Out to Pasture

I shot this before the storm broke. It was the day the front moved through and I hoped to have good clouds to play with. Driving up Rabbit Hill Road the view is all sky and then the top of the great silo pops over the horizon, and the sky did, in fact, offer possibilities. I thought those clouds would look best behind the Rabbit Hill barns and the rows of newly planted corn in the adjacent field. However, on my way to the back where the corn seedlings had popped up a few days earlier, I passed a lone cow. It was, apparently unteathered, but it wasn't going anywhere. It didn't even nod as I passed.

My eye was on a storm cloud to the north, and I gave little thought to the old cow. Minutes later and some hundred or so yards further back in the field I heard rain, like a snare drum, beating on the tin roof of the cow barn to my south. It took a few moments to register that I was about to get very wet. I had just time to pack my camera away in my backpack and pull up the pack's concealed rain hood before the downpour enveloped me. On my hasty retreat to the shelter of the nearest barn I passed the same cow, still not moving nor registering my passage or the downpour. Like this old barn that I had shot ten minutes earlier, I guess she had little choice but to silently take whatever occurred.

I've photographed this barn before, but here the compression of my long lens makes it seem isolated in a wilderness about to devour it. The same long lens creates a kind of cardboard cutout effect in front of the distant hills, and I've been looking at this for a few days to decide how I feel about it. I've toned the background to minimize this effect, but I'm curious how others feel.

Wine

I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion every where.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

Wallace Stevens

Here is yet another shot from the ridge above Hill Farm. For the past three years I've been looking toward this ridge through my long lens from one range of hills farther west (behind me), wondering what it would be like to stand here. Yes, I'm trying to take life one hill at a time. I've now explored many of Hill Farm's byways and walked the full circuit half a dozen times.

It's worth the tick threat to finally cross the ridge and descend into the hidden valley and abundant grasslands ahead. The loop I follow descends beside the trees on the right to more grasslands deep in the valley, then across and back along the river to the lower farmstead shown in an earlier image. Finally, I climb the main farm road to the upper farmstead (previous image) and follow the town road back to my car, just on the other side of the ridge. This trip with 35 pounds of camera gear is good for my calves, gentle on my knees, and it revitalizes both heart and soul.

Is it strictly antiquarian to wish that there were cows in those fields? Undoubtedly, and the future for Hill Farm is exciting. The posts set on the other side of the wall are waiting for the planting of hundreds of grape vines later this summer. On two other hillsides vinyards are already leafing, and in a few years wine will be flowing, and I'm looking forward to shooting as the valleys turn from from milk to wine.

Finally, you may have noticed the cairn. Was there a battle fought here? Did George Washington stop here on his way through town? Does anyone even remember why it was built just here?

The Old Farm Road #2

This shot was taken a few hundred yards down the old farm road from the yesterday's TODAY'S. A bit of the clover can still be seen sprouting from the ridge between the ruts of the road. The farmstead to the right is the main farmstead described in that previous posting. Still no sign of bees.

Throughout New England farmland is vanishing. As fields are no longer cultivated or minimally cultivated to preserve tax benefits the beauty of the landscape changes. When the farms are finally sold, the fields sprout rows of houses instead of corn or beans, and something of our connection to the land vanishes with the farmland. Then we no longer think of the problem of the bees. It may also be that something more essential is lost when we can no longer stand in places such as this and look out across the ranges of hills.

For the past year as I've hiked and shot images I've been striving to capture the rock and roll of the hills as they tumble around me. For me, to feel the tilt of the land in this way is to feel connected to something timeless and vast. Fortunately, where I live there are still numerous places where I can feel that rush. As I drive elsewhere I'm increasingly aware of how fast such places have vanished from most of Connecticut. When I moved here in 1974 interstate 84 was still lined in places with fields of tobacco and rows of long tobacco barns. Today those fields and barns have been demolished; none remain. In their place stand strip malls, warehouses, and shopping plazas.

Fortunately, all the land in this picture and the previous two have been preserved for future generations. Elsewhere, I try to capture pictures before it is too late.

The Old Farm Road & the Problem of the Bees

I've been driving past Hill Farm since I moved to the area, and I began shooting images of it from the public road as early as the winter of 2005. It was a magical vista to me always - a destination along a tour when friends visited, and one of the ultimate subjects for "a pretty picture." Meeting the owners and getting permission to explore the property made me aware how little of the magic I'd seen. As to this picture, I'm still hoping for a truly clear sky before the clover starts to turn.

Hill Farmstead (not the one in the picture) sits on a shoulder of land just below the main ridge. The dirt road climbs steeply before it turns right and passes through the middle of the main farmstead. After it leaves the farmstead it turns left and climbs higher, then turns to the right and passes over the ridge. Viewing this image, that farmstead is about 45 degrees off camera, to the left. The spot where the dirt road crosses the ridge is about a third of a mile to my left and near the farmstead. The farmstead commands the long valley before it, farmlands and hills for as far as the eye can see. It has stood here since before the revolution, and it has looked the same much of that time. At the height of Connecticut farming it must have been quite an operation.

The farmstead in front of us, part of the Hill Farm operation, is on the banks of the river which flows through woodlands beyond the fields. Among this farmstead's features is a mail-order barn (the big one in the picture) and two pens with stone walls 9 feet high and 3 feet thick. That's where they penned the bulls. The upper barns are horse barns now and probably were then. These lower barns must have been cow barns. It makes sense. The owners of a fine farm like this wanted their transportation nearby, but they might not be so keen on having the tons of manure produced weekly so close to their noses.

Once this field and all the fields in view were cultivated, probably for feed. It's clear that this one is mowed, but my guess is that it has been all clover for awhile. The aroma as I shoot images is a heady concoction that ought to be bottled. One can't help in places such as this to feel the great life force which, left on its own, powers forth this frenzy of blossoms. All around me here nature is exuberant. Of course, the blossoms are not there to tempt and intoxicate me, and that is the problem. It seems to me that this place should be buzzing as loudly as it is chirping and singing, but in the 3 or 4 days I've walked up here, in weather both chilly and sweaty, early and late, I've only counted three bees.

Perhaps the more deeply moving photo will be when the clover turns. I'll keep you posted.

The Meadowing

Those of us in the northeast who have lawns know that in spring and fall it can be impossible to keep up with mowing. Farmers who grow hay have a different perspective on this phenomenon. Not so long ago I described Straight Farmstead as sitting astride one of the gentle hills within Kent Hollow. Suddenly the fields above and below the farmstead have filled with tall grasses. Last summer I spent much of my time in the meadows of Macricostas, shooting into the sun at dawn and dusk when the strong golden beams make the meadow fibers dance. I find myself again drawn to those strong textures.

I debated a long time before posting this photo because of it's odd lighting. At this season of the year the southern face of the main barn at Straight Farm only gets midday sun. At sunset the sun glances past this corner pouring beautiful light on the end face of the barn, just beyond the left side of the image. When the meadow grasses are dancing this most expressive southern face has a deathly grimace and the contrast of ancient barn and buzzing meadow is most acute. Whether that is caught here, I'm still uncertain. Perhaps the contrast is too great as the grass seems almost a cutout pasted on the surfacve. Or maybe that is the idea - the two worlds of life and death which never meet.

In spite of appearances, this is one of the most stable barns I've shot. A new roof and reinforcing structure have preserved it just in time. I returned the window frames (found lying inside) to their sockets a few weeks back, my way of celebrating that this barn still serves farming. The hay that will be mowed in these fields will be roll-bailed and stored in this barn.

The Frog in the Swamp

They were there all along. Only I was facing the other way, wrestling with the barns of Hollow Farm while enjoying the unusually multivoiced choir of birds around me. Jannequin's polyphony had nothing on these guys, but the barns were stubborn, stuck there like cows with their heads down in the pasture. I had hoped that the carpet of pink blossoms would somehow help me make the picture I wanted. I had been moving around, looking for angles on the setting sun and the fiber of the blossoms. The barns textures glowed as the sun got lower; the paintpot was ready, but the whole would not compose itself. I had probably shot 200 images of the barns when I first turned around. Beyond the curtain of trees the sun skated across the marsh grasses, a last thrill of golden, warm sunlight, and the birds were exalting, and I heard frogs there too. I snapped just 4 images and knew I had something I would like. Then I turned and snapped another 200 of the barns.

When I went back the next day for another sunset shoot the field had been mowed. It was just a large lawn between the barns and the old stone wall.

Unarbitrariness

The arbitrary is the enemy of the artistic. If you find that proclamation a bit overbearing, I'm in sympathy. I usually try to avoid such terms as "artistic," and "artist," and I'd much prefer principals to laws and rules. Defining art usually raises more problems than it solves as does this concept of arbitrary, but I address it now as I try to understand why I have published so few photos from The Hollow Farm and what that has to do with my own intuitions about photography.

As already mentioned, this farm is unusual in its orderliness. The land is flat, the barns sit along a straight stretch of road, and all lie at right angles to each other and to the road. All this means that each time I reposition myself and shoot, the elements of my images adjust themselves in ways that are not wholly distinct from the previous shot. As I review these numerous images, and watch the compositions slowly morph from shot to shot, it is usually hard to single out any one shot. Then I begin wondering if the image would be improved if I had shot under different light or with a change in leaf color or when the grasses are turning to seed. I'd like to address that orderliness in a way that seems, if not definitive, at least complete in order to set off the ways one can make it dance, but no single or set of images has emerged to do that.

If one seeks merely to publish pretty images, such concerns are largely irrelevant. One goes looking for pretty sights and then uses a camera or paint brush to document them. They exist at one level removed and inferior to the real thing. For me photography is not be about finding pretty images to shoot or even about shooting pretty images prettily; it's not about documenting the external world. It is about taking the scene in front of me, whatever it may be, as raw material and composing elements of it into a new whole that expresses something beyond the original, a mood, an emotion, something universal or iconic or surprising. It may make us see something old in a new way ormake us fit something new into a familiar emotional resonance. In the end, the compositon should feel like the inevitable arrangement to satisfy the ends of the image.

Susan Sontag, in her book on photography, suggests that painting is ill equipped to express the surreal, that the medium of photography is much more capable of truly capturing the surreal because it is so firmly attached to capturing the light of the real world. I raise this point here because I think it is a perception that goes well beyond strict surrealism, that in fact the relation of real and super-real is a fundamental paradox that forms a cornerstone of photography as an art form.

While my intuitions tell me that a given image is or isn't arbitrary, explaining why can sound a bit like intellectual rationalization. It's easy to talk about elements of a composition and their meaning, but whether the image is merely an intellectual construct or expressive in a way that goes beneath surface reality resists the verbal explanation. The image included here struck me as a likely candidate to illustrate what I mean by not arbitrary. To explain its non-arbitrariness I might talk about its division into two equal rectangles top and bottom, about the way barn and moon balance and their symbolic reverberations, about the way the dividing line of the trees seems to echo the roof line of the barn, or I might even try to justify the odd point at which I have decided to cut the barn off at the knees, but my words can't capture the deeper harmonies of the work which I feel. That is not to say that the image is profound or that one ought to like it or even that I consider it among my best. For me, it merely means I feel this image has received its ultimate form here and fulfilled its super-real potantial.

The opposite of the arbitrary is the committed. A month from now, when the moon is again rising full at dusk, I may see a similar shot with a spot of cloud in it and say to myself, that adds the finishing touch; it is more committed to the initial vision than it was before. Or perhaps it is my lack of vision that is keeping me from seeing what all those other images taken at The Hollow might become.

I risk this wandering philosophizing in the hope of eliciting thoughts that further clarify my understanding. I invite comments which may help me think further about this issue of arbitrariness.

Weekend one of the photo exhibit was a success. I look forward to seeing those you you who have told me you plan to attend this coming weekend.

The Other Side

No matter how I plan for a series of related TODAY'S, that plan is diverted by the passion of the moment. My note awhile back on The Hollow was intended as the first of perhaps 4 or 5 images in a series on The Hollow Farm. Similarly, the post on the Bunnell Windows Book was intended to introduce numerous Bunnell Windows. It's not that I later think less of the images never posted; one of the Hollow Farm images has a key place in the Camera's Eye exhibition. Rather, I am diverted by some new passion. In the end, however, things usually come round. And so we return to Bunnells.

The image above was worked on after it was shot and then set aside; it never reached completion. I rediscovered it tonight as I reviewed a folder of such temporarily abandoned images, and maybe the variety produced by such circuitous posting habits is a virtue. I set the image aside for technical reasons. My normal habit is to compose in the camera, and it is very rare that I crop a shot after I shoot it. I have no aesthetic objection to doing so, though cropping yields lower resolution images. This one may never be able to print out at 13"X19", my usual size. However, when I did the initial editing, I found the focal interest of the image in what you see; I cropped the rest away as superfluous.

What you see above is the cropped version, my first thoughts on the image. Below are my second thoughts, my current thoughts. Or maybe they are alternative thoughts. Your thoughts on which version is preferable would be most helpful and interesting. There is no question that the effect is very different.

Peeking In

These are the same velvet surfaces posted under the title: "The Hollow," on May 1. However, it was the windows that first caught my attention. I've never seen windows like these on any other barn, and the contrast between their soft, if perhaps forced, cheeriness and the view through them intrigues me. What the shadowy diagonal form inside the barn may be, I have no idea.

Of course, if you've looked at "Peeking In," and "The Other Side," you realize they are not two versions of the same image. They are two distinct shots from the same series. However, they have been worked up differently as described.

Freuhlingslied

You see what has happened, don't you? I returned to Straight Farmstead this evening. A week ago a shot from this very place was a throw-away, and now everything is reaching for the sunlight. In spring, especially, all things turn toward the heavens and the life-enabling energy of the sun. And the songs of the birds had changed too. Some fellow on a branch near me was whistling a fine, bold melody to the setting sun.

Before getting to Straight, I stopped at Macricostas Meadow to shoot the swallows nesting there. A week or two ago they were flying around everywhere, so I was surprised at how quiet it was at a time when I expected them to be even busier. A peek into one of the bird boxes, and I knew I was being watched. At another, a swallow head popped out, but the meadow remained quiet except for 5 circling turkey vultures. Their wings caught the light nicely, and I thought about taking aim with my lens, but I knew they were just too far. Their presence made the meadow all the more desolate, and I swore I would wait only until 5:50 and then buy myself a new set of birds.

I've concluded that what I witnessed in the meadow earlier was the nesting, and the commotion was the busy work of gathering and delivering bedding in preparation for the laying. I know that last year in June the meadow was filled with brigades of swallow arriving and leaving, feeding the young. My guess is that now is the time of waiting and feeding and getting strong for the work ahead in which every bird will have to gather food to feed himself and herself and few others beside. The meadow needs to be watched for signs of the first hatching.

I left Macricostas Meadow disappointed and made several productive stops on my way generally toward Straight Farm,. I wish I had arrived at Straight earlier to see how the turkey's dance had changed, but the light was turning sour by a haze of vapor. This shot was almost the last of the evening. It's a keeper. I'm going home to play some Schubert.

New Brunswick Storm, May 2006

For the past week weather has made shooting difficult. In fact, in some ways this spell of gray has been well timed. Preparation for our exhibition which opens this weekend would have been in conflict with my urge to catch the last of the opening leaves, just as it has kept me from adding to, "Today's." On the other hand, this storm system lying off the coast has moved in and out; it has been one of those in which expanses of slate gray periodically give way to dramatic skyscapes, the kind of skies where one quickly looks for anything that will compose them into an image. Any photographer moved by such weather must be always on alert for sudden changes, ready to quickly hop in the car and find the spot where a picture may lie waiting. Preparation for the exhibit has kept my nose down and my printer running, and such weather events have all been missed.

On the other hand, final prep for the show has sent me back through older images to find any that will fit with the other work in the show. In doing so, I came across this image taken just one year ago while I was on my way to a week-long photo workshop in New Brunswick, Canada. It illustrates, as well as any image I've taken, what one can catch when the clouds suddenly turn lively, and in the past year my skill with Photoshop has improved so that I can get much more out of the initial image than I could have when I shot it.

The signed date on the image reflects that I have worked it up fresh to try and extract every bit of contour from clouds and hillsides. In truth, it is one of those images that are almost beyond the reach of a camera; if one is to catch the shapes in the bright clouds on the right, one loses detail in the dark clouds on the left and the foreground soil turns black. I had time to snap 9 images before the clouds shifted. Three were bracketed shots (different exposures) very similar to this one. This image was made from the darkest of those. As shot, dark areas showed no detail. However, it was perfectly exposed to catch the cloud formations on the right. The latent image in the underexposed areas was enough that there was no need to take parts of the other shots and make a composite image.

Now that it is finished, however, I've decided it will not appear in the exhibit. For me, the hardest part of putting together an exhibit is cutting out shots for which there is no room and which don't quite fit with my thematic intent. Much as I like this finished image, it will not fit. I've chosen to show very few broad landscapes in favor of the farmstead abstractions that have been catching my eye for some months now.

I'm glad I will see some of you at the show this weekend or next.

Rolling Straight at Sunrise #3

The little building with the funny chimney lies just below the barns and house of Straight Farmstead. I thought, "a pump house!" Of course the chimney's wrong, and why a window. Inside, a feeding trough instead of pipes and pumps. I've since been told it was for pigs, not that anyone I've met can remember pigs here, and only a small section of the barn's "L" is outfitted with animal stalls.

I've had a nasty time getting a print I like, and its probably not going to wow anyone. If the top or bottom of the image are clipped on your screen, the effect is totally lost, but for me this image more than any other I've taken at Straight Farm touches the essence of the place. I like the linty, minty, early morning, first-of-spring hills and how they cradle the pighouse. Most of all, I like the painterly light in pighouse and hills, and the simplicity of the geometries. Ah, spring!

Rolling Straight at Sunrise #2

The field below the barn gets a bit wet at the bottom, but I'm told it is a good haying field. That's the place to shoot the barns at sunrise, I think, but so far my trips there have been in mid afternoon, and the grass is beginning to get long and ticks are about. In the late afternoon the lower area belongs to the turkeys. I wish I could get close enough to photograph their dandy dance. Perhaps I need to get down there before they do and hide out in my turkey suit.

This photo is not what usually attracts me, but I was pleased at how it all came together.

Rolling Straight at Sunrise #1

In the last posting I described the rolling hills astride which Straight Farm spreads. As the moods of spring begin to cast spells across the hills, I find myself each day more in awe of the peacefulness and grandeur of this spot. Perhaps it's also the infinity of photo possibilities that exist here. The previous photo was shot at sunset, this one at sunrise; the farmstead is situated well for both my Lauds and Nocturns.

Of course, no photo can capture the song and acrobatics of the swallows that for the next month will live and raise their families in the barns. I've watched them swoop through narrow, dark passages at jet fighter speeds, sometimes within inches of my nose. It is no wonder that farmers used to cut holes in the sides of the barns to let them nest and lead their busy, insect-eating lives. Their song celebrates any farmstead they inhabit.

Sprung

Straight Farm is anything but straight. It is another of the farms in the Hollow. Unlike the farm I've called, "The Hollow Farm," Straight farm is perched astride rolling hills beneath the western slopes that define that side of the Hollow. From various angles the hills appear to swallow up the farmstead. These galloping hills run north-south so that from the barns one may look south down to rolling pasture lands and distant mountains or north up to more pasture lands and the neat rows of trees that frequently divide adjacent fields. To the east lie the flatter sections of the the Hollow and several other farms.

About half of my recent evening shoots have been at this delightfully still farmstead. The 3 "Composition with Diagonals" images were taken here. The barns look much more decayed than they actually are. The fields are hayed regularly and the barns store the hay for lambs and cows raised up the road.

Last night, the tiny leaf bundles that have given the hillsides their delicate texture sprang open and all was suddenly transformed. This is the event I've been waiting for and the reason for this picture.

The Evanescent & the Enduring

Old farms are marked by their silos. Even small farms often had several of these. In New England's cold winters they kept livestock happy until the grazing season returned. Often the silos remain standing long after the barns themselves have disappeared, and even when barns and silos are gone, the distinctive foundations of the silos tell the vanished history of the land.

The unusual red silo at Bunnell Farm (seen in some of the other photos I've posted) is set unusually far, perhaps 12 or 15 feet, from the main barns. I have no idea why this was done, but it necessitated an intriguing, narrow passageway with windows on both sides that enabled earlier generations of Bunnells to get the silage from silo to barn & cows without suffering winter winds. After composing a variety of shots through this passageway I went into the barns to take other shots. On emerging from the barns I was struck by the white, fluffy clouds at that moment reflecting from the windows of the idle passageway.

Incidentally, for those who have been wondering, Bunnell rhymes with Funnel.

The Bunnell Windows Book

If there is a book in me, and that is hardly to suggest there is anyone interest reading, looking at, or thumbing the pages of the book that is or isn't in me, this might be the cover. The title of the book might be, "The Bunnell Windows." The window images in the book need not be all Bunnell windows, nor were the Bunnell windows my first windows. It's just that at Bunnell Farm the riot of windows made me realize how varied & expressive windows can be - made me the window nut I am. This group catching morning sun crows like a rooster.

Then again, perhaps such books, like family farms and roosters are obsolete.

The Back Cover

I'm not certain this image is interesting enough in itself to merit posting, but I kind of like that it is the other side of the rooster crow image.

Is a rooster crow anything like a churkendoose?

Composition with Diagonals #3

How convenient that someone stored an old plow with great wooden wheels right inside the barn where its silhouette could catch my lens! Perhaps it should trouble me that many of the elements of this composition are the same as in the previous posting, but in my home, I'll happily hang them side-by-side. Unfortunately, when we open our next Camera's Eye exhibition in late May, I will have to choose just one from these last three. Choosing is so hard. Perhaps someone will offer guidance.

Composition with Diagonals #1

"Composition with Diagonals #2" or "Grampa's Teeth"

Several people have commented on the light in the May 1st photo. It was changing even as I snapped the picture, and I confess to being pleased by the results. However, I've spent much of this evening struggling with the importance of such prettiness as I try to decide between two very different interpretations of the same image.

Interpretation #1 has murky shadows and burnt out highlights, it's jagged and chalky. For me, it has a bit of anguish about it. Interpretation #2 moderates the extremes, details are revealed in the shadows and reclaimed from the burnout. Is interpretation #2 a bit more forgiving of age's frailty?

The Hollow

It is the most mannerly of farmsteads because it grew where the hollow flattens out in good, dry land. The barns are also in relatively good repair. The large barns were once cow barns, and I'm told it was for a time a horse farm. Because it lies at the bottom of the of The Hollow, I call it, "The Hollow Farm," but it is hollow in another sense too. Nothing happens here. The barn doors are shut, the barns are still except for the birds, vivacious inhabitants.

I haven't been inside the barns and can't say much about their age. I was invited to climb up into the loft of "the wood shed," a barn structure used currently as a garage. It appears to be quite old, and local history tells that the farmhouse was burned twice during The Revolution. This is prime farmland that has been lived on for a long time.

Processing an Image

The process required to bring a single image to completion is often lengthy. After a good day's shoot, often between 200 and 400 images, I look forward to reviewing the catch. That may take a full evening. Until I can see them on my computer monitor, I'm not sure what I have. Even then, my mind may not be made up, but if I'm lucky one or two images will jump out as keepers. Sometimes these need little more than tweaking, scrubbing the inevitable spots, the result of gunk that is always attracted to the ccd of my camera, a bit of sharpening, an adjustment of levels or a balancing of highlights and shadows. However, some images need time to settle in, for me to make up my mind, and often images take much work in Photoshop before they look the way I want.

This photo was taken at Kallstrom Farm during our one big blizzard this winter. At that time I was preoccupied with another image from the set. That shot has already appeared on the blog. I wasn't sure how I felt about this dark dance. When I finally went back and decided to finish it there was much to be done. Balancing tones to bring out the storm was tricky and of prime importance. The screen image was not quite the same as the printed image, and each printing gets a new letter designation. There was also a white rain gutter that glared in the gloom and had to be removed. By the time I had a print I liked, I was on version "c." Last week I gave a print to Brent Kallstrom, and he wisely wondered if the large stake in the center of the image might be removed. Rather than remove it, I have lowered it; I like the pattern of the wire fence that keeps us from entering the image, but I'd missed how distracting the stake supporting it was. It has been significantly lowered. Not counting the time spent shooting and identifying the image, there is at least 3 or 4 hours of process time in this, and the storm has long been history.

Images from new farms recently shot have been in process for several weeks. I will have to shoot more at each site and process some of those before I know which are ready for "Today's" and the blog. While I ponder those and wait for more good sky or sunshine or moody fog to make the landscape photogenic is a good time to finish up and publish images that have grown on me with time. This image is now ready.

Your comments posted here or sent via email are always welcome, whether words of encouragement or suggestions for improvement..

First Leafing

Thursday, Friday, and Saturday the New England Regional Genealogy Conference took place in Hartford. Jane and I were supposed to be there throughout, but after seeing little of interest on Saturday's, long program except the banquet speaker for which we had already (unfortunately) paid unrefundable cash, we skipped out.

No banquet speaker could compare with the evening I spent in Kent Hollow. A post storm sky proved not quite as good as I'd hoped, but here and there tentative leafings spattered accents in the contours of hills, and I pretended to be Monet. Does the impulse to shoot, "things" make us miss such images? Quiet fireworks! Shots like this were everywhere, and it feels very good to be home. Thanks, Frances, for taking care of the imaginary cat and the very real pigs, and especially thanks to Melissa, Jane and Jonathan for their help in delivering the computer workshops at NERG. Your support meant everything.

Dance Macabre

This image didn't come in the normal hunt for compositions. Instead of my searching for it, it grabbed me after I thought I was done for the day. I'd made my way through the muck at the bottom field of Rabbit Hill; I'd stopped at the cows and snapped a few token images of cow dinner. As I left the cows and turned to climb the last hill between the farm buildings, this shot was just there. I'd passed that spot many times, but I had never seen it quite as I saw it then. I took one shot and then considered a bit. Then I adjusted the camera to level the windows, shifted position to get them less hidden, and shot again. The second shot was properly balanced, more polite, a result of my conscious judgement, but it was the unruly first child that won my love. I've learned to heed such signals, though in this case, others may be wondering why.

Back at my computer, I needed to bring this strange photo to fruition. At first, I got the processing wrong, warmed the colors, lightened the shadows. Again, my conscious mind was trying to make the shot polite, do what one is supposed to do. At first I printed the wrong shot by accident, but even after printing it is this dark, homely child that has won my love. Perhaps it's a child only a parent could love.

The Three Sisters of Rabbit Hill

Yesterday evening I finally got access to the field directly below Tanner's Rabbit Hill Farm. Up until now it has been too wet and messy, and I have been peeking around bushes and between clumps of trees from one field over, looking for the best clear shots of the angles I want. It's still messy, and now the insects are just appearing, newly hatched mosquitos and the clouds of Mayflies that announce the less pleasant parts of spring. This field is below the farmstead; it is where all the runoff from the cows winter pen drains, but it is a new angle on old friends, and nothing could have kept me out on such a gorgeous evening..

Frances commented on yesterday's post, "For you it always seems to be the music of intersecting geometric forms. For me, it is always the unstated questions, the secrets: What might be going on in the fastness of those barns? Where is the access road to that courtyard in the center that will lead me to them? The focal point is on that inaccessible place, that intriguing space, and the people are stilled in time." What a terrific comment to set me thinking. In fact, an essential part of my attraction to New England farmsteads is the mystery of time and mortality. I'm not sure I've taken a photo that says it better than today's post. Sadly, the eldest sister is already stooped, twisted, and arthirtic. Still, the loft window still joins in song.

Can you find two of these barn's in yesterday's photo?

Rabbit Hill Redux

Like many children, I was fascinated by castles and fortresses and imagined, drew, and built with blocks my dreams of walls and towers surmounted by walls and towers. It is that piling on that keeps drawing me back to some of my favorite farmsteads. The Tanner Farm at the top of Rabbit Hill is one of the best. Sadly, many of these old farms are like agéd grandparents whose remaining days must be treasured. The double barn in the center of this farm could fall in any moderate wind storm. Mrs. Tanner told me yesterday that they had an estimate on the cost of repair a few years back: $750,000.

After our days of storm, wind and flat gray clouds, yesterday the sun returned full force and I was glad to find all of the barns still standing. I'd been waiting for just such a moment to get back. One of my favorite shots from the winter was marred by some blurring, a result of the strong breeze that kept my tripod in slight motion. Such problems become great when shooting at 500mm. I got the shot I wanted and many others as well. This shot, actually, a composite of two, was not planned. Artie will be glad to see people (I think).

Since last year Luke Tanner has passed management of the farm to his grandson who does all the chores together with his wife. Below, they feed the cows and reflect on the day's work. I've watched them do this every evening I've been there, and was glad to catch this shot which I will give them. Working dairy farms are disappearing. In spite of the condition of some of the barns and the difficulty of the site. Luke's grandchildren have chosen to stay and make their stand here.

Bunnell Geometries II

Look at the previous post. A few steps to the right produces this surprising variation. Initially, I considered this image as an alternative to yesterday's post. For a week or two both of these prints have been sitting out among my new photos. This week I added both in adjacent windows in the portfolio of copies I keep. I think they might easily be hung next to each other as a pair. However, I'd be interested in the thoughts of others.

Bunnell Geometries

Try as I might, it's tough to keep the picture pasted flat to the page; it keeps wanting to jump up and dance. I must have 40 variants of this shot. Every slight movement changes the tempo; move enough and its a new picture entirely. Also, the window reflects sky at certain times of day, and it is clear that the panes are set oddly. Here it is at its most abstract, just a series of radiating triangles in shades of red and gray? I'm hoping for a vigorous spring to inspire the vine in the background. Perhaps this is only a draft of a photo yet to be taken.

Can't seem to get away from shooting windows.

Scherzo Disjunct

On the walls of the Bunnell's parlor hung several large aerial photos of the farm. The earliest of these showed the intersection in front of the property, lined with elms. That aerial photo was taken about 1950.

Syncopation

Windows, walls, and roof planes, everywhere intersecting in rich counterpoint - that, for me, is the fun and maybe the essence of Bunnell Farmstead.

Bunnell Firewood

Yesterday's photo is more typical of the images I have been making at Bunnell Farm. However, as mentioned, I spent a portion of yesterday shooting Bud Bunnell and his neighbor turning a dead tree into firewood. Bud is the one on the tractor. He is 84 and the 5th generation of Bunnells to work the farm. It is 110 acres which Bud's GGGrandfather bought in 1860. Bud and his wife raised 10 children here. and they are happy to be retired. Evidently. the job description for retirment for Bud includes cutting trees into firewood. His son and grandson still work on the farm, though there are now horses instead of cows. While, so far, atypical of the pictures I've made, it is a great introduction to the overall richness and variety of forms throughout the farmstead.

Today Jane and i brought Bud a large framed print of another image from the tree sawing series and two other large prints. While we were there I learned all about the history of the barns and a bit about how they have changed. Bud said there were once 18 farms in the immediate vicinity of his. The good news is, Bunnell Farm is now protected acreage that will never be developed. The roof line of the large barn in the picture is the bad news. When barns develop such kinks, they are very difficult and expensive to preserve. As i mentioned yesterday, Bud's son Rick is hoping to take the barn down and rebuild it. In any case, Bud is happy to let me share his picture with you.

Bunnell Farm

No, it's not Cape Cod. I need a bit of distance before making hard decision with those. However, back in CT, I have found another farmer to welcome my camera. The boy I met at first was the seventh generation to work the farm. I have since met his father and grandfather. Today I shot pictures of his grandfather running the tractor and sawing trees. The geometries and rhythms of these barns are very complex. Best of all, lots of windows.

Carnicke Farm II

At the photo club I attend occasionally they would complain, "What's the subject." I'm not sure that's a relevant question. We're off to the Cape tomorrow. this was a difficult photo to take as I was trying to control the white horizontals and verticals. Move slightly left right, forward or backward and the composition changed drastically. I'm not sure it's entirely successful, but I've decided to live wiht it a bit and see how I feel in a month. Comments appreciated.

Carnicke Farm I - Reverie

Old snow is worse than no snow. Today the clouds moved out and the sky was deep blue, but everywhere I turned the melted remains of snow made shooting difficult. Even where the snow was white and not melted, the high contrast made photography difficult. I went trespassing on the Carnicke Farm. Jeannie can you tell me where this was shot? It's not heavily processed.

Carnicke Farm is for sale, and I was glad to see they had put a new coat of paint on the house. That suggests they may not tear it down. The project I've been working on for NERG has reached a milestone, so I had no guilt about being out all day. In spite of the snow I shot over 300 images and got home at 6:30, just before Jane got back from grandchild sitting.

Summer

This photo keeps returning to my attention. It was the result of some photo processing I was experimenting with a year ago or more. As my daughter and I have been passing thoughts on highly processed images, I thought it might make an interesting Today's, especially since it seems we are about to get a few more inches of snow. In any case, I liked this experiment enough to keep it around. Each time it pops in view I like it more.

Kallstrom Farm through Blizzard

Life knows few pleasures that surpass standing in a pasture in the middle of a blizzard. I'm particularly pleased that the driving snow and sleet cast its texture across this image. I'm eager to see how it reads on a print. Shortly after snapping this, all of the snow slid off the roof left of center exposing the new green tin roof. I'm glad I caught this first. What a glorious farmstead this is!

Swallow

Today's Today's is a print from last summer that I just reworked for a monthly photo contast I enter.

Kallstrom Geometries

Yesterday I discovered a new farmstead to photograph, and today I discovered that the owners were both former students of mine and that they manage several more farms in Kent Hollow. I spent 3 hours shooting there this morning and have an open invitation to shoot there and at the other farms they manage any time. Brent Kallstrom was my student in fiction writing during his only year in my school, but he told me he's been writing in a daily diary ever since.

Recomposing Rabbit Hill

Back at Rabbit Hill on Thursday and in a new spot, more distant from the barns, the geometries become more complex and the barnyard begins to unfold. So many photos taken yet so many ways yet to explore to compose the planes. Barely any icicles, though my toes did not unfreeze until after dinner.

Sadly, the wind was such that it was hard to steady my long lens. I will definitely want to try this shot again when the sunset is clear and wind is gone.

Thanks to all those who have reported continuing bounces in my eshtooter mail account.

Queens Quest #5

There is no accounting for the changes produced by time.

Queens Quest #4

Mt. Hebron Cemetery is part of a vast belt of cemeteries in Queens that were opened in the latter half of the 19th century when burials in Manhattan were banned. At the time, they were in, "the country." Since then they have been enveloped by the expanding city. In the case of Mt. Hebron, the remians of the 1964 New York City World's Fair makes an especially surprising juxtaposition.

Queens Quest #3

I'll ignore associations evoked by the image below. Photographically, concentration is everything; time pressures often cause loss of mental focus. Also, it's not always easy to fully evaluate a highly detailed image when viewing through the tiny view finder. When I shot this I was cold and had wandered far from my shooting companion. Had my concentration been all I would like, the sphere on the left would not have been clipped. In any case, for me, the pattern of those spheres is essential to the effect of this image. I look forward to trying again on a future visit.

Queens Quest #2

Yesterday, friend Richard Wanderman introduced me to Zion Cemetery in Queens, a remarkable place. We spent the day divided between Zion and Mt. Hebron Cemeteries and shots from Mt. Hebron will follow in the future. However, had I known how much I would like the juxtaposition of the shot below, I would have tried many more. The key to the success is the detail visible in the large structure which hugs Mt. Zion's edge. The slopes of the landscape offer many option, and I'm looking forward to opportunities to improve on first results. In the meantime, this was too surprising to hold back.

Queens Quest #1

Pass through this gate and enter a world apart, a quiet world in the midst of the noise and bustle of New York City. From almost any position in the great belt of cemeteries that stretches through the center of Queens and one will find surprises. Welcome to Zion Cemetery.

Angevine Farm

Angevine sits in an unusually broad, flat area. The buildings suggest it may have been a poultry farm once, but it is now known primarily for pumpkins and Christmas trees. It is not especially photogenic, but when I came down off of Rabbit Hill in the last snow storm it was spectacular. I didn't dare to leave footprints in order to remove the big stick, and as I thought about removing it digitally later, I decided it filled a space that would appear to empty. Comments appreciated.

A Winter Garden

I'm not certain I noticed the window when I took this. For me it makes the image work. Of course, it is the tree which gives it power. I was advised to crop the gray concrete block. Not a chance.

Moonrise 2

As I was shooting the moon (so to speak) the hole in the silo suddenly came serendipitously into view, a new, crisp graphic element. To me it's still a shot about that silo and an excuse to shoot at the dramatic angle.

Moonrise 1

CONFESSION: It took me until adulthood to learn that the night on which moonrise and sunset most closely coincide is also the date of the full moon. Yeah, makes sense when you think about it. I will always be a city boy, I fear.