Spring arrives soon (at least on the calendar) and over the course of several warmer New England days, I imagined snippets of green tucked beneath our flower and garden beds. It’s wishful thinking, I know. Melting snow brings mud season and soon enough all this brown and gray will turn yellow and pink with swipes of orange. Soon enough I’ll head to the woods with my camera and boys in hand and now there is a part of me clenching onto the last weeks of winter.
The season’s arctic temperatures left me inside more than usual. As my days filled with bowls of oatmeal and snippets of books read, I noticed the shift of winter light. From signature cool gray to pale yellow, I followed the light from room to room, noting the color changes by days and hours.
Instead of succumbing to winter dread, I picked up my camera and marked the coldest days by the subtle shifts of sunlight. The mood and tone in each image showed me more than a weather report ever could. I learned to pay attention, to see in each moment the relationship light has with a photographic subject.
I saw the corners of my house, so familiar I could draw them with my eyes shut tight, with renewed interest. A dusty bookshelf and half-drawn curtain became a place worthy of contemplation. Those slowed down days marked by shifts of sunlight taught me something I couldn’t have learned in any other season: always be curious, find greater depth, and open your eyes. I picked up my camera more and more. Not because I forced myself to, but because I couldn’t do otherwise.
I was bewitched by winter light. Morning. Afternoon. Evening. All manner of poetic moments showed up. As long as I continue the same, the flow into spring will be a good one.
Nikki | Art & Lemons