HDR Photography
A recent trip to Golden Gate Fields’ delicious/seductive/nauseating dollar days (dollar beers and dollar hot dogs for everyone!) gave me a chance to shoot not only the races themselves (more of that to come later), but also to shoot the mostly-empty rows of seats. They’s all plastic, and over time they slowly lose color and bleach from bright orange to dull, powdery brown. Thus follows the lifecycle of a chair. Gazing out over the ordered sea, their slow march to replacement is obvious.
There are many times when HDR helps us to capture images that appear more similar to what the human eye naturally perceives than a camera would normally be capable. In other cases, however, HDR reveals features that we might never have perceived. In this case, the complete intricacies of a gas-discharge lamp acting as a sign are revealed. (As a neurotic chemist, I can’t properly call it a neon light–those only glow orange!)
One of my earliest posts displayed the surreal beauty of Christmastime in the frigid suburbs of Chicago; given that much of the country is experiencing the balmy joy of summer, I thought a wee reminder of chillier times might be appropriate. (This photograph also continues what has apparently become a series, “Trees Next to Buildings.”)
Today’s image is the result of a little experiment I did, in which I limited myself to shooting only with a simple prime lens. This is perhaps my favorite image that stemmed from the experience: Berkeley’s historic Lewis Hall on a rainy afternoon. The reflections from the wet concrete buildings, the grid of the plaza’s brick pattern, and the intricate array of the hall’s windows combine to produce such a strong sense of place. In contrast with these hard, angular, man-made structures are the curves of the redwood trees. Would the picture have been better, had I taken it with a wide-angle zoom lens? I’m really not sure.
Just around the corner from one of my favorite buildings, I found this spot where the curve of a footpath mirrors the curve of the passing road. The last moments of the day make for tiny beams of sunlight around my feet and tapping the tops of trees across the road. The start of summer is a perfect time in California.
Oakland isn’t always the most gorgeous place to behold, with more than its fair share of graffiti-laden, disused industrial areas. (You can see little hints of them for yourself in today’s shot.) When I get down to the San Francisco Bay, and the tenor changes, I can appreciate it so much more. Unlike the east seaboard of the U.S., much of which has a consistent architectural style, the Bay is a mish-mash of little buildings that fulfilled whatever roles were needed when they were constructed. I get a warm, satisfied feeling from the way the chaotic clutter of boats separates the sometimes-distressing Oakland from the clean, crisp water of the Bay.
San Diego’s Civic Center, as I’ve shown previously, is a pretty surreal place. There’s certainly a feeling that you’re supposed to be in the nexus of the city’s of law and justice, but literally just around the corner, the buildings are plastered with signs for race tracks and the curbs and lined with homeless folks. I liked the way this image showed the broad sidewalks mostly abandoned, with only traces of waking life here and there.
Today’s shot has some pleasant symmetry to it: the careful lines of the trellises, the interplay between the blue of the sky and the creamy colors of the gravel, and the complete contrast of the curving and unruly hills running behind it all. There’s something personally satisfying about the way humans carve out little areas of neurotically-aligned geometry, but in the end, it’s nothing compared to the scale of the randomness produced by plate tectonics.
Today’s shot is one of my earlier attempts at HDR; I really like the composition of dark, absolute trees against the dappled sunlight, but with the benefit of time… Well, there are a variety of changes I’d have made in both the shot I took and the post-processing that followed. Reflecting on my past can be quite the learning experience–I’d like to think I’m more critical of my own work than anyone else’s.
The geometry of a horse and rider launching over a five-foot jump is so filled with muscle and agility and velocity that I find the whole event to be hypnotic. It’s over in a fraction of a second, and this makes me all the more glad that I’m a photographer. Though Piper would tell you that this isn’t quite a perfect jump (it’s a bad idea to put your groin above the saddle’s pommel–that can have painful consequences), I can’t help but respect the athleticism on display.
From what is becoming a series, “Piper relaxing,” today’s work: Piper relaxing on the roof, reading Rolling Stone on the most fantastically red, fuzzy blanket ever manufactured. A ray of sunshine for Monday morning.
Once you venture even a few miles from the suburban world of the East Bay into the hills surrounding, all sorts of weird little “model train set” vistas appear. On a rainy, gloomy day, with low cloud cover penning in the view, you could almost be forgiven for thinking you’d stumbled into a giant’s basement hobby space.
Today’s photograph comes from the Spotlight Club tasting room at Robert Mondavi Winery. Everything in wine country seems manufactured to create the faux-rustic, comforting charm; though part of me rebels against being manipulated, I have to admit that there’s a powerful nostalgic feeling summoned when I see big leather arm chairs and maps on the wall and wood-panelled display cases filled with the artifacts of a vintner’s existence. Though the room itself maybe be just as carefully manufactured as some Baroque chamber, the sense of again being a boy in my father’s study is no less potent.
Watching the sun go down on an empty beach can make me feel like the only person on the planet, but little signs of life will always remain–be it foot prints or, in this case, a sand castle. In comparison with my previous sand castle post, this particularly little fortress is so much calmer, smaller, and more considered.
Berkeley’s campus becomes oddly, frighteningly empty during the late spring. By the time summer rolls around, more students return to attend summer classes and the campus runs on a skeleton crew. In the time between the end of final exams and the start of the summer semester, however, only professors and graduate students dare to roam the halls. In this context, the enormous (but now mostly-empty) buildings remind me of the decaying palaces of some deposed monarch. School is dead! Long live school!
Decaseconds 