirty years. What once may have been of little or no interest, may suddenly provide a newfound insight. Such it is with old images. Those older photographs which tugged at some tendril of interest, but never quite pulled you in, may prove to be jewels in the rough. So, when time and circumstances permit, I will occasionally browse through the thousands of old image files looking for surprises.

Last week I happened to find myself in the directory housing my collection of RAW files from my traverse of the Grand Canyon two years ago. A series of images from this week-long trip inside the Canyon open the Terra Gallery on the Essential Light Photography web site. I had another hundred or so images saved in the archived folder. While perusing them, I found four that peaked my interest. At the time I was in the Grand Canyon, I had not yet developed a working understanding of the power of black and white images. The Grand Canyon itself tends to call for color images to convey the striking imagery in all its incredible beauty. My initial portfolio images follow this line of perception. During this recent perusal, it became clear that something had changed.

I had taken what I consider my first successful black and white image, 'Sunken Forest Pathway I', about eight months before the Grand Canyon trip, but the connection to black and white had not quite solidified yet, and didn't for some time. But my interest and understanding of monochromatic images has continued to grow. This became apparent as I perused the image files and mentally considered virtually every one as a monochrome. I picked several promising files and ran them through the conversion process to evaluate them. Several ended up being returned untouched, but four ended up in the portfolio. One was a revisit to one of my favorites from the Canyon trip, the dead cedar we found on Cedar Ridge during our descent into the Canyon. The high contrast conversion gave this old favorite a completely different - and fascinating – personality.

click on image to enlarge

The next three were images that I had passed over the first time as they did not work for me at the time. Converted to back and white, they found new life. One was a companion to the original Cedar Ridge image:

click on image to enlarge

Next was a view of the bottom of Clear Creek Canyon, just north of the campsite at the start of the route to Cheyava Falls:

click on image to enlarge

Last was one of those small detail shots that seem rather out of place in the grandeur of the Canyon, but remind me of the endless fascinating little details to be found within:

click on image to enlarge

I will be making more time to wander through more of my older archives looking for more surprises. My new eyes may well discover more gems buried within the dross.

A Sense of Place

One of the many factors that separates a snapshot from a photograph is the ability of the photograph to project a 'sense of place' to the viewer. Doing this effectively is obviously not as simple as walking up to a scene and pressing the shutter release. If this were the case, photography would require little or no skill and would likely be a simple recording medium. In fact, this might be one of the core characteristics distingquishing a snapshot, which might be considered as a simple recording of a particular moment, and a photograph, which is capable of conveying so much more.

How does one capture this elusive sense of place in a two dimensional still image? The answers are probabably as many as there are photographic subjects and even more once you consider the aspect of individual perception and interpretation as part of the mix. That said, there are some things one can do that could be considered prerequisites towards achieving this goal. When I have an idea for an image, I will go to the location and walk it for a while. If the situation lends itself to it, such as a remote wooded stream, I will sit quietly in that place for a bit. I will not do anything at all with the camera at first. Rather, I will watch as the light and air moves over the surfaces, watching as the textures and details slowly change under the ever changing light. Part of this process is actually quieting myself, turning down the inner noise machine in an attempt to be more perceptive and receptive. To describe it as a form of meditation would not be inaccurate, but it is a meditation on the place, rather than the self.

As I observe the setting, I gradually start to consider the aspects that define the characteristics unique to this place and time. Where is the light coming from and what is the quality of that light? What are the surfaces and how do they react to the available light? Is this the best time and conditions for this place and the potential I may recognize within it? At some point in the process an idea will begin to form that I feel will convey what I see and feel about the subject. Once some form of mental consensus has been reached, my focus will shift to the technical aspects required by the camera to see what I see. This pertains not only to the mechanical aspects required by the camera equipment, but consideration of which elements of the scene are the most critical to defining it and how best to compose them within the frame. This may involve a series of shots at subtly different angles and settings once I've settled on the basic parameters of my idea. Sometimes the idea is more of a feeling than something that can be discreetly described. In this case, I will likely take a wider range of variations on the subject and sort out the one that comes closest to that nebulous idea floating in my mind later.

Quite often, I will decide that the light available at the moment is not acceptable to bring the fullness of the image into fruition. In these cases, it will be necessary to wait, sometimes a few minutes or hours as the sun arcs through its natural course, or even months as a location is visited and revisited waiting for the optimal conditions. A good example of this is a photograph that I recently added to my portfolio: Pampas Dawn. The ornamental grass in this scene grows off to one side of the Whitehaven Hotel and I've been interested in it for several years. I made a point of visiting it every morning whenever my wife and I are staying there, but never took a photograph of it, as the conditions were never quite right for what I thought I saw in it. That finally changed when one windy, raining morning I was up before dawn to make another attempt at an old abandoned dock down river in the opposite direction. When I finished that shoot, The sun was finally starting to burn through the heavy cloud cover - and there it was! The polished, brassy glare of the sun filtering through the grass plumes while silouetting the less ephemeral grass stalks was exactly what I had been looking for.

Another example is an image of a small waterfall within a stream that had caught my eye.  I sat with the water for a bit and watched and listened. The spot was an idyllic setting and everything was perfect...except... the light was too flat. It was very early yet, and the stream was at the bottom of a shallow valley. The sun was still well below the intervening ridge, so I went about my business for an hour or so until the sun finally rose sufficiently high to clear the ridge. Running back to that same spot, I found a series of sunbeams moving across the waterfall, lending a faery-like light to the simple scene.

Compare the final shot above, with the earlier shot taken before the sun cleared the ridge, below. 

Both are of the same place, the same day, about an hour apart. Notice how the newly arrived sunbeams bring the scene alive, adding depth and sharpening the details! Both images are accurate depictions of the place in a direct recording sense, but the added dynamic range and highlighted details in the sunbeam image makes all the difference. When I see the top image, I have a much clearer memory and stronger connection to this little spot. I can even feel the motion of the water as it flows around the stones.

This is what can happen when you take the time to 'feel out' a subject and manage to understand something of what gives that place life, the spirit or feel that makes this place in this particular moment so unique unto itself - its sense of place.

Are You Paying Attention?

“It is impossible to achieve the aim without suffering.” - A.G. Bennett

It takes effort to maintain ones attention. Actual, hard work. The suffering referred to in the opening quote does not refer to suffering in the usual sense. It refers to the fact that keeping your mind working at a level that rises above the usual mental state, driven by routine and habit, requires constant effort. Mental inertia runs towards the dull and unimaginative and it takes work to fight that inertia.

One of my hobbies, aside from photography, is the study of the human mind, especially as regards the nature of consciousness and human behavior. One of the more fascinating aspects that I've discovered is the common thread that shows up in some surprising places. For example: G. I. Gurdjieff, when realizing that the older, more exotic religious traditions were fading in Eurasia, made the effort to study them to learn their inner workings. What he learned was at once simple in concept, but difficult to act upon. At the center of these ancient practices lie methods to clear ones mind of 'noise' and to enhance one's attention and focus. This opens the possibility of thinking in high clarity, free of 'automatic' habitual behavior. Gurdjieff refined his ideas over the years into formal schools built around what he called The Work – which was various exercises designed to help focus and enhance one's attention. Gurdjieff's ideas were picked up and expanded upon by others, such as A.G. Bennett. This idea of enhanced attention also shows up in a somewhat similar fashion in the writings and teachings of Jiddu Krishnamurti. Krishnamurti's teachings were more personal and less structured, but spoke to much the same thing – the awaking of the conscious self.

All of these gentleman could be classified as semi-spiritual teachers or leaders of a sort - which is an oversimplification, although Krishnamurti in particular strongly avoided this type of designation, considering it a destructive course. The first scholarly examination that took a unique look at the true nature of human consciousness was Julian Jaynes in the opening chapters of his book, “The Origins of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind”. The topic is too broad and complex to discuss in this little blog, but the immediate heart of the matter can be distilled into this quote by Jeanne de Salzmann, one of Gurdjieffs most ardent supporters:

“You do not realize enough that your attention is your only chance. Without it you can do nothing."

Jaynes postulated that we spend a very small amount of our time fully conscious and provides a startling view of how we think and how the mind works at different levels of consciousness, switching in and out without our even realizing it. While the likes of Gurdjieff, Bennett and Krishnamurti tend to speak in generalizations and concepts, Jaynes gives specific examples that can be readily recognized and understood. The prime concept behind all of them, however, is the same: Most of us move through life only partially aware and your attention is vital if you want to fully experience your life and the world around you.

The application of this concept towards photography should be obvious. One of the things that draws me to photography is the constant need to be aware of your surroundings in the finest detail. When moving thru any environment, whether a backcountry landscape or the busiest urban center, I constantly scan for interesting light and form. This opens the world in a way that must be experienced to be understood and appreciated. It is probably easiest to relate to this experience in a natural setting, as the subject elements tend to be simpler and the distractions fewer. Once a subject has been identified, setting up an image becomes a fairly straightforward process of setting up the best composition in the best available light.

Urban environments are a completely different matter. The variety of lines, angles, details, light and even reflected light provide a sometimes overwhelming collection of choices. The surprise is how few people notice. Most people are so lost in their routines that they are never even aware of the magic occurring right in their midst. This is the common, semi-conscious state in which people spend most of their time. This state of mind is the enemy of all, but especially the photographer. I use my walks across and around Manhattan as an observational exercise. I spend my time actively observing and seeking out interesting site lines and details. The alertness pays real dividends. I capture only a small portion of my little discoveries with my camera, as my schedule does not permit much time to linger, but I note and return to those especially interesting locations with my camera gear later. I do carry a small, high quality camera, a Canon G9, that gets much use taking sample shots for later study. The really interesting subjects will find themselves in front of the big camera later, as this requires more preparation and a special trip for that purpose. Here are two examples:

The Flat Iron Building. I was walking down Madison Avenue late one afternoon, headed home when I noticed, some 10 or more blocks south the setting sun was highlighting the Flat Iron building in a way I had never seen before. I practically ran the 10 blocks in order to get within range while the light was still available. I had the G9 in my coat pocket, fortunately, and was able to record the wonderful moment.

Another unusual find was the fascinating rooftop details of a recently landmarked building, the Ten-Eyck Troughton, originally known as Allerton House. One of architect Arthur Loomis Harmon's earliest designs, it is the first hotel built in the Italian Renaissance style. I noticed one morning this spectacular oxidized copper roof lost in the surrounding high-rises – visible only through a very narrow opening between modern towers if you happened to look in the right direction at the right time as you walked along. Getting the right angle required climbing up on the front steps of a brownstone near the corner of Lexington and 38th Street in order to clear all the important details from the surrounding buildings, such as that delightful detail work on the peak of the roof.

How many people have walked right by these sights without ever seeing them?

The Light of Dawn

It is well before dawn, but I am wide awake and (mostly) alert just the same. Hot coffee is in the thermos, the camera gear is stashed in the back of the Jeep, and I'm on the road to this morning's destination. Left behind is a warm bed and a very understanding wife. Chances are that I will soon be carrying all that equipment on my back as I walk a location before the sun meets the horizon.

It is no small task dragging myself out of that very comfortable and inviting bed, but the alternative is to spend the predawn staring out the window and wondering what the dawn light is doing in the unoccupied, uninhabited places. It is a Siren's song of a very unique kind, born in cool silence before the living world stirs.

The morning's destination is determined by various factors. Sometimes my thoughts will converge on a concept of an image in a particular location – specific in detail in the intended photograph, having only to be in the right place at the right time as the light comes to me as I wait. More often, I have a general, vague idea of various elements that might work if I can only pull the bits together in a cohesive composition, then wait for the light to breath life into the scene. Other times, it will be a random exploration of a new location, full of surprise and wonder. Or not. There are mornings that are photographic duds, but there is always satisfaction in the wandering and wondering.

Why the early rising? Why leave the perfectly warm and comfortable bed and cozy wife? It is the light, of course. The dawn light. No other time of the day comes close to the quality of light found as the sun rises. Sunsets are wonderful too, but in a very different way, as the day has a story by the time the sun is fading. Mid-day light is all hard edges and garishness, begging the hard tonal qualities of black and white images. Dawn light is new, clean, virginal in a spirit of potential and promise. All things are possible as the new sun arrives to caress the distant horizon and the world stirs to life, repeating the timeless cycle of days, years, millenia. There are only a relative few moments as the light transitions from the hint of a rosy glow through the reds, then yellows, then blazing golds as the orb climbs into the sky – the eternal cycle repeating yet again.

Here is the best light that holds its special quality – washing the scenery with broad rose and gold swashes of light and long, deep shadows. Pure wonder - often refered to as the 'magic hour' for a reason. The low light allows the photographer to introduce the element of time into an image by using longer shutter speeds. The low light can fit completely within the dynamic range of the film or the sensor, so the scene can be recorded in proper completeness without bracketing or special developing tricks. The creative eye will search out and locate the unusual effects of light and shadow in the fleeting moments these gifts have existence, before the rising sun washes them away.

Worth the early rising? Absolutely. The world during the dawn hours is a quiet, uncrowded place. There is time to think, time to breathe, time to see. The world is a very different place for the people who meet the sun at the horizon. By the time I return home for breakfast and hot coffee, I have already had a full day.