spring equinox // double exposure

today is the Spring Equinox, that fateful day filled with equal hours of light and darkness, where day and night are held in perfect balance. more than the "first day of spring," it is a moment of pause followed by what is perhaps the most cherished seasonal shift for those who live in the North; a promise that budding growth and long, sun-filled days will emerge from beneath the frozen landscape—even if not precisely on this seemingly arbitrary day. while it snowed most of the day here, the light seemed almost tireless, uplifting. for me, that's what today signals most: the coming of light, the reassurance that soon the light will outlast the darkness and we will be able to emerge from hibernation and shed our heavy layers. captivated by this promise, the feeling i had today was one of dissolving into nature, of dreamy double exposures, subtle florals, and soft, enchanting light. 

photo sources: one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven / twelve

early morning

Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous;
gray light streaking each bare branch,
each single twig, along one side,
making another tree, of glassy veins...
The bird still sits there. Now he seems to yawn.

excerpt from ELIZABETH BISHOP, "Five Flights Up" 

my mornings lately have been early. too early, perhaps. but i am learning how to appreciate what often seems like an ungodly hour; the quiet, the still, the haunting, the earthly. i am trading in my night owl for the early bird.

transitions

while i savour the sultry heat, sun-filled days and long nights of summer, autumn is my favourite season. it is a season of transitions, preparations, harvests, layers, and pigments; of life, death, and decay. having lived in the city for nine years before moving to the country full-time this past June, i always found that autumn would come and go so quickly, almost without notice, at least not of all its nuances. trees are not in their natural habitat in the city and almost all urban trees are diseased, so i never got to experience the full splendour of fall's colours and subtle changes. this year, however, i was able to intimately track those changes over the course of five or six weeks every time i took glasgow for a walk in a nearby forested area we call "the cross," from first fall to first frost, from the only barely emerging yellows and oranges to the fiery and crimson reds at their peak, and finally to the fading of those colours into rusts, ochres, and browns. i watched the dark earth and lush greens of the forest floor first become peppered with sparsely fallen leaves, and then fully blanketed by a thick layer of still fresh scarlet maple leaves, which slowly faded into various shades of brown as they dried and decayed, becoming skeletons of their former full-bodied selves. only a handful of golden birch and poplar leaves remained, clinging to their branches, the limbs of oaks and maples reaching up toward the hallow sky like arteries. finally, early this week, the overnight's frost crystallized into tiny, intricate freckles of snow hugging patches of leaves, moss, rotting wood, and the ground around the bases of trees, starkly beautiful at the same time as they were a faint promise of what is to come. 

All photos taken from 01 October - 06 November 2012

grassdoe

so successful has been the camera's role in beautifying the world that photographs, rather than the world, have become the standard of the beautiful. 

- susan sontag

i find myself continually returning to photgrapher Jonathan Levitt's photoblog, GRASSDOE, for bits of inspiration and glimpses into worlds that are at once other and familiar, where i feel a little bit at home. his photographs are raw and honest and they all possess a simple beauty, whatever season, scene, subject, or way of life they capture. looking at them, i am reminded of the above quote from Susan Sontag's On Photography (1977), except that in Levitt's photos, it is the world that retains it's beauty in the face of the camera. i really think i could live in almost any one of them.


all photographs Copyright © Jonathan Levitt