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When making a portrait, getting the eyes right is crucial. 

The eyes should be in perfect focus, unless there is an artistic reason for them to be out of focus.  The eyes should be looking directly at the viewer, unless there is an artistic reason for them not to be.  And, of course, the eyes should have a catchlight, unless, well, you get the point.

Catchlights are a technique that has been used in portraiture for a very long time.  Johannes Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring from the year 1665 is an example. 

Effective use of catchlights is the stuff of online photography advice and can have dramatic effects on an image’s impact.  National Geographic’s Afghan Girl is another, likely familiar, example.

So, of course, I made sure to get a catchlight in the preferred 2 o’clock position in this portrait of one of the many toys I inherited from my dad.

The catchlight gives this early example of an action figure a sense of life, a feeling of animation.  The catchlight draws the viewer’s eyes to the face and brings to mind a question of what “Electron Man” (my name; I have no idea what the original name of Electron Man was or what motivated his designers to give him weapons for hands.  Doesn’t it make you wonder how he eats?) is thinking as he raises his circular-saw hand.  Maybe he’s asking for a straw to drink his meal.

My favorite photographic art usually includes some amount of whimsy, providing a bit of lighthearted  balance in a world that can seem overly intense.

It’s important, however, to remember the power of photography to remind us of the dangerous turns society can take through extreme and destructive viewpoints.

This is an image of a memorial built to remind us of one particularly dark and evil period.  The memorial, which symbolizes a commitment to the love of both knowledge and truth as necessary foundations for freedom, is built into the ground in the Bebelplatz near Humboldt University in Berlin, Germany.  It marks the site of one of the early Nazi book-burning travesties.

This image is not unique; there are countless pictures on the internet of the memorial.  Most are taken from a standing position and show one or two walls of the barren bookshelves in the undergrownd library.  I tried to capture the full scope of the memorial, showing all four walls of empty shelves.

My wife and I visited the memorial after dark to avoid the daytime crowds.  We brought water and paper towels to clean the square of glass that is the top of the memorial but is at ground level in the plaza.  Despite the late hour, a small group still gathered to watch as I positioned my camera with a wide-angle fish-eye lens in the middle of the window. 

My hope is that the starkly powerful message of the memorial can help the world avoid a return to that dark place.

The simple architecture.  The straight lines that pull the viewer into the image.  The wood framing the square in which sits the bouquet of flowers.  The beautiful simplicity of the pot holding the bouquet.  The monochromatic feel of the building contrasting with the pop of colors from the flowers and their pot.

This image speaks to me.  It tells the story of the value of simplicity and of natural, unassuming beauty in an overly complicated world.  It evokes a feeling of calmness, of peacefulness, of centeredness.

The photograph is from Yokohama, Japan.  It shows the quiet, contemplative side of Japan, the yin to the yang that is the bustling, frenetic, crowded side of Japan.

I recall that busy side of Japan from my first trip to the country’s capital city of Tokyo.  I recall the busy streets; the crowded stores; the ever-so-polite helpers wearing white gloves, gently encouraging more people than physically possible to board subway cars.  I remember the very different sense of personal space from that trip.

This image provides balance to that aspect of life.  It is in such spaces that a person can become grounded, that a person can meditate on tranquil beauty.  It’s in the yin of this image I find a source of energy required to re-enter that exciting yet complicated and hectic yang side of life.

Whimsy is defined as “a fanciful or fantastic device, object or creation, especially in writing or art.”

I’m drawn to many categories of photographic subjects.  I love taking pictures of bridges, of cityscapes, of micro architecture.  I want to take more pictures of nature.

The images I find the most satisfying and enjoyable are those with a bit of whimsy.

It’s difficult to put a hard-and-fast definition on whimsical photography.  Whimsy is an ephemeral and fickle quality.  The same subject can be staid, strong, serious in one context, whimsical in another.

There is no one trait that makes a photograph whimsical.   Maybe it’s unique; maybe it’s unexpected; maybe it’s delightful; or maybe it’s shocking.  Maybe it makes the viewer smile, nod their head, shake their head.  Maybe it makes the viewer say “oh,” “ah” or “wow.”

Whimsy can defy description but is apparent upon viewing.  I can’t go for a photo walk explicitly looking for whimsy.  I’ll never find it if I’m looking for it.  Instead, I need to let whimsy find me, as it did with this post’s image – Water Dance.

This image has a bit of whimsy and a bit of serendipity.  My wife, while doing yard work, accidentally trimmed off a piece of our clematis plant – a forming bud.  She put it in some water in a wine glass to see if it would still flower.  When I saw that bud in the wine glass, my heart sang.  I said “oh,” “ah” and “wow.”  And from that came this image.  Whimsy at its best!

What’s the value in yet another picture of a sunset?  Haven’t there been sufficient paintings and drawings and photographs of the sun falling over the horizon, spilling out beautiful hues of reds, oranges, pinks and yellows?  Why record yet another instance of the sun saying, “Thank you for another day; here’s a little gift to remind you of the beauty in the world during the dark hours that will come as I get my rest”?

Few experiences promote more peaceful responses than watching the slow descent of the sun over a body of water or over a horizon filled with fields of wheat or over the sands of a dessert.

It doesn’t matter what fills the horizon – a cityscape, a forest, rolling hills, a vast mountain range – the gift of a beautiful sky as the sun settles over the horizon is universally appreciated/embraced/celebrated.

Sunsets are as varied in their presentation as they are reliable in their occurrence.  On those days when the sun isn’t hiding behind a curtain of clouds, the colors presented are rarely the same.  Those clouds, a dust storm in the west, rain between the viewing location and the horizon all interact with the sun’s parting light to make the remarkably regular sunset just as remarkably unique.

So, is there value in yet another picture of a sunset?  I ask a different question:  Is it possible for there to be too many pictures of one of the most beautiful and inspiring gifts Mother Nature gives humankind?

I grew up in farm country in north-central Iowa, where the most prevalent focal points are corn fields and soybean fields, with the occasional farmstead dotting the horizon.  In the winter it all turns white.

Don’t get me wrong, Iowa is a beautiful place, especially when it is under a blanket of snow.  But it is also some of the flattest land in the world.  Or at least it seemed that way to me. 

Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to images like Lioness and Blue and Golden Bridge.  Maybe that’s why I’m so taken by images like this one of the Dom Luis I Bridge, a double-deck metal arch bridge across the River Douro in Porto, Portugal.

Porto, after which Port wine is named, is a beautiful little city that has an old town area called the Ribeira district, which includes the hill next to the riverfront on both sides of this bridge. 

This Dom Luis I Bridge was built in the late 1800’s and is another example of the combination of engineering and design that creates a functioning work of art.  Interestingly, it has a connection to Gustave Eiffel, famous for being the architect who conceived of and built the Eiffel Tower.  It was influenced by another bridge in Porto, the Maria Pia railway bridge.  That bridge was designed by Eiffel and Théophile Seyrig. The Dom Luis I bridge was conceived of and built by Seyreg.

There are beautiful bridges in Iowa, including the famous covered bridges in Madison County.  I will have to seek them out on my next trip back to Iowa.

Sometimes it’s fun to experiment and play around with your craft a little bit.  It’s good to try new techniques; go in different directions; break some rules; see where it takes you.  And, occasionally, that experimentation results in something surprising, something interesting, something compelling.

I’ll get a little technical in my discussion of this image:  It was made from pictures taken during a scavenger hunt organized by my camera club.  It is constructed out of four images of the same jungle gym in the play area of Klyde Warren Park in Dallas.  I arrived at the park early enough to avoid needing to compete with children playing on the climbing attraction.

The component pictures that make up this image were all taken with a stationary camera on a tripod.  The only thing that changed was the focal length used for each picture.  I took one at each of 24mm, 35mm, 50mm and 70mm.  Then, back home, I merged the four pictures into one image using my photo-editing software.  The effect is similar to a quad exposure on a single frame in a film camera.

For me, this image evokes mixed emotions.  Is it what a child sees and senses while falling from a jungle gym?  Is it what it would feel like to be caught in a giant spider’s web or a hunter’s net?  Or, is it just a compelling abstract image that pulls your eyes in, exploring the shapes and lines and gray tones?

Regardless, it has opened a new pathway through my creative explorations.  I have added multi-picture images to my check list of items to look for on my photo walks.

Now I just need to figure out how to get out of this spider’s web before the spider returns.

Some of nature’s most beautiful creations can become instruments of great destruction. 

A gentle breeze caressing a field of bluebonnets can grow into a powerful tornado, destroying everything in its path.  The peaceful surf on a beach at sunset can transform into a life-threatening hurricane.  And the breathtaking peak of a mountain can mutate into a volcano with destructive force beyond compare.

This is an image of one of the more storied volcanoes – Mount Vesuvius – near Naples, Italy.  This image of Vesuvius, with snow on its summit, introduced me to night photography.  I’ll be forever grateful as I love capturing the unique city lights after the sun has set, as shown in my other after hour images such as Concrete and Lightning Strikes Twice.

I took this from the balcony of my hotel room in Sorrento, across the Gulf of Naples from the city of Naples.  It was a little like having the photo opportunity delivered to me on a silver platter.  And then, on the second night, the silver platter became one of gold as snow appeared on the summit of Vesuvius – something that, to my understanding, is a fairly rare occurrence.

It is difficult for me to look at this image of the beautiful yet imposing dome of Vesuvius, surrounded by the lights of Naples, and not think about the events that destroyed the Roman city of Pompeii.  How can something standing so proudly and beautifully over southern Italy cause so much death and destruction.

But in its quiescent forum, especially when wearing a veil of snow, Mount Vesuvius is one of nature’s beautiful gifts, a thing of raw beauty.

I suppose that is one of the goals of a photographer, to create an image that catches a viewer’s eye and encourages the viewer to escape into thought, contemplating the picture’s story.

Some cities – like Singapore – have them because of the heat.  Some cities – like Montreal – have them because of the cold.  Many cities have them to provide access to the underground Metro stations in their city centers.

What these cities have represents part of the downward, underground, dimension of cities.  One Way shows an example of the upward direction on the third dimension – the z-axis – of a city.

This image was taken in the underground network of walkways in Montreal, Canada.  These networks connect the major buildings in Montreal and include coffee shops, food courts, clothing stores, hotel lobbies and Metro stations without having to brave the frigid cold winter weather.

The system in Singapore is there to allow the residents and visitors to avoid the year-round around heat and humidity.  That system feels like walking through a giant underground shopping center – a linear mall – and it is very crowded during the typical business day.  Meanwhile, the sidewalks on ground level are sparsely used.

These varied networks of walkways, food courts, and subway stops provide another opportunity for creative photography.  And it doesn’t require getting up early to capture the good light (Golden Bridge).  Or staying up late, as there is no blue hour (The Crown Jewel) in the underground tunnels.  There is, however, a large variety of great settings, subjects and lighting for a photographer to find unexpected images.

It’s easy, when walking through a city’s center – a city’s business district – to see only store fronts, building lobbies, street signs, cars, and – of course – people.  It is easy to forget that the city is built in three dimensions.

That third dimension can either be up, as illustrated here, or down.  The image “Walkway” in the next post shows one example of the downward side of a city.

This image was taken in my hometown of Dallas, Texas.  It was taken during my “looking up” exploration, using a new extremely wide angle lens purchased using my prize earnings from Rising Above.

From a distance, Dallas’ downtown area is just another mixture of mostly glass skyscrapers.  While it doesn’t rival skylines like Manhattan’s, Chicago’s or San Francisco’s, it is an impressive skyline rising out of the Texas plains.  I just realized that I don’t yet have an image of Dallas’ skyline in the images I have posted.  I’ll rectify that soon.  It is a very photogenic skyline.

From up close, at the feet of those skyscrapers, Dallas actually has an interesting mix of beautiful and utilitarian architecture.  It is necessary to look up to appreciate this variety of styles and sizes of buildings that make up the beating heart of downtown Dallas.

I like how this image encourages the explorations of the Dallas skyline from a different perspective – the newer skyscrapers proudly reaching for the heavens; the lower buildings providing an anchor for the commerce that happens in the city.  And there’s street sign showing the way between those buildings.

Next time you explore a city center, be sure to take in its third dimension.  In doing so, you can better appreciate the character of the city.