My parents went on a European honeymoon in April, 1939. On the edge of war, their album is 100% peaceful. I have had the large scrapbook for years but the older I get the more valuable these photos are to me. I decided to look at them through 2014 digital techniques but beneath the textures and digital bells and whistles are my Dad’s great photographs (taken with a Leica) and my mother’s captions in her handwriting. Timeless.
These are just three of many photographs I am filtering through my heart first and digital skills second. I can still see my father’s face as he talked about the French Liner, “Normandie”. It went from being the most spectacular and luxurious ship of its time to being fitted to be a troop carrier in WWII when it caught fire at its pier in New York. It capsized, literally rolled over at the pier, from the amount of water the fire tugboats had sprayed in to try and put the fire out. It’s a news photograph I won’t be filtering through my new nostalgia skill set.
PS. Although I have many photo textures that I’ve paid for, these textures were available for a free download by ShadowHouse Creations. Check out his blog and admire his artistry and generosity.
A farmer’s market on Labor Day weekend is a garden photographer’s sweet spot providing baskets of cascading peppers of all hues and shapes.
Edward Weston photographed green peppers over a long period of time before he settled on the images we now know as Pepper #30.
To those who repeatedly found something sexual in his imagery, he said:
“As you like it ‒ but this is just a pepper ‒ nothing else ‒to the impure all things ‒ are impure.”[
The older and slower I get, the faster things seem to go by me. Take Boston, for instance.
Most of the time I feel like the two ladies stranded on a traffic island outside of South Station trying to cross the street. Behind them, cars. In front of them, buses.
What’s a girl to do?
Work on taking interesting photos of things in motion.
That’s what I decided to do to get me off the traffic island.
I took this photo in Sante Fe 12 years ago. Just walking by this beautifully bricked side street (perhaps this building was a theatre, I’m not sure) and this man was there. Dancing. Or, if memory serves, he might have been miming something, perhaps practicing or warming up for an act to take place inside the building. I’m sure there is some logical explanation but the image still serves to remind me that spontaneity and creativity go together and being too self-conscious would have produced, in this instance: no man, no dancer, just an empty street with no inspiration 12 years later.
There is light at the end of the tunnel in my nearby industrial park but none in my morning newspaper. Sigh. I’ve reached at 69 years old an age that I remember my mother reached only in her eighties: the world’s complexities overwhelmed her. She began watching Spanish TV channels without knowing one word of Spanish.
This morning no shortage of insolubles. Iraq. Syria. Israel. Palestine. The Metropolitan Opera in NYC and its 17 unions.
What? Seventeen unions. One employer.
That fact alone has me reaching for the remote control.
What # channel is Telemundo Boston?