The classic winter picture of clean, fresh snow and bright blue skies seems much easier to come by, ironically, under less-wintery conditions near the beginning or end of the season. Under the snow at the edge of the patch in the foreground, you can see that the grass is still green.
This post represents a big moment for me: the first image from my new Sony α7R IV. This is only the third serious digital camera; my first was a Nikon D3100, and I’ve been shooting primarily with a D7000 for the past eight years. The capabilities from a decade of technological advancement and the engineering switch to a mirrorless design have pretty-well blown my mind. I really recommend clicking through to Flicker to look at this image at full scale—the tiny pinpricks of each star, the details in the windows of every building. The 61-MP capabilities of the α7R IV maybe be considered overkill by some, but I’m finding it to be the perfect tool for the kinds of “zoom in forever”-detailed photographs that I love to produce.
When St. Lawrence University began in 1856, the whole school—classrooms and dorms and dining hall and offices—were all crammed into this one building: Richardson Hall. Since that time, a lot has changed about the school. Yesterday marked commencement for the Class of 2020 (virtually), left me thinking about the the history and future of the university.
When St. Lawrence’s newest dorm, Kirk Douglas Hall, was designed, its dramatic glass bridge was brought into alignment with the Avenue of the Elms and gap between Richardson Hall and Gunnison Chapel. When the sun rises over the North Country landscape, I am drawn to the focused geometry of the landscape. (And glad I awoke to fly my quadcopter.)
Information cannot move through the universe (as far as we know) any faster than the speed of light. In the hyperbolically shaped world of spacetime, all factors that could influence my current state are in the “light cone” behind me, and all factors that I can influence in the future are in the “light cone” ahead of me. This photograph, from during a particularly nasty winter storm, exhibits light cones of another variety.