A blog about photography & transformative art
It's a absurd notion. Thousands of tourists jam into Venice on a daily basis. Save a few weeks between the Befana and Carnivale, there is no off-season anymore for a city that called itself The Most Serene. Being alone in Venice truly is an absurd notion. Or maybe it's simply a state of mind.
The *motoscafo* is the Venetian version of a taxi. Since Venetian avenues are of water, its taxis are, of course, not automobiles. They are boats. However, to simply label a motoscafo as a boat is a gross disservice. To be the passenger of a motoscafo is like being a time traveler, an exotic adventurer, the hero of a romantic novel, or maybe even a movie star. Add your own imagination, your own superlative. One transforms immediately upon stepping down into the rocking craft. The ride in a Venetian taxi is one of the few things in life that surpasses the expectation. It's that good…that exciting.
Venice is a city of changing moods. Of changing cycles. It is a city that never seems at peace for very long, the victim of its stunning location and aching beauty. There always seems to be comings and goings to give Venetians something of concern.
It is our first morning in Venice and it is raining. I am undaunted. Great cities like Venice transcend weather and climate. My only complaint is that I must hold both camera and umbrella with the same hand, a juggling act that might result in short-circuiting my new Nikon. It's worth the risk. Venice is achingly beautiful in the rain, reflecting itself vainly in the shimmering pavement. I quickly learn how to hold the umbrella and click the shutter, all with the same hand and with efficient motion.
A return to Venice is like no other sensation. Like any good theatrical event, it's best to plan one's return with some flair. Venice is a city of the sea, given its birth by the briny lagoon. Therefore one should always, always approach her by boat. Any other way is simply not right.
I'm trying to figure out exactly why I love the Hipstamatic app for my iPhone so much. Perhaps making images with it is more like play than work. When I fell in love with photography it was with the magic of image capture. The technology, the craft, the brain full of details all came later. It was the snapshot that got me hooked, not that five-hour sessions in the studio with complex lighting and large-format cameras.
I sit here in front of my Mac and look at the enticing row of applications on my dock. Bright and alluring, they remind me of my old crayon box. I once had the biggest box of crayons that Crayola made. Even though I loved the idea of so many colors I never, ever used them all—not even close. Mostly, I just liked the *idea* of having so many crayons. Eventually, I'd find a couple crayons that I liked and got to work. The fewer colors I worked with, the better the results seemed to be. Lessons come to us early in life. Perhaps the best way an artist can spark creativity is to establish limits. Sometimes we simply have too many creative choices.
Four days before Thanksgiving it hit me. The traffic was heavier and the drivers more frantic. The left-turn signal to the Safeway had a long line of idling cars, exhaust evaporating into the chilled autumn air. The holidays are here. I don't know anyone who looks forward to that first realization. What should be the loveliest, most peaceful and introspective of seasons has become a frantic dash to the finish line.
The summer brings out just about everyone to the Farmer's Market. But once the light is amber with autumn's gilding the crowd subsides. Between fall and spring the market is owned by the regulars again. It's a lazier, more peaceful time. Parking is easy and elbows are rare.
The Grand Canyon is the most unforgiving of place to be a photographer. One could interpret that in myriad ways. I could write about the monsoon downpours that might short-circuit your camera. Or maybe we could discuss the dust, sand or heat that can also make a mess of your most expensive equipment. Then there are the ledges, cactus and rattlesnakes that seem to be around whenever you are concentrating on what's in the viewfinder. The above-mentioned are critical. Beware of all of them. But, the thing that will *really* ruin your photos (other than a plunge off the canyon's edge) is the impossible dynamic range of light.
