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The George Eastman House is the world's oldest museum dedicated to photography and one of the world's oldest film archives, opened to the public in 1949 in Rochester, New York, USA. World-renowned for its photograph and motion picture archives, the museum is also a leader in film preservation and photograph conservation, educating archivists and conservators from around the world. Home to the Dryden Theatre, a 535-seat repertory theater, the museum is located in and around the house built by George Eastman, the founder of Eastman Kodak Company. The house was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1966.
NRHP Reference#:66000529 213
"yet I never knew
nor ever learned...
her name."
-"Il Nome della Rosa" (The Name of The Rose) by Umberto Eco
I've been hesitant to enter a photo contest lately, but I'm submitting this. Because when i visited the cave, my first impression pointed one my favorite book.
A hidden archive of forbidden books and a blind archivist who guards it.
A labyrinthine of books and knowledge.
Hidden truths.
Heretical delight..
Desire and beauty.
Seduction.
And love.
No one knows the name of the rose yet.
I read that book in Japanese, so I couldn't quote the Italian or english. It's not an exact quote, but it's an homage to the place.
The Empire of Dreaming Books
The George Eastman House is the world's oldest museum dedicated to photography and one of the world's oldest film archives, opened to the public in 1949 in Rochester, New York, USA. World-renowned for its photograph and motion picture archives, the museum is also a leader in film preservation and photograph conservation, educating archivists and conservators from around the world. Home to the Dryden Theatre, a 535-seat repertory theater, the museum is located in and around the house built by George Eastman, the founder of Eastman Kodak Company. The house was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1966.
NRHP Reference#:66000529 208
The George Eastman House is the world's oldest museum dedicated to photography and one of the world's oldest film archives, opened to the public in 1949 in Rochester, New York, USA. World-renowned for its photograph and motion picture archives, the museum is also a leader in film preservation and photograph conservation, educating archivists and conservators from around the world. Home to the Dryden Theatre, a 535-seat repertory theater, the museum is located in and around the house built by George Eastman, the founder of Eastman Kodak Company. The house was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1966.
NRHP Reference#:66000529 175
"Solar compression", 2016
- palazzo Strozzi, Firenze; mostra "Nel tuo tempo"
-
The works of artist Olafur Eliasson explore the relevance of art in the world at large. Born in 1967, Eliasson grew up in Iceland and Denmark, where he studied from 1989 to 1995 at the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts. In 1995, he moved to Berlin and founded Studio Olafur Eliasson, which today comprises a large team of craftsmen, architects, archivists, researchers, administrators, cooks, programmers, art historians, and specialised technicians.
The room was dark and filled with memories of all kinds that he had gathered over the years. They were found here and there on the floor, hung on walls or simply displayed on high shelves. Some of them became insignificant, but were piled up proudly in such a way that would make the Pisa Tower blush.
The important things though, they were displayed like trophies bathed in light on wood stands. Their owner, he gave special attention to them and made sure to dust them off as often as possible. He loved these relics dearly and took very good care of them. He would observe them with the highest scrutiny - bent over each and every one of these precious artifacts from his past, hands joined behind his back, his chin hovered above them. He took such pleasure as he looked at these souvenirs up close, his round glasses rested on the tip of his nose as he tried to accurately recall each sensation the memory brought back to him. The emotions, the laughter, the frivolity, but also the sadness, the sorrow and the pain.
" - One has to look very closely into the past to understand where the future is taking them, doesn't it ?" he whispered to his treasures in a low, playful tone - always aware that no answer would ever be heard.
This text is an abstract of a beautiful long story written by Lya Seerose and translated from French by Oceane and myself.
The whole story shows how the future and present is incredibly positive and beautiful as long as you reflect on the past, not with regrets or negativity but by embracing each an every souvenir and decision. May it be pain, sadness or joy, they all design your present moves and the ones to come.
I can't thank her enough for her amazing insight, a very mature and positive outlook at life. We need more people like her around to spread the light...
A huge thank you to you Lya for picking THE perfect song for this picture taken months ago now...
Listen to Unforgettable
---
Note :
Remember to press L to display the image in full screen.
All the poses used in my pictures are made from scratch
No AI used
Stopped by Contraption to chat with fellow Archivist, Kortyr Oovmakyhm to dicuss Scared Scrolls, Szystrumites and time spent at the last Fantasy Faire @ SZYSTRUM SYNOD by Walton Wainwright. Iam Eldritch Synod on the left and Kortyr on the right.
Contraption LM maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Contraption/119/67/119
The Mapmaker’s Song
The mapmaker downed his tools.
I’ve caught it, every alley, every street,
every fanlight and window-ledge,
the city fixed and framed.
Now I want everything else.
I want to be a historian of footsteps,
a cartographer of hemlines and eyelids,
I want to catch what the pavements say
when they sing to each other
in their deep laboratories, plotting
every journey since the place began.
I want the whole
unlosable database, the repeating place,
kings stalking the server farms,
tailbacks and looped alarms,
I want to be where
brushstrokes flicker on a bank of screens,
where graveyards tilt
and quiet populations crowd the air,
their quarters risen again
their furniture
smashing through the floors.
I want to stand at the centre
of a great clutter
mapping ashes, mapping bones,
archivist, enumerator, hanger-on
signing the returns
of an infinite census.
I want to be,
beyond everything I’ve reached or drawn,
not much at all, or all there is,
a geographer of breath,
a curator of hands.
I want to lie in the atrium
of the museum of the fingertip
and touch, touch, touch.
Peter Sirr
The Mapmaker’s Song
The mapmaker downed his tools.
I’ve caught it, every alley, every street,
every fanlight and window-ledge,
the city fixed and framed.
Now I want everything else.
I want to be a historian of footsteps,
a cartographer of hemlines and eyelids,
I want to catch what the pavements say
when they sing to each other
in their deep laboratories, plotting
every journey since the place began.
I want the whole
unlosable database, the repeating place,
kings stalking the server farms,
tailbacks and looped alarms,
I want to be where
brushstrokes flicker on a bank of screens,
where graveyards tilt
and quiet populations crowd the air,
their quarters risen again
their furniture
smashing through the floors.
I want to stand at the centre
of a great clutter
mapping ashes, mapping bones,
archivist, enumerator, hanger-on
signing the returns
of an infinite census.
I want to be,
beyond everything I’ve reached or drawn,
not much at all, or all there is,
a geographer of breath,
a curator of hands.
I want to lie in the atrium
of the museum of the fingertip
and touch, touch, touch.
Peter Sirr
This view from Eucott hill looks over the bed of what was once a glacial lake. Sandwiched between the mudstones and siltstones of the Skiddaw slates which make up the mountains in this picture and the limestones to the rear of the photographer are the Eycott volcanic rocks, intrusions resulting from continents moving together. The landscape around Eycott show these numerous lava flows overlapping each other. This is a nationally important geological area and rather beautiful.
John Rodgers has a very good U Tube film about the area, well worth watching.
Place name. Oak woodland - Viking - Aiket . With thanks to a very persistent John Gorrill who tracked it down after lots of intelligent detective work in the archivist's office. Thanks John.
This is the cemetery that I drove nearly 500 miles to see. According to FindaGrave over 50 Gilmours are buried here. My geneaology research has not found 50 Gilmours tin total before
I discovered Stone Church. Many thanks to the Union College Archivist for giving me the clues I needed. The old cemetery at Stone Church was established in 1835. In total the cemetery has over 400 graves. Many of the stones are badly covered with lichen and other growths causing them to become illegible. I did find many Gilmours including my 4th great grandparents and Arthur Gilmour Jr who immigrated about the same time as my 4GG parents. Relationship of the families to be determined.
an old photo from the archives
.
Fotoblur + Facebook + Twitter + 9876543210
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© Jon Downs 2013 All Rights Reserved
The Mapmaker’s Song
The mapmaker downed his tools.
I’ve caught it, every alley, every street,
every fanlight and window-ledge,
the city fixed and framed.
Now I want everything else.
I want to be a historian of footsteps,
a cartographer of hemlines and eyelids,
I want to catch what the pavements say
when they sing to each other
in their deep laboratories, plotting
every journey since the place began.
I want the whole
unlosable database, the repeating place,
kings stalking the server farms,
tailbacks and looped alarms,
I want to be where
brushstrokes flicker on a bank of screens,
where graveyards tilt
and quiet populations crowd the air,
their quarters risen again
their furniture
smashing through the floors.
I want to stand at the centre
of a great clutter
mapping ashes, mapping bones,
archivist, enumerator, hanger-on
signing the returns
of an infinite census.
I want to be,
beyond everything I’ve reached or drawn,
not much at all, or all there is,
a geographer of breath,
a curator of hands.
I want to lie in the atrium
of the museum of the fingertip
and touch, touch, touch.
Peter Sirr
Jake Barnes, protagonista de la novela ‘The Sun Also Rises/Fiesta’, da un paseo por la ciudad el primer día de su estancia en Pamplona. “Me acerqué hasta el Ayuntamiento y encontré allí al viejo caballero que todos los años me vende el abono para los toros. Era el archivero municipal. Su despacho tenía una recia puerta de madera y otra forrada de grueso paño verde. Al salir lo dejé sentado entre los archivos que cubrían de arriba abajo las paredes y cerré ambas puertas”.
El actual Ayuntamiento se inauguró en el año 1953 (conserva la fachada barroca del anterior edificio de 1760) y se levantó sobre el solar de la primera casa consistorial, que simbolizó la unión de los tres burgos en los que se dividía Pamplona (Navarrería, San Cernin y San Nicolás) y que hasta 1423 mantenían continuos enfrentamientos y sangrientas disputas. Los tres limaron sus asperezas tras el Privilegio de la Unión emitido en el año 1423 por el rey Carlos III el Noble. Aquel acuerdo se plasmó en la construcción de un único Ayuntamiento en terrenos que no pertenecían a ninguno de los burgos y que servían de separación entre ellos.
“Seguimos hasta pasar el Ayuntamiento, de cuyos balcones colgaban los reposteros”. La puerta principal del Ayuntamiento de Pamplona está flanqueada por dos esculturas alegóricas barrocas que representan la prudencia (que sujeta en la mano un espejo y una serpiente) y la justicia (que sostiene en sus manos una balanza y la espada y su guarda). En el tejado contemplan la plaza dos Hércules con sus mazas al hombro y, en la cúspide, una alegoría de la fama tocando una trompeta.
www.pamplona.es/turismo/ayuntamientoyplazaconsistorial
Jake Barnes, the protagonist of the novel 'The Sun Also Rises/Fiesta', takes a stroll through the city on the first day of his stay in Pamplona. "I went up to the Town Hall and met the old gentleman who sells me my season tickets for the bullfights every year. He was the municipal archivist. His office had a stout wooden door and another door lined with thick green cloth. When I left, I left him sitting between the files that covered the walls from top to bottom and closed both doors".
The current Town Hall was inaugurated in 1953 (it preserves the Baroque façade of the previous building dating from 1760) and was built on the site of the first Town Hall, which symbolised the union of the three boroughs into which Pamplona was divided (Navarrería, San Cernin and San Nicolás) and which until 1423 were in continuous confrontation and bloody disputes. The three of them ironed out their differences following the Privilege of the Union issued in 1423 by King Carlos III the Noble. That agreement took the form of the construction of a single Town Hall on land that did not belong to any of the burghs and which served as a separation between them.
"We continued past the Town Hall, from whose balconies the reposteros hung". The main door of Pamplona City Hall is flanked by two allegorical Baroque sculptures representing prudence (holding a mirror and a snake in her hand) and justice (holding a scale and a sword and its guard). On the roof overlooking the square are two Hercules with their maces on their shoulders and, at the top, an allegory of fame playing a trumpet.
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)
Ƈяєɗιт
8F8 @equal10
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Art of Butteflies
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Butterflies 1 Anti-Clockwise
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Butterflies 1 Clockwise 1
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Butterflies 2 Anti-Clockwise
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Butterflies 2 Clockwise
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Butterflies 3 Anti-Clockwise
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Butterflies 3 Clockwise
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Butterflies 4 Clockwise
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Butterflies 5 Anti-Clockwise
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Butterflies 5 Clockwise
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Calm Luminescence
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Curated Canvas 2m END LEFT
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Eternal Bloom Cabinet FP
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Golden Glow
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Kindred Wings
8f8 - Butterfly Atelier - Table of Tales
@equal10
Cowbuild - Blanche - Ceramic Polar Bear
Cowbuild - Blanche - Coffee Table
Cowbuild - Blanche - End Table
Cowbuild - Blanche - Fireplace L
Cowbuild - Blanche - Media Console
Cowbuild - Blanche - Plush Dog
Cowbuild - Blanche - Popcorn Bowl
Cowbuild - Blanche - Portable Fireplace
Cowbuild - Blanche - Rug
Cowbuild - Blanche - Sectional Sofa Curve PG
Cowbuild - Blanche - Sectional Sofa Double PG
Cowbuild - Blanche - Sectional Sofa Solo PG
Cowbuild - Blanche - Table Book
Cowbuild - Blanche - Table Top Plant
Cowbuild - Blanche - Table Top Tree
Cowbuild - Blanche - Throw Blanket
Cowbuild - Blanche - Throw Pillows
@equal10
Theory . Wendral . Archivist's Trunks
Theory . Wendral . Ballfoot Stool
Theory . Wendral . Bokhara Revival Rug (Biscotti)
Theory . Wendral . Entry Catch-All
Theory . Wendral . Etiquette Bell
Theory . Wendral . Gentleman's Ledger (Taupe)
Theory . Wendral . Heritage Canes
Theory . Wendral . Meridian Sconce
Theory . Wendral . Parfum Candle
Theory . Wendral . Parlor Console
Theory . Wendral . Scalloped Botanical Study
Theory . Wendral . Study Lamp
Theory . Wendral . Upholstered Armchair (ADULT)
@Collabor88
BROKEN ARROWS - Sienna Entryway - Light Plant - Light
BROKEN ARROWS - Sienna Entryway - Varnished Wood
Trompe Loeil Mainstore - Adza Modern Cabin @Collabor88
Hisa
HISA - Snow Mound 1
HISA - Snow Pile 1
HISA - Snow Pile Side 2
HISA - Winter Grass
HISA - Winter Grass with shrubbery
HISA - Winter bush 1
HISA - Winter bush 2
HISA - Winter bush 4
{moss&mink} Festive Mirror
{moss&mink} Golden Confetti
{moss&mink} Golden Winter Acorn Jug
{moss&mink} Golden Winter Cloche
{moss&mink} Golden Winter Deer (Sitting)
{moss&mink} Golden Winter Deer (Standing)
{moss&mink} Golden Winter Felt Tree (A)
{moss&mink} Golden Winter Felt Tree (B)
{moss&mink} Golden Winter Tapestry (A)
{moss&mink} Golden Winter Tapestry (B)
{moss&mink} Mega Baubles - G
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Inspiration is limitless; found anywhere, and at any moment, striking like a gong or a whisper.
archivist's note: while all copies of the film were lost in a warehouse fire, various stills remain, alongside portions of the script and the director's notes. The actors in the film remain unknown and have never stepped forward to be identified.
The Archivist's body finally moved, and as it did a whispering exhale of what sounded like a moan echoed through the room, coming from behind the body that approached the vinyl and stopped it from playing, the source of sound seemingly coming from the bones shaping the back of the body "Be the shepherd to the new flock, as once you were part of someone else's flock. Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. This motion cannot be stopped, should not be stopped, and will never cease. Your existence is like this record, an endless loop of actions and reactions, meetings and memories, emotions and occurrences. Your moves define what comes next and echo in the path left behind. I know you possess the capability to reform a mind, to open it to the acceptance of what is to come."
High on Cedar Mountain above Cody stands the buffalo statue that symbolizes Buffalo Bill’s wish to be buried here overlooking his town. Buffalo Bill Cody died on January 10, 1917 in Denver Colorado and his wife had him buried on a mountain overlooking nearby Golden, Colorado. Gifted to Cody in 1968 by the City of Golden, the buffalo statue was flown to the summit of Cedar Mountain by a Husky Oil helicopter. Since then, the statue endured decades of abuse—gunshots, missing ears and tail, and even a mysterious coat of white paint.
This year, a team of local volunteers fully restored the buffalo and dedicated the project to Jeremy Johnson, beloved historian and former curator of the Buffalo Bill Museum. Johnson was also President Of The Park County Historical Society at the time of his death last year.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
How easily some slip into those liminal spaces--the moment between dusk and dark, the breathless seconds between leaving one road and taking the next.
archivist's note: while all copies of the film were lost in a warehouse fire, various stills remain, alongside portions of the script and the director's notes. The actors in the film remain unknown and have never stepped forward to be identified.
It rained again, a drizzle followed by .50 inches in an hour just as I was about to find something recent, but not too much of a duplicate. So, I asked my Acorn Woodpecker archivist to search in the archives (between the two shingles on the chicken coop circa 1906 at the ranch. We'll see what he digs up for Friday. Meanwhile, enjoy him for his own sake. Looks a bit like an Oxford Don with a cardinal's cap... I've got to stop watching English mysteries, all of which take place in Oxford or Cambridge.
There is no such thing as a "dated" Acorn Woodpecker. They age gracefully and always make me smile (especially when I can find a caption, and with these CHARACTERS, that's usually easy).
The Mapmaker’s Song
The mapmaker downed his tools.
I’ve caught it, every alley, every street,
every fanlight and window-ledge,
the city fixed and framed.
Now I want everything else.
I want to be a historian of footsteps,
a cartographer of hemlines and eyelids,
I want to catch what the pavements say
when they sing to each other
in their deep laboratories, plotting
every journey since the place began.
I want the whole
unlosable database, the repeating place,
kings stalking the server farms,
tailbacks and looped alarms,
I want to be where
brushstrokes flicker on a bank of screens,
where graveyards tilt
and quiet populations crowd the air,
their quarters risen again
their furniture
smashing through the floors.
I want to stand at the centre
of a great clutter
mapping ashes, mapping bones,
archivist, enumerator, hanger-on
signing the returns
of an infinite census.
I want to be,
beyond everything I’ve reached or drawn,
not much at all, or all there is,
a geographer of breath,
a curator of hands.
I want to lie in the atrium
of the museum of the fingertip
and touch, touch, touch.
Peter Sirr
The Mapmaker’s Song
The mapmaker downed his tools.
I’ve caught it, every alley, every street,
every fanlight and window-ledge,
the city fixed and framed.
Now I want everything else.
I want to be a historian of footsteps,
a cartographer of hemlines and eyelids,
I want to catch what the pavements say
when they sing to each other
in their deep laboratories, plotting
every journey since the place began.
I want the whole
unlosable database, the repeating place,
kings stalking the server farms,
tailbacks and looped alarms,
I want to be where
brushstrokes flicker on a bank of screens,
where graveyards tilt
and quiet populations crowd the air,
their quarters risen again
their furniture
smashing through the floors.
I want to stand at the centre
of a great clutter
mapping ashes, mapping bones,
archivist, enumerator, hanger-on
signing the returns
of an infinite census.
I want to be,
beyond everything I’ve reached or drawn,
not much at all, or all there is,
a geographer of breath,
a curator of hands.
I want to lie in the atrium
of the museum of the fingertip
and touch, touch, touch.
Peter Sirr
The Mapmaker’s Song
The mapmaker downed his tools.
I’ve caught it, every alley, every street,
every fanlight and window-ledge,
the city fixed and framed.
Now I want everything else.
I want to be a historian of footsteps,
a cartographer of hemlines and eyelids,
I want to catch what the pavements say
when they sing to each other
in their deep laboratories, plotting
every journey since the place began.
I want the whole
unlosable database, the repeating place,
kings stalking the server farms,
tailbacks and looped alarms,
I want to be where
brushstrokes flicker on a bank of screens,
where graveyards tilt
and quiet populations crowd the air,
their quarters risen again
their furniture
smashing through the floors.
I want to stand at the centre
of a great clutter
mapping ashes, mapping bones,
archivist, enumerator, hanger-on
signing the returns
of an infinite census.
I want to be,
beyond everything I’ve reached or drawn,
not much at all, or all there is,
a geographer of breath,
a curator of hands.
I want to lie in the atrium
of the museum of the fingertip
and touch, touch, touch.
Peter Sirr
I had this finished for so long, but never managed to take any good pics. this is like, I dunno, the third or fourth edit I've done.
Some drone dude with a staff. becourse there can never be enough drone dudes with staffs.
Athenaeum Arcana (Beq Janus)
Legends tell of a grand library, hidden between our worlds; of archivists and adventurers dedicated to saving the stories that we weave; of vast dimensional portals tearing through the very fabric of reality; and of how at its height, through folly or foul play, it was destroyed. Now, for those lucky few that know how to find it, the once great Athenaeum stands frozen in time at the very moment of destruction. A crossroads between realities, the wildest most incredible bazaar any world has ever seen.
SIM SPONSOR
~Jeanette’s Joint~
The George Eastman House is the world's oldest museum dedicated to photography and one of the world's oldest film archives, opened to the public in 1949 in Rochester, New York, USA. World-renowned for its photograph and motion picture archives, the museum is also a leader in film preservation and photograph conservation, educating archivists and conservators from around the world. Home to the Dryden Theatre, a 535-seat repertory theater, the museum is located in and around the house built by George Eastman, the founder of Eastman Kodak Company. The house was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1966.
NRHP Reference#:66000529 235
I almost never do photography in the harsh morning light; this is a clear exception. I got this shot at 9:55 am, according to the EXIF, while waiting to make an interview with an archivist at a museum nearby.
Excerpt from archivist.kr:
Button (Even Life) is a metaphorical work with buttons as its subject among the object works. It is a series of sculptures in Seosomun-dong, and it recognizes the button circle as life, and metaphorically expresses the people living different lives by making each button different. 'Even Life' contains the meaning of living a positive, bright life of helping and relying on each other, rather than an anxious and unstable life of odd numbers.
The Mapmaker’s Song
The mapmaker downed his tools.
I’ve caught it, every alley, every street,
every fanlight and window-ledge,
the city fixed and framed.
Now I want everything else.
I want to be a historian of footsteps,
a cartographer of hemlines and eyelids,
I want to catch what the pavements say
when they sing to each other
in their deep laboratories, plotting
every journey since the place began.
I want the whole
unlosable database, the repeating place,
kings stalking the server farms,
tailbacks and looped alarms,
I want to be where
brushstrokes flicker on a bank of screens,
where graveyards tilt
and quiet populations crowd the air,
their quarters risen again
their furniture
smashing through the floors.
I want to stand at the centre
of a great clutter
mapping ashes, mapping bones,
archivist, enumerator, hanger-on
signing the returns
of an infinite census.
I want to be,
beyond everything I’ve reached or drawn,
not much at all, or all there is,
a geographer of breath,
a curator of hands.
I want to lie in the atrium
of the museum of the fingertip
and touch, touch, touch.
Peter Sirr
UNNAMED GIRL (V.O.)
She still laughed at things that made her uncomfortable. I almost envied her naiveté...
archivist's note: while all copies of the film were lost in a warehouse fire, various stills remain, alongside portions of the script and the director's notes. The actors in the film remain unknown and have never stepped forward to be identified.
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ㅤㅤ• Wendral Ballfoot Stool
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▸ Ｊｏｉｎ ｕｓ ｏｎ Ｙｏｕｔｕｂｅ
"Once a baron suspected of treason and beheaded, the Archivist's name and past beyond the events of his death have been struck from the very archives he guards. The King replaced his discarded head with a burning torch to light his way in the winding maze of massive bookshelves."
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Not bad for a first foray into major editing instead of just touch-ups!
Excerpt from the plaque:
This is the house where modern Korean painter Bae Ryeom (1911-1968) lived from 1959 until his death. Previously, Korea's first archivist, Song Seok-ha (1904-1948), lived in this house and used it as an office of the Korean Folklore Society. It is believed to have been built in 1936. Today, Bae Ryeom's house is a public venue for art and culture events.
Mass Effect Legendary Edition
Photomode
Nvidia DSR - 1440p via .ini edit + AspectRatioComp & Crop
ReShade 4.9.1
One single long exposure. No photoedition : straight out of the camera except for contrast/crop.
Model: Djo Milon
Trigger: Jonathan Gerardy
Light painting session with Océane Bolette, Jonathan Gerardy, Djo Milon, Djo Milon, Gregory Lamouline, valsdarkroom
Manuel da Maia (5 August 1677 – 17 September 1768) was a Portuguese architect, engineer, and archivist. Maia is primarily remembered for his leadership in the reconstruction efforts following the 1755 Lisbon earthquake.
- Lisbon, Portugal -
Got this fine sunset by the railroad tracks in my hometown. A lot of sunsets and no blue hours this summer, as I have to sleep early. I love being an archivist, but being away for 13 hours a day has its drawbacks.
Now available at Fantasy Faire 2023!
Landmark: maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Sialdor/218/36/79
The Archivist's Grimoire is the best way to get around to all your favorite haunts. This magical book acts as a teleport hub to all of your favorite crypts. The book comes with a HUD that has six cover options in both silver and gold as well as a button to change the magic color. These HUDs are unique to the parchment version and the dark pages version. This book is 3 land impact at offered size and has custom LODs. We have NOT tested resizing this book and cannot guarantee it and the animations will still fit/function as intended if you try to resize it.
This teleporting book requires the Quills & Curiosities experience to operate which can be added via the land tab by land owners. Please read the included notecard for info. Add your own custom landmarks to the contents! A demo is available at the store in Sialdor!
from the Mieczyslaw Madaj collection; Madaj was archivist for the Archdiocese of Chicago from 1968 to 1986.
I've decided to pause the recent theme and hop across the Norwegian Sea. Too much of a good thing and all that. Recently I've been fully occupied, catching up with the world after three successive autumn jaunts that started on the last day of balmy August and finished just before the arrival of November’s cold embrace. There hasn't been much time to work on any more pictures recently, besides which my computer is buried under a pile of stuff that's been moved into the office while we redecorate the living room. Don't ask. I really don't like DIY. Although apparently it's my fault; the uncomfortable side effect of a successful two year campaign to have a wood burning stove installed. At least we won't freeze this winter for a change.
So hopefully you'll understand and not be too disappointed by the fact that I've been rummaging through the filing cabinets to try and find an image worthy of your attention. To be honest the archivist could have dug out something from trips to Menorca, Madeira, Lanzarote, Fuerteventura, Gran Canaria, North Wales, South Wales, The Peak District, Zakynthos, Ireland, Dartmoor, Dartmoor again, The South Hams, Dorset, The New Forest, Exmoor, Dartmoor one more time, or Somerset. Never mind Iceland. As random a selection as are my excuses for all of this procrastination, and all from adventures over the past four or five years where I haven't finished what I started. In some cases I've barely got off the ground in fact. And I've just come back from Rhodes with a surprising number of stories almost bursting out of the pipeline. During that period, only the episodes in Scotland last year and a very limited output from Egypt at the start of this one in January are complete. More or less they are anyway. It's all getting a bit much now really. I worked out recently that I could probably upload two posts a week for a year and a half without writing another word, taking another picture, or putting another gallon of diesel in the car. I could manage almost three of those eighteen months regaling you with tales from the two journeys around Iceland alone. The last of those was more than three years ago. Of course it won't be happening because going out with the camera and covering a blank sheet with a literary rabbit run of meandering nonsense are the fun bits aren't they?
We'll return to Norway soon, but for now let's pay a visit to the Icelandic trolls at Reynisfjara and a shot from even further back in time, more than six years and two camera bodies ago. At least I’ve kept things Nordic for now. I was with Lee - you remember him don't you? - recently dumped in favour of Steve, although he may be back in pole position again soon as we plan the next caper at a top secret location to be announced later in the winter. Lee and I were in Vik you see, lounging about in the open air geothermal swimming pool, the warmest one of course. Forty degrees centigrade. Lovely. Just what was needed after a long drive west from the ice beach at Jokulsarlon. We'd been living in a yellow VW camper called Brian for five days without access to the appropriate facilities and were beginning to hum a bit by the time we rolled into the small south coast oasis. And as we chattered on about the adventure so far and what was still ahead of us waiting to be photographed, we faced towards the west, where the view was completely taken up by the hulking eminence of Reynisfjall. A quick jump into the ice barrel, a much longer visit to the sauna and a lazy flop back into the pool later, and the big lump of land was still where our eyes had left it. “Well I suppose we should go and climb it then!” one of us probably said. Better have another shower first. It might just be the last one until we were back home in Cornwall.
An hour later and Brian was parked by the last house in town, as far up the road that led to the start of the trail as possible. It wasn't a long hike to the top but it was steep enough to shut us up for a while. And it was a good job that we were clean and fragrant at last, because as we hyperventilated our way up the slope we met a flaxen haired beauty who smiled like a fairytale princess as she floated past; a vision in brightly coloured lycra and running shoes. If she'd approached us a couple of hours earlier the smile might have been something more like a grimace. We giggled like schoolboys, from somewhere summoning up a fresh burst of life as we marched to the top, arriving on a broad plateau that hung like a hidden world in the clouds above the North Atlantic.
Of course there was a plan. You’d hope there might be a good reason for yomping up the side of a ruddy great hill, and this was all about the bathing trolls and a slightly different point of view. Of course we had every intention of photographing them from all the usual places, but while we were here, why not have a look at them from the top? And so we reached the point where the famous sea stacks were directly beneath us, at which point we crept towards the precipice above the secret beach, cameras mounted on tripods and pointing straight down towards the sea eleven hundred feet below. I posted an image here a few months later and thought I was done. But what I’d forgotten until much more recently was that a while before this I’d chanced across another vantage point towards the west side of Reynisfjall from which to photograph the bathing trolls. Why did I never share this image before? Don’t ask, because I really have no idea. Blame it on the backlog if you like.
As I sit here writing this tale I’m wondering what else I missed from this trip. Dare I rattle that filing cabinet again and add yet more to the pile?