HDR Photography
David Lynch brings an edge of dark menace to his films; I can still remember the first time I saw Blue Velvet and felt the crisp edge of real and unreal disintegrating. In particular, the director’s visions of Small Town America and the underbelly of that beast (in Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks, particularly) felt notable in “downtown” Canton last week. With the sky aflame and neon lights in every window, the scene was about 15 minutes away from some Lynch-level insanity.
When a warm breeze blows across a college campus at twilight, the already gorgeous buildings only become more (pardon the extensive use of cliché) romantic and magical. They tell me that this particular building contains a ghost, but it seems too warm and welcoming (a sort of half-scale college building) to be threatening. Perhaps it contains a friendly ghost?
When my brother was in kindergarten, he made his fort in a small section of densely wooded area on our property. He called it, as any five-year-old would, “The Spooky Wood.” When the leaves fell, it lived up to its name. The tangle of fallen limbs and scarred trunks was impenetrable to all but him; he know the way through the cellulosic maze. Finding this mysterious shed with its epic light amid a North Country tangle, I couldn’t help but be reminded of my brother’s long-abandoned hideout.
In the rest of the world, it’s almost April, but in the North Country it still looks (and feels) like winter. The land and the people and the houses and the barns are battered by the weather, and when spring arrives we’ll repair and recover and regenerate.
Another Saturday special: I took this image of a quiet bridge over the Grasser River (on the over-named Miner Street Road) tonight. This is far too much beautiful winter scenery for mid-March.
A Saturday special: it’s still winter in the North Country (basically). Though I took this shot a couple of weeks ago (during the true depths of North Country Winter), it still surprisingly evocative of the current climate. Those first hints of light (and spring to come) are just starting to force their way through!
Having recently finished the fantastic Bioshock Infinite, I’ve had images of early-twentieth-century American exceptionalism floating through my brain. No matter what you think of the (sometimes questionable) policy decisions based on such a policy, the iconography is undeniably seductive. Neoclassical design features and waving flags on a crisp Sunday afternoon! Though this moment on St. Lawrence’s campus might not be literally of that time, the spirit of it was overwhelming.
Through the long North Country winter (my favorite theme, of late), there are few activities more fun than bombing along empty back roads in my Mini. Camera on the seat next to me, tripod in the back, and gnarly snow tires beneath me. Adventure and strangeness and exploration: there’s always another road I’ve never before ventured down. In this photograph, I capture the experience: crusty Mini, open field, and the beginning of a lovely sunset.
After a (relatively) warm weekend, the North Country is set to be entombed once again in winter. Though we’ve been promised by the false weather prophets that this cold spell won’t match the ferocity of January’s efforts, I can’t help but think back to mornings of almost unreal atmospheric thermal energy. On the edge of St. Lawrence’s campus, the sky was clear and the sun rose and cars puttered to work as though everything was normal.
Johnson Hall of Science is an unusually green building—particularly for one filled with hoods and hazardous chemicals. It also happens to have a truly surreal geometry that messes with your head a bit, if you let it. The ceilings have been sloped to better reflect daylight, reducing the need for electric lighting. The result is this Alice-in-Wonderland-esque lab space.
The North Country is still entrenched in winter. Maybe it always will be, for all I can tell. The roads are the salt-bleached bones of the once-living community; all we have left now is snow and storms and road-bones.
In a moment of digression from my normal focus on landscapes: I’ve been inspired lately by the street photography of Robert Frank and Henri Cartier-Bresson, who captured images of humanity in the “real world.” People living their lives. Perhaps it’s not traditional street photography, but for today’s photograph, I have this shot from Saturday night’s hockey game: SLU vs. Yale. Though the Saints lost, they looked great doing it. The ferocity of this imminent check captivates me.
Taking a temporary aside from Africa (and the warm/rainy weather of weird northern New York), here’s an image from the Zen garden just after the most recent blizzard. I haven’t done much work in black and white photography since high school, but this was a case of contrasting textures and tones that just demanded it. The rough, dark brick and stone dressed by puffy snow seemed poetic almost to the point of (again) cliché—so I went with it.
Today has been swamped under constant, freezing barrage of rain that carries dreariness in every drop. I prefer to remember the campus as it was in the last moments of aumtun, when one last sunset blazed through the crisp air.
A “casual blizzard” hit the North Country this weekend, and after I excavated around the house, I went exploring. St. Lawrence’s Zen garden was looking particularly peaceful under its (pardon the cliché) blanket of snow. The tiny structures seem to amplify the effect.
Decaseconds 