Here is another still life from the marine intertidal. With regard to subject and composition, and without formal training, I have always relied on my own aesthetic sense; I like what I like, I hope others do as well.
Searching for a particular image can sometimes feel like looking for a vintage baseball card or rare coin. I had been looking for this one for quite some time and finally found it on Appledore Island last weekend.
A dear friend wrote … although we can’t eliminate stress, we can change the way in which we react to it. Doing something for yourself may seem indulgent, even selfish, but not doing is akin to making the choice to let stress run your life. You need to recommit to a hobby, anything that lets you unwind. If photography feels self-indulgent, do it in spite of the feeling and view it as a way of taking care of yourself.
So be it.
This is a special Star indeed. We visited, to breath the air and to be reminded. We walked granitic pavements, worn smooth by the elements and fractured by the same. Peering into pools, colorful, and alive; the surrounding cacophony of bird calls, wind, and ocean song reminded us that we were at sea. Distant enough to feel removed. We were restored.
Though the cross-quarter has passed, temperatures have been moderate. They do dip into the twenties at night however and frost forms when there is sufficient moisture in the air. No match for solar radiation, solid water gives way. Droplets form. These disappear as the air warms and humidity drops. Water is never far away though and returns, in solid form, come morning.
We stopped by the schoolhouse to attend to its mammoth, and beautifully fabricated, wood burner.
We could see our breath. We had dressed in layers and so lingered. The air warmed, slowly.
Upwelling currents made dust swirl and eddy. Particles turned somersaults to meander through shafts of illuminated volume.
To pass the time I studied, of all things, the floor. Four small holes, darkly stained and paired, showed where a desk had been moored. Eight more close by, and arranged in a circle, told of the placement of its partner. Twenty-four sets, revealed by tiny spaces.
Odors lingered in tucked away corners. Some synesthetic response tricked me into thinking I could hear young voices.
I am reminded of the importance of the past and of stewardship of its relics.
We walked passed a tired playhouse. It stood in shadow and the original image lacked depth, tone mapping helped. The result appears painterly and perhaps, to your taste, overdone. I like to think the storybook feel is fitting.