A spectacular sunset on the solstice eve
Midsummer’s carnival: a shock of colour
Welcome to this week’s colourful letter from the moss.
Too much of this fledgling summer has been ‘this’ or ‘that’. The heat is on, or off (sometimes indoors too); the water tap is open or shut. And my images are full of colour, or black and white. Midsummer will soon arrive in the North; for those in the southern hemisphere, midwinter. Today is the solstice.
Too many of my observations this week have centred around the weather; in between showers tasks outdoors have called. My walks have been infrequent, and all the more precious for it; perhaps that is the way it should be - value time spent in nature rather than take it for granted.
When I can, I’m still exploring the dance of light and shadow, the subject of last week’s letter. In monochrome old Rhodendron dance. Later, curiosity prompts me to see what an image composed in black-and-white looks like otherwise, and I discover the shock of colour.
An excellent piece by
landed in my inbox on Monday; it’s timing serendipitous - David too writes about an abandoned homestead and imagines the back story. I recommend reading it. It prompted me to write in reply that the thoughts that we impose on a place are a mirror of ourselves if we choose to examine our reflection. I’ve learned through photographing water that the camera does indeed look both ways, a phrase attributed Freeman Patterson. I think too of John Szarkowki's Mirrors and Windows; over time I can recognise that I have moved from a photograph as a Window (direct observation) to a Mirror (introspective narrative). David’s words remind me that the process of regular writing undoubtedly reveals more about the author than we realise.
What I’ve Noticed This Week
Friday: A slow reveal, cloud lingers, fingers brushing the line of hills; a lover’s caress. Then smothering, intense; later distant, detached. By afternoon the curtains close, the downpours begin: the blackbirds at least are happy. Graphite grey hatching of rain, angle varies.
Saturday: Mist lingers low, blue above. Lifting, it wraps the contours of the ridge. The back lawn steams. Blue sky, sun and midges accompany garden duties.
Sunday: Rain again, gutters spill over. The 6.30am chug of old tractor passed, SILENCE. Bliss.
I wait for the rain to ease, watch for a brightening. Half the afternoon is gone before this comes to be. In six days it will be astronomical summer, the solstice. Battered broom still scents the air. The rain eases, green rules. An invisible squirrel scolds from the lime tree; a small fawn watches from the side of the path.
Monday: Sunset comes as a sandwich between 100% probability of rain. The day’s theme is surely water: early rain, settling in new plants, afternoon downpours. And water is our theme for the week, in watercolour and ink.
Tuesday: By 6.30am there is already a party at the feeding station: goldfinches, siskins, two great tits and a solitary chaffinch. I notice that autocorrect does not recognise bird names, a sign of our detachment from nature. As I watch, I realise that the crowd of siskins contains fledglings. Perched low on the wire fence among the flowers of mountain knapweed, adults feed the young. The collective noun is chatter, and their sound frequently accompanies me as I walk through pine and birch. Each adult is 13g of sweet conversation.
Wednesday: The sun finally reappears, and hangs out with us.
Words only come at the conclusion of the day. Sunset is a long drawn out affair; for 40 minutes I stand watching the fringed clouds. The sun has long dropped behind the hills; the light intensifies first and then colour develops, from pastels to candy floss to fire; sugar burns. Buzzards and tourist gulls soar, moths flicker at a safe distance from the flame.
As the heat diminishes, so does the bank of cloud, shrinking Barbie pink on pale blue. If we used to worship the sun, why not the life-giving clouds? Just a few thin grey lines remain; the show is over. It won’t really get dark tonight: the summer dim of a northern sky.
I look back through my daily notes; aside from putting voice to the poetry of weather, I now wonder what they say of me?
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Until next week,
All words and images copyright © Michela Griffith except where otherwise noted
Always such a joy to read, Michela. I particularly loved your observation “over time I can recognise that I have moved from a photograph as a Window (direct observation) to a Mirror (introspective narrative).” I will enjoy mulling this over.
Love the skyscapes. I'm a big fan of Freeman Patterson. He taught me that I didn't have to go anywhere to find interesting and beautiful. He taught me to look closer and to really see. Perhaps the camera always looks both ways, revealing something of ourselves in everything we photograph.