The last supermoon of the summer (such as it is) was hovering over the Adirondacks and over St. Lawrence’s sylvan campus. The interplay with the science buildings seemed appropriate.
Even better, though, was the alignment of the moon directly over the tiny tower in the Adirondacks (cell, I’m guessing?). Maybe it’s innocuous, or maybe it’s part of a plan by a mad scientist to finally control the Moon!
In the distance land of Portland, Oregon, urban renewal has transformed the rail yards of the Pearl District into galleries and shops and condos in towering new buildings. Doesn’t this scene look like a futuristic utopia? (Hopefully it’s not moments away from the shattering realization that it’s all built on some “Soylent Green”/”The Giver”/”Equilibrium”-esque lie.)
Horse shows mean lots of downtime, even at the most exciting events on the continent: a quick rest, some rehydration, and a cell-phone check. I particularly liked this photograph for the symmetry between the faces in profile, each with what appears to be her own helmet visor (worn sans helmet). Looking at the details further, the black colors of phone and nail polish and belt and socks just match so perfectly.
St. Lawrence is an amazing place to spend time in mid-September: the lushness of summer is just barely beginning to crisp into fall, an autumn chill creeps into the evening air, and students (and faculty) have settled into the rhythms of another year.
The arrangement of tiny plants and epic trees and enormous boulders that makes up a Japanese garden is calm and beautiful, but to see the inspirations for those geometries “in the wild,” so to speak, is so much more impressive. Big falls and gnarly roots and little streams make the “real” world just as poetic.
In the realm of landscape photography, I’m interested in the details and the gradients of the landscape, the way it stretches before the viewer and displays the gradient between dense urban environments and empty, person-less ones. In taking a self-portrait, I’m interested in the same types of details: the misting raindrops collecting on my hair and the herringbone pattern in my shirt and the field of stubble on my jaw, and the way these details of texture combine to make a collective picture of me. There, the dense information of my face tapers away to the less person-specific aspects of neck and shoulders that could belong to anyone.
Bleary-eyed, through a wide-open aperture with the last hints of sun and the now-dominant neon signage as its only lighting, I present to you: the Hoot Owl Express. This is (for the moment) St. Lawrence’s main “student bar,” its walls covered in old hockey jerseys and its staff preternaturally capable of spotting a fake I.D.