Figuring out what to photograph for my solstice vigil in 2020 proved more challenging than in years past. I had big plans for the year 2020, including a weekly Picture Tells a Story post, which fell by the wayside as the pervasive anxiety and isolation of the pandemic set in. For most of us in the United States fortunate enough to have them, the vast majority of 2020 has been experienced through the lens of our homes, so my husband suggested that this year my vigil be entirely centered around our rented house in southern Maine.
Read MoreOut In The Cold - PTAS
Today’s Picture Tells A Story finds me back in frigid Maine, where the temperature as I’m writing this is -1F. It’s a far cry from Florida’s colorful warmth, or the unseasonably high of 55F that greeted me when I got off the plane in Portland last weekend.
There’s a stark beauty to winter in northern latitudes. Even traces of color, from evergreens, winter berries, and moss, become vibrant in their isolation. They stand out against the snow, where they’d be lost amidst the spring foliage and greenery. On a day of brutal cold such as this, the air is crystal clear, too cold to hold any moisture, and the icy blue of the sky seems to go on into infinity.
It is profoundly quiet as well. The fallen snow deadens sound, though not as dramatically as when it’s falling, and there are no leaves to rustle or sticks to snap as I make my way through the undergrowth to where this photo was taken. Moreover, with the air bitingly cold, and the wind chill well into dangerously low digits, I am alone in the park as far as I can tell.
Sony A7iii w/ Sigma 14-24mm f2.8 DG DN Art
ISO100, 1/200, f10, @14mm
Processed in Capture One Pro 20 & Adobe Photoshop 2020
There’s a deeply rewarding sense of satisfaction at taking on the power of winter and being comfortable doing so. I’ve planned extensively for this outing, wearing four layers of clothing, stout insulated boots, heavy mittens, and carrying two electric hand warmers. Even so, I have to pace myself carefully, almost meditatively, to avoid an asthma attack, which can be triggered by both cold and exertion in my case.
Amidst the peace and quiet of the snowy park, I’m also imminently aware of the fact that a moment’s carelessness could get me injured or killed in any number of ways.
A slip into the waterfall or river that brought me out here to Shaw Park/Gambo Preserve could send me into shock remarkably fast, not to mention wreaking havoc on the thousands of dollars worth of camera gear strapped about my person. An ankle caught in the hidden rocks and fallen trees beneath the snow could cause a break or sprain that would make getting back to the car next to impossible, an especially dire risk in an area with poor cell reception. Behaviors I’d think nothing of in warm weather, such as stepping into a rushing stream, or kneeling on wet ground to get a better angle for a photo, risks tipping the delicate balance of protective layers between me and the dangerous air.
Despite all of this, I know that my winter is a kitten compared to white tiger people in other areas experience. An excursion into a 12F day, even with high winds, may feel to someone on the North Dakota oil fields not unlike the weirdly balmy 55F weather that we had here last week.
The sense of pride and relief I feel returning from taking pictures is almost primal in nature. Not only did I go out into a world where the very air was ready to kill me, but thanks to good planning, I did so in relative comfort.
It’s at once a powerful and absurd little victory, to face the elements and come through intact, but today, I’ll take it.
Through the 2017 Long Night in Three Photos of Southern Maine
I love the Winter Solstice. The Long Night, at once glorious and terrifying, marks the death of the year gone by and the birth of a new year with the return of the waxing sun.. For me it is time for reflection, as I stay up through the darkness to greet the newborn sun. One way I experience my own inner spiritual life is through art, and for the second year in a row, I decided to mark the three key milestones of the Long Night, sunset, deep of the night, and sunrise, by taking photographs.
I gave a great deal of thought to where I would experience each stage of the Solstice, venturing much farther from home that last year to be at the places that fit how the different aspects of the Solstice resonated for me.
Sundown at Timber Point
The odd wooden structures are as eerie as ever when I arrive at my sundown shooting location. I am sore, and a bit out of breath as I am getting set up, having had to rush my walk to the site after getting stuck at a train crossing on the drive over. I don't honestly know what these things are. Are they crosses commemorating a person or event, decrepit navigational markers, or something else entirely?
A short distance behind where this photo was taken is the disintegrating remains of a turn of the century lifeboat that was being restored by a young man who was called off to WWII in the middle of the project. When he didn't return, his family left the boat exactly as he had, and more than seventy years later it isn't long for this world. Combine that with the maybe-cross, and the whole area feels like a memorial.
Altogether an appropriate place to witness the unlamented dying of a brutal year.
Fuji X-T1 w/Fuji 23mm f1.4
3-exposure blend
ISO200, varied shutter speeds, f8
Processed in Capture One & Photoshop
Deep of the Night in the Cave at Dyer Cove
The true midpoint of the Long Night here in Southern Maine was eleven-thirty-nine, a time that is well past when I arrive at Dyer Cove. I prioritized a late dinner with my husband, who works second shift, over astronomical precision.
I am not where I originally planned to be for this stage of my Solstice observation. I had planned to shoot a lighthouse, with its beams of light providing a bulwark against the dangers in the dark, and did a highly successful test shot nearby the night before.
But that is not where I am meant to be in this moment. Many years ago, in the midst of another dark and scary time, the Norse god Frey told me that I had to carry my own light into darkness. After the year gone by, both personally and in the broader world, I need this light to be of my own making. Here in the cave, I know that light will be reflected back and amplified, as well as that the cave will provide a safe and sheltered space for the shot.
Fuji X-T1 w/Rokinon 12mm f2
ISO400, 15 seconds, f11
Processed in Capture One & Photoshop
Dawn of the Returning Sun at Fort Preble
The roads are already crowded as I get on the highway heading to Fort Preble for the first dawn of the returning sun, though I am all alone when I reach my destination. The sky is not promising, with heavy leaden clouds obscuring all but a small band of hazy sky on the horizon. The radio on my drive has been full of warnings that a significant storm is incoming.
This is not news to me.
Nonetheless, the sun makes an appearance, if only for a few scant minutes before disappearing into the clouds. Blazing a path through the gap of clouds at the horizon and the canon port in the fort wall, the rays of the new sun briefly warms my skin before the world is once again painted in cool shades of blue and gray.
The year once again has transitioned from waning to waxing, the eternal dance of the sun and planets a reassuring moment of continuity in an increasingly uncertain time.
Fuji X-T1 w/Fuji 18-55 f2.8-4 @36mm
ISO800, 1/80, f8
Processed in Capture One & Photoshop