Something Special in April

No complaining today about clouds hiding the eclipse.  After several years of struggle, our Lenten Roses have produced a vigorous display.  The proper name is Heliborus orientalis.  We have fenced it each winter to thwart the hungry deer, and I'd say it was worth the effort.  

The first plant is pink tending to a sort of a mauve shade. Looking closely one sees the petals have speckles of darker values.  The right bloom is finished and should soon show a seed pod. 

The second plant is tending towards a warm yellow with some clearly greenish shades.  It, too, has the speckles. 

There is a steady stream of small bees and perhaps even small wasps.  After all, there aren't a lot of competitors on April 9 and 10.  

I'm seeing a lot of other plants emerging, so expect some images of spring in the gardens and the woodlands.

 Paul Schmitt

March is a Cruel Month

It's March 18.  After 70° F days, it's backwards again.   It's around freezing and spitting graupel; that's what is formed by super-cooled water droplets that freeze on falling snowflakes.  (Wouldn't you be pleased not to know what that is?) How cruel to be teased with a few warm days.

Yesterday, I was out with my camera searching for encouragement and found just two reasons to hope. The first was my old friend Skunk Cabbage.  It can emerge through snow thanks to a catalytic process.  No snow in this March, but it's still good to find.  I recalled this discovery on April 18, 2021 and decided to return.

The location is lovely.  A slender path of water flows down a mossy bank towards Cayuta Lake near me. There was one missing element.  In most examples, the soft yellow flower is located deep inside the green and mauve hood that is possibly protecting the pollen from being washed away before insects can visit the stinky flower.  This year, maybe I'll find one with the flower's visible the hood?  I'd just about surrendered when this was revealed!

The appetite for spring wildflowers in March can create excitements at the slightest prize.  Didn't mind getting my knees muddy for this.

Another possible wildflower is Sharp-Lobed Hepatica.  It's order of emergence seems a bit odd.  The plant blooms before the year's leaves emerge.  Again in 2021, I found this example with 2020's leaves surviving.

Yesterday, I again found an old friend in bloom but the 2023 leaves were gone.

Disclosure: At the time,  I was traveling light and used my iPhone 13 Pro with the ProCamera app.  Pretty good for such small tool when an advanced application is installed.

Still, I reiterate my premise. March is a cruel month.  I am  going out later wearing a down jacket, warm gloves and stocking cap.  Please excuse my whining.

Paul

Learning from a Winter without Snow

When the Art of Winter program by creative photographer Chris Murray was announced, there were justifiably visions of snowy forests with stark birch tree stands and graceful glacial drumlins across the land.  The hope was to find scenes like my March 2021 image at right of Cayuta Outlet near my home.  Sadly the Thousand Islands this year in February had scant snow cover.

The three days were going to be challenging,  yet that might actually turn out to be a better learning opportunity.  There arrives a call to more deeply observe and really understand what draws your interest. What follows are a selection of images that offer enjoyment and hopefully also ideas for coping with rainy days, dull light and otherwise disappointing situations.  Hasn't that happened to everyone?

On one morning we went to Dewolf Point State Park on Wellesley Island.  It is on a bay with only a very narrow connection to the main river.  Unlike most river areas, the bay is largely immune to river currents, so there was plenty of good ice. Arriving shortly before sunrise, two fishermen were soon loading their sheds.  We'd walked out to a line of summer cabins facing the expected sunrise.  The view did not impress me.  As I walked back to another view with a stately red cedar, the sound of the anglers' sheds crunching on the ice suggested they were on a path towards the point of the sun's appearance.   Backtrack quickly!  The sun can't be delayed.  See this!

 

There were two images to select.  When they were standing, the man's head on the right touched the dark treeline.  Creatively, it's called a conjoined element and is to be avoided.  Later, there were more fishermen on the ice but the missing starburst lowers the result to ho-hum. 

Once my gear was packed and I climbed the path from the view, there was warm sunlight bathing one of the summer cabins along the path.  Not wanting the open my pack again, the iPhone was pulled out.  This is an excellent time to ask the simple question, "what drew you to take an image?"  I hope you say something about the warm light on the line of icicles across the roof line of snow and also in the brilliant window reflections.

That was the answer for me. I am guessing this cabin is already reserved for most weeks in the summer.  Another thought is that a quick photo sure beats just ignoring the opportunity.  

Winter is also a rich source of beautiful monochrome images.  The next setting drew my interest as I saw this large snow capped rock with a fringe of icicles dipping towards the St. Lawrence River's waves. Many photos were run in continuous batch to get the best shape on the water. 

In other years, the river would be all ice and the wave shapes and fringes on the rock missing.  It's really a very simple photo.

The ice along the river builds forms often dependent on wind direction and the rock formats.   Here's another situation where the ice laid up a scalloped pattern.  

The real challenge for the above was getting into the narrow trough of rocks where the forms were free of distractions (and then climbing back up after my one leg fell asleep!)

The next image presents a contrast between a geological form and a seasonal form.  Hard rock and hard ice drew my interest.

 

I saw a sort of yin-yang pairing that was better in black & white. 

Later that morning at Dewolf Point, our leader took us to a long spine of hard rock that paralleled the northeast lay of the bay.   I conjecture that the spline resisted the glacial assault that excavated the bay.  Here's a wide view of the wall of rock exposed.

The panoramic image distorts the shape of the wall.  It's nearly horizontal on the top.  The height is close to 20 feet. One could spend a long day exploring the many patterns in the the stone.   The section below fascinated me.

So, I looked more closely and explored what I interpreted as a tree in a violent turmoil, perhaps a firestorm.  The large tree is in the far left and flames swirl away in a maelstrom.

That morning was surprisingly rich with ideas.  The afternoon was a bit challenging until the sun collided with a distant shore of the St. Lawrence River. Not any clouds, but a nice starburst framed by a nearby point.

 

The final morning sunrise was a bit richer when some wispy clouds appeared to capture the warm hues.

 

 

In terms of whiz-bang images, it was not easy.   But, measuring the lessons gained absent any "easy", it was extremely valuable.  I am not at all hesitant to share these images.  In every one, there is a clear reason why the subject was chosen and how it was arranged in the overall location. You cannot see what was excluded carefully to avoid any viewer confusion.  Success is knowing what to take and what to leave behind.  That's a line from a John Denver song "Friends with You."

Learning usually comes from challenges. 

Hope you enjoy the message.

Paul Schmitt

Trees in Winter

Picture that you are in the National Gallery of Art , sitting with me on a large, comfy leather couch enjoying walls of lovely impressionist paintings.  A small group of visitors come in to the gallery and with machine-like efficiency make cell phone images of every painting on the walls, and then move on to the next gallery.  Look closely and you'll see a guard sigh.  The visitors have documented but never really seen any of the paintings.  Such a waste of Monet.  So many look, so few really see.  That's always been the primary use of photography.  My story today is about how I could move past documenting. Maybe it will inspire you.

It's been a goal of mine through 2023 to move towards really seeing.  With the leaves off trees in late fall, my images have studied trees.  Here's a tree in my friend Leo's beautiful woodlot.

Actually it  is two trees.  The one on the right began it's life growing on a fallen dead tree. After years, the dead tree disappeared leaving three legs arching to the ground.  On left, a younger tree grew up between two legs.  Maybe it's a three-legged tree with a "friend". Anyway, it is interesting and worth really moving from looking to seeing.  I did that by sketching it and adding watercolors.  I devoted about 2-1/2 hours going from a tree to a combination of particular parts that add  up these two trees. Once complete, this was not just a tree, but now it is an individual. 

There's a difference.  This experience is at the heart of what can move photography from look to see.  My time in the recent months has been a balance of sketching and photographing with the aim to shift images to seeing.  (No more sketches now, just photos representing deeper seeing.  I find it easier to draw when no one gets to see my mistakes.   Also, working in ink taught me to ignore errors and just keep moving forward.)

Here is a scene from along Rock Creek in Washington, DC.

The beech trees are tenacious.  They take hold on top of the rocks and send roots around all stony barriers.  Removing all color often removes distractions to really seeing.  (Consider this a portrait and maybe it will influence family snapshots you make?)

Still along Rock Creek on an explore one morning, there is this fallen tree washed into the creek.  The reflection of the tree in the foreground caught my attention.  Typically, my eye begins exploring at the strongest contrast, which in this case it was the tip of the dead tree at the reflection.

What follows is a simple image that I first sketched with much attention to the textures of the huge oak tree in the fore. 

The tree textures in the middle ground also were sketched in detail.  This is also in Rock Creek Park.

There are also times where color deserves attention.  On a post-Christmas wander in Leo's woods, I spotted a sulfur colored fungus on a decaying beech stump.  It's a good example of moving from look to see.  First, I needed the distance to be de-focused.   Next, the subtle greens and rusty leaves seemed so much of the story that monochrome was out of the question.

I made over 40 images of this before I was happy with the background.  The stump needed to be separated from the hemlock to the left and beyond that, the rest needed to be blurry.  That's the way I will sketch this for a watercolor.  

The above was of such deep involvement that I lost all sense of time. That's a real benefit of learning to really look deeply. It's a type of Zen (seeing) that I first discovered in the National Gallery.  I am doing more sketching now than photographing,  yet when the camera is involved the influence of drawing with pen on paper is strong.

As I write this, the long range weather forecast uses the word snow.  I'm excited to have the simplicity of snowy ground, but it is unlikely I will find it possible to hold a pen and draw with cold fingers.  My seeing will only move to drawing once inside.  

My hope is that there is a mix of entertaining images plus useful ideas.

Best wishes for 2024.

Paul Schmitt