R: Forest on a Pedestal, by Trileigh Tucker
When you consider that in the last hour more pictures have been taken than in the entire first century of photography, you’ll understand the difficulty modern photographers face in reaching us.
There are, of course, picture takers, and there are photographers. There are those of us who click at things, and there are those who catch frame-fulls of beauty, hidden radiance even, and then there are those who carefully, lovingly, fill up the rectangle with much of what is unseen.
The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera. –Dorothea Lange
The Photographer’s Shooting Script: a sample
grieving falcon, as seen from a receding glacier
giant European windmill in love with a field of lavender
palm tress racing toward an ocean sunset
in the middle of a deciduous forest, a pagoda, with a bride
Marrakesh market with its sunrise ruptures of colour
Tokyo covered in evening ochre
attendees at a wake for the late river Thames
challenger to a Central Park doom sayer
girder on Eiffel Tower reveals rules of harmony
triptych of defiant tulips
tabloid reverting to pulp, then fir seedlings
standoff, choice of weapons, lipstick or party balloons
any scene, when shifting left, looks like Chernobyl
a degree right, and its children, skipping in a garden
cliffs weeping long after the storm has left
manifestos burning in a sink
committees coming under the influence of meaning
evidences of selflessness
an outbreak of mercy
a blessing, repeated, growing like fractals
the hidden part of the soul
a macro of the self you pray you’re becoming
a handprint, turning us ever toward our neighbours
