waiting patiently
beneath a blazing sun
seeking...
Lady Liberty

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I took this shot at the South Street Seaport in Manhattan last weekend. Seeing the long line of tourists eagerly await the water taxi for a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty gave me a good feeling.  I love this country. 

Do share your view of America today.

If you peek in the small backpack that has become my day-to-day purse, you'll find my Nikon D80, the kit 18-55mm lens and my lens of choice, the 55-200mm. I'm attracted to detail, so I often find myself zooming in close with my 55-200mm lens wide open to inspect natural objects here on our farm – like an artsy scientist of some sort.  I trace the intricate paths of veins on leaves. I stop the car short to shoot thorny thistle. And I don't mind wasting time watching threads of cow tail hair wave in the breeze on a barbed wire fence.  

But this weekend offered a new view and a chance to shift my perspective.  We traveled north with friends we love to a stunning lake site tucked within the Georgia mountains. The cozy home has remained in our friends' family for many years, and my husband has held fond memories of this special place close to his heart since childhood...leaping off the top of the boathouse...exploring the edges of the 20,000-acre lake by boat... and skiing until his legs turned to jelly.  

So when he plopped in the water and squeezed on his ski, I grabbed my camera and realized that I had accidentally left my zoom lens up at the house, leaving me with my ho-hum kit lens. Bummer. How can I get in close from the top of this boathouse? I thought. But when I put the viewfinder up to my eye, it suddenly clicked.  How could I NOT go wide. So I stepped back and gave it a little tilt, then proceeded to give my kit lens a full weekend workout to really capture a sense of space.

What about you? Do you shoot wide? Please share your lens of choice for shooting wide and any tricks that help you capture a sense of place. And naturally, I'd love to see your shots.

Dr. Robert Nix always wore bow ties to class.  Long and lean, he moved with confidence and grace – the gentleman of the fine art department. I loved his class. He taught me how to make photographic images through a pinhole in a box made of wood. Under his direction and encouragement that semester, my love of photography blossomed. He retired a year later. It's hard to imagine that was nearly twenty years ago.

Last Friday we reconnected. I had been looking forward to this visit so much and anticipated grand visions of our exchange.  I sent a link to a slideshow of my best images to him prior to my visit in hopes of a thorough critique.  I visualized us sitting side-by-side at the computer screen where he (clad in his bow tie) would be pointing and talking and instructing, and I would be listening and taking detailed notes...and...we'd talk about aperture settings and shutter speeds and tricks for tweaking light... and as a result, his aging photography student would find her focus.

But I got so much more – immersing myself in his home for just a few short hours. I met his talented and loving wife, Harriett – a painter and collector of antique dolls and art. I studied sepia-toned portraits of his parents and his parents' parents on the sideboard. We admired his endless stacks of National Geographics and his rare collection of Daguerreotypes and tintypes on the wall. At my insistence, he shared some of his own amazing black and white framed prints packed neatly in boxes below the pool table, down in the basement.  I marveled over the texture of his wooded landscape bromoil print and his explanation of this early photographic process. We ventured into his woodworking studio where he demonstrated his circular wood sculpting saw before he gave me a precious blond bowl carved from pear wood. And then he showed me his new Singer in the spare bedroom and introduced me to the art of making bow ties.

Yes, we did sit side-by-side at his computer screen and he did share a very thoughtful critique of my images, but this experience paled in comparison to what he had shared with me that day.  Looking back, I realize that I had come to his door in search of confidence. And as we neared the conclusion of our time together, his parting advice gave me just that:

"You've got a great eye. A good heart. And you believe in what you're doing. You don't need anything else."

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Where do you turn for advice? or confidence in your art? Tell us about someone who has influenced your path or share an image that makes you feel proud of yourself.

We are free.  

Free to speak... shout! and listen. We can choose to pray. The way we want. Or not at all.  We can choose to defend our perspective. To disagree. To confess. To make a point. To write. To vote. To criticize. Publicize. To celebrate. To make laws. And change them. To dream. And achieve. To express ourselves creatively. We are free to make choices. To learn. To share. To leave. To return. To be open. Or closed. We can choose to move forward. To look back. To stand tall... or still.

We are free.

But this is a gift.

May we always remember.

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Let us put politics aside and share your words and images of thanks for our American soldiers (past and present) and their families.  Happy Memorial Day, Shutter Sisters.

There are certain moments in time when you can feel the intensity of Mother Nature – the weight of her breath and the boom in her voice.

Severe storms and a string of tornados danced across the southeast on Mother’s Day morning. And as my husband and I ventured home from a weekend trip to the coast, Mother Nature’s devastating effects humbled us. Elderly trees uprooted from the earth. Pines arbitrarily snapped – their branches littering the roads and swaying from power lines. A crumpled barn. A tin roof wedged within a stately oak. As we slowed our pace through the small rural town, I quickly pulled out my camera on instinct to capture the moment. The scene. The effects. And after I snapped the first image, I stopped myself.

As we continued to journey home, I realized that much of my joy in photography is capturing the beauty of Mother Nature and her precious creations. New blooms. Plump raindrops. Aging leaves drenched with color. Thick blades of grass.  I like the way she sprinkles light like gems on water. How she breathes life into leaves as they whisper in her wind. And I love that she restores peace to the sky without fail and sets the sun to rest.  

How do you seek Mother Nature with your lens?