am I too old to
see the fairies dance – cannot
find them any more …

Now,
In June,
When the night is a vast softness
Filled with blue stars,
And broken shafts of moon-glimmer
Fall upon the earth,
Am I too old to see the fairies dance?
I cannot find them any more.

After Many Springs in the book The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes  (Alfred A. Knopf, 1926).

Went to the beach yesterday and with the tide being high had to walk a bit up the beach to find a place away from the crowds.

The sun was clear and hot and bright and the beach sand burned our toes so we dropped our chairs and ran into the water.

The water was wavy and splashy and cool and we spent most of the afternoon in the surf.

It was nice to be away from the crowd.

We could see them a ways away, lining the beach with their umbrellas and shibumi beach shades flying in the the breeze.

We could see them but with wind and waves, we couldn’t hear them a ways away down the beach.

We stayed in the waves, played in the water.

Time to leave, we packed up and carried our gear back to through the beach crowd and threaded our way to the wooden walkway down to the showers to spray off the sand and salt.

While waiting, we exchanged pleasantries with the crowd and admired the babies.

We asked one Mom, surrounded by sun burned kids, if they had a good beach day?

Mom said “You bet!”

She turned and look at her kids and looked back and said, “Though it was kind of scary when they cleared the water and closed the beach those three times the lifeguard spotted sharks.”

…

in any language
word enough for pleasure that
fills you as sun warms

Adapted from The Sun by Mary Oliver …

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone–
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance–
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love–
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed–
or have you too
turned from this world–

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

where clouds are going
discover dreams never knew
sky above is blue

Adapted from the song, Flora by Enya.

Lovers in the long grass
Look above them
Only they can see
Where the clouds are going

Only to discover
Dust and sunlight
Ever make the sky so blue
Afternoon is hazy
River flowing

All around the sounds
Moving closer to them
Telling them the story
Told by Flora

Dreams they never knew
Silver willows
Tears from Persia
Those who come

From a far-off island
Winter Chanterelle lies
Under cover
Glory of the sun in blue

Some they know as passion
Some as freedom
Some they know as love
And the way it leaves them

Summer snowflake
For a season
When the sky above is blue
When the sky above is blue

Lying in the long grass
Close beside her
Giving her the name
Of the one the moon loves

This will be the day she
Will remember
When she knew his heart was
Loving in the long grass

Close beside her
Whispering of love
And the way it leaves them
Lying in the long grass

In the sunlight
They believe it’s true love
And from all around them
Flora’s secret

Telling them of love
And the way it breathes, and
Looking up from eyes of
Amarantine

They can see the sky is blue
Knowing that their love is true
Dreams they never knew
And the sky above is blue

that imaginative
quality is expected from
any form of art

For me, a photograph begins as the visualization of the image which represents the excitement and the perception of that moment and situation.

The print represents excitement, perception, and expression (performance).

Meaning is found in the final print and only in terms of the print itself.

For me, this meaning may vary a little over time and circumstance.

For the viewer, the meaning of the print is his meaning.

If I try to impose mine by intruding descriptive titles, I insult the viewer, the print, and myself.

From The Autobiography of Ansel Adams by Ansel Adams, Little, Brown and Company, New York, 1985.

As I understand it, from the writings of Ansel Adams, Mr. Adams could visualize the print he could make from a photograph of something in front of him.

The process was to capture the scene on a negative and then create the image in his mind through the print.

And once Mr. Adams got into the darkroom, he began to paint with light or so says one of his assistants.

He said something along the line of that the negative was the score and the print was the music.

While I miss my darkroom days, I am not sure I miss it so much CT with what can be done today … and I would enjoy seeing what Mr. Adams could do with his images.

It is still the person who begins the visualization of an image in much the same way you might say it is the cook, not the kitchen.

When Artificial Intelligence can begin as the visualization of the image which represents the excitement and the perception of that moment and situation, call me