This digest revels in the in-between, the transitional, the presence of absence. My camera with its dials and knobs and sharp focus has taken me into the blur of things. It has taught me that because things can't be measured it doesn't mean that it isn't there. The spirit of things, the essence of our places is as real as my shutter button.
After we discovered the WWI graffiti we headed back down to the nave in a kind of torch driven half-light. When we reached the bottom of the stairs in the nave, John tapped me on the shoulder and told me a secret.
My photography helped me become a sculptor of light after being plunged into darkness by depression and my camera taught me how to see.
The church lies deep within the bucolic landscape of a glacial valley, rising from the flat valley floor like an erratic, shaped by history, circumstance, and time.
The genius of this place is revealed in how its inhabitants shaped the land to serve their needs, while letting the land shape them in return..
As I trace the route of the B6318, one of Britain’s most beautiful roads, I come upon the remains of the Roman Temple of Mithras at Brocolitia.
Despite our darkest selves, through the time-sieved collective, we can’t help but express the essence of what it means to be human.
As I stand but a few inches away from the recumbent knight, I can’t help but reflect on the vast distance of time that separates us.
In the midst of Richmond I found an invincible joy in the accumulation of the past within the honeycombed streets.
Woody’s getting on a bit, but I’ll carry on using this beloved van for as long as I can—to keep that flicker alive, to be a small candle in the dark.