Summer night in Williamstown

    A warm, hazy summer evening in Williamstown.  I roam the roads that wind around the village proper, windows down, camera on the passenger seat, inhaling the countryside.  It feels, not surprisingly, like Vermont, which is just up one of these roads.  As the light finally fades in the summer sky, I roll back in to The Orchards, have a cold pint of Berkshire Brewing Company IPA in the bar, before strolling across the lightly creaking boards of the lobby and the lounge to my room. The plain girl sitting behind the reception desk says "Have a good night" as she rubs lotion into her hands.  I wonder if she and the maids make use of the little bottles that the guests leave behind, the ones that have been opened.  I wonder if she wonders who will hold these soft, soft hands.

An Eastern Comma butterfly

... visiting the little herb garden I put in behind the house a few days ago.

You are here

   People who are more serious and thoughtful than I am debate whether a photograph can truly be true.  Some say a photo is true if it just depicts what was there when it was made, if it is just a "light drawing" -- the literal translation of the Japanese word for photograph) of what exist?.  Others say that a photograph by its very nature does not depict any singular truth, but instead is unavoidably a version, a story about the truth, which is dependent on the angle, the aperture, the shutter speed, and all the other choices, conscious or not, that the photographer (or editor) has made.  

   I don't know whether a photograph can be the truth.  But I do know that a photograph can say something that is true.    This one, which I took in a playful spirit, now seems to me to say the most important true thing of all.   

A dog and his man

   On a fine Saturday at the end of May, when the whether finally is warm enough, and you finally have enough gumption to get up and do it, this is what you do:  you get your human to take you out in the kayak.

Motif Number 5 - Nubble Light

Postcards from the Acela - No. 3

    One wonders what they make at this little plant, somewhere along the train line in Connecticut.  No doubt this place looks defeated in the middle of the day, in the winter, in the rain.  But early in the morning on a clear, dry day, photographed in good light, it looks ready to soldier on, proud to be still standing.  

Postcards from the Acela - No. 2

     A photograph of a rowboat in the early morning fog.  A cliché to be sure.  But like most clichés it is harmless enough.