Warmth. Symmetry. Color.

I'd really like to thank all the people who read my blog. Or those who just look at the pictures! There's no shame in that. Both are mine and are equally important to me: text and image. I'd like to use this post to explain just exactly what I personally look for in a photograph, and the types of images I have a tendency to create because of my preferences. The picture above is not my favorite photograph that I have ever taken, but it embodies quite well almost all of the aspects about a photo I most enjoy. Don't get me wrong, I love many types of photography just as I love many types of writing styles. I like portraiture, botanical photography, still lifes, photojournalistic photography, and many other categories. Within even these branches of photography there are a myriad of different directions a photographer can take his image (whether film or digital). Out of my own work, though, some specific traits carry over from photograph to photograph, subtly binding all my work together and to me no matter the subject or even the category. In color, digital photography, the first thing I do before I even look at the minute details of the piece is warm it up. Sometimes the warming is heavy handed and other times its barely noticeable at all, but I, personally, cannot stand a cold photograph. This is not to say that such photographic preferences are wholly incorrect because cooling a photo often works well for the subject or what the photographer is trying to say. I, however, cannot bring myself to produce a cold image. You'll see throughout all my color, digital photography (including, obviously, the one featured here) a common trait of warmth.

Often, a scene will call for the use of "thirds" by the photographer to create a nice looking image. The "Rule of Thirds" is commonly used through almost all photography because of its natural appeal to the eye. It helps balance the photograph. Another way, however, to create this balance is the use of symmetry. I love symmetry. Symmetry is also often used within the bounds of the Rule of Thirds like it is used above. Symmetry, paired with the Thirds, is another one of my favorite aspects about some of my images. I do not always use symmetry as it is not often called for by a scene. But when its use is acceptable, I jump at the chance. This photograph is one of my favorite uses of symmetry and the Rule of Thirds together. As you can see, the bench is centered within the frame. But, also, all the important sections of color on the bench are located atop the "Thirds" points on the photograph.

Lastly, in a color, digital photograph, I aim for deep blacks and rich color. Simply amping up the contrast and supersaturating the colors achieves an entirely different (and, in my opinion, an entirely sub-par) appearance. I drop the blacks by themselves, if, course, they, need to be dropped. If that makes the photo too dark I will then adjust the brightness. Color, on the other hand, is a bit trickier. Color can be brought about to my preferences in a few different ways that I wouldn't be very good at explaining. My goal is to retain the identity of the original color and simply bring it out in full force. Saturating an entire image does not do this but warps hues and the overall feel of the image.

So to make a list, my favorite aspects about my images that I look for (and you will too, now) are: warmth, balance using symmetry with RoT's, rich color, and deep blacks. So now you know, during and after I press that little silver button, a few of things going through my head. Thank you to all the people who read this. And to all those who skim. And those who like the pictures. And even those who quickly exit after seeing the long paragraphs because you make my page counter go up too.

To Pen

Something happens, I think, when pen meets paper; something, of course, more than just the bleeding of ink onto a vacant white. It's as if the paper itself already knows what is to be or what should be scrawled across its blank face. When pen meets paper, a powerful flow of truth bursts like lightning from the emptiness, surges through the pen, the hand, the arm, the chest, and thunders in the heart. It then takes a true writer to harness that flow and write until the paper is laden with truth. A writer, whether of poetry, fictional novels, or biographies, writes about what it is to live. The reader will know truth when they see it, for it is found in all words except those written to intentionally deceive. Those words, those perverted twists of ink, are as apparent to a reader as a misused puzzle piece jammed into the center of the puzzle. It may hold the right shape and fit like all the others, but the image it shows does not correspond with its surroundings. The truth does not willingly dwell with falsehoods. A writer, then, a true writer, must allow the truth to be written unhindered; a writer must write like he is putting together a puzzle, fitting the pieces together as they must be fitted.

The pen is nothing without the paper; the paper is nothing without the writer; the writer is nothing without the pen. To my eye, writing is the most versatile of all the arts. A picture may be worth one thousand words, but with one thousands words a writer could paint a multitude of images in the mind. It is the writer's charge to suffer the onslaught of ideas, stories, passions, and words that beg to be written constantly. It is the writer's duty to do them justice when and while he can. Though it may not realize it, the world is hungry for truth, for something it can stand on. For my part, I will write, because I know I must. Stories must be told, words must be penned, and truth must take root in the minds of all who scan the bleeding ink. Something happens, something profound when pen meets paper; for out of the surge, out of the thundering parade of truth, a seed is planted. A seed is planted and nurtured in the vacant white, and out of the emptiness an inky proclamation of life bleeds its truth into the hearts of all who read what has been written.

Happy Valentine's Day

It wasn’t a warm day, but it wasn’t terribly cold either. She was wearing a light gray sweater and a yellowing white t-shirt. Her ragged jeans dangled white thread onto her scuffed and torn shoes. She was a bit dirty but she was pretty; she was a cute little girl. Her dark hair hung tangled and greasy to her shoulders, and she hid her deep brown eyes behind the mess. The cars flew past her, most unaware of her existence; they were far too busy to notice the insignificant girl. Her dark, tanned skin was radiant despite the thin layer of dirt and car exhaust from the day’s work. She stood on a busy off-ramp, alone but with an air of independence about her. In her right hand she tightly gripped a withering bouquet of red roses, and a bucket of many more bouquets hung in her left. Her innocent eyes pleaded with each driver willing to acknowledge her presence. All but a few ignored her requests. Her eyes clearly said, “Please buy a flower,” and one could almost hear her sweet, accented voice. She needed money to take home to her family.

A young boy fiddled with his iPod in the back seat of the family suburban. His sisters bickered in front of him about what song to listen to on the radio. He drowned out the cacophony with a loud song on the MP3 player to fit his mood. He munched on a few pretzels and angrily eyed his empty can of soda. The family flew down the freeway on a trip to visit the grandparents. He slouched in the seat and struggled against his seatbelt, trying to get comfortable. He mouthed the lyrics to his song and gazed out the window, eyes half shut in boredom. He pulled out his phone to see if anyone had texted or called. No one had. The boy tossed his phone on the seat beside him and unzipped his new black jacket. He had worked that day, out in the yard, but only got paid twenty dollars for all the hard work he did. He was showered and well dressed as he sat in the back seat with his music. The temperature in the car was a little too high for his taste but he didn't comment. They flew off the freeway and screeched to a halt at a red light. The boy lazily stared out the window and saw a little girl. She was holding roses, red roses.

She slowly bent and picked up a fallen rose petal from the ground. She gazed at it peacefully but tears silently jumped from her eyes. She was content but she suddenly felt very alone and isolated. She glanced to her right and then to her left. The small, dark girl finally crouched to the pavement and pressed the rose petal firmly against the asphalt. She pulled the petal toward her along the ground, leaving a dark trail of petal juice on the pavement. She formed a letter. Slowly she formed three more letters after the first and looked at her work. The word was distinct. A tear floated from her cheek and landed on the ground. She knelt and added a question mark to the word.

He set down his cell phone and put away his iPod. The boy stared at the little girl. She wasn’t much younger than him, but her face not only expressed youth but also a strange sense of wisdom and understanding, a weathered face despite the childhood. She knelt to the ground with a red thing in her hand, probably a petal. The boy heard his sisters complaining about the length of the red light but he paid no attention to them for he was focused on the girl. He stared at the word hard, trying to decipher what she had written. The word suddenly jumped from the pavement as he realized what was printed. The girl then bent down and carefully formed a question mark. Tears came to the boy's eyes.

She pushed back the tears and stood up. The little girl looked to the cars waiting at the light and searched for any gaze that would return hers. She saw a boy, with brown hair and piercing eyes wet from some unknown emotion. She looked at him carefully and held up the roses, pleading.

The girl looked straight at him and lifted the roses in his direction. Her beautifully deep, brown eyes pleaded with him. He wanted to buy the flowers. The light turned green as he reached for his wallet and the car lurched forward. A quiet cry of surprise and distress escaped his lips but he kept his eyes locked with hers, apologizing. His sisters looked back at him and asked what the problem was. He replied with a quiet “nothing.” He hung his head and closed his eyes, touched and confused by the strange encounter.

She watched him even as the car sped away. She was surprised by the short-lived encounter. It seemed that he was the first person to truly see her all day long. Her foot began to scuff at the liquid text on the ground before her. One more tear dropped on the remains of what had been written: Love?