View allAll Photos Tagged Introspective
the sun sets.
but tomorrow it is reborn.
(Ok, so I am using my photography as a way to psych myself up. It's my therapy so just go with it. I promise to be happy go lucky Heather in a day or two...or three. Introspective Heather is just here for a visit.)
it's difficult, but so important.
Currently sitting at the airport, waiting to board the flight that takes me home. I haven't been around so much lately—been posting and running off to focus on some other things. I am, however, looking forward to some new inspiration, and would very much like to see what you flickr folks are all up to. I have recently been feeling very introspective, and am looking forward to posting some words and images on the blog in the near future. I will keep you posted. For now… may your week be off to the right kind of start.
I'm changing gears a bit tonight from my "Autumn" posts. This was taken at Upper Antelope Canyon in Page, Az.
What has drawn me to this shot is that there is a piece of sandstone that is broken.. I suppose it reminds me of myself at times. Yeah, I have been in a introspective mood recently, I suppose I've been doing some soul searching to get my center back as I come out of a long funk. For those that know, nope, no change...but all is okay as I have a wonderful son who fills me with love, and I have good friends. I cannot ask for more. :-)
..luego del dolor, sólo queda una ascención
introspectiva, estelar...
.. After the pain, remains only an introspective
asension, stellar...
Asist: Mi amigo Mirko
The inside of the Sagrada Familia from Antoni Gaudi is incredible. The light and colors, the height and architecture is overwhelming. I have been inside for four hours. The light was falling on the faces of the visitors and I made some Photos of them. Very much Asian people with smart phones as their witnesses for history. This young man was sitting there soo isolated, looking soo introspective, perhaps sad. Hope youl feel connected with him, especially in relation with the photo I place tomorrow...
through the columns of the city, where voices fade and thoughts linger, he sits. headphones draped around his neck, yet no music plays — it’s the pause between the beats that resonate. the light catches his face, but it’s the shadow that tells the story. i asked for a photo, and he offered stillness in return.
*366 photos for the 20's 01/03*
this year I will try to choose one photo a day for this pseudo-project, no matter the motive, style, colour or technique. encouraging myself to shoot everyday, even if I can't go outside.
Black Grape
CD :
Ellsworth Kelly
Introspective
Parlophone
2017
Postcard :
Pet Shop Boys
Spectrum IV
Oil On Canvas
1967
Use Hearing Protection
GMA
Santa Chiara is a religious complex in Naples, Italy, that includes the Church of Santa Chiara, a monastery, tombs and an archeological museum. The Basilica church of Santa Chiara faces Via Benedetto Croce, which is the easternmost leg of Via Spaccanapoli. The church facade of Santa Chiara is diagonally across from the church of Gesù Nuovo.
The double monastic complex was built in 1313–1340 by Queen Sancha of Majorca and her husband King Robert of Naples, who is also buried in the complex. The original church was in traditional Provençal-Gothic style, but was decorated in the 17th century in Baroque style by Domenico Antonio Vaccaro. After the edifice was partially destroyed by a fire after the Allied bombings during World War II, it was brought back to the alleged original state by a disputed restoration, which was completed in 1953.
Famous is the cloister of the Clarisses, transformed in 1742 by Domenico Antonio Vaccaro with the unique addition of majolica tiles in Rococò style. The brash color floral decoration makes this cloister, with octagonal columns in pergola-like structure, likely unique and would seem to clash with the introspective world of cloistered nuns. The cloister arcades are also decorated by frescoes, now much degraded. (Wikipedia)
Non ricordava più da quanto tempo fissava l’orizzonte.
Forse un’ora. Forse dieci anni.
Da quando i segnali si erano spenti e le strade avevano smesso di condurre da qualche parte, il tempo aveva smesso di avere un senso.
Alle sue spalle: rovine e silenzi.
Davanti, un mare torvo, senza navi.
Non c’erano più porti, né rotte. Solo la sensazione che qualcosa, là fuori, lo stesse cercando.
O forse lo aveva già trovato.
---------------------------------------
He couldn’t remember how long he’d been staring at the horizon.
An hour, maybe. Or ten years.
Ever since the signals had gone dark and roads had stopped leading anywhere,
time had stopped making sense.
Behind him: ruins and silence.
Ahead, a sullen sea, empty of ships.
There were no more harbors, no more routes.
Only the feeling that something, out there,
was looking for him.
Or maybe it had already found him.
This image portrays a woman with flowing hair, dressed in white, sitting on a rock as she gazes silently toward a massive full moon. Her back is turned, and her face remains hidden, enhancing the introspective and contemplative mood of the scene. The moonlight reflects softly on the water in the foreground, while the enormous moon dominates the background with ethereal beauty. The composition evokes solitude, reflection, and a sense of spiritual connection to the natural world or the cosmos.
You can use this image free of charge. The terms of use and the image download are available via the following link: pixabay.com/illustrations/ai-generated-woman-back-view-96...
#AIart #moonlight #fantasyart #nightmood #solitude #spiritualconnection #moonscape #etherealbeauty
I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
- Mary Oliver
I dedicate this graphic to Froggie, ( Frogmuseum2 ). He introduced me to this incredibly beautiful poem by Mary Oliver. The moment I heard it, I knew I wanted to make a graphic with this theme. I began last evening and finished this morning at 6 a.m., with no break in between, because this amazing poem inspired me.
Thank you Froggie.
Here is a link to his wonderful photo stream:
www.flickr.com/photos/39598051@N00/
p.s. Here is a link to the original image I used for the body. It is from Sinned-angel-stock (their deviantart name): www.deviantart.com/deviation/34207715/
The face I made myself in Photoshop, merging various pieces and molded it into just the shape and facial expression that was required for this piece, using the now infamous Liquify tool.
021/365
Around 15 years ago a friend lent me a book called Personality Plus. Being an introspective person, I was fascinated by the descriptions and identification of the different personality types. Understanding more about myself and those around me was, and continues to be, an invaluable tool in my life.
According to the types listed in the book, I easily identified myself as a Melancholic.
So, how does this apply to my 365? It helps me understand and plan for the obstacles that I am going to face during it. For example, being a perfectionist, I often am focused on trying to create the perfect image. If I'm going to produce 365 photos this year, I'm going to have to realize that they aren't all going to perfect...
Camera: Nikon D90 | 35mm (ƒ/1.8G) | ƒ/1.8 | ISO 200 | 1/200s
Strobist: LumoPro LP120 @ 1/32, DIY grid camera left, approx 3' from subject, triggered via Cactus v4's.
Twitter: @ericmmartin
Project 365: A daily collection of photos tagged "project365" on Flickr
That's an Einstein quote. I know I have been a little quotey lately, but I could not possibly say it better than Albert E.
it is introspective Saturday. Check out this post by the very talented futureancient. He has reminded me of important issues and not-so important issues when it comes to photography, and who we are as developing photographers. Definitely read Ansel's reply, as it conveys really eloquently how I feel as well. I have been pondering this through the morning. I think it is really important to consider from time to time why we do what we do, question our motivations, and reconsider how we are interpreting the world and making decisions. That said, I really do believe that things (how we grow and change, how we garner a following, how we shift, how we maintain our sense of self, etc) should develop organically, and that learning to trust ourselves is one of the most difficult and vital things we can do.
So I invite you to cast some light on the matter, share your opinions, or just soak in these issues through your day. Which I hope is full of pleasantness :)
This album's name is dedicated to my favourite game of all time Elder Scrolls Online and race of all time, The Argonians (reptile humanoids). There's a story for you to read below about some of them towards the bottom.
What does Ku Vastei mean? Read below
By Lights-the-Way, Mystic of the Mages Guild
It is hard to describe the culture of my people. Often my tongue stumbles as I try to explain, but it is my hope that ink and quill will give me time enough to gather my thoughts. And perhaps, though such writing, I will finally connect the parts of me that now feel so divided; my homeland of Murkmire and my new life within the Mages Guild.
These journals are to become my ku-vastei. And, as I write that, I can think of no better topic to begin with.
Ku-vastei roughly translates to "the catalyst of needed change," though such a direct translation in no way does justice to the original meaning. Another translation could be "that which creates the needed pathway for change to occur" or even "the spark which ignites the flame which must come into being."
Perhaps a more direct analysis should be first presented. Ku-vastei is a noun, a thing or person. Vastei directly translates to change, an important part of my culture. Ku is harder to speak of. It is that which leads to change, though not that which creates change. An important role, as stagnation is a fate worse than death.
Take a boulder which sits atop a cliff, teetering in place. It must fall eventually. The ku-vastei does not push the boulder off the cliff; rather, it picks the pebble which holds the rock in place. And so it falls, not by a push, but by a pathway cleared.
Ku-vastei is revered, just as change itself is revered, for to look back at what was means to stumble as you move forward. Sometimes, a little push in the right direction is all someone needs to remember such wisdom. Other times, they may need to be shoved.
-------------------------------------
The Gee-Rusleel Tribe
by Emmanubeth Hurrent, the Wayfarers' Society of Wayrest
I've had the privilege to speak to two different Miredancer elders now, and I've learned a great deal from both of these conversations. The "Gee-Rusleel," as they call themselves, are among the most introspective Argonians I've met in my travels. They also tend to be the most pleasant. For all their reclusiveness and wariness, I've never met a people more willing to share a meal or a game of Shells and Stones. They are skilled crafters, with a particular knack for working with Hist amber and egg shells. They are also peerless navigators, guiding their flat-bottom boats effortlessly through the swamp, master weavers, and skilled cartographers.
The most defining characteristic of the Miredancer tribe, however, is piety. This deep reverence for the Hist has earned them the right to name a "Sap-Speaker" for countless generations.
According to the elders I spoke with, the Sap-Speaker is the Hist's direct intermediary. (This is, of course, subject to debate. Many tribes boast unique methods of communion with the Hist. But as far as I have seen, the Miredancers make the most compelling case for the methods they use.) Sap-Speakers often go into seclusion for days or even weeks on end, venturing either down into the roots or high into the canopy of leaves in the uppermost branches. Here, they commune with the Hist. Indeed, the word that one of the elders used was "journey."
These journeys into the Hist tax the Sap-Speakers, but are thoroughly private affairs. After days by themselves, the Sap-Speakers emerge to hide away with old books, scrolls, and tablets. I asked after the purpose of these periods of seclusion, and this is what the elders told me. "The Sap-Speaker enters the embrace of the Hist to learn from the great tree," one elder said. "While in close contact with the roots and branches, the Sap-Speaker receives visions and other forms of communication that neither you nor I would understand."
The other elder continued. "Even the Sap-Speaker finds some of what is shown to be mystifying and confusing. I have heard that a Sap-Speaker is treated to ancient metaphors, arcane secrets, and visions that make little sense to creatures so far removed from sap and pulp." Apparently, the second period of seclusion allows the Sap-Speaker time to reflect on what he or she was shown, as well as time to consult with the ancient writings of Sap-Speakers who came before. After a suitable period of study and reflection, the Sap-Speaker emerges to reveal the Hist's will to the tribe.
I attempted to get more information about what happens while the Sap-Speaker meditates among the roots or branches, but I'm not sure the elders knew much more. They did tell me that the only nourishment the Sap-Speaker receives during these periods of seclusion is provided by the Hist itself in the form of sap, leaves, and the otherwise forbidden fruit of the tree.
There is a price to pay for the gift of Hist communion, however. Ingesting large quantities of Hist sap is a dangerous affair, even for Argonians. Sap-Speakers routinely suffer the effects of sap-poisoning, including "gold tongue" (permanent change of mouth pigmentation to a golden hue), unbidden hallucinations, "bark-scale" (thickening and darkening of surface scales), and other maladies they were reticent to talk about. The current Sap-Speaker, Thumarz, was in seclusion during my visit to the tribal village. I hope to meet him someday. If he's half as wise as the elders I interacted with, I'd no doubt learn a great deal from him.
Despite their deeply religious nature, the Miredancers also seem to have an obsession with games of all types. They are particularly fond of the games Nine-Shells and Shells and Stones, as well as sports such as the popular "teeba-hatsei" (also known as "hip and tail ball.") In addition to lovingly explaining their own games, they wanted to know everything I could tell them about the games we play back in Wayrest. I must admit, their enthusiasm was quite infectious! And I found it highly amusing to watch them try to re-create Deceiver's Bones from the vague description I provided.
The Miredancers are also inveterate gamblers, but they often forget to collect their winnings. Unlike the games of men and mer, Miredancer competitions appear to be completely devoid of malice or injured pride. Victory and defeat seem more like afterthoughts than objectives, due in no small part to their phlegmatic disposition. As in most things, their focus is strictly on the moment—the now. It pains me to leave their village, but I still have many more tribes to study. I doubt any of them will be as fascinating or as friendly as the Miredancers.
["the tribe is not currently in the game but in the world of the game"]
Going walk about.
A trip by bicycle in Australia.
Depicted by David Gulpilil in an Australian classic movie Walkabout, was, a “walkabout”, if you don’t know what it is, that is fine, it is a not so unfamiliar tail despite what the trailer might have you believe. Here is a link to the official trailer, www.bing.com/videos/search?q=walk+about&docid=6034988... please note that the trailer has dated much more than the movie, and that the trailer does not do the movie credit. It is about the test of a young man, that is regardless of origin or race, a story that is universal. In general, it is as some Europeans call it, a bildungsroman. The formative years of an individual’s life that are spiritual in nature. And like a monk’s pilgrimage it works best when you do it alone. Well, at least for a period anyway.
While riding my bicycle around exploring the city I once lived in Melbourne, I met a pair of Austrians or Swedes at the Carlton bar, in Bourke Street, (here is a link to the map, of where to find it www.bing.com/search?pc=W145&q=carlton+bar&form=BW... ). It was somewhere in the nineties. The Carlton, l was informed before l went there, was meant to be a bit of a dive. But despite that, it was a Melbourne institution, as, when everywhere else was closed, you could always go to the Carton. It was an institution that had run down a little around the edges. Financially as drugs took over the neuro stimulus trade, it reduced the ability for a proprietor to sell a beer at a profit. Despite this, the two Austrians, or Swedes, were enjoying their beer in moderation. They were not impressed with me so much; as, and to be specific, with my process of self-destruction, one that l was applying at the time, well, it was the nineties and grunge was a lifestyle, not a genre of music. Despite a few differences they had imparted their tales of their own walk abouts on me.
One was a carpenter; a highly skilled trade, and I would latter go onto find out via a documentary on another European carpenter, about how hard it is to become a carpenter, of actual standing, and, or gain the qualification. He told me that he produced houses with no nails, it seemed like a foreign concept to me. No nails in a roof? He was talking about the frame, and he informed me that the buildings were incredibly strong. I presume that they, the houses he built had to be incredibly strong, to withstand the winds and snow that occur in the mountains of Europe, and his indigenous country.
While broaching the subject of carpenters, it should be said, that, I apologize to European carpenters especially Swedish ones. I am apologizing, for saying in an essay, (an essay that become a part of my bildungsroman), an essay that I failed at university, one that, I stated and to quote, “that although the Swedish flag carried the cross of a carpenter”, as in the cross of Christ, “they had superseded carpenters with Ikea”. I said, and to paraphrase, that, “yes, the Swedes, the Swedes had made carpenters redundant”. It seemed highly ironic on many levels, and the inference was that Christ was, and his people were, no longer required. I was not trying to be crass; l was not trying to be obtuse, it was a real observation, one that l had aligned with an abandonment as far as l could see for some Austrians and Swedish of their heritage. I may be wrong, and to be sincere, l hope l am.
The documentary I watched, talked about carpenters from the region having to leave their homes or areas and work in foreign parts. The travels where no less than as practiced by males of other countries, as would have been exhibited, and or experienced by people like Gulpilil before and after colonization. Like Gulpilil in Walk About, they had to survive, and, or earn a living by themselves. At the beginning of their journey, they would take only rudimentary money, and possessions. Relying on their trade to supply them with all they would need to survive. It seemed no less than a walk about, one that l had heard of, and or learned of through Gulpilil as a child. It showed, and displayed respect, for both teachers, the trade being taught, and the student. It was a measured risk, by those that set the young men on their journeys, and for the young men.
On my journey aided by my bicycle, I met these two young men, they were respectful young gentlemen. One a carpenter, and the second a younger man, informed me was the descendant of a European scientist. A scientist of such standing, that he was on his nations bank notes. I can’t remember what he did for a living, but he seemed to be of money, in a way that the carpenter was not. Despite having studied science, and its history, both in an academic setting, and on my own time, for the life of me, I cannot remember his last name, or if he was Swedish or Austrian exactly. It is something that vexes me to this day. Because where I excel in memory, l have a savant like ability to forget names. I make up for my deficiency in the detail, or an ability to remember, what l am interested in, and to recall what I speak, or spoke about. This type or level of memory recall has its issues. I have joked before that I will not remember your name, but every detail of your life’s history you impart upon me. It has had me labelled weird, not normal, and after having my IQ tested, it is not, nor would l hope, be ever normal.
We spoke about his trip, and his Australian rendezvous, with a young woman, who he knew from Austria, or Sweden. They were to, and did meet, on Australian soil. Like him, she was also on a rite of passage. We spoke about his grandfather the scientist. We spoke of his love for a young woman he hoped to marry, and we spoke of his deep appreciation of her. He described in detail his night with her on a New Year’s Eve, gazing into the southern sky of Australia, a visual not seen in the northern hemisphere. He spoke of his total trust, in the fidelity of their friendship, as they walked different paths, and experienced various times in Australia. He was very decent, and the conversation imparted on me, a respect by a young man for a woman that no other man young or old ever has, it wasn’t despite his innocence, it was because of it. Despite his polite nature, he felt at liberty to correct me on my observations of women. Right or wrong the conversation went stale, I thanked the men for their conversation, and wished them well. I wished them well, for both for their trip around Australia, and on their trip through life.
My observations are that a walkabout for the man who has the talent, i.e., talent enough to be a man, can, and is, a mutual exchange between the areas or countries involved. Like the carpenter l had left home with little money, and while getting an allowance of 25 dollars a week for food and tram tickets, I soon realised early on, after doing some rudimentary accounting, that my mode of transport, would be a poor man’s alternative, that of the bicycle. I bought it, my Japanese Lotus chrome molly Mountain bike, from a man who used to race the Sun tour. I scrounged up the money for it. It was a bike that would last me approximately ten years, before an accident with a car, where l was nearly killed and maimed. My bicycle had given me a freedom from trams, and cars, and although it came with the potential of death, l could at least afford to eat, and have a roof over my head.
It has been said that the area I come from, (Shepparton, Victoria, Australia), that it has produced more than its fair share of world champion level cyclists, of which, I would never be included even closely in the ranks of, due to lack of talent. This was despite passing two young men, a state champion and a future world champion who rode several tour de Frances. I passed them with no hands on the bars, during a race, or during their attack to be more precise. It was a bold move, and it still makes me laugh, it was utterly shameless. The small city and the area had, an amazing history when it comes to cycling. One local even went on to open a hotel in Flanders, Belgium, here is a link for its page flandrienhotel.com/ A hotel dedicated to cycling, and cyclists. He became a masters world champ while at it, he was a bit of an over achiever, to say the least, and it made me wonder why this area had been so productive, in the production of cyclists. I can only really speculate on it, as I looked from the not so distant outside at these brilliant athletes, that changed, or altered the world of cycling forever. Their names etched into cycling immortality, I speculated that like Flanders it was the persistent winds we get here, the great people, the long straight roads, and the close rolling hills. The roads make you into an accustomed sufferer, like all men, as even the hard men of Flanders should be, or outright must be. A right of suffering minus the cobbles, one that enables them to ply their trade, and be considered men. You learned to work, because every corner is 5 to 10 kilometres away, you learned to work as no one gives any quarter as to how good you are, or cares what your reputation is. You learn to work, because being dropped from the peloton, or pack, makes the ride home a sobering process, one of personal introspection, about your abilities, and your capacities as a man, when compared to others. And just like Geppetto, an elderly wood worker who carved himself a boy, a cycling community with many kind and gentle old men produced champions from unlikely wood stock. Imparting on them not just about riding bicycles, but how to do it like a man.
Despite not being such a great cyclist, one area, that I never had much issue with was memory. It has both been a boon, and a mysterious problem for those that have never met me before. It taught me the frailty and fear that some people have, when it comes to others. I recall while speaking to a bar maid at the Carlton hotel, (yes, that was the historical name for her profession), she was an Islander woman from the pacific, and somehow l had managed to distress her. She thought l was stalking her, when I recalled a conversation. A conversation we had had a couple of weeks earlier. I understand now why she felt that way. I, as part of a research program, with one of Australia’s elite universities, had my IQ measured. It was found, that in some respects, of the IQ equivalency test, l could nearly not be accurately measured. One of these areas was memory. In our earlier discussion she spoke to me about her and her partner’s band. I raised it in the conversation we had weeks later, and she asked security to have me removed from the pub saying l was a stalker. It was a disturbing accusation, and I never went back to the pub for years after it. As it turned out, it would not be the last time this scenario would play out. It also happened, when at another pub in Malvern, I spoke to a librarian from a university, we spoke about her dog, and her job, it was quite a cordial conversation. But several weeks later, I spoke to her again, and she could not remember me at all, she did not seem that drunk when I first met her, but she freaked. I had recalled the breed of dog she had; a Labrador cross, I still can. I tried to speak to her about her job as a librarian, because she had seemed quite interesting the first time we had met, but she weirded out. I did not think she was interesting anymore. I realised she was probably a bullet dodged, to use a euphemism. She had become part of my walk about. Part of my walk about, was to be confronted by males and females protecting women with no memories of the conversations they held. It dawned on me that they may have never had a male listen to anything they had ever said. That they had never genuinely, met a man interested in what a woman had to say, let alone recall it weeks later. And like Gulpilil in his iconic movie, I just moved on.
A bicycle is a gift. Using my bike to go on my walk about, enabled me to cover more ground than actual walking. And just like a trade, to do it well, takes skill. As a child, or a new teen going to high school, I would ride 20-kilometre round trips on a new type of bicycle, a mountain bike, to visit friends. People laughed at my bike. A bike that was neither a road bike nor a BMX, yep, l am that old! Some people joke about being older than Google, but as far as mountain bikes go, l am older than them. I now have grey hairs in my beard to prove it, and at around the same time as Google had come about, l had stopped programming. I stopped as my programming career was as successful as my cycling racing. I would, with good reason, never go on to be a professional. But in my bildungsroman of a walk about, my bicycle enabled me to be free. And like all freedom it comes from suffering or work, it is a lesson learnt, and l found it was applicable to all my endeavours, or enterprises in life. I explored and went places that l could never afford to go, because I road there. And although not being in the league of Indian artist PK Mahanandia who when he met Charlotte Von Schedvin, road from India to Europe to find her on a second-hand bicycle, I would go onto find love, and use a bicycle like him to facilitate that love. I would use the education of discipline in life, that l had gained while riding it. I would suffer both physically, and from the broken heart it helped give me. As a result, I seem to be a lot more introspective as l get older, and looking back in hindsight, it was the thing that chiselled a boy into a man.
*366 photos for the 20's 01/30*
this year I will try to choose one photo a day for this pseudo-project, no matter the motive, style, colour or technique. encouraging myself to shoot everyday, even if I can't go outside.
Winter With Earth Tones by Daniel Arrhakis (2019)
With the music :Debussy - Rêverie
For health reasons I have been in Lisbon for several times in recent months. I stay in Odivelas for some time and in this sequence I decided to show some of the sensations that I get with my camera in this city.
This time it was a mannequin in a clothing store whose expression caught my attention, wrapped in earth tones and geometries that pleased me to look!
The expression of peace and somehow introspective combined with all those simple tones, textures and simple but unique geometries.
______________________________________________
A Wonderful Week dear friends !! : )
Il mondo scivolava via dietro di lui, un’impronta dopo l’altra.
Il freddo non lo mordeva più: era diventato parte del paesaggio, come il silenzio.
Ad ogni passo, la neve cancellava il precedente, come se anche lei volesse dimenticarlo.
Nessuna direzione. Nessuna promessa. Solo quella traccia sottile davanti a lui.
Incisa da altri piedi, forse.
O forse era stato lui, in un altro tempo, a lasciarla.
Non c’erano più strade.
Solo bianco, come un foglio ancora da scrivere.
E lui non aveva penna. Ma continuava a camminare.
_______________________
The world slipped away behind him, one footprint at a time.
The cold no longer bit — it had become part of the landscape, like silence.
With each step, the snow erased the last, as if it too wished to forget him.
No direction. No promise. Only that faint trace ahead.
Etched by other feet, perhaps.
Or maybe by him, in another time.
There were no more roads.
Only white — like a page still unwritten.
And he had no pen. But he kept walking.
Explore: 4-2-09 (page 32)
Yellow tulips against a blue-green bokeh background.
And an introspective spring poem:
Short Poem, Deep Reflection
By Don Iannone
What we least suspect, springing
From our unplumbed depths
Mystified, though we shouldn’t be
For from these depths, we are born
And reborn in each moment
In these depths, God resides
Flowing throughout us
No beginning, no end
Starting as unpretentious possibility
Ending, exactly the same
Ongoing exploration of work as I develop a potential series "Introspective Illumination". This project is a deeply personal exploration of mindfulness and self-reflection. It is set against the relentless pace of our hyperconnected society with its incessant urgency and the pervasive challenge of accomplishing more in less time. The project seeks to juxtapose the relentless pursuit for efficiency and productivity with the inherent human need for rest and contemplation.
Lorenzo Lotto (Venice, 1480 - Loreto, 1556/1557) -Portrait of a gentleman (1543-45) (1543-44) - Oil on canvas 115 x 95 cm - Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan
La vicinanza ad altri ritratti del periodo trascorso da Lotto a Treviso – come quello del Gentiluomo con guanti cui l’accomuna l’austera sobrietà – ha fatto proporre una data intorno al 1545; se l’effigiato fosse invece Giovanni Taurini da Montepulciano, vicereggente di Ancona, la cronologia andrebbe spostata al 1551 quando l’artista tornò nelle Marche. L’uomo è raffigurato in piedi secondo la formula introdotta da Tiziano per i ritratti aristocratici ma è caratterizzato dall’espressione introspettiva tipica di Lotto.
This portrait’s kinship with other portraits that Lotto painted while in Treviso (for instance his equally austere, sober Gentleman with Gloves) has prompted scholars to date it c. 1545. But if the sitter is indeed Giovanni Taurini da Montepulciano, the viceregent of Ancona, then the date is more likely to be 1541, when Lotto returned to the Marche. The man is shown standing, a formula introduced by Titian for portraits of the aristocracy, but he also wears the introspective expression typical of Lotto’s work.
"No hay que temer a las sombras. Solo indican que en un lugar cercano resplandece luz. " - Ruth Renkel
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Front page on Explore, 14/12/2009
Explore 6th
The Große Fuge is a single-movement composition for string quartet by Ludwig van Beethoven famous for its extreme technical demands on the players as well as for its unrelentingly introspective nature.
"The Große Fuge is as incomprehensible as Chinese", wrote a critic of the first performance of the work.
(Source: Wikipedia)
More Budapest photos here.
Leica Digilux 3 + Zuiko 50mm f2
Their journey, they saw, had never been about wealth or dominion. These were illusions, skins shed in the tide of existence. What endured was the more profound call, the pursuit of meaning that only life's raw, unadorned connections could offer. Success was transient. Their connection was eternal.
Diana Rudychenko, captured in a striking portrait by @stephanemossephoto. The minimalist setting and upward gaze create a sense of introspection and elegance.
Another great cloud day here in Los Angeles.
This area was total sketchville. Way off the road. Lots of homeless and trash and I had a fare amount of gear. Still, had a blast.
Strobist info: Sun kicker (internal nuclear power) . 580 ex (internal nimh) into umbrella just above eye level and off to camera right.
Looking forward to 2020...
In mid October there was a heavy misty, white fog that settled all over the quiet streets of Brampton. I headed out as soon as the sun came up.ready for an adventure! the nearby fields were thick with the white mist and the low lying areas were completely socked in. As i made my way through the neighbourhood I began taking pictures of what i saw. this shot of a nearby field shrouded in fog; Karen introspectively staring out into the fog... wondering what the future holds for all of us.
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You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you'll discover will be wonderful. What you'll discover is yourself. ~Alan Alda
Ongoing exploration of work as I develop a potential series "Introspective Illumination". This project is a deeply personal exploration of mindfulness and self-reflection. It is set against the relentless pace of our hyperconnected society with its incessant urgency and the pervasive challenge of accomplishing more in less time. The project seeks to juxtapose the relentless pursuit for efficiency and productivity with the inherent human need for rest and contemplation.
On my recent wildflower hike up Ingalls creek close to Leavenworth, an old Johnny Rivers song somehow started playing in my mind and I could not get it out. The song was "Look to Your Soul" on his introspective Realization Album released decades ago, I believe the late 60's. I have not even thought of this song in decades also, but somehow on this trip it moved front and center of my mind for continuous playing. The song is about loosing oneself trying to be something one is not and finding redemption through looking into one's own soul. We can not help but look into our own souls when in such beautiful places like this. With lupines in a meadow between trees, with the steady flow of the river water running right through the core of our being, with a gentle wind caressing our skin, with an impenetrable deep and dark ok to Your Soulforest in the distance-we are in nature, and nature is in us.