A550
24 creative works found
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What do you call the light that permanently imprints itself into the deepest corner of your cerebral real estate? Just a memorable one, divine, sublime? The star was going down fast, as it was just a matter of ‘to get it over and done with‘ a daily sunset routine – until that moment. Like it was switched on by some all powerful hand residing somewhere in the center of a kingdom of light, the sunbeam reached across the valley, bringing all the associated attributes with it, like joy and warmth, just for a few moments, before disappearing altogether. The blue cold haze drowned the beautiful Hawkes Bay valley, but not before the last ray of sun got there first. I was standing in awe … for a while in fact, still in disbelief. Review button and LCD screen confirmed it did happen. Sweet. I’ll treasure selfishly the melody of breeze passing through the treetops, the smell of golden grass and feel of fallen leafs under my feet. Not to worry, I left something to share with you. Here it is.
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The writing is on the wall – if you can see it, you can’t read it. I passed this sculpture so many times. You have to. It is made of stainless steel and placed in one of the busiest Wellington streets, in the perfect position to capture the colorful lights of the city after daylight, the nightglow of the capital. The ‘Invisible City’, as it’s called, is the gigantic panel of Braille text that highlights the communication gap between those who can’t see and the rest of us. The post is designed to remember all the folks, my countrymen and yours, the often invisible part of society, all those who finish schools, who work, play music, do sports, pay taxes, have and raise children, to the benefit of us all.
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Don’t tell me the sky is the limit, there are footprints on the moon!
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A fact never to be underestimated – someone, out there, may still call this their birthplace. It captured my attention while in the car on my way south. A short walk on the gravel road is all it took to reach the old house that parted with its best years sometime in the last millennium. That colour, the textures of decaying wood, rusting roof and the remains of the dead tree, fallen where it lived, still searching with its long fingers for the occupants, long gone. I was mesmerised by the scene. There is something profoundly sad about the remains of buildings, any kind of ruins. Is it because they remind us of the inevitable and our disposability in this world. And all the usual questions: how old is it, who lived in it, and will it make it to the next autumn or even next week? Time to go, I had better move. The sky of ‘I mean business’ colour has been gathering strength for a while. Its forward party already seized the strategic heights from the playful patches of the late afternoon sun. When it hits, it will hit hard. On the way back, just one more look … enough time to take another breath of impressions, to treasure, and an image to share, with you.
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Pautahanui Stream Observed Sometimes Later Than Ever Before
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Peace is not an absence of war, it is a virtue, a state of mind, a disposition for benevolence, confidence, justice. / / Baruch Spinoza (1632 – 1677)
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The top part of the image is the visual testimony to the incredibly powerful forces which shape the skies, including the volatile ones around this impressive volcano. The clouds of different contours and consistencies are sometimes shifted in seemingly conflicting directions, at different heights, in accordance to the latest moods of the ruling winds to reveal clearly these invisible currents in a kind of airborne stratum. What really caught my attention here was the tidy regimented file of fluffy clouds just below the snowline, moving orderly from left to right and straight into the rage of the mountain’s executive arm, its resident wind. Its force showed no mercy as the victims were turned and twisted and consequently ripped into the smallest of pieces, some of them still visible floating hopelessly around for a while, before departing into oblivion at such a speed it made the whole incident hard to believe. The result of the carnage on the land below could be observed as a mishmash of fast moving patterns, shades and filtered lights, like the event was a product of play with some heavenly kaleidoscope. Hard to believe indeed. The real question is how to convey an impression of this kind, one that affects all of your senses to some extent and condense it into one dimensional media as a photograph is. In fact, it’s impossible. This image is the next best thing.
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We don’t have to protect the environment, the Second Coming is at hand. / / James Watt
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Faith is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted in spite of your changing moods. / / C.S. Lewis (1898-1963)
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It Took Me A Long, Long Time To Find Out Where All The Manawatu Clouds Meet …
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Yes, that very delightful illumination, the one I‘ve been searching for a long time, far and wide, the light indescribable and as elusive as ever. Like in this landscape, where the dark forest still drains its branches, just moments after the mean storm and the sun reappears cautiously in a quest to reclaim the heavens from the gloomy threat, highlighting the spots on the puffy clouds and the ground, randomly, or possibly in a pattern I can’t comprehend. The very luminosity that makes you start seeing things – around the ruin of an old house, behind the mysterious woods, between shy little clouds that float slightly above the tree tops and all the creatures that only need a good reason or a site like this to crawl out from your subconscious self, right from the deepest ends of your storytelling childhood memories. I know, I should get serious and meet my age specs, but with a scene like this before my eyes and a camera in hand, that may not be trivial, even worse, I may be too old to grow up now.
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If your parents never had children, chances are you won’t, either. Dick Cavett
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I’ve witnessed surreal tranquility at Tutira Lake … or was I dreaming it all? Everything you can imagine is real. Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973)
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Life is the flower for which love is the honey. Victor Hugo (1802-1885)
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On a perfect day, everything that matters in life can fit into a single frame. I am pretty sure you know what I mean by a statement like this. A chilly morning starts with a haze trapped in the garden treetops, and you blossom with a completely unprovoked smile on your face. Lunch tastes like it is your last, the warm air around the table smells of exhilaration. Night is peaceful, with the sky of colours seen only on postcards from exotic lands that make you wish you were there. Hold on, I was there. Yes, it was a short trip on a rural road from the regional centre to the lovely beach. The sun was already low, somewhere between the sun visor and the horizon. I had only a quarter of an hour to make a shot. I must have taken at least a half a dozen images of the scene before I saw them. A couple, their footwear in their hands and a dog, barely visible here sniffing the rounded rock, emerged from the cliff shadows. The animal spotted me, and decided to check out the puffed middle aged man with his shoes full of sand and a photo bag that is ripping off his shoulder, a someone who clearly doesn’t fit in the surroundings. Despite the odds, I seemed to smell ok. They waved. My initial thought was, I had no intention of posting an image of a couple in love on a sunset lit beach, no way. But then, it must have been the overall warmth of the picture painted by the beautiful blazing star that gives us existence, the pacific that outlines our sovereignty, multihued sky crisscrossed with the Golden Fleece left by the planes on the air corridor North-South, and the mighty dark cliffs of the West Coast vanishing into the horizon. And of course, Love, eternal and pure Love.
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The Old Shed With A Red Roof, Rusting Among The Sunny Meadows Of Whitemans Valley Be like the sun and meadow, which are not in the least concerned about the coming winter. / / George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950)
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I love night. I always have. The light, or lack of it, that changes the nature of things around you, making familiar different, unfamiliar threatening. I love its colors, subdued and shifted as they may be, diverse grades of darkness, wicked shadows and reflections. It is the period of the day when I am alert and creative, when I love to read, listen to music or work on some of my images. It’s not a secret that food tastes better after daylight fades out. And here you have it, the façade of an old Wellington building, painted by the mixture of artificial light sources and magical bites and bytes. Good enough for me, even better for my photo collection.
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Soft, puffy and somewhat late afternoon clouds, a fountain, and a lake that can read your moods.
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The Place Where A Mirror Found Joy In Reflecting A Phones Uselessness, And A Time That Had Given Up On Them Both
by Peter KurdulijaUS$4.32–US$98.80
Time is free, but it’s priceless. / You can’t own it, but you can use it. / You can’t keep it, but you can spend it. / Once you’ve lost it you can never get it back. Harvey MacKay
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The last lights of a pacific summer day on a remote Wairarapa farm.
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Darkness reigns at the foot of the lighthouse Japanese proverb
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