Category: Nikon D3s

Some 2,000 Feet Up

The exhilaration of flying in a single-engine airplane does a number of things, the most obvious is that the ground looks so expansive. Terra firma goes on and on into the horizon. Scale and size play with my sense of proportion. What you see on the grounds looks small and yet other things seem larger than they should be. The length of highways, the relative size of cars, trucks and trains look as if they were sectioned off a sizeable display meant to be “an artist’s interpretation” of a grand project years in the making.

The Oxbow on the Connecticut River in Northampton, MA

Traveling 2,000 feet above ground at speeds between 65-80 [kn] knots, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. There are places you know of, but from the air, they take on a different personality.

Somewhere not too far from the airport and still in MA.

Like a jig-saw puzzle on a larger-than-life scale, parcels and tracts of forested land interconnect. All appears as it should [at least through my eyes]. My friend and pilot, MP, knows more about the puzzle laid out below us. And he knows a helluva lot about flying. He’s been a pilot for well over 30 years. I don’t fly and know little of it, and it becomes more than obvious MP is very much in tune with all details pertinent to flying. Knowing weather conditions leading up to “GO” is de rigueur on his pre-flight checklist. It’s quite a checklist to say the least; I’d have to Google the majority of the terms on that lengthy list for obvious reasons.

The French King Bridge connecting Erving and Gill, Massachusetts.

On the ground, I have a better sense of familiar locations, most of which I’ve driven to many times already. From the air, that’s another story. Having a large river coursing across the county helps to some degree. For example, the French King Bridge is a familiar site on the road, even before actually seeing it, but from a small plane, the road looks slightly unfamiliar. Still, there’s no mistaking that beautiful cantilevered bridge.

The Seven Sisters of the Holyoke Range. There are 3 large “hill tops” in the center. Trace the left of the photo to the horizon, and you’ll see the other 4, the furthest one wrapped in a haze, but still visible.

As many of you know, the Seven Sisters are the 7 colleges located in the northeast USA. Since their founding, all are women’s colleges, but for one that went co-ed [The Harvard Annex–now Radcliffe College–is part of the Harvard Radcliffe Institute]. They remain highly regarded and very competitive schools to this day.
The 7 [in order founded] are:
o Mount Holyoke College 1837
o Vassar College 1861
o Wellesley College 1870
o Smith College 1871
o Radcliffe College 1879
o Bryn Mawr College 1885
o Barnard College 1889

Looking south to the towns of Deerfield and Sunderland, Massachusetts
That bridge is the same one in the photo above.
You can see Mt. Sugarloaf left of center.
The observatory atop Mt. Sugarloaf.

Spending about 2 hours in the air was a terrific experience. Knowing MP and the way his plane is maintained, I felt confident and safe in his hands. It was a rare, bright day with a slight on-off breeze, perfect for just about anything. My time at 2,000 feet allowed for some R&R, plenty of “what-have-you-been-doing” conversations, a chance to take some photos and moments to appreciate all that is life, the good and not so good, the rote and the unpredictable.

Hope all your journeys are safe….

…and when that fog does lift…

Observation and interpretation of anything is very subjective though in commercial and advertising work, that which is deemed creative and acceptable are often determined by the art director, sometimes by the account supervisor on behalf of a client. Actually, the person who has the last word is often not the illustrator, photographer, videographer, writer–or in today’s parlance–the content editor. In my experience, the buck stops at the client’s desk….and oddly enough at a desk occupied by someone with a tangential connection to the project, perhaps rare, but it happens. “I think it’s clever, why don’t we run with it?’

Now, if the creators of verse and image are the clients, then the advent of blogs and vlogs have given these clients the control to post final versions of whatever is being created. To have complete creative control is nothing short of invigorating if not self-serving. Being both client and creator is double-edged; not surprisingly, creators can be the hardest of critics, at times being so critical of their own efforts and results that projects crawl to a stop. Paralysis-by-analysis, imposter syndrome, go figure.
So, when your creative fog lifts don’t meander thinking you’ll encounter an epiphany. Yes, at times that does happen when the creative block lifts, and you’re greeted by some nugget of an idea. If you’re the creator and the client, then it’s incumbent upon both personas to look at your product/content with equal scrutiny. Both minds, while driven by other factors, do have a common intersection. Think of 2 circles, one overlapping the other. In that small, shaded area is where the diaspora of sales, marketing, advertising and more are all blended together.

I think of that creative block, that fog, as a layer temporarily covering my creative line-of-sight. It does lift, so be ready.

Cold Light

I am an odd person out. I’m certain I shared this in a previous post, namely that winter, the shorter days, the snow and the cold don’t bother me the way I know it really bothers a lot of other people. However, when freezing rain, relentless winds from the north and sleet show up, doubts perk up about my relationship with winter.
My enjoyment of this season is greatly enhanced by a few other small details: no biting insects, most nasty smells are frozen in place, it’s easier to layer up to stay warm versus shedding attire to get cool. Fireplaces are invaluable for the way they comfort our weary minds and bodies.
And then there’s the light. By late October, shorter days manifest that longing for days that end at 9:30 in the evening, versus 4:15 in the afternoon. But for me on any given day, winter light can be nothing short of amazing [well, to my eyes anyway].

For those enamored with snow, it doesn’t matter how you enjoy it, just as long as you get out to enjoy it. Snowshoes. Boards. Skis [alpine and cross country]. Insulated tie-up boots [aka “moon boots”]. Building snow forts, a snowman/woman/sculpture. Tubes, sleds, and toboggans. They all generate smiles at one time or another.

Even the most ardent worshipper of other seasons can understand why winter can be a favorite. There’s a sense of solitude, even in the busiest of urban environments. Indeed most folks are rushing—as it’s often said—to get out of the cold, to get inside to warm up. And yet there are those who look to get out to be invigorated by the cold air. When it’s cold, it’s only natural that you move to stay warm: motion generates heat and heat consumes calories and the consumption of calories means soothing cups of hot coffee, hot chocolate, hot soup, hot tea among other choices awaiting your selection. Admittedly, it is bliss having such hot consumables balance out the chill at the end of a day. The yin-yang of warm & cold becomes apparent.

A cold drink can bookend a hot summer day just as a hot toddy can on a cold winter day. This radiating cocktail of hot water, lemon, honey and a bit of whiskey is also hydrating, indeed soothing since it’s a drink perfect for sipping.

Cold light, winter light, is especially sharp when it reaches across a landscape as far as you can see. The shadows are longer and details stand out like bas-relief etched into tree trunks. On ski trails, the tendrils left by carving skis add to that dimension of depth, or even height, as if lengths of dark thread randomly lie atop the snow.

Winter’s light—especially later in the day—can feel cathartic and the sun’s warmth enhances this catharsis. A cup of hot chocolate, a banana, a comfy, large Maine Adirondack chair and a pit fire are all good company.

Ghostly

In the past 2 weeks, I’ve been to the office 4-5 times. The building is eerily quiet.  The predominant noise is nothing but white noise. It’s the kind of noise that can set your ears ringing because the sound is so subtle yet ever present—like that of a medical office waiting room with no one else but you sitting there. It’s a solitary existence encapsulated by sounds produced by the HVAC system.
This is all very different. The office tower and the parking garage are like ghost towns.  Prior to this new reality, I’ll see people gathered around, waiting for the elevators, shuffling into one only to find that your stop is after 4 or 6 floors. It’s like the local train versus an express. Regardless of the time of day, there’s no avoiding at least one or two persons involved with an elevator: waiting, stepping in, stepping out and being closely woven in with others, some being inadvertently bumped by a briefcase, a backpack or a lunch bag.

Similarly, once inside the office, this ghostly motif persists in all the spaces. Now, there are signs reminding staff to heed the rules of social distancing and the wearing of masks.  Individual office doors are closed. Open spaces have boundaries defined by 2-inch wide vinyl tape stretched across the floors as well as on the table in the common area.

The common area is perhaps the most ghostly of areas. Here on the first Friday of each month, our president would buy everyone lunch. Typically standing room once the seats were taken. It was a chance, albeit brief, to talk about life beyond business matters. It gave each of us a chance to kid around, make each other laugh, to feel, well, connected and relevant.

Like a dreamlike narrative in a Dickens or Bronte novel, what remains now is what you see. And what you hear, is the odd hum of the fluorescent lamps and the HVAC system.

 

 

April 1, 2020

A good friend sent a text message saying that today—as a way of expressing our gratitude to first responders and healthcare workers—we should set some candles in front of our homes, and light them at 7:00 pm.

I know several healthcare professionals. Two couples are close friends. They’re bon vivants, emphasis on ‘bon’; we enjoy dining out [or in] to catch up, laugh, share and wonder about the vicissitudes that have changed the way we live, think, feel and behave.  The friendships run so deep they’re essentially family.  Actually, any one of these friends could take the place of a hundred bad relatives and acquaintances.

Three of the healthcare professionals on my roster are family. There’s my sister-in-law, an office administrator who works in a practice made up of general practitioners and hospitalists; my brother, an educator and primary care M.D., is up to his eyeballs in northern New Jersey; and my father, a retired vascular surgeon, is hunkered down in Florida.

Like most of us these days, we’re also hunkered down. We’re out of sight. In a metaphorical sense, if the virus can’t “see” us, then it can’t infect us. That’s very simplistic, but you get the idea.

Time and again I’ve heard comparisons to war, that the very people on the front lines are in a fight unlike any other.  We know that, but we have very little visceral sense of the actualities playing out in crowded hospital rooms, hallways, ICU wards and all the places where the sick and the caregivers are equally overwhelmed. To say we’re being in the moment cannot compare to being there, to be immersed in the chaos unfolding right in front of you.

Whether you believe in karma or life existential, God, or something that is in effect, bigger than oneself, all that’s in motion is connected to each of us. Is it ironic that this pandemic is playing out during humankind’s most pious weeks on the calendar?

A lit candle—a universal and timeless symbol of hope, gratitude, peace, sorrow, love, contrition—is also an icon for life.

 

 

 

 

Sleet at Sunset

Blame it on the angle of the sun. Or the time of year and of course, the time of day. The light that pours from north/north-west can be dramatic.

Just across the river, sleet swept across the town and highway leaving a hazy curtain. My side of the river, was cloaked in a heavy grey. Street lamps and headlights appeared like fireflies across a sloping field made of concrete, steel and boxy columns.

For a very brief moment, the light outside the office windows looked other worldly. The slow-moving cars on the viaduct above the north end of the city made me think of ants marching, certainly only as fast as the one at the  front of the line.

The sleet finished its drop about as quickly as it started. The sun seared its way through the cloud cover creating a portal all its own. Perhaps not as soothing a sight as a rainbow, but with the sleet falling, certainly rarer and even more captivating.

Greetings

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly…

William Shakespeare

https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=12&v=3is-UbB-QYo&feature=emb_logo

 

Newport International Polo

If one would be literal about the sport of Polo, it could be more accurately described as “Field Hockey on Horses.” For  the cognoscenti, it’s known as the sport of kings.

The Newport International Polo Series just finished its season at the end of September. While polo is often touted as a high-brow event, the match I attended was that and surprisingly much more than I expected: family, dogs, picnics, lively conversation, kids playing about, grown ups playing Bocche Ball, a game of catch, etc. all away from the playing field.

A congenial atmosphere on the grounds made it easy to enjoy the match and for the neophytes among us, a chance to learn more about a sport that demands much from horse and rider.

An entertaining task—and fun for many—was the half-time tradition of the divot stomp.

 

 

 

 

Ode to Imaginative Playing

Wherever and whenever possible, the grandsons engage body, mind and soul in imaginative play. And it’s good for them. We encourage such play and the possibilities that open up for their young selves.

If you watch them, listen to them, their imagination and enthusiasm bursts with a palpable vigor of discovery. We could learn a thing or two from such unbridled vigor.

An arm extended is a wing just as the rushing, whooshing sound from their mouth is that of fast-moving air giving lift to the aircraft. You can’t ignore their commentary for it further explains the depth of their imagination and understanding of how they play. “He’s way up in the sky…diving down then up again…he goes very far and very fast.”

I see in all their  imaginative play a power that exceeds that of any CPU. What they emotionally and physically feel, the how of what their mind’s eye offers, when they encounter a challenge [“He won’t share the glider!”]—or arrive at a compromise or solution—every bit of it adds to their development as communicators, problem-solvers, collaborators and empathetic beings.

Indeed seeing these two boys and all that they say and do remind me to nurture my own imagination.  At least not to ignore it. The why of such nurturing can liberate and acknowledge a sense of purpose and triumph.  Many of us are unlikely to realize our loftiest, most ambitious dreams and goals, but pause and think again.

Our imagination can fuel possibilities that can manifest into a journey that’s not only our own, but a story genuine to our sense of self .