Silver metal oxidizing and colorful is a texture that draws me near. Collecting textures from abandoned or decaying buildings, a hobby like stamps or birdwatching ,enables me to recycle and create. Adding memory by introducing items owned by past tenants introduces story and personality. Making the acquaintance of the buildings’ owners happens rarely although sometimes I’ve been lucky. Today’s image just allows you to imagine their lives and create a history for them.
Monthly Archives: September 2012
Sunrise! Dramatic or grey , brisk or steaming, its power is magic. This photograph, shot from a hot air balloon on an early morning in December was the result of a week’s worth of no’s. No , it’s too windy, we’re not flying today. No, there’s a chance of rain, we can’t fly today. But on the day we were to leave for home, that 3 a.m. phone call confirmed we’d be flying. Now all I had to do was pack my courage to meet the morning from a new perspective. There are few words strong enough to adequately describe that morning. The air was still as a soft breath with no sensation of movement, yet it felt as if we’d ascended a ladder to the heavens. Its beauty tells its own story. Whether witnessed from a mountaintop or bedroom window, the magic of an early morning avails itself to us everyday. Mornings greeted by yanking blankets over our heads to maintain the darkness or those days when the act of rising weighs so heavily that the effort is exhausting contrast with mornings we greet as friends and welcome the possibilities. Starting fresh each day gives us the chance to reinvent ourselves and our lives. It’s an opportunity too valuable to pass by.
Decisions, sometimes there are too many! This simple window doesn’t demand much, but I needed to choose. The soft summer day shining through a window curtain with yellow polka dots, or the strength of shadows in black and white? Two different moods for the same window. A click of my mouse and the meaning changes. Neither option is wrong, just a matter of interpretation. The choice depends on my intent and the purpose for communication.Drama versus serenity is too big for me! Let me know which choice you like and please tell me why.
Growing up in New York, one of my places of refuge as a child was an old stone building on East Sixty-seventh street. Two heavy wood doors with big brass handles opened into a world of color and silence. The marble entry hall floor was cool and patterned. The smooth old wooden bannisters on the stair, had been polished by the hands of generations of children before me. A private club, for which admittance and independence depended on the ability to sign your name. Offering a place to think and indulge in fantasy, free for the taking to all who clutched the card . The library. The tall walnut shelves tickled the ceiling and a rolling ladder gave access to even its highest reaches. I often thought I could live there comfortably. Unfortunately,the chance to move in never presented itself, and I was probably too much of a rule-follower to risk sneaking an overnight stay. What if I lost my privileges ?!! After visiting the main branch on Fifth Avenue, although not nearly as cozy as my branch, I realized it had the lock on grandeur. Imagine being guarded by lions! What a home that might have been!
Several roadsides have bloomed with sunflowers in the past weeks. Finding them before their performance is a lesson in change and growth.Tightly closed with a sliver of color visible, the first only hints at what it will grow into as its face turns toward the sun. The shyer ones follow more slowly as unsure of themselves and afraid to unfurl their petals. Slowly, as more chances are taken, color and essence begin to emerge.
Blossoming is a thoughtful and time needing task.
Along a stretch of road in the eastern part of the county, this car has rested for a number of years on the remains of an old gas station. Scorching summers and wet winters deepens its patina as it silently sits. Vandals have broken windows and glass shards and spider work lace patterns are woven into its design. Deflated tires make it unable to run and wasps and wildlife have nested into its once proud seats. As rust grows and colors morph, its texture and presence grow more painterly. Each season and trespass add marks to the composition. I don’t pass by often, but it’s evolution into a work of art is impossible to ignore. Maybe that’s why it remains waiting while trains and vehicles pass it by , a lesson in becoming and the beauty of change.