Painting with Water

Over the years, I've found myself giving the exact same working title to many of my images, because the name fits so naturally. The title that comes into my head before any other is this: Watercolor. In itself, it's a nondescript word to describe a photograph--more a medium than a subject. But when I'm editing or simply viewing these images, it's the most fitting title.

I've toyed with calling them things like "Watercolor #2" (or #2,000, or #6,439). But I don't need such a naming scheme to identify what is clearly a very strong theme to many of my images. I am, simply put, addicted to making photos of water in its various states: liquid, solid, gas (steam, mist, vapor). I once even had a special sub-section of a photo show devoted to this theme.

There is infinite variety in such a subject; no two images can ever be the same (well, at least not for the liquid and gas phases). Heraclitus said no one ever steps in the same river twice, and this is also true for the person who takes two or more pictures of that river. It's not just that water is an ever changing subject in itself, but in its liquid phase it's also an ever changing canvas of reflections.

If you're one of the 5 people reading this, you already know this about me and my images.

All this to say here are three recent photos (two of which I've deleted from recent blog posts in order to do some quality editing).

"Camo"

"Frenzy"

"Waking Up"

Phall Pholiage Foto Run

Fall is well and truly under way in our corner of Germany. After a good 10 days or so of cold rain, the weather cleared, and warmed up, in time for the weekend. Anne and I went out for a couple runs this morning. It's more than one, because Anne ran hers and I, nursing an aging knee back into shape, shuffled mine.

But that's okay, because I was there for the sights, smells, and sensations as much as for the run. After the first hundred meters running together, I made the first of many stops for pictures of the exploding colors. Anne continued on her way and I didn't see her again until I drove home a few hours later (she ran home).

After the first five miles, I stopped for a beer at a forest Gaststätte, to look through my photos, soak in the sun, and wave away the many bees warmly buzzing around the dishes of cakes and torts the clientele were enjoying on the terrace.

Then I beer-burped the last mile back to the car, collecting pretty leaves on the way.

Here are ten keepers from this perfect morning (click on a photo and use the left/right arrow keys to scroll):

I call this one "Adam and God"

Guess Who's Back

Right. So it's been about a year since the last post, and before that another year, and before that about four years. I've decided to cave in to the overwhelming popular demand and resurrect this little corner of Cyberia. I'm going to shift focus in A Little Light Writing away from exclusively language and photography, and make it more of a place I provide updates to the one or two people I know want them.

Why?

I quit Facebook over a year ago, for a number of reasons -- not least of which was the sour feeling FaceBookLife had begun generating.

I'm also currently on an Instagram cleanse. I had started an account to showcase my photography (go see it! @yash.holbrook). Which was fine, but two things happened: 1) I began taking more photos with my phone than with my real camera, and 2) I wasted a lot of time scrolling through my feed and those of others. I'll eventually go back once I've broken the habit, but for now I'm just trying to be bored -- i.e., not tickle my eyes with little squares, and not thinking of things I see in terms of whether it would look good as a little square.

But I'm still taking pictures I would ordinarily share on FB or IG, outlets I've now cut off. So I will start using this blog as that outlet. So let's start with my morning's ride to work through my Stuttgart forests. In particular, a misty sunny October morning at Bärensee.

(A favorite picture spot)

I'll take this opportunity to highlight these are not iPhone pictures.

Fro-Mo

Air bubbles trapped in an icy stream literally freeze motion