Self-Reliance
There is an old horse barn on our property, about a hundred and fifty yards from the hard surface (paved road) and adjacent to the driveway leading to the house. Like the wood snow fence alluded to in an earlier post, the barn is a local landmark. We have known of people driving onto the property to photograph this barn. Technically, they were trespassing, but some folks know no boundaries.
Structurally, there are two stalls in the front half and three in the back with a tack and feed room between. Both sets of stalls open onto small corrals. There is electricity, but based on the wiring I suspect that it is a much more recent addition. This lantern is a remnant from the pre-electricity era. You can also see that the internal timbers are of a rough cut.
The surface structure is in poor condition, but the barn is still functional. The previous owner’s daughter brings her horse to our place periodically, so there is a familiar, pungent, horse scent in the barn. However, we don’t have horses, and there is otherwise little-to-no economic incentive to update it. Even in its current state though, the barn has character, especially in the textural and colouring patterns of the outside boards, a subject that I will cover separately.
I don’t know the barn’s age, but it is old as is obviously by its condition; however, there are other age-related clues that suggest that it was built in the WWII era or earlier. My conclusion is based in part on the way self-reliant farmers and ranchers of my father’s generation worked, often fashioning or machining parts with their own tools and devices rather than driving on unpaved roads to a hardware store to purchase a hinge or a latch – if there was a hardware store. Another indicator is that there was a small shop on the property with an oil change pit and bench spaces. With that in mind I’ll show some examples of what I interpret as self-reliance in the form of home-engineered devices.
Self-Reliance Example 1. Here is a very simple one-way door lock with a rough-cut wooden bar and a simple metal catch.
The catch was probably shaped by heating it in a forge and shaping it on an anvil with a hammer. Or the hot metal could have been held in a vice and shaped with a hammer. The holes had to be created in a drill press. My father used these or similar resources, so I would surmise that the person who built this barn and made these objects had access to similar tools.
Note: As a one-way lock, there’s no exit from the other side.
Self-Reliance Example 2. Here is another door latch system, and excepting the spring, it would have been 100% home-made - with the addition of another shop tool, a welder. Again, there are heat-moulded pieces and drilled holes. The mechanism allows the spring-retained, door-mounted piece, to ride up the the slanted frame-mounted catch and drop into the slot. The slanted surface on the catch shows a “bead” created by a welder for the purpose of hardening the surface of the catch. This is a two-sided latch; it can be opened from either side of the door.
Self-Reliance Example 3. While making this hinge would probably be beyond the skill-set of a home shop the over-size hinge pin is definitely a home-added piece, probably pulled from a bucket of items discarded from other projects. The empty bolt hole, paint job and rust indicate the passage of some years too.
Self-Reliance Example 4. Maybe this one is not so much a “made” solution as it is a creative use of an every-day object. It’s not recycling in the modern sense, but it is at least “repurposing” of tin can lids. So what is being covered? Knotholes! The outside surface boards of the barn were cut from ponderosa pines that had an abundance of limbs growing out from the trunks. Limb remnants in the sawn boards are knots, and knots in untreated boards eventually dry and maybe fall out, leaving knotholes. So, what better way to cover a knothole than to nail a tin can lid over it?
There are other oddities in the barn, including horse-gnawed stall dividers, coat hangers in strange places, and other items, but for now I’ll let such trivia lie. With these examples of the barn’s hardware, suggestive of some degree of long-ago, before Lowe’s, owner self-reliance, I’ll close this segment of “barn-ology” and return later with another piece on the barn’s wood beauty.
A Deal With the Devil
There is fencing around the entire perimeter of our property with the exception of the entry gate where there is a cattle guard that wildlife and senior humans avoid crossing. Most of the fencing is wire of the smooth/twisted variety and ancient, rusty barbed kind. There is one section along the western side of the property comprised of wooden posts supporting horizontal stringers that, in turn, support vertical slats (see two images below). In addition to containing/blocking large animal movements the wooden fence prevents blowing snow fall from piling up on the driveway. All of this fencing was present when we purchased the property.
I spent several days during our last visit repairing one section of the wire fence that runs along the inside edge of the forest west of the house. As I said in that story, the job was not easy, compounded by black flies, mosquitos, uneven terrain, damaged posts, broken wire and geriatric joints that hindered my decades-ago nimbleness.
Upon completing the repair of the wire fence my mind was on recuperation. But alas, it was not to be! Two old horizontal stringers on the snow fence broke during a windy storm, leaving a blight on what was actually a landmark along the Red Feather Road. We were leaving in a few days, and I questioned whether I could squeeze the repair in. But I didn’t feel up to it! However, a voice urged me to go for it, saying that this job would be easier than the wire fence repair and that my discomfort would be only minimally incremental.
Yeah, sure! I should have known better! That voice has gotten me into a lot of trouble over the years. Anyway, I fixed the fence, removing the slats and pulling big nails to remove the broken stringers, putting new 2x12 stringers in place and re-attaching the slats. But wow! For a few days I was eating Tylenol and Advil to ease the cumulative aches. New ones too! In my finger joints! Ankles! Arches! Yep, the snow fence looks good again, but methinks I need to find a real fence repairman for any future jobs! At least this repair job won’t be waiting!
Who Needs TV?
The size of this image might leave smartphone viewers with their smaller screens at a disadvantage here.
In May of 2015 I was searching for a suitable panoramic scene to be posted in the Red Feather Lakes Community Library as a part of their renovation project. After fruitlessly framing compositions at several locations I finally shot this scene from a peak across the road from our house. A neighbour was kind enough to allow me to park in his yard, from which I hiked up to a higher elevation, camera and tripod in tow. And there is was - exactly the scene I had been searching for! Winds were pushing the clouds about, thus rapidly altering the elements in the scene, and I had to work quickly.
As for the elements of the scene, the light green foreground is part of the Boy Scout Ranch, and the dirt road is, of course, the Boy Scout Road even though it is state-maintained. Our house is immediately to the right of the picture where we overlook much of what you see here. However, we cannot see the mountains without hiking a short distance toward the Boy Scout Road. The two dark layers, green and blue, are the hilly walls of the Poudre River Canyon. The 2012 High Park fire burned some of that dark green area, and Maggie, my mini-schnauzer companion, and I were the next to be evacuated had the fire advanced further. Although we endured a lot of smoke, we weren't evacuated. The snow-covered peaks are the Mummy Range, the northernmost mountains in Rocky Mountain National Park. That snow pack and its run-off feed the Colorado River running westward and the Poudre River heading eastward. I have hiked to the origin of the Colorado River at the base of the Mummies and stepped across it. Snowpack of that amount is no more.
We printed a four foot long metal triptych for the library where it still hangs. Liking that printing so much we ordered another, each section being 24” wide and 36” tall. IOW, the picture is six feet long. It hangs on the west wall of our den. I can sit in our recliner and stare through the window toward the forest and move my eyes a few degrees rightward and gaze at this.
Who needs TV?
Horses and a Rainbow
“There’s a storm across the valley, clouds are rolling in” as the words go in John Denver’s song. It’s fascinating that different elements can come together to create a scene worthy of recording, and here the clouds, mountains, horses, the meadow and a rainbow all collude to offer a photographic symphony. There are four layers: three ground layers and the sky, each distinct with unique textures and lighting. The rainbow appears to descend between the distant mountains and the nearer hills while the horses graze in the foreground.
So much for a “lesson” in composition and opportunistic photography. Maybe verbal fluff too! Otherwise, simply enjoy the picture for its uniqueness.
A Trip To Wyoming
Several years ago I came across a delightful 2009 essay by a Cleveland sports writer, Tony Pluto, in which he described a trip into southeastern Wyoming the day prior to his coverage of a Browns-Bronco game in Denver. His intent and his writing style were different from mine, so I have simply borrowed the elements from his story that match my observations and which evoke fond memories of our own Wyoming experiences.
For a bit of background about Wyoming, many would say that it is still an untamed land, where the mountains are ever on the horizon and the prairies and grasslands are vast. Mr. Pluto said, “I have been to Wyoming at least a dozen times. On each visit, I think how the land is not tamed by man. Some mountains are too high, some rivers too wild, some storms too fierce.” Good description!
Nearly half of Wyoming is federally-owned. Cattle ranching is big, and cowboys don’t dress like Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. Mineral extraction and tourism are the primary sources of revenue. There are boom towns like the coal city of Gillette, as well as the once-boom-town-now-ghost town, Jeffrey City, built on uranium mining wealth. Wyoming is a mix of ranchers and billionaires, and the first state to grant women the right to vote. Don’t get the idea, though, that the Equal Rights Amendment is smiled upon in Wyoming; voting women in Wyoming were the wives of voting ranchers.
The climate is semi-arid, and the forever winds can and do overturn tractor trailers. Big snow fences are common along strategic roadside sites and Union Pacific railways, and highway gates are used to close roads prior to blizzards.
Mr. Pluto described driving down roads under high skies and huge clouds that seemed to rise up to the heavens. He drove down roads through miles of open “pastures", roads where his cellphone was long out of range.
Any Verizon towers out here?
Mr. Pluto drove down roads where he saw more pronghorn antelope than cars and people. Yep! There are more antelope than people in Wyoming.
And there are loners too! These critters can hit 55 mph in a dead run. Speculation is that they evolved the speed to elude the now-extinct North American cheetah. However, they are not true antelope; instead, they are related to giraffes. Kinda like Spanish moss and pineapples being relatives.
Tony described driving Wyoming Highway 130 into the Snowy (Range) Mountains without mentioning this piece of history, a marker for the Overland Trail where pioneers trekked this open space between the years 1862 to 1868. The wagon ruts were still present a hundred years afterward. Another cement post marker can be seen immediately to the right of the dark fence post and slightly below the horizon. Brave, crazy or desperate? Who knows? Twenty miles a day through the territory of people who wanted to kill them. Hardships unimaginable to us!
A bit further along Highway 130 there is the Centennial Valley and the Snowy Range Mountains in the distance. The green area in the left side of the image hides the Little Laramie River which ultimately ends up in the Missouri River system. We had a similar view of the Snowy Range every morning from our third floor apartment in Laramie in 1967-68.
The Snowy Range Road is opened sometime around Memorial Day after the winter snows have been cleared, and June and July visitors can discover a plethora of lakes, small streams and wild flowers such as this turk’s cap.
I mentioned in a previous entry that I had photographed white columbines. Here is an example of that delicate beauty!
Finally, there is Medicine Bow Peak, elevation 12,014 feet, and Lake Marie. I’ve hiked around this peak but never to the top. Our daughter, Mary Beth and her two boys have achieved that honour though. A tragedy occurred here on October 6, 1955 when United Airlines Flight 409 crashed into the face of the peak, killing all 66 people aboard. Details in Wikipedia!
The Pluto essay skipped from his mention of Highway 130 to his spotting of a moose, omitting the peak, the flowers and the streams. As with his moose spotting, I saw this big fellow on my way down the Snowy Range, munching on the local shrubbery. Pretty they’re not, but majestic, yes. And they jump our fence in Colorado in order to eat the choke cherry twigs, leaving their markings in the driveway. Oh well, most of our Colorado neighbours have four legs, and we welcome their presence.
Mr. Pluto ends his story with the idea that his trip to Wyoming had given him a glimpse of heaven, a place that he occasionally thought about with the hope of a permanent address. Here’s a bit of news for him! Many people, especially urban folk who are accustomed to neon lights and street lamps are uncomfortable in the open, unlit spaces of Wyoming. Those whom we've accompanied into a Wyoming prairie night are too frightened of that empty space to think of it as an eternal residence. On a more practical level, a rancher's grocery trips are to buy supplies, not simply some plastic-wrapped chicken tenders. The Schwann and UPS trucks are harbingers of the outside world, and mailboxes can be miles from the ranch house. It’s that openness that drew us in, that first view of Laramie and the surrounding plains as we descended the Lincoln Highway, now I-80, in 1967. Our entire time there was an adventure, physically, intellectually and spiritually, one not easily forgotten. Tony Pluto found his view of heaven; maybe we found ours.
Sunrise Grazing
Lenswork magazine, a premier photography journal, free of advertisements and over-sharpened images of iconic sites, sponsors an annual book with different themes. For several years the book was titled “Seeing in Sixes” which focussed (no pun) on project-based photography. That series was followed by “Our Magnificent Planet” in which I had two images published, and last year the theme was trilogies. This year’s theme is “glorious light” with an emphasis on strongly lighted subjects or light filtering through scenes or objects, etc. That idea became fixed in my little brain and caused me to mentally frame subjects in ways that I might not ordinarily see them. “Mentally frame” is key here. Sir Don McCullin, the UK war photographer, “framed” the leafless winter trees on his property as “etchings” which lead me to photograph the winter trees of Fearrington and tone the images in a cold blue shade to reflect their nakedness in the cold of winter. With glorious light in mind, I awoke one recent morning to see the horses grazing in the rising sunlight and immediately grabbed a camera and ventured onto the deck to record the event as they moved along the fence. This is one image of many that I recorded that morning. The interplay of subject and light is reflected in the lightness of the animal’s rear half and the shadows created by its shoulder and the shadows on the grass. So, this image is way more than one of a horse munching grass; it’s a mood, an emotion. This image also reflects the mystery of the meadow, a piece of uneven ground whose botanical cover changes with rainfall and season and whose appearance is determined by light. We don’t walk past a window without a glance or a gaze in its direction. Sometimes we see horses too.
A bird flew through this scene too,
“Scene” No Longer
Time changes everything as the old Bill Monroe tune says. And so it goes with our idyllic setting in Fearrington. No, the parks, trails, the stately oaks and the general nature of the Village aren’t changing, but the visual reminder of an earlier time, of an agrarian life, the last bit of if, when the land was worked and produced goods, is disappearing. Trees are being cut, and the big yellow machines have begun their scraping, digging and mounding, altering the face of the Weathersfield pasture. No, this is not a rant against “progress” as the quest for money is often characterized; it’s more like a sigh. I’m a farm boy derivative, a small-farm boy. I’ve seen the little family farms of my youth become mega-farms and the larger family cattle and wheat ranches of the American West become corporate entities. And the local grocery store and the the book mobile became Wall Mart and Amazon. So, what’s my point? Maybe my eighth decade taints my attitude, especially about some small things. So, for me, an unobstructed view of a sunset scene across the Weathersfield pasture, once part of a farm, will be a memory. The bluebirds will probably abandon the nesting boxes along the fence because the “neighborhood” will lose the openness they need. And the old ranch gate with its cross-wire support posts, relics of another time, won’t fit the modernized scenery. “Oh well” as my friend in Fort Collins says. Time changes everything, including me. I’m a bit slow at it though.
So, I’ll finish this with a few soon-to-be-memories.
Posted 5/23/23
An evening view across the Weathersfield pasture.
A neighbourhood crow amongst the Weathersfield bluebird boxes, calling his chums.
Late afternoon at the Weathersfield gate.
Tree Etchings
The British photojournalist, Sir Don Mccullin, described the winter deciduous trees on his property as looking like etchings, bare and black, silhouetted against the cold grey sky. Upon reflection, his description yielded a different mental framing for that which I had all too often passed off simply as bleak nakedness, or images befitting an Edgar Allen Poe story. With McCullin’s perspective in mind, the etchings metaphor now reveals different shapes for different species, the nests, squirrels, birds, parasites, symbionts and occasional cold weather adornments. Etchings need not be black against a grey sky; aspen and birch trees being exceptions, and the background need not be sky. And questions! Why do twigs and limbs branch off in a certain direction? How does a white oak “know” to build support for an increasingly-heavy horizontal limb, a limb that might not be seen by a casual gaze at a leafed tree? How is a tree structure so wind-flexible yet wind-stable? However, answers are not nearly so necessary as is “wonder” about a tree, whose every carbon atom comes from the atmosphere, a being who, unlike us, gives back to Earth - in spades. I’ve tried to capture some of that wonder in a separate gallery by the same name as this blog post on this site, all toned to create a mood of winter’s coldness, as in the example below.
Camden Park gnarled white oak against cloudy winter sky.
What Is The Next Note And Why?
What I want in heaven is for words to be notes and conversations to be symphonies. Tina Turner
I haven’t updated this blog or this site’s images in a too long a while. Perhaps I can clarify the issue beginning with the title of this essay. A bit of a funky title for a photography blog? Maybe, but let’s see where it goes, and I’ll begin by rephrasing the title’s question: How does an improvisational pianist select her next note? And why that note? The same could apply to the birth and execution of many if not most creative endeavors. In some cases, the next note could be the first note. The musician Sting, who claims to have J.S. Bach as his music teacher, said that if he didn’t realize a surprise within the first eight bars of a composition, he stopped listening. Beethoven accomplished the surprise in the first four notes of his fifth symphony. He knew his next note and why he wanted it. With respect to my creative endeavors, I don’t, and therein lies my problem.
A month before my 79th birthday I purchased a Fender Stratocaster. An American made one at that. A few more clams than an Indonesian model, but I figured that a lack of music knowledge need not be complicated by possible quality issues. Seems a bit late, right? In truth, I wanted to learn about guitar and acquire some proficiency, but not necessarily to become a guitarist. Music had long been an interest and the guitar seemed to be a good entry point, especially given its versatility, which Segovia equated to a small orchestra. Theto to further I’ve gotten into learning the instrument, the more I realise Segovia’s observation as truth, and the more connected I feel to art in general.
My other hobby, photography, was in decline, in the dumps, so to speak, and I needed another creative outlet. I’ve been down the usual path with picture-taking: teenage twin-lens Kodak, 35mm film later, SLR, light and electron microscopy, in my career, and finally the digital world and its accoutrements, books and YouTube. I had no professional aspirations, especially upon shooting two weddings for friends. Publish a book? Nope! My work is not project-based. I simply wanted to be good at photography and art-making! So, why the funk? I still love a great image, and plan to make a few more. However, I don’t travel out as much, for non-geriatric reasons, and the on-line image world has become a saturated blur to the point of BOREDOM. Pretty and impressive pictures? Even some orgasmographs as Brooks Jensen calls them! Yes, and lots or them. But there’s a world of difference between a pretty photograph and one that I would deem as artwork or display-worthy. Besides, they would have to match my wife’s décor, which is not likely! Furthermore, “Likes” and “Next” arrows aren’t the stuff of artistic discernment. And most of the artwork I’ve seen in homes amounts to complimentary color splotches or a reproduction of a Gainsborough landscape, but not photographs. Cynical? Yep! So, it all comes down to “art”, stuff that has some lasting value, even if it is only for the artist’s family.
Back to the music! I dabbled earlier in acoustic guitar and bluegrass banjo for quite a while, even to the level of a few public appearances with the banjo. None of it was creative though, just copying. No music theory, scales, or chord structure! More recently, I stumbled on the PBS tribute to the blues man Buddy Guy and became entranced by the plethora of guitar-isms, the connectivity to other music genres, originality, skill, etc. In the frustration accompanying my present photographic malaise, I bought the Stratocaster. That was more than a year ago, and I’m still trying - daily. Minor pentatonic scale! Major pentatonic scale! Linking scales! Movable scales! Intervals! Triads! Sevenths chords! Chord tones! The list is longer, but I’ll stop by saying that learning and practicing music theory and overcoming octogenarian fingers are a helluva lot more difficult than anything I’ve encountered in photography. Hands down! No contest! End of story! However, the bright side is that my labored practice has led me deeply appreciate many genres of music, from Bach to Julian Lage and many between. No heavy metal though! Seriously, how did Brahms conjure those two piano concertos? What led Beethoven to challenge symphonic tradition with his third symphony? How does composition occur? Counterpoint? And all with twelve Pythagorean tones! Mind-boggling! However, it all comes down to creativity, and creativity stems from ideas. Sting, again, says that the notes come from an idea or a short riff, and he sees structure, be it people, actions, or words. He even alludes to being in a state of grace in which the music flows and writes itself. His next note appears!
OK, let’s sort this out. First, this is not a turn from photography to music; both are creative endeavors, of which there are many. I like both and admire others! My personal concerns are probably more brain-related; my brain, in fact. What is the next note? My progress and even my interest seem to have faltered. Yes, I can frame a good landscape composition per Sam Abel and process it along multiple paths. I can light paint an image. Intentional camera movement too. I can determine the key in which a guitar solo is played and copy the basic melody. But in neither case is that creativity. Therein is my funk! The next note! The step toward artwork. Upon reflection, however, most accomplished musicians began early in life, and perhaps creativity is akin to learning another language or developing perfect pitch: the earlier the better. Conversely, the older the more difficult, which is where I am. Creativity was not an emphasis of my youth. And the plethora of books and YouTube videos that hold the deepest secrets of expression and creativity haven’t seemed to tickle my brain. So perhaps I should simply continue to plug along my present dual path and enjoy the adventure, that of continuing to grow in appreciation of creativity and art. And here I must admit that the Buddy Guys, Eric Claptons, Edward Hoppers, Daniel Barenboims, J.S. Bachs, and many other creative spirits pull me in every day.
I’ll close with this thought: Hobbies are damned important, and I have two, music and photography, neither of which will lead me to stardom. The guitar is one device for entry into the world of music, and the camera is likewise for the visual arts. Beyond the entry point though is a path to be enjoyed, no matter the degree of accomplishment and even if the paths are bumpy for the hobby! The more important issue though is where the hobby leads you in the larger world of art. That could be the next note!
And finally, a diversion from this erudite discussion about personal frustration and art, my absolute favorite photography sage, Sean Tucker, says that the real beauty of photography is to capture and freeze time. With that in mind, we would do well by taking snapshots of our loved ones. As he said, there are two deaths, the cessation of a heartbeat and the eventual loss of a name or a picture of the deceased. Perhaps that is a next note that supersedes all the petty ones.
And on that note, say “Goodnight” Gracie!
A Labor of Love
Our present location offers ample opportunities for “street” photography, especially during the early morning hours when many of the residents are walking about, often briskly for exercise, sometimes with their dogs. I recently came upon this scene that did not fit the usual mould, one that was a self-contained story. I shot it from a distance for the sake her anonymity and to emphasize the scope of the story. I’ll leave it for you to interpret.
My Favorite Photographer
I see this question occasionally. My answer: I don’t have one! If that seems a tad odd, let’s examine the issue. I like what I do photographically; otherwise I wouldn’t do it. I don’t envy anyone else’s work, so maybe I’m my favorite photographer. Now, before launching into my perceived arrogance, please note that conversations about this topic usually refer to image-makers, and for landscapers the thoughts often go back to Adams, Weston and other photographers that pepper ancient history, with a few contemporaries thrown in the mix. However, I do like the images of many photographers and follow some of them on the “intertoobz”. I learn from them and even communicate with a few of them. No favorites though! But not having one or more favorites has not always been the case for me. In fact, an earlier iteration of my Bio listed a few. No more! OK, what changed?
I did! I finally realized that I’m pretty good at what I do, and I’m not competing with anyone, past or present. So, let’s change direction here and discuss artistic influencers rather than image makers, thinkers and inspirers who might also photograph but perhaps not.
Brooks Jensen, the editor of Lenswork Magazine, is producing a series of podcasts, “Those Who Inspire Me and Why”, commentaries about art and artists that I eagerly await to come online. In fact, Brooks himself is one of my inspirers. He’s widely read, thoughtful and articulate on a variety of topics other than photography. He, probably more than anyone else, has led me into other artistic arenas including classical music, jazz, poetry and the painted arts.
Who else?
Let’s go to the “Fort Collins Threesome” plus one. In one of our Barnes & Nobles hot air sessions a few years ago my friend Mike Norton halted our conversation, sauntered back to the photography section and returned with a copy of Bruce Barnbaum’s “The Art of Photography”. I ultimately read it three times, and I still flip through it occasionally, reviewing my yellow highlights and marginal asterisks. So thanks to Mike for introducing me to Barnbaum (the “plus one alluded to above)! Note the word “art” in the title. It’s crucial to my story. Next, Dwight Lutsey, a close friend who continued to encourage me while holding his nose and perhaps his breath at some of the stupid stuff I did. Rounding out the Awesome Three is Cole Thompson (he actually lives in LaPorte, a “suburb” of Fort Collins). I first heard Cole speak at a Loveland Photographic Society meeting wherein he addressed photographic art, vision, why black and white, and other topics, all of which left me wondering about him. At the time I was more interested in the club’s monthly competition which, by the way, I did quite well in, rising from Intermediate level to Master in thirteen months. In other words, my effort was was on pretty images, not art. But Cole’s philosophy gradually grew on me, and I now have the greatest respect for him as an inspiration. His images are OK too :-).
Others? There’s Guy Tal, a superb writer and photographic artist residing on the edge of the Colorado Plateau. We happen to share a love of Edward Abbey’s “Desert Solitaire”. Tal photographs the high desert’s beauty and Abbey uses the art of writing to paint eloquent pictures of it. Tal’s book, “More Than a Rock”, as well as his on-going blog and essays in “On Landscape” and “Lenswork are all thought resources for me. Nathan Wirth is also a wisdom collector and disseminator. I’m still working on “reading assignments” that he shared with me.
Finally, there’s Peggy, my lovely wife and partner who inspires me in so many ways.
That’s about it! Others come and go, depending on the current trendy topic, but the aforementioned “elites” are my on-going favorite inspirers. They helped me realize that what I do is art and it’s OK for me to think of myself an artist - who uses a camera. I’m comfortable with that!
Red Feather Lakes I
We had the privilege of living in northern Colorado for a few years, and although circumstances brought us back to North Carolina, our home state, we would go west again in a New York minute if it were possible. Our place was located near Red Feather Lakes, a quaint village northwest of Fort Collins, Colorado, that serves as a hub of activity for an eclectic mix of ranchers, artists, commuters, retirees and visitors. It is surrounded by beautiful mountain scenery, lakes and the Roosevelt National Forest. While there are no hitching rails for horses, the streets are still unpaved; hopefully they will remain in that state. There are several businesses, a post office, a fire station, a superb little library, a gallery, a veterinarian and lots of charm.
I photographed the Red Feather Trading Post and adjacent buildings, the business hub of the village, on several occasions. These two images were evening and morning shots, respectively.
Evening in the Business District, was captured after sunset while the Trading Post and Post Office lights were illuminating their environs.
The second, Morning in the Business District, was captured as the early morning sun illuminated the sky, making the scene a bit more colorful that the first. Confession: No, the original image was not the same as the one shown here, and yes, I did enhance the colors a bit to achieve this image. I would posit that image adjustments are as much a part of photographic art as brush selection is in painting. But for any photography purists among you, those who view image manipulation as artistic heresy, I suggest that you take your issue up with my “fixer”, a burly guy named Dwight who resides in Fort Collins. Good Luck :-)!!
Finally, there is much more lore and color around Red Feather Lakes, some of which I will attempt to portray in future posts. Thanks for reading!
Updated Website
July 12, 2020
Light Etchings has undergone an update, a revision, from what I sensed as a scatter-shot approach to my art. The path to change has been cleared in part by paying more attention to the current vogue of personal expressive photography, the writings of Guy Tal, Robin Wall Kimmerer, Mary Oliver, Wendell Berry, Gary Snyder and others, message exchanges with Nathan Wirth, and serene images by the likes of William Neill and Margaret Soraya. However, I doubt any of these experiences would have much of an artistic impact without my basic love of and closeness to Nature. I don’t need a camera in order to go outside on a summer night and listen to chirping insects or be still and hear the cacophony of morning bird calls. Not many days pass without my admiring a tree and being in awe of its energy flows, its communications and its strength. The vast openness of the Wyoming plains still calls to me. It’s a state of being and wonder. However, I cannot discount a general growth into the arena of art and creativity as well. You will note the Levi-Strauss-attributed comment on my Home page: Arts are the wilderness areas in the imagination, surviving like national parks in the midst of civilized minds. Finding and exploring the wild areas remains a challenge, perhaps akin to musicians exploring counterpoint and improvisation in pursuit of a composition, and will hopefully be reflected in the future of Light Etchings. At this point there has been a reframing of gallery topics, a reduced emphasis on place and hopefully a more personal expressiveness with a goal of greater artistic closeness to Nature. Furthermore, I will periodically rotate my displayed images while keeping the overall presentation uncluttered. As an aside, It is easy to lament that this process arrives in late septuagenerism (I created that word), but better late than never as the aphorism goes. Change will be an on-going growth process as the personal comes into sharper focus. Fortunately, I’m an INFP and an iconoclast too, so change is inevitable.
Perhaps to my detriment I will not be posting on Facebook; my split with Mr Zuckerberg is permanent. I will occasionally post on Instagram. Yes, I know who owns that platform, but I am yet to see the level of discourse that plagues Mr. Z’s other behemoth. I said “occasionally” because I’ve learned the hard way that images should incubate awhile before being presented on social media - or on one’s website.
The Old Man and the Barn
The barn was on the property when he purchased the place, its age uncertain. The skin was ponderosa pine, and given that many ponderosas in northern Colorado could be 200 years old when cut and milled, the total age of the barn might have been in centuries. It was a two-horse structure, with stables and corrals and feed and tack rooms, lantern-lit in their early days, all covered by a tin roof. A mid-septuagenarian, he was increasingly drawn to old things because they revived memories of his past and there were parallels in their accommodation of time. The barn was no exception; it had endured and been scarred by extremes of high country weather, and past owners had deployed numerous patches and repairs. Yet there was a beauty in the rustic, home-made parts and gnarled wood with its curving and cracked grain, stains, and knots and knot holes, both patched and unpatched. In color and composition it all added up to the slow acquisition of character as well as a metaphor for his own aging processes. He and the barn were fellow time travelers, and he visited often. The barn was a living thing in a sense, aging with the elements, and offering insights to those willing to be close and quiet.
The barn, a colorful structure of unknown age
Warts and Scars
A repaired hinge
Home-forged latch, rusted but still functional
The Overseer
Patched knothole
Weather-worn door latch
Tack room lighting
Until One Has Loved An Animal....
Until one has loved an animal a part of one’s soul remains unawakened. - Anatole France
Parts of my soul, whatever that is, may be unawakened but not because I haven’t loved an animal. There are times when I could rightly be accused of being a misanthrope, but other than pythons in the everglades I hold no ill feelings toward animals. My dog is in another category altogether though, and I’ll leave it at that. Perhaps the expressions of dog and man shown below will help to illustrate my point.
There are many people walking around Fearrington Village with their dogs, leash in one hand and plastic bags in the other, but this pair was different. I watched them for a couple of days and saw that they were “regulars” in both time and place. He sat on Nana’s bench under the ancient white oak tree with his gray-muzzled friend lying on the ground nearby. So, camera in hand, I asked if he would allow me to photograph them, and he graciously complied. He was standing when I approached, and upon accepting my request, he walked to the bench, his friend wobbling by his side, and they both settled into relaxation. This is the first image in the series, processed in a vintage format. The combined expressions of man and companion defined the image.
Old Friends
Horizons
Somehow, the clouds over the horizon here in northern Colorado opened yesterday morning, allowing a relatively narrow beam from the rising sun to illuminate the clouds beyond that opening. The phenomenon lasted only a few minutes, never to be seen again. I hope you enjoy.
Autumn Aspens
The arrival of autumn usually brings two colorful tree images to mind, the Appalachians and New England with their brilliant maples. and the Rocky Mountains and their aspens groves, usually bright yellow, sometimes reddish orange. However, the Front Range of Colorado was unusually warm and dry this past summer, so the fall colors around us have been muted. Nevertheless, there was fog in the area presented some photographic opportunities.
Suggestion: these images are better observed on a larger screen rather than a telephone.
Here, the bright yellow aspens accompanied by tall grass and the heart pine gate and fence posts, bolstered by lodge pole struts, are remnants of earlier times.
At higher elevations the dominant trees are evergreens with aspen groves scattered about. When the aspens have shed most of their leaves, but not all, their white trunks and remaining yellow leaves are spectacular against the dark green fir and spruce trees.
The final scene came from our back yard aspen grove adjacent to the road. I had envisioned a completely different shot when I stepped out of the car, but it just wasn’t there. So in turning in a different direction to return to the car I looked back, and there “it” was. It’s the same with hiking; stop periodically and turn around to observe that which you have just passed. You will invariably see something you missed in passing. This is perhaps my favorite of these three photographs. The subject is more diffuse, but the shapes and the colors lead or move one’s eye into the scene, It was that fading edge that led me to capture the scene. The autumn snowfall began a few days later.
Bosler
I’m dreaming of a trailer
In Bosler Wyoming
With tires on the roof dear
And you by my side.
…. From the song, “Bosler” by Jalan Crossland
With all due respect to Mr. Crossland, nobody, but nobody, seems to want to go to Bosler, Wyoming. There isn’t an intact trailer in the town, and no real streets for kids to play in as implied in his song. But his near-comical lyrics about a lonesome city apartment dweller longing for the open plains of Wyoming are an allegorical feast that says much about the spirit of the West. There are times when I feel that way myself.
Bosler was once a cattle town with a railroad mail stop, post office, stores, a school and the usual church. There was even a four-room motel, unplumbed of course, but with “Men” and “Women” privies. The need to use one of those “facilities” in a wind-blown January night would have hopefully been alleviated by chamber pots in the rooms. Bosler remained a colorful pass through as long as US 287 was the main route from Laramie to Jackson, but Mr. Eisenhower’s interstate system nailed Bosler’s coffin shut. So now it looks like Jeffrey City, a once-thriving uranium-mining town a bit further along 287, and other ghost towns in Wyoming. The famous Virginian Hotel, or what’s left of it, is in the crossroad of Medicine Bow, a few miles north of Bosler.
(Note: The following images were processed in a Jack Spencer-inspired style.)
The truck is doing what most vehicles do in Bosler, passing through without slowing. The four small buildings on the right are the remains of the “motel”.
The Bosler Consolidated School sits starkly empty on the plains on the north side of town. As with the rest of Bosler, the school is abandoned - with broken windows, peeling paint on the classroom walls, and the campus a sea of prairie grass.There are miles of open space between the school and the distant Laramie Range forming the horizon. There’s a road over there in the distance, where cars are mere specks.
Bosler is a graveyard for old, abandoned vehicles, of which there is no shortage, some in the open, others behind a decrepit wood fence. A large yard west of the railroad is also filled with junk vehicles, including old school buses.
The last business in Bosler may be Doc’s Western Village. Like the fenced-in junk yard a little way down the road, there is still stuff inside the old store. Somebody is paying a utility bill for it as indicated by a drop cord coming from a side door to an old motor home parked to the right of this image. As Jalan Crossland’s song says, “In Bosler Wyoming there ain’t much to buy”.
So, as the sun began its descent behind the Snowy Range, I got into my car, pulled out on US 287, and headed southward to Laramie, pondering what I had seen and sensed, while the never-ceasing wind and the prairie grass continued their slow reclamation of Bosler.
Thanks, Mr. Crossland, for reminding us that we can dream.
The Home Place
Built in 1914 by my grandparents, Joseph Thomas and Lilliebelle Brinn, this house was not only a home; it was a center of farm operations, and during my early years, Miss Belle, as she was known, was the CEO. My grandfather, whose middle name my brother Nate carries, died in 1934, leaving the farming operation to Miss Belle and two of their sons, my father and his brother. She died in 1955, and after the later passing of her immediate heirs, the farm and this house were sold.
The original house had a rear-attached kitchen with a wood-burning cook stove. I remember it being used to feed the folks who helped with the annual "hog killing", a multi-day event in January, back in the era of cold winters. Unfortunately, I don't know the fate of that lovely old stove. By the time I came along, another room in the main part of the house had been renovated as a kitchen - with electric appliances. The high-ceiling rooms were heated with large Duo-Therm kerosene burners that vented through the chimneys.
Brinn Home Place
As with many other farms of the early-to-mid twentieth century there was a bell perched atop a 20-foot pole outside the old kitchen with a long rope attached to the porch. The bell rocked on a gimbal as the rope was pulled, swinging the clapper against the bell and signaling dinner time or Miss Belle's need of assistance. The bell, its ring dimmed by time and rust, was saved by my mother who passed it on to our cousin, Jean Carr and her husband Paul. They intended to attach it to an even older family home they were renovating in the Durant’s Neck area of Perquimans County; however, their plans changed, and they donated the bell to the Museum of the Albemarle where it now resides as a small bit of the region’s history.
Behind the house were a few peach trees, a former tool shop, a chicken house and pen, a smoke house, a storage building and a vehicle shelter. Miss Belle fed her chickens daily, carrying a bucket of feed in the crook of her frail arm well into her seventies. Amongst that brood of Dominickers and Rhode Island Reds she had one big rooster that would attack small boys! A truly evil bird! I recall the use of the smoke house with its permeating odor of salt-cured, smoked hams and shoulders. And there was lard/box lye soap in the storage building. Real soap, not your present-day smell-good body wash concoctions in last-until-the-sun-explodes plastic containers. Stuff that left rings in the bath tub!
I spent a few summer hours in the front porch rocking chairs with my grandmother, "May" as I called her for now-unknown reasons, watching the song birds nest and raise their young in the adjacent shrubbery. Her beaten biscuits were a treat when we delivered the Sunday newspaper to her and she read the comics to me. During weekday afternoons she listened to Paul Harvey's news and soap operas on her radio in the room behind the right-side window in the photograph. I slept on a down mattress in that house, listening to rain falling on the metal roof. It's all gone now, the house probably being beyond repair if nothing has been done to it since I last saw it in 2015. So, while my memories are good ones, my regrets are few. Modernization and maintenance of such a structure would be beyond the means of most folks. Commercial office space perhaps but, again, renovation would be prohibitive for anyone's bottom line.
In the end we're left with the hard fact that time grinds inexorably onward, and everything, including this house, flits in and out, in and out. Generations and their memories come and go, serve and leave, like the momentary lantern flashes of the evening fireflies in the grass around this once-magnificent old home. So, as George Burns, cigar in hand, famously said to his wife at the close their weekly radio and TV shows, "Say 'Goodnight', Gracie!"