How Far A Painting From A Photograph


On some nights, when the light is just right, when the sky has just switched from blue to black, when the clouds are rolling high across the firmament, the camera instills its shots with a painting-like quality or abstraction, softness and buffered light, a glow and a forgiving shadow, the subtle blending of colors out of focus and somehow renewed from it. It happens most magically at the fall of dusk, in that in-between moment that so gorgeously and simultaneously lights and dims the sky, the slow-closing curtain of night. The first chartreuse of the willow weeps then, the other-worldly orbs of street lamps light the way, and the mottled tapestry of the clouds in the night sky is shaded mauve from the remnants of the sun no longer to be seen.

We make our own light as the night deepens ~ with our cars, our restaurants, our homes. How much of our history – collectively and of a day – is spent in chasing the light? Too much, I think. We have forgotten to find our way in the dark, or, more accurately, not to find our way in the dark. Today the dark is no reason to stop or sleep, and it should be. We were not designed to go without pause.


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