“Well, now if I ever live to be an old man I’m gonna sail down to Martinique I’m gonna buy me a sweat-stained Bogart suit And an African parakeet” from “Migration” by Jimmy Buffett
I have sometimes thought how interesting it would be to travel by tramp steamer. Roaming from one random exotic port to another, exploring lesser traveled places, I romanticize it into a Bogart movie. Can you even do that sort of thing anymore? Even if so, I’m sure there would be many long spells of idleness, edited out of Bogey’s 90 minute script.
Still, the notion of running away (from what I don’t know) tantalizes.
I am thankful for all the spectacular sunrises I’ve seen, many and varied.
For 25-30 years Barbara and I have decamped from Savannah to Tybee for Thanksgiving weekend, for a little getaway that does not require airline travel, or a long drive. It is, none the less, a serious production. On the Wednesday before, we load up my Jeep with a couple of coolers and several bags of food, wine, and whisky for a big turkey dinner, and feasting the rest of the long weekend, shared with various family members over the years.
Thursday morning this year we woke early and noticed the first light in the sky portending an interesting sunrise. We dressed quickly and headed to the beach. As we walked the boardwalk crossing the dunes this scene came together. A quick two frames and it was gone.
Granted, sunsets can be pretty, but sunrises require more commitment. Anybody can be out at 6, 7, 8 PM to see a sunset. Getting up really early and going out in the dark is an act of faith. Sometimes it’s good; sometimes less so, but I heard two different pieces of advice at a couple of different photo workshops long ago, that work as a couplet I think. “If you just get up and get yourself out there, good things will happen for you,” and, “So what if the hoped for photo doesn’t happen. Isn’t it nice just to be there?”
This bird photo was shot with a 300 mm lens. I was standing on our hotel balcony looking into treetops and could not get as close as I would have liked, so I cropped the original shot to frame it in a stronger way. This is about 3/4 of the original image, and still with enough resolution (pixels) to make a print from 15 to as much as 30 inches wide. Since this reproduction was for screen use I reduced the resolution to about a quarter of what was available even after the crop.
(A brief tutorial, for anyone less versed in the lingo: Resolution is simply pixel count. A pixel, picture element, represents a single tone/color, the most basic information in a digital image. A digital photograph is essentially Impressionism. Resolution may be presented in one of three ways–1) total pixel count, like my camera being 40.2 megapixels, 2) width and height proportions, such as the 7728×5152 pixel dimensions of my sensor, or 3) pixel density, for instance the traditional ask for printing a digital photo was to have 360 pixels per inch {ppi} for best quality, by which criteria an 8×10 print would want 2880×3600 pixel dimensions, and my sensor would produce a 21.4″x14.3″ print. Screen viewing needs far less resolution; a 4K screen would need half of my sensor’s native resolution.)
A question that came up regularly at the beginning stages of digital camera development, when new features and capabilities were coming rapidly was, “Should I get the highest resolution camera?” The answer then, and now, was/is, “Maybe.” My answer to all photographic questions is, “It depends.”
It’s a lot more complicated question: what are you going to do with the photos (screen or print), more pixels mean smaller pixels which increases noise (graininess) in the image, higher resolution reveals poor camera handling more quickly, what’s your budget, etc. You have to balance those things based on your real life conditions and needs, but “resolution,” (horsepower) was the easiest marketing spec, which needed the least amount of explanation, so that’s what the ads and promotional materials highlighted.
If you are only going to look at photos on a screen, or make small prints (like most people) a camera in the 10-12 megapixel range is more than enough resolution. The nominal reason for having more pixels is to make really big prints. Yet, although I seldom make prints, and very seldom make large prints, I’m now using a 40 MP camera, for two other ways to utilize horsepower:
Better detail–a sensor with more pixels has the potential for recording more tonal and color variation in a given space; and,
Cropping–retaining enough resolution to still be usable for whatever output I need or want.
We were walking through a large food market–some brick and mortar buildings, some tented stalls–and someone was photographing this man in the doorway of his shop. As that photographer finished and turned away, I asked if I could also take his picture. He said no and turned to go, hesitated, and then said OK. A couple of quick frames, “Thank you,” and I walked on.
There is often something magical in the way a quick grab of a composition can turn out to be very formal, and clean. In this shot I like that he is “framed” by the doorway, and again by the glass door, opening to the spotlit wine bottles. And all the repeated rectangles. And his relaxed comfort because I did not give him time to think about posing. It all happens too fast to preview the three dimensional aspects and layers of the composition, and I sometimes wonder how much of my response comes from some subconscious “seeing” and how much from dumb luck.
The first photograph of a Marine Iguana I remember seeing was in a book published in 1971. “The Creation” by Ernst Haas, is a visual telling of the Genesis origin story. I wanted to see such a prehistoric-seeming creature. I finally did, this year. Fascinated by the book’s pictures, I absorbed much more about composition, visual story-telling, and seeing beyond the literal than I realized back then. Some things need a long maturation period.
Haas is a name anyone serious about photography should recognize. Several elite level photographers and their work have served as role models, heroes, and inspiration to me, although they would not generally be known to the world outside our industry. Haas was one of the most important.
He was one of the first photographers to work seriously, rather than dabble, in color, but with technical limitations which might be impossible for most smart phone and digital camera users today to appreciate. Haas’ film choice was Kodachrome, first with an ASA (ISO now) of 10, and then 25. With those slow emulsion speeds, anything moving in less than very bright light was going to be blurred. You just could not get a fast enough shutter speed to freeze the subject. So…”when God gives you lemons….”
He would photograph rapidly moving subjects at intentionally slow shutter speeds, creating stunning, story-telling images of blur and color (rodeos, bull fights, rushing animals) that expressed so much more than a traditional rendering. They have an energy and mystery most photographs never achieve. (https://ernst-haas.com/)
I was visiting some friends at their Vermont summer house in late July, and they very graciously included me in their busy social calendar. It’s an area with a lot of summer performing arts showcases, and my friends were active supporters. There was an up and coming young tenor they were helping host and I was invited along to a garden dinner party for him.
There has been something of a vagabond character to much of my life which has led to such a wonderful variety of experiences like this scene, and memories of brief, luminous moments, separate from anything before or after, eternal in their perfect stillness.
Almost all of these folks are my neighbors, and of the few who aren’t, most of them did live in the neighborhood at some point. The reason we are almost all in PJs and bathrobes is, like most stories in Savannah, based on a past event.
Barbara and I have lived on Saint Julian Street now for going on 35 years. That longevity makes us the longest term residents in Washington Ward, going back to when we had different, and fewer neighbors. One of those was a restaurateur named Frankie (male, knowing this will become important), who lived in the building right behind this group photo. Frankie would work late, but also had to manage restaurant needs early. Using a cordless phone (no cells back then) he would do business most mornings sitting on the bench that’s buried under this crowd, wearing nothing but his bathrobe. Frankie’s way of expansively crossing his legs often left no doubt of his “commando” style. That became a conversation which became the impetus for a party. This is Savannah and we will find any reason for a party to help fill the ten months when we are not doing St. Patrick’s Day.
So a small group of neighbors got together on one of those just perfect, languid southern Sunday mornings (think Tennessee Williams) and set up a lush potluck brunch in the square, seated around a table with white linen tablecloth and candelabra, lots of mimosas. The theme, though, required everyone to come in a bathrobe, a la Frankie. To the best of my knowledge, Barbara (of course) was the only attendee who actually followed the letter of the plan.
We did it a couple of times, and then, life moves on. Frankie died a few years later and the neighborhood makeup changed continuously over the 25-30 intervening years. A few years ago I mentioned the story of Frankie and the brunch to someone, and it became a party excuse all over again, now as an annual Bathrobe Brunch, another potluck gathering, but one too populous for seating, except for this photo.
The Galapagos islands are about 550 miles west of the mainland of Ecuador, hugging the southern side of the equator. The European discovery of the islands was in 1535, by a Spanish bishop on the way to Peru who drifted there when caught in The Doldrums. I’m not sure why the bishop gets credit for the “discovery” since there would have been officers and crew of the ship, and maybe other passengers, but I suspect it has something to do with who can write things down.
They were included on maps by the late 1500s.
The first known human “settlement” in the Galapagos was a marooned sailor in 1807. All the years in between, the uninhabited islands were a safe haven for pirates, and used as whaling stations, where the giant tortoises were almost wiped out, hunted for their fat and meat.
When I saw this photograph, before I made it, I thought about a 17th or 18th century sailor who might have been weeks seeing only sea and sky, merging into an endless horizon. And what kind of joy might he have felt seeing a shore bird floating high in the sky, and then a tiny dark pimple of land breaking the seam of that infinite line, standing in its own spotlight?
“There is a moment in every dawn when light floats, there is the possibility of magic. Creation holds its breath.” — Douglas Adams, The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
Every sunrise offers a promise for a new day, a fresh start. In the coarse roughness of the Galapagos land and seascapes, freighted with the weight of evolution, each sunrise feels like a genesis.
“…You can’t write a poem for a city that is poetry.” From “Paris for Resident Aliens,” a poem by Gaël Faye.
As Cyrano might say, “Follow your nose.” On our first day in the apartment in Paris, Barbara and I wanted some fresh croissants for the next morning’s breakfast, but places nearby were closed by the time we looked. I was up early the next morning and checked to see what boulangerie was close, expecting to wait until they opened at 8, as I had seen online earlier, but there was one, not too far, already open, starting at 5 AM. That’s a baker who takes his work seriously. GPS map (how did we ever travel without GPS?) showed me the route, through ancient narrow cobblestone streets. Walking in the chilly pre-dawn dark, few people on the streets, feeling completely safe, soon all I had to do was sniff the air. A couple of Euros got me two big fluffy croissants beurre. (Not the croissants naturel, made with margarine!) Whatever you think of Paula Deen, or the French, they are both right about butter.
Another Paris “must stop by” place for me is Shakespeare & Company. Years ago, traveling in France, no matter how many books I brought along, I would finish them with days left in the trip. This was a great place to restock with English language titles, and lots of choices. With an e-reader and an internet connection today I can access almost all the books in publication, but I had to buy something on principle (Shakespeare and Descartes). It’s important to support the people who were there for you. Besides, how often do you get to hang out in a place with scores of others who love books? People who will stand and wait to crowd into a rabbit warren of cubbyholes, stacked floor to ceiling with books, just to breathe it in? Imagine, a bookstore with a doorman and a rope line, to safely manage traffic.
Walking the streets of Paris is a special kind of pleasure/torture for a photographer, at least this photographer. A pleasure because at least half the women (Parisienne, French, or Other) sitting in cafes, and strolling the boulevards look like they are just on a short break from an Avedon shoot. A multicultural, multi-ethnic smorgasbord of beauty and style, haute and not, in uncountable permutations of hair, makeup, dress makes me wonder if it’s something in the air or water. Maybe the wine? It is an endlessly fascinating promenade, accomplished with great effect and seemingly little effort. A calculated casual.
