Night Gestures

[Patricia Sheley]

~At the low and rising.

[Eric Myrvaagnes]

The congregants gather to worship.

[petermfiore]

Children of the night. What music they make...

Peter

[Rob C]

Patricia, your moods (photographic) seem to be heading in the same dark direction as my own. I can't speak for your frame of mind (obviously enough, so that's why I point it out in case some think that I think that I can), but then I don't feel particularly depressed either, yet my pictures are ever more gloomy. I wonder why? Am I feigning lightness of mind, is it real, am I just imagining that life is going to continue as usual despite imminent catastrophic political developments that will forever change my survival chances within Europe? Is it because I see Scotland being torn apart on the alter of personal ambition for a place in the 'history books'? Perhaps those with both those futures in their hands shoud remember that Hitler and Attila are also registered in the selfsame books.

Rob

[Eric Myrvaagnes]

I, too, am a pretty upbeat guy, but I also find myself drawn more and more toward the moody, gloomy images that Rob and Patricia are showing.

I can't explain it either, but you both keep showing very powerful images.

[Rob C]

I, too, am a pretty upbeat guy, but I also find myself drawn more and more toward the moody, gloomy images that Rob and Patricia are showing.

I can't explain it either, but you both keep showing very powerful images.

A new genre: The Dark Poems! With, of course, apologies to Russ about the use of the word poetry... But hey, Goya had his more bleak moments too.

I guess it's got something to do with autumn and winter drawing nigh, in both senses of the seasons of man. Gone the youthful frolics, and hello summing up.

Rob

[RSL]

What's moody or gloomy about that picture? It's night for heaven's sake. That's called "dark," not "gloomy." I've always enjoyed night pictures. Used to walk the streets and shoot at night and shoot stuff like this. Is this "gloomy?"

It's a good shot, Patricia.

And Rob, no apologies needed. I've always thought photography is close to poetry in a lot of ways. Interestingly enough, Tod Papageorge agrees with me. See his Core Curriculum: Writings on Photography.

[Telecaster]

I'm not at all gloomed out by this photo either. It sets a mood but IMO it's a quiet, still one. Last night I went outside around midnight and spent a few minutes surveying the sky, including the Moon. Same mood. If it hadn't been so chilly I would've stayed out longer.

-Dave-

[Rob C]

I'm not at all gloomed out by this photo either. It sets a mood but IMO it's a quiet, still one. Last night I went outside around midnight and spent a few minutes surveying the sky, including the Moon. Same mood. If it hadn't been so chilly I would've stayed out longer.

-Dave-

Here, you'd have been soaked. And frozen, too.

Rob

[Patricia Sheley]

What music they make~ A soul could not have been more protected from their howl...(A little background on last night.) wrapped in the steady foghorn slipping through the night. It started with a plan...I always seem to have a kid-like plan of late. Have been watching this inlet for several months, and finding breathing stone at the lows. Headed out, high boots , prone tripod, extra batteries. Had confidence I could make it to the erratic pictured, set up, leave my gear box (an old ammo box) on the boulder to the right, and listening to the music wrap around me as I awaited something...not sure what, just soaking , absorbing, celebrating "I'm finally home". Out of nowhere came the night, the moon rising to openings in the curtained sky drawn over me above. No way, unprepared to see, only remember the approximate locations of form. Where from the moon, where from the last light, how far right, or left did they hold hands and bow. As usual, like a kid I was, no sense of time elapsed, just playing in a dream. Need another battery, and turn to see the gear box surrounded by the flow of sea.

Down from my erratic perch backwards, camera around my neck tied off short...there's wading to be done and not enough light to see the depth. (of course there is always the flashlight, back at the car on the floor...right where the kid left it when pulling on her boots). Well no harm. Back to shore, now feel my way through the wood...

After test steps at several verge, emerged into the opening to the sound of a man's (?) haunting song drawing near, then a blinking light as he pedaled by bicycling and singing his song to the moonlight. Hauntingly beautiful. As in dream. I love the night, I love life, and I love being a kid pedaling to the century mark and hoping for more when I arrive. Not sure what I may have ever done to deserve after all these years, finally being able to be a kid, singing in the night.

How stunning it was to see the comments after last nights joy. The rough BW marks the erratic on which I propped myself, and the other sketch, a memory of the moon. Reminders of places of which I hope to learn the secret language. Thanks all for your thoughts. When I finally arrived here, never more to be required to leave I began my childhood with the mantra, "Until further notice, celebrate everything. You are finally a kid after all!" 

[Patricia Sheley]

In "the plan" the island visible is behind me as I'm shooting toward the "congregants" on the shore of the island I call home.

Russ, did you ever notice that your "Reading lamp" appears within an image of a lantern?

[Rob C]

Patricia, your island looks natural and so underprivileged; mine is now a blessing of concrete and steel, with lots of varnish, plastic and thrillingly bright modern tat. The blessing brings in money, ruins the ambiance, runs down very lmited natural resources but nobody cares: the money rules. It would appear the island is running on 40% desalinated water. Think of the cost of that, both in euros, pollution and ever shortening of those resources essential to survival. The opportunity for fresh science to burgeon and bloom is wonderful.

There are, of course, vast stretches of mountain, where cars can imitate the local caterpìllars and form friendly processions behind large tourist buses that enforce a settled, contemplative mindset in drivers then freed to let eyes wander down into deep gullies or high upwards towards peaks and pines and lightning-struck oak. Should a Lamborghini suddenly feel an unnatural desire to stretch muscle it will find it impossible too, being far too wide for the track. Equality rules; the land screams stop but is no more heard than the dying kids in whichever part of the world their parents' wars rage. Man knows best. Do your congregants listen, too, have they learned?

[Eric Myrvaagnes]

Patricia,

Your beautiful story and photos remind me of a point that my Tai Chi teacher makes over and over: We are there trying to relearn what our bodies and minds knew how to do, almost automatically, as children.

To photograph this way, one must experience life first, and then the images might convey something of that experience to others.

Thank you!!!

[BobDavid]

~At the low and rising.

Interesting photo. ... The anthropomorphic boulders ala Stonehenge are neat.  A butt crack or two in the rocks imply the rocks are praying in the direction of the moon. ... Maybe think about compositing a more interesting moonlit sky into the scene as well as bringing up the highlights reflecting off of the rocks.

[degrub]

i like how the cloud forms mimic the rocks.

[Telecaster]

A butt crack or two in the rocks imply the rocks are praying in the direction of the moon.

Once seen, cannot be unseen. 

-Dave-

[seamus finn]

What music they make~ A soul could not have been more protected from their howl...(A little background on last night.) wrapped in the steady foghorn slipping through the night. It started with a plan...I always seem to have a kid-like plan of late. Have been watching this inlet for several months, and finding breathing stone at the lows. Headed out, high boots , prone tripod, extra batteries. Had confidence I could make it to the erratic pictured, set up, leave my gear box (an old ammo box) on the boulder to the right, and listening to the music wrap around me as I awaited something...not sure what, just soaking , absorbing, celebrating "I'm finally home". Out of nowhere came the night, the moon rising to openings in the curtained sky drawn over me above. No way, unprepared to see, only remember the approximate locations of form. Where from the moon, where from the last light, how far right, or left did they hold hands and bow. As usual, like a kid I was, no sense of time elapsed, just playing in a dream. Need another battery, and turn to see the gear box surrounded by the flow of sea.

Down from my erratic perch backwards, camera around my neck tied off short...there's wading to be done and not enough light to see the depth. (of course there is always the flashlight, back at the car on the floor...right where the kid left it when pulling on her boots). Well no harm. Back to shore, now feel my way through the wood...

After test steps at several verge, emerged into the opening to the sound of a man's (?) haunting song drawing near, then a blinking light as he peddled by bicycling and singing his song to the moonlight. Hauntingly beautiful. As in dream. I love the night, I love life, and I love being a kid peddling to the century mark and hoping for more when I arrive. Not sure what I may have ever done to deserve after all these years, finally being able to be a kid, singing in the night.

How stunning it was to see the comments after last nights joy. The rough BW marks the erratic on which I propped myself, and the other sketch, a memory of the moon. Reminders of places of which I hope to learn the secret language. Thanks all for your thoughts. When I finally arrived here, never more to be required to leave I began my childhood with the mantra, "Until further notice, celebrate everything. You are finally a kid after all!"

Not alone are you a great photographer, you are a poet. Patricia. You put us all to shame with the tremendous physical effort you invested in that outstanding shot - and then went on to write the back story in such glorious prose. Bravo, bravo!!