October 27, 2019
To close out the photographs taken in Wisconsin this summer, here are four experiments in intentional camera movement (ICM). That is, the first four are Wisconsin; the others, from the archives, are Ohio and Florida.
July 21, 2019
A week ago Sunday David and I walked downriver along the Vermilion. We’d had very little rain in Oberlin for maybe two weeks and expected the river to be low. We had forgotten that, even though the locations are only eight miles apart, weather at Schoepfle Garden—where we approach the river—and weather in Oberlin don’t always match. Alas, they must have had rain we didn’t. The river was too high, too fast, too wide, and the bedrock shale probably too slippery to walk across. I prefer the other side because it is where I always find lovely outbreaks of Leptothrix discophora films as well as interesting shale formations. On the less-interesting side we saw a little film, but nothing spectacular. Casting about for something that would warrant the rather tortuous trek along the river, I became fascinated by the shale at my feet where we usually cross over. Even there, the rock fractures along lines that look human made. I’d love to know why it does that.
May 22, 2019
Last April I posted three photographs of a rock I see whenever I go to the Schoepfle Garden. In the Comments, Alan Goldsmith asked if I’d thought of photographing the rock from the same place every time. I confess that I’d only been trying to find the most interesting composition each time. But his comment lodged in my brain, and I have since tried to stick with the same view or two when I visit. So here are two photographs I took of the rock Saturday. Following those are some photos I’d taken of the rock from the same vantage points on June 2 and July 14, 2018.
Shortly after posting photos of this rock last April, I named the rock Table Rock. Now I can keyword this specific rock in Lightroom and call up its photos easily. But there’s another advantage in naming features in the landscape. For me, attaching words increases the intimacy I feel with the named thing. I can’t say why this is so. Perhaps some of you have some relevant ideas.
July 30, 2018
When I had almost reached the other shore of the Vermilion River (see yesterday’s post), I looked up and saw some day lilies where I didn’t expect to see them. Along the sides of plowed fields in the country, and in people’s gardens, yes, but not in the woods.
If you read yesterday’s post, you know that I have been searching for a term to describe light that has bounced off a surface (in my experience, the surfaces have been windows) and landed elsewhere. In a comment on yesterday’s post, Nannus encouraged me like this: “Just invent one! Language is not fixed and all the words we are using have been coined by somebody at some time.” So I did. I thought. The term I came up with was “ricochet light.” Then I Googled to see if that term might actually mean something else. To my surprise and delight, I found a photographer named Todd Laffler who uses that term to mean exactly what I mean by it. He has some great examples. What fun.
July 29, 2018
Two weeks ago I made my way to the Vermilion River, something I do less often than I used to now that we are living back in town. The river still charms me, I’m happy to say, and I was in special good luck July 14 because the river’s water level was low and its banks embellished with iridescent patches of Leptothrix discophora. When the water is low, I get to wade across to the other side, where I usually can find more colonies of my favorite bacterium (photos to come). The wade itself is a treat, though, and I love seeing the ripples filled with sunshine at my feet.
July 24, 2018
July 23, 2018