If you plan on shooting a range of subjects from landscapes to intimate village scenes, you will obviously need an equally wide range of focal lengths. I usually cover from 12-200mm with three relatively fast lenses: a 12-24mm f/4.5-5.6, a 18-50mm f/2.8 and a 70-200mm f/2.8, all Sigma lenses. Fast is good. Slow lenses are lighter but suffer not only in their poorer light gathering capabilities but usually the optics are not of the same quality as an equal focal length sized fast lens. Do you really need a sub f/3.5 lens? Again, if you are not planning on shooting a variety of subjects, then perhaps not. But I have often found that the extra stop or two, coupled with image stabilization and medium-to-high ISO will land you acceptable shots in those dim churches and dusky dark labyrinthial alley ways of ancient villages. What about primes? With some exceptions (below paragraph) leave them home. Great for one mode of shooting, they are too limited for most travel photography.
The above is my basic and essential lens kit. With these 3 lenses I will usually shoot around 90+% of a trip’s worth of images. With these lens, I could easily and happily “get by” but instead I typically weigh myself down a bit more. Depending upon my destination, I may pack a variety of special purpose glass. In this category I would include fisheyes. My Sigma 15mm f/2.8 yields great architectural effects and is a lot of fun in dense forests. Rounding out my “essential plus” lens kit I will often have a macro -- in my case a Sigma 105mm f/2.8 -- and more recently I also pack a Lensbaby 3G selective focus lens. All three of these lenses lend themselves to pretty specialized types of shooting, so more often than not they sit in my hotel room and only come out to play when I am in the mode for some extra creative (okay, some might say gimmicky) photography. Is it worth bringing the extra weight and bulk for a relatively small percentage of images? Perhaps not, but they are fun lens in their unique ways and sometimes that overrules the more prosaic of concerns like comfort. However, for future trips where mobility is essential (think a train ride to Lhasa), these will be the first three to stay home.
In an entirely different class, on a few trips I have lugged one of two super zooms I own. Either a heavy Sigma 50-500mm f/4-6.3 or a lighter (but still massive) Sigma 170-500mm f/5-6.3. The range of both lens is exceptional: both in terms of sheer reach and in terms of limited subject applicability. One can also imagine that the weight/size of these lenses exact a comfortable-carrying penalty that further limits their consideration for trips, and you would be correct. Finally, lenses of this size require a very rigid tripod foundation (more on that later) for blur-free images. So, these big boys only travel overseas when my research tells me that there are going to be some very good photo ops for them. Wildlife is obvious -- such as these extreme close-ups of puffins in Iceland -- but less intuitive may be the capture of architectural elements such as gargoyles on the St. Vitus cathedral in Prague.
Speaking of telephotos, a word on teleconverters. Love the concept: a lightweight and compact method for gaining between 50% and 100% more focal length. Downside? Expect not only a loss in available light but more importantly you will take a hit in image quality. Notwithstanding this, I currently always pack a 2x teleconverter on my trips. It is rarely used, but it is so compact that I can bring it and be assured of the extra focal length with little penalty to my bag (or back). Ideally, I would love to find a fast (defined as <=f/3.5) 100-300mm (or even better 100-400mm) and leave the teleconverter AND my 80-200mm f/2.8 home.
Bodies? I pack two DSLRs: currently the 14MP Pentax K20 and the older 10MP Pentax K10. I’m Boy Scoutesque in always being prepared, so the K10 acts as a spare in case of damage to my primary shooter, the K20, or -- worse case scenario -- in case of loss, theft or otherwise. (This scenario actually played out -- unfortunately -- in southern France where our car was broken into and I lost approx $2000 in camera gear. The upside was that a) I had a spare and a couple of lens with me, b) I lost only one roll of exposed film and c) it finally convinced me to migrate to digital.) However, the 2nd body doesn’t always sit lonely in the hotel room. Often I will mount another lens and go armed into the streets of a mediaeval village with a super wide zoom (say, the 12-24mm) and my 80-200mm. This allows me to easily and quickly capture a wide variety of scenes and shots without having to change lenses. I also pack two other cameras. I do a lot of infrared digital photography and have recently converted an older Pentax DSLR (the *istDS) to an IR-only camera, courtesy of Spencer’s Camera. Subject of a future post, suffice it to say now, that this camera is my black & white vehicle of choice, so it travels with me always (usually with a Sigma 28-70 f/2.8 mounted). The other camera is the only film camera I still regularly use: a Hasselblad XPan II with a 45mm f/4 lens. I shoot transparencies with this 35mm panoramic camera and scan the film which yields an incredible amount of detail.
So, there you have it…well, not quite. Add a range of neutral density filters, various polarizers, a soft-shoe mountable flash, spare cards and batteries, and now we are set, right? Almost. Ever had a dirty sensor in the field, on a trip? I certainly have and for those hopefully fairly rare occasions, I pack a small blower, the Arctic Butterfly and some sensor swaps with solution. Finally? Nope. Remember that mention of a tripod? Until recently I have packed the relatively heavy and bulky Manfrotto 440 Carbon One with a hydrostatic ball head. It’s a great carbon-fiber tripod that is incredibly sturdy but I found that -- due to its weight -- I was either leaving it home or, if it made the long voyage over an ocean, propped in the corner of my hotel room. Before this most recent trip (to Slovenia) I dropped a pretty penny for the sub 3lb. Gitzo Traveler. Wow. Unbelievably light, compact AND sturdy. For a change I found myself carrying it almost everywhere. It’s relatively unobtrusive and incredibly quick to set up, both attributes missing from the Manfrotto. Most positively, I found myself setting up for more deliberate shots, longer shots, using more of the light. Only complaint (other than the price!) is that the head is pretty weak. But at least it comes with one! I also pack the Gitzo Mountaineer monopod with a small Manfrotto ball head which at less than one pound also subs as a hiking staff. What’s left? Image storage and a good camera bag.
Like with their cameras, photographers get very personal/passionate about their bags. They also go through a lot of them trying to find the Perfect ONE. It doesn’t exist, but we try to get close to it anyway. For over 7 years I have been using Lowepro’s Rover II bag for both my local day hikes and multi-week travels. After suffering damage to a lens that was bag-checked, I now carry all cameras and lens in my Rover for my flights. Yes, all four bodies, and up to 8 lenses have been (over-)stuffed in that bag. Security invariably wants to peak, poke and prod, but once they see that I am merely a scruffy photographer with a boat load of gear, they are happy to send me on my way. (Cleaning accessories, the flash, filters, chargers, spare batteries and cards, and the tripod/monopod are well packed in checked luggage. The goal should be that if your checked luggage is mis-routed, you should be able to shoot for at least a day or two with what you have carried on.) The shoulder pads on this bag are completely packed out so I am considering the CompuRover so that I can stuff my laptop in as well (instead of packing it in a 2nd carry-on, as we currently are doing).
Image storage could and probably should be a whole post in and of itself. Did I say that I was paranoid about image loss? Do you back your images up at home (or your office, or wherever you do your photo work)? If you don't, then never mind. But if you are careful at home to ensure at least 2 copies of each image stored on separate computers/media perhaps even in different rooms or (gasp!) off site, then you should be equally diligent (read: paranoid) when traveling. For this reason, at the end of the day, I copy all images off of the media cards onto my laptop, then copy that day's worth of shooting onto an external drive. If you are REALLY paranoid, you will then physically separate that external drive so that if something happens to the laptop your drive will be safe (or vice versa). I especially do this when traveling (by whatever mode). If I had had all my exposed film in my camera bag when my car was broken into I would have lost over a week's worth of images. Gear can be replaced. What you've captured with that gear cannot.
If you have made it this far in my post, you have probably figured out why I call this: Traveling Light(er). I am not yet traveling light, in my estimation, but certainly doing better in some ways than before. It is in my nature to always want to take more gear because there may be that ONE shot that requires that ONE piece of equipment I just happened to leave home. No doubt my mind playing tricks on me and one of these days I will get it under control. Until then, I'm the guy you are stuck behind at airport security as TSA (or the overseas equivalent) proceeds to re-empty and re-run my bag for the nth time. Sorry.
It's pretty obvious that with the 21st century concerns of security constraints, weight limits, and the high incidence of lost/delayed luggage, traveling light(er) generally means traveling easier. Easy (a relative term) however, comes at a cost: making decisions about clothes (no biggie for most of us) and photo equipment (muy biggie for photographers who use anything more than a point-n-shoot or their iPhone) are two considerations that must be weighed (no pun intended).
Gone are the "glorious" days of slow travel via ship and coach with teams of porters or horses (or both) carting steamer trunks full of clothing (one must simply have a dinner jacket, shooting coat, smoking jacket, shoes and boots for every eventuality, and various caps and hats to complement every outfit!) and other sundry "necessities."
Assuming, in the 21st century, that on your travels you don’t need formal wear nor are bringing your great-grandfather’s favorite meerschaum pipe, super light-weight, synthetic quick-dry clothes can easily replace the cotton and wool wear of yore. For a two week trip, we have gone from 14 pair of underwear, 14 pairs of socks, 5 pair of pants and an equal number of shirts to essentially 3 of every category of clothing. Yes, we have to do laundry every other day or so and some hotels actually still frown on using your bathroom as a drying rack, but even more provide clotheslines and if you stay in an apartment, you’ll often find a clothes rack. Do we get tired of seeing each other wearing the same outfits? We make jokes about it but it beats schlepping those heavy bags up the stairs of medieval-era hotels.
What about guide books? Leave the pretty, glossy, picture-surfeit versions, such as Insight and Eyewitness, home. Those are fine for your initial trip research, but are heavy (glossy stock) and short on needed details. I like fact-rich guides with copiously detailed, well-drawn maps. Cadogan, Rough Guide, Blue Guide and Brandt (no order implied) are good examples of these. Generally, despite their reputation, I find the Lonely Planet Guides info-light. Both Michelin Green Guides' and Baedeker's alphabetical organization is not conducive to exploring by region and the Fodors/Frommers books are for the organized group tour crowd. There was a time not to long ago when I brought multiple guides in my burgeoning suitcase: I was more worried about the gaps than the overlaps. Now, I just perform a careful review and even though I will likely use multiple guides for my research, I bring only one book. One basic tour book that is. Since we hike a lot on our trips I often also bring specialty books with titles such as Trekking in Corsica and Walking in Sicily. There are several really good publishers of international hiking/trekking/walking guides and I count Cicerone Press, Trailblazer Guides and Rother Walking Guides among my favorites. An interesting series for those that are interested in pre-planned car touring itineraries is Thomas Cook's Signpost Guides. Finally, Sunflower Landscapes produces a hybrid series that features walks and car tours.
I also believe in having a minimal grounding in the local language, so I will always have a pocket phrase book and sometimes even a pocket dictionary. Finally, If you are driving (highly recommended for European trips, at the least), you will need a detailed road map. Rental car agency maps are terrible. The larger the scale (meaning you see more detail on the map) the more chance you will have finding that gem of a ruined castle off some isolated country road. Scale -- like many things -- is relative. For most mid-sized European countries, 1:250000 or 1:300000 should suffice. Avoid small scale maps (1:1000000) such as multi-country maps. Not only will roads be missing, but that perfect 12th century Romanesque chapel will also be mysteriously gone. As far as more detailed maps for trekking or hiking, plan on buying those super detailed maps in country.
If you are not a photographer, you are finished packing! For the rest of use, the real challenge now begins.
In Part II of this blog, I will detail what camera gear I bring and why.
Seriously...I do speak VERY little Slovene. But, I ALWAYS make an effort to learn some of the language of whatever country I visit. It isn't always easy. French, Italian, German and Japanese were a piece of cake compared to Irish, Czech, Polish, Slovak and now Slovene. I dread (from a learn-the-language perspective) visits to Turkey, Rajasthan, Bhutan and Hungary. Nonetheless, when it comes time to travel to the lands of the Magyars, Hittites and Rajas, or when I finally do set my eyes on the fabled Hidden Kingdom, you can be sure that I will also have a fist-full of phrases in the local patois. Why bother, some might ask? Three reasons, two pretty obvious and one, less apparent and more personal. Let's start with the obvious: First, I ascribe to the thought that my traveling is not a god-given right to see the world on my terms but rather a by-product of my natural curiosity to explore the world around me crossed with the fortunate set of circumstances that lead to my birth in an affluent country where such desires can be pursued. I am traveling not just as an American, but as a citizen of the world; an ambassador from my land to theirs. Would it not be the height of arrogant presumptiveness of ME to assume that those in Ljubljana speak English?! Locals really do appreciate if you make an effort to discourse (or at least ask a few questions) in their language. Not only may they be impressed (read: minor ego boost!), but more importantly, they may feel more inclined to communicate with you. Reason two (dva, as they say in Slovene): a bit of self-preservation. If I can ask, Where are the toilets, please? or Do you speak English? or Do you have red wine? travel-life can become so much satisfying, if not just plain survivable. Indeed, a base requirement for travels with Bonnie, is the obligatory "Moja žena vegetarianski." Can you imagine being a vegetarian and traveling to Germanic and (worse for her!) Slavic countries!? (Me, I eat everything, her...well, not so much.) An ambassador with self-preservation on his mind...not so difficult to understand, ja? Believe it or nay, I actually also enjoy learning other languages. (Learning…well, that perhaps may be a stretch of the verb. I don't speak fluently, but I try to speak with the proper accent and intonations. I also have difficulty understanding the natives' responses, but that's also partially a result of my creeping deafness!) I find language learning a (fun) challenge but importantly (pay attention here!)I also find it a way to gain a deeper understanding of the people and culture. Language, literature, history and geography: this is the four-legged stool upon which a greater understanding of a people sits. And, I like the view from this particular perch.
Many moons ago (by my rough count around 445...but who's counting?) a friend's father gave me his hat. Max was his name (the father, that is) and his hat was one of those classic pork pie jobs seen in Steve McQueen movies of the 60's. Bluish black in color with a dark maroon and blue striped band, it added a jauntiness to my usual attire of bell bottom jeans, colorful (read: loud) print shirts and square-toed harness boots. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, watch Easy Rider and you'll get it.)
I have always had a penchant for hats and in my teenage years the affection blew into an affectation. In search of myself -- the definition of being a teenager, essentially -- a hat was a necessary part of my persona, the final dotting of the "I" that I was. My real fantasy was to find a slightly dented stovepipe hat...I'm sure it had nothing to do with me being below average in height. But Max's pork pie was eminently more practical and one day, when Max learned that I secretly desired his hat, he impulsively gave it to me. Never mind that he thought that I and his son were going to hell in a hand-basket, he was that kind of guy.
I loved that hat: it looked spiffy and it fit real good. (Can't imagine wearing some old guy's hat? These were the pre Puricell, pre sani-wipes placed strategically near shopping carts, elevator buttons and toilets near you days. The days when sharing a smoke -- tobacco or otherwise -- was a rite of sorts. Or, so I'm told.) Unfortunately, Max's hat and I parted ways a few short days later.
Less than a week after first donning the hat, Max's son and I were taking a late night drive up Ortega Highway. For us, that road was what separated us from the sterile sobriety of suburbia and the misty mountain fantasies of the unknown. There were the forbidden hot springs, a thriving party spot for those willing to hike in the dark, bathe naked with other souls, and occasionally head for higher ground when the sheriffs would decide to end the party early. There was the semi-mythical nudist colony that we had long heard about, half-heartedly searched for and in the end left as legend. There were the divide roads. Bumpy, rutted tracks, one heading south through the Elsinore Mountains and affording sterling views of the same-named lake and another heading north to the summit of the Santa Ana Mountains, Santiago Peak. Along its way, this north divide road afforded access to the hiking and camping wonderlands of Trabuco, Holy Jim and Horsethief Canyons.
Those were the mountains that we were heading into when we stopped for the proverbial bio-break (though that term had not yet been invented). To this day I don't know why I removed Max's hat and put it on the roof of my friend's Datsun. It's normally not necessary to doff one's hat when "visiting nature" but there it was: on the roof. And there it stayed -- for a second or two, perhaps -- as we drove off.
It was maybe five or so minutes later that I realized I was hatless...it may as well have been five years. We searched and searched but the hat was not to be found. I KNEW where we had stopped but I knew not where the hat had gone. The next day, fully confident that the sun would reveal what the night had stolen, I went back and searched again. To no avail. I was desolate (well, perhaps that is too melodramatic a word) and disappointed in myself. I felt embarrassed around Max and hoped he would never ask "Where's my hat?" He never did. His son was very supportive: "I can't believe you lost Max's hat!" And so it went. Eventually the memory of Max's hat faded into the sleepy past like a paisley shirt long exposed to the sun. Only to be re-woken last week.
In southern California for my yearly family visit and my mother's impromptu suggestion to sample the wines of the Temecula Valley led us to drive up the Ortega Highway once again. My last sojourn up this road was probably some 27 years ago, long before the housing tracks encroach as they do, long before mountain bikes tamed many of the trails that were little better than game tracks, before the hot springs resort opened and closed yet again, pre-Google and pre-GPS, when the 20-year old maps and a compass were your best and only way to find your way.
Driving up the canyon again brought back a flood of mostly warm memories: the hot springs turnout (where I chatted with an amicable young ranger about the old days); the divide roads stretching left and right beckoning to explore yet again; the windy, dangerous hairpins where a friend was side-swiped not once, but twice in an evening; the long straight-aways where my hair streamed behind me, in the hitch-hiked ride of a convertible sports car; the approximate location where Max's hat was last seen.
It was the virulent and ultimately stupid political message posted on a store marque at the summit that brought me back to the 21st century. Memories are good things and we all indulge in them now and then. Take them out, shake off the dust, gaze fondly for a bit and then put them back in their box. Leave them out too long and they take on the rosy sheen of nostalgia. That sheen quickly turns to the self-indulgent, and highly memory-selective patina of "it was a durn-sight better in our days!"
Try as you might, you can't really go home again. Search all that you can, Max's hat still remains lost. As it should be.
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No, I'm not talking about some Stargatesque gateway to shuttle you along the wormholes of the universe nor am I speaking of the Guardian of Forever from which with a short step you can relive your childhood, or perhaps your children's children's children's childhood. As interesting as those particular portals sound (and to me, a science /
scifi / history / philosophy geek, they sound pretty damn fascinating) I am writing of the much more prosaic (and much less speculative) web portal.
I built one. Here's the why, the whats and the how.
The Why. I've had a photo website for quite a few years. It's grown long in the tooth, is difficult to update in any kind of easy, timely workflow fashion, is comprised of static pages, is irredeemably not optimized for search engines, and has no connection to the rest of my life. All of the above but the last statement was enough of a reason to rebuild the photo site from the proverbial ground up. But since embarking upon this new phase of my life last year in this so-called gig economy (already commented upon in a previous post) I found that trying to manage and maintain multiple online presences as well as businesses was a challenge. Clayhaus Consulting, Clayhaus Photography, a Twitter page, my Flickr photostream, Facebook (both personally and professionally), this blog, microstock photography accounts, my published book and more! Yikes! There was no easy way to gain access to, Clayhaus.net, the "brand." Until a friend (thank you Cory!) planted a seed, or perhaps more accurately watered the nut of the notion that I needed ONE access point to the Clayhaus.net online world. A portal.
The What. The timing was perfect. I had been (still am, actually) dithering on making a decision around my photo site: open source or compiled code solutions. At the same time I was consulting for a startup non-profit, RERSLC, and they elected to retain a local web developer (Third Sun) who builds sites on the open source content management system called Joomla. In the open source CMS world there are two heavy-weights: Joomla and Drupal. They both have their advocates and they both essentially do the same thing: once setup and initially configured, updating websites' content (they are after all, content management systems!) becomes trivial (well, pretty close to that anyways). No HTML programming is necessary as plenty of templates, documentation, robust help forums, and extensible modules and components exist to help you through the forest. A piece of cake? A walk on the sunny beach at low tide with a lollipop? No, not quite. I'm a reasonably savvy IT guy with some Logic (yes: capital L) education, but with little in the way of true programming training or skills. I went with Joomla because that was what my client was implementing because that was what the developer was most skilled in (that's the way these things work). (The logic being that what I learned on my own, would help support my client as well.)
The How. I started by installing XAMPP on my Windows box. What is that? Straight from their page...XAMPP is an easy to install Apache distribution containing My SQL, PHP and Perl. If that is all Greek (or, perhaps Geek) to you -- and yet you want to learn more -- go to the Joomla pages that discuss installation on a local system. Other sources? VEOH or Miguel Sanchez. At any rate, make yourself very familiar with the Joomla installation pages...please. The bottom line is that I wanted to build a site offline -- meaning on a local system -- and then upload to the shared hosting at my Internet provider. So after installing XAMPP I then downloaded the latest version of Joomla 1.5 and began learning and configuring at the same time. You have the option of loading sample content into your new site and that is exactly what I did. I was able to reverse engineer some of the installation and eventually added my own templates and components and modules. It was an iterative learning process. This included the eventual upload to my ISP, XMission. After they set up the MySQL database, I FTPed the Joomla files and a new configuration file (a must!) and the site went live. I few more permissions tweaks and I was also able to administrate my site. Add metadata and voila! The hoards will be banging at my virtual door! Naaah, but that is the subject of another post.
I succeeded: the Clayhaus.net portal is live. I still have to maintain and manage all the other Clayhaus accounts and pages and sets and sites, but that's my job. You the Internet Traveler, do not have to bookmark, write down on a post-it, request an email link, etc. any of those pages. Just remember Clayhaus.net, and you are good as gold. (Don't believe me? Enter clayhaus.net in Google or the Yahoo search engine...see?)
The site is live, but not static. With a CMS, change can always be afoot. I will add a forum and some other features and functions shortly. Now though, I must turn my attention to...the photo site...it will morph soon and you will hear about it. Lucky you.
I was either 3 hours too late or several hours too early -- depending upon one's perspective and preference -- to catch Lake Blanche with a gentle photographer's light. Starting later than expected, I knew that as pretty a sight as it would be, the lake and looming Sundial Peak would also be cast in the particularly harsh glare of mid-day sun and shadows. It wouldn't help that the lake basin framed by Superior, Sundial and Dromedary Peaks was also north facing, meaning shooting into the sun was de rigueur. Naturally, it was also the hottest day of the year. What was I thinking?, I thought.
The original plan was to meet the newly joined Wasatch Camera Club up at Albion basin for a short hike amongst the wildflowers. I daddled and missed the cut-off for that group venture so instead opted to check out the wildflowers up Mill B South Fork. And, were they ever out! A long wet Spring has given us a multitude of flowers this year. I could have used my friend Gitte -- with her ever-present flower book -- to help me name the various varieties. Indian paintbrush, fields of yellow sunflower-like flowers, lots of small purple blooms and my favorite, the bright magenta-ish pink of the wild rose.
My hope was to capture some long depth-of-field shots with flowers in the foreground, lakes in the middle distance and high peaks in the distance. The tough and in the end rather uninteresting lighting yields only so-so results.
Even with the sun to my side and a nice refreshing spray of a waterfall, the light remains challenging and photographically mildly unappetizing.
What to do, what to do? If the big vista just won't work for you, look earthward; look for lines, angles and patterns. They abound, if you open your eyes. Sometimes you have to see "small," meaning below your feet. In this case, just off the trail crest to the west is a remarkable series of boulder outcroppings. Criss-crossing them are a plethora of glacial scrapings. Over 10,000 years ago glaciers "poured" down the valleys of most North American mountains and, once receded, left behind remarkable signs for scientists and photographers alike. These deep lines are the gouges of moving rocks upon stationary rocks, with the added weight of thousands of tons of deep ice. Crouching at a low angle, almost laying down, the lines and patterns revealed themselves in this worm's eye view. For me, this becomes the "winner" image of the day: a B&W abstract of patterns cut into solid rock. Knowing what caused these etchings adds to our intellectual understanding of the image and so helps define it as a document. But to move beyond mere documentation, it must be able to stand on its own, without intellectual baggage. Perhaps this is a subject for another post!
The struggle for many photographers is to shoot something truly unique.
Let's put aside the epistemological argument that creativity is an iterative process; that all artists -- whether consciously or not -- are influenced by predecessors; that nothing is born of the pure ether. The uniqueness I'm talking about is the opposite of the hundred photos of Antelope Canyon with a shaft of light, the thousands of images of Delicate Arch framing the La Sal mountains, the countless shots of the Eiffel Tower at night (or during the day!) or the Taj Mahal receding from view, reflected in its pool of water. Many of these images are wonderful works, technical mini masterpieces. But, we have seen them so many times, over and over, with little variation. Does that mean a fine art photographer should never venture to a slot canyon, Arches National Park, Paris or to Agra, India. No, but to capture something different from standard stock images he/she must think and see different. This difference can create uniqueness of an otherwise iconic and oft-replicated scene or landmark. The highest compliments I have been paid -- from several photographers -- were variations of: "you know I have seen this shot many times, but never like this." Light, positioning, technique, composition, can all contribute to changing a "been there, seen that" shot to something unique.
Then along comes someone who takes the noun unique to new levels. Take a look at the image with this post...what do you make of it? Do you know what it is? Do you have any clue how it was created? Do you like it? Have you seen anything like it before? If you answered 'no' to the last question, you are only partially correct. If you have ever seen a part of your body (or perhaps someone else's) x-rayed, you are half way there. This image is an example of Albert Koetsier's x-ray photography or x-rayography as he calls it. He has created something fresh via the x-raying of fairly mundane natural objects (small shells, leaves, ferns, flowers and the like). After printing the images, some he has hand-painted ala the turn of the (19th) century technique of hand-tinted photographs. While the colored images are beautiful in their own right, I prefer the simplicity of the stark and elegant B&W renderings. Regardless of your preference, Mr. Koetsier has taken a purely scientific craft and elevated it to Art and in the process created something we can truly call unique. Check his work out at Beyond Light.
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