HDR Photography
Perhaps my last post in the cozy, wood-lined chambers of Timberline Lodge put me in mind of winter excursions. From the windy top of Lion’s Head in northwestern Connecticut, the view of three states is incredible. The snow clings to branches from a recent storm, and a few wisps of cloud mark the horizon in an otherwise azure sky. This snowsuit caught my eye, and I particularly liked the way only a single hand of human being is visible, poking out from the bundled layers.
At the end of a long day on Oregon’s Mt. Hood, returning in the evening to Timberline Lodge and its gorgeous/unique internal geometry is at once (slightly) alienating and welcoming. This quiet reading corner meets all of my criteria: not far from a fireplace and with the perfect chairs for curling up with hot chocolate. The blue fabric of these chairs, and their combination of rustic wood and steel, put me in mind of the This End Up furniture of the 1980s. The childhood associations only make the place more mentally comfortable.
I suppose part of the reason that I appreciate landscape photography is its ability to capture a perfect, transient moment of incredible beauty. Of course, on some evenings (such as this one), the weather and environment just won’t cooperate. (I nearly titled this photograph “Boring Sunset.”) As photographer, I can put myself in the right place at the right time, but I still need reality to do its part.
Red fruit makes me nervous. (Perhaps one too many lectures about not eating red berries as a child?) In any case, the combination of overwhelming red fruit, dark clouds, and a dilapidated garage make me just a wee bit uneasy.
Fire gains an unearthly, extra-sinister quality when HDR reveals the true extent of its tempestuous geometry. (The convenient “Office Burn Demonstration” cropping only added to the effect.) Knowing intellectually what a fire at work can do is very different from seeing the full effect, and I have to admit that I found the example presented by Canton’s fire department to be chillingly effective. (Pardon the temperature puns.)
Down the road (and an hour later) from here, the grass harvest was continuing into the pastel-hued evening. The particulates kicked up by their work made this sort of localized haze that refracted the last sunlight to these incredible colors.
St. Lawrence University’s Johnson Hall of Science is a lovely, brand-new science building (particularly appreciated by chemists who prefer not to work in the miasma of their predecessors’ experiments.) The aesthetic benefits are supplemented by olfactory ones: in addition to excellent ventilation inside, the exterior of the building is surrounded by wild grasses and flowers that energize me the moment I step outside.
When viewed at night, the luminous quality of the glass facade lends the place a storybook look that I think HDR captures perfectly.
Vancouver can be a bit of an alien place at times. Gazing across the water, I don’t know that any image better represents the combination of dense urbanity, maritime connection, and epic nature than this one does. With the last warm hues of sunlight reflecting from the water and the windows, the blues of the forest (and night) beyond begin to dominate.
When winter alights on the Northeast, there’s a quiet stillness that seeps through the land and makes the world feel underpopulated. That birds, so small and delicate, still fly in this stillness amazes me.
In the quiet of Nitobe Memorial Garden, I was struck by the craftsmanship of this teahouse. Even the roof had such gorgeous structure, with the wood lit by ambient light reflected from the water and the foliage.
The topology of central Oregon at sunset is really very special: the land somehow has that “falling away beneath you” feeling of standing on a hilltop, that “in the hollow” feeling of standing in a valley, and that “goes on forever” feeling of standing on a plain all at the same time. Combine this with the variety of surfaces and textures to experience (gravel, grass, tarmac, wood, lake, sky, woods), and the experience becomes some hyperdimensional superposition of places and moments in time. With just the right car for the particular evening, you have a recipe for perfection.
In the sylvan core of UBC’s (aptly named) Green College, a few random buildings hide with the trees. Some have pedestrian uses (literally—the building on the right is a stairwell), but others are more surreal: this little cottage is a shared-use kitchen. As the first rays of moonlight catch the scene, I can’t help but be reminded of some Tolkienesque elven fortress.
Biking on the beach, drinking brews, and hanging out to feel the last of the spring sun at Half Moon Bay.
Just down the seawall, “LOCALS ONLY” was painted in heavy, runny pink krylon on one of these same rocks. Who was at this beach? No one seemed a local, to me.
But even more, this slogan made me think on the nature of America in general, and California in particular. This state filled up with the folks who went west until there was no where else to go. Even now, they keep coming. Even these enormous rocks that make up the wall are not “locals,” but transplants, brought in to tame the sea.
Outside Vancouver (the city) are the hillsides, dotted with homes and apartment buildings and, farther north, massive rocks. (That’s a pretty rare combination.) The difference between the soft, welcoming pink hues of the sunset and those massive hillsides (with some lovely evergreens in the foreground) is stranger, the more I think about it.
This picture also illustrates the biggest difference I’ve encountered since moving from the west coast to the east: the environments are less staggering and overwhelming, but the skies (and the buildings) are much more so. I’ve had to reorient the way I shoot to account for it.
Today’s post comes courtesy of Piper J. Klemm:
A surprise dismount at the Lake Placid Horse Show led to an unexpected tour around the ring for this particular horse.
