exposure

What's in this desire to publish a blog? Is it ego? Partly. Probably mostly.

It's also like a clothesline. An airing out of the laundry, allowing one to see the rips and tears and missed spots in the light of day. A self critique, an effort to see all the flaws and improvements which could be made, a fine tuning of both one's thoughts and aesthetic. Words written and photographs published become static waypoints in a dynamic journey, assertions to be analysed and argued and changed if and when necessary. The trick is to not see them as or allow them to become endpoints.

 

 

 

 

gilt by association

Fascinating, the power of the nose. How a smell can evoke arbitrary memories when the aroma was a subtle part of some past experience. It's like your iPod on shuffle - you never know where you're going to go.

I use the occasional piece of coal in my woodburning stove during the colder parts of our Canadian winter. As it burns with an even and gentle flame, the heat takes the chill from the air, the smell takes me back to Scotland. September.  A roaring coal fire pubside in Port Ellen's White Hart Hotel, scorching my back and burning away the shiver of an Islay night ravaged by the tail end of an Atlantic hurricane which stranded many on either side of the ferry link the island relies upon as part of its life's blood.

The memory is like gold, precious and permanent.

 

boats in the harbour, Port Ellen, Islay, Scotland

window in Port Ellen, Islay, Scotland

Carraig Fhada, the lighthouse in Port Ellen, Islay, Scotland

perspective

It is relatively easy to take impressive photographs of landscapes which take the breath away - the monument of the Rocky mountains when the sun and the clouds are just right (see the definition of "awful"), the brilliance of white in the buildings perched high above the cobalt Mediterranean of Rhodos - just point and shoot pretty much anywhere and you're guaranteed to capture something of the grandeur. Anybody can do it, to which travel photo albums around the world can attest. Don't get me wrong, the obvious beauty captured in such photographs has merit, the pleasure of viewing no doubt having some relation to endorphins and the like.

I suppose this is the superficial nature of the iconic - pictures taken by everyone of the visually appealing. The truly brilliant photograph, however, is created by the desire to see beyond the impressive, beyond the grandeur. To distill the image down to some sort of gestalt precisely contained within the edges of the photographic frame. Like taking something apart and reassembling it to the same functionality but with half the moving parts. And this process is not as easy. I can spend hours looking at things just to get the image "just right", only to find upon later inspection that it's "just OK". Happens all the time. That's why you have to have fun in the process, and not merely from the product.

two of the many rocks on Saligo beach, Islay

the Paps of Jura from Bunnahabbhain Distillery, Islay

along the shoreline by Castlebay, Barra

awful

Why does the word awful not mean "full of awe", which is the perpetual state we should all strive to attain. Oh, wait, it does...Check out these entries from Dictionary.com:
.....
 aw·ful 
–adjective 
1. extremely bad; unpleasant; ugly: awful paintings; an awful job.
2. inspiring fear; dreadful; terrible: an awful noise.
3. solemnly impressive; inspiring awe: the awful majesty of alpine peaks.
4. full of awe; reverential.
5. extremely dangerous, risky, injurious, etc.: That was an awful fall she had. He took an awful chance by driving here so fast.
–adverb
6. Informal . very; extremely: He did an awful good job of painting the barn. It's awful hot in here.
—Usage note
Although some object to any use of awful or awfully in any sense not connected with a feeling of awe, both have been used in other senses for several centuries. Awful and awfully as adverbial intensifiers — awful(ly) hot; awful(ly) cold — appear in the early 19th century, following much the same pattern as horribly and dreadfully. As an adverb awful is less formal in tone than awfully. In the sense “inspiring awe or fear” awesome has largely replaced awful.
.....

I don't know of any other word with two valid yet almost diametrically opposed meanings.

So I feel awful that I haven't shared anything with you for the last few weeks, but I've been awfully busy adding photos to my webalbums.

another photo of the lighthouse in Port Charlotte, one of my favourite subjects on the Scottish island of Islay...you'll probably see many iterations on this theme, both mine and others

the Sound of Islay, looking toward Jura from Port Askaig

the port of Ullapool, Scotland, where the ferry leaves for Stornoway on the Outer Hebridean island of Lewis

Loch Seaforth from Bowglass, the land border between the Outer Hebridean islands of Harris and Lewis, Scotland. It's an unusual geographic division, being just a river instead of the expected open water strait between two islands

on beauty

Two things bring me to this post, the synergy of two separate interviews I hear on CBC Radio (the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation - a jewel in the crown of public broadcasting in my view).

Harvard history professor Jill Lepore talks about her book "The Whites of Their Eyes: The Tea Party's Revolution and the Battle Over American History". The author comments that she can vehemently disagree with someone yet still like them as a person, unlike the state of affairs in the American political arena where disrespect runs rampant. Nasty confrontational politics is becoming the norm here in Canada as well, as it is everywhere else in the world I suppose.

Johnny Reid, a Canadian musician born in Scotland, talks about the genesis of his song "Today I'm Gonna Try and Change the World". One day he sees his son off to school bidding him to go and change the world, and gets to thinking it somewhat presumptuous when there are things in his own life which could be done to accomplish the same thing.

And I get to thinking about respect and changing the world...and maybe how it all relates to why I take photographs, or perhaps more appropriately the desire for others to see them. And it is "take" as opposed to "make", for the most part. I shoot what I see in the world around me, with post-processing attempting only to overcome the failings of the photographic medium, to bring the image closer in line with what and how my eyes have seen. Can the fostering of respect bring about positive change, can exposure to the beauty of the world around us germinate respect for that world and lead to the changing of that world for the better?
...Can't hurt.

three swimmers in Lamlash, Arran

 

heather on the Ard overlooking Port Ellen, Islay

the iconic lighthouse at Port Charlotte, Islay...and my dad

on the road again

Thinking about my last entry...Why roads? The visual, of course, lines which draw the eye and entice it to follow. An abrupt linear counterpoint to the chaos that is landscape. The draw is not unlike, I suppose, that which attracts people to travel the road itself. A journey, the mystery of where it may lead, of what may lie round the next bend.

just out of Feolin Ferry, Jura

a Skye Road

the road to Bunnahabhain, Islay

Kildalton, Islay

Vatersay, one of the Outer Hebridean islands of Scotland

along Loch Harport, Skye

The last is a photo from the east coast of Harris, another of the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. A landscape with a peculiarly attractive desolation. Apparently it was a proxy for the planet Jupiter in Kubrick's film "2001: a Space Odyssey". Maybe that's why I find Harris so appealing - the film is one of my alltime favourites. I remember seeing it with my dad when it was first released, one of the first wide screen epic films. And here I find myself travelling with my father again, on a journey through the same landscape. Full circle, another line.

on the road

In Canada, at least, motorcyclists acknowledge each other with a wave as they speed past in opposite directions. The left hand drifts out as if to grasp the wind, to grasp the unspoken greeting flung from a complete stranger on the road.

A similar thing happens on the Scottish island of Islay, only it's the car drivers who greet each other. A small wave or a lift of the fingers from the steering wheel an automotive tip of the hat. It comes as a bit of a surprise to the uninitiated, but soon feels natural, feels right, feels human. The road becomes a conduit of people, with their own private lives and histories and secrets, instead of just metal tonnage hurtling along a stretch of hard asphalt. Hurtling still happens, but the momentary eye contact with the driver on the other side of the road is somehow comforting.

A few photos for you from my trip to Scotland this September.

The high road on Islay, between Port Ellen and Bridgend. A very fun single track road, of which there are many in Scotland.

The much photographed gate at the top of Shore Street in Portnahaven, Islay. Another example of the iconic

The not so much photographed bottom of Shore Street in Portnahaven, Islay 

Looking east along the road called The String, just above Brodick on Arran

still here

Understanding that I've broken one of the cardinal rules of blogging - post on a regular basis lest your audience thinks you've dropped off the face of the earth - I'm here to tell you that I am, indeed, still alive and well. My time just happens to be somewhat consumed by my job during the summer. We run a kids camp and I barely have time to get my email let alone put enough thought into blog posts in order to make them interesting and worthwhile. So let it be known that their frequency may not be to both our liking, but please don't go away!

Our summer camp is horseback riding and animal oriented, so I'll leave you with a few pix of animals. I'm always attracted to images of horses, and for some reason I tend to have a few shots of cows in my repertoire. And of course my dog.

my dog at camp, early morning

Lochmaddy, on the Scottish West Hebridean island of North Uist

a beachcowmer on Barra, another of Scotlands Western Hebrides

grazing on the Scottish island of Islay

tree

I'm wondering about the nature of the iconic. At least the visual, as there certainly can be other expressions of the concept - Neil Young's voice, the feel of a baby's cheek, the aroma of peat smoke. Recognizable, though bestowed with as many evocations or interpretations as there are people sharing the experience. Indeed, meaning comes from personal experience, but it's the common identification I'm talking about.

I read a few Scottish blogs, mostly about the island of Islay, and especially like to see other peoples' images and how they photograph the same things to which I find myself attracted. Take this tree, along the road north to Bunnahabhain on Islay. I've seen several photographs of the same tree, each one a different perspective, but the same tree nonetheless. Why this one?

underfoot

At the bottom of the Rhinns of Islay, the southwestern tip of that Scottish island, is the village of Portnahaven.There you'll find a great little pub called An Tigh Seinnse. Small in size but big in atmosphere, and the food and drink are good too. One can sit outside and view the boats bobbing and the seals basking in the harbour.

The entrance is a nondescript white painted wooden door. It's a double door, but often only one half is open, leaving a space no wider than the average pair of shoulders. Entering on a sunny Islay day (yes, Scotland is often sunny and bright - don't look so shocked) into the subdued light of the hallway feels like entering the home of Bilbo. Don't get me wrong, I like hobbits, at least I'm sure I would if I met one, which I haven't...well, you know what I mean. Cosy comfort. One of the things I found attractive was the floor. Reminded me of Morocco. Quite fine tile work which surprised me to find in a small Hebridean pub.

red phonebooths

With the advent of wireless communication and ensuing prevalence of cell phones in the world, I suspect the phonebooth is on the road to oblivion. I love the image of the red phonebooth. Not only do they appeal to me visually, but they also seem to me to be heavily laden with story. History and culture nestle deep in the crackled paint of their exterior, lives lived and shared over thin copper wires. In rural Scotland one can find them on the most unlikely of street corners.

I got thinking about all this after reading a post on Armin Grewe's www.islayblog.com that indicated Google Streetview had come to the Scottish island of Islay, and that one of the views he found interesting was along the road featuring the red phonebooth near Carnduncan. I thought it would be fun to show a few of the photographs I've taken of these icons, including this one near Carnduncan...

...on Skye, near Carbost, just down the road from the Talisker distillery.

...on Barra, one of the southernmost of the Outer Hebrides of Scotland.

the Oa

The Oa is the southwest part of the island of Islay, Scotland. It's somewhat remote, and quite beautiful. The wind was blowing hard the day I visited the American Monument down on the coast (which is just barely visible on the extreme right horizon in this photograph).

I felt bad for these cyclists, not because of the wind, but because they kept pulling over to let me pass on the singletrack road. This happened more than once - I'd drive by them,  stop for another photograph, they'd pedal by me, I'd drive by them...sorry folks.

Laphroaig stills

I must confess that my initial attraction to Scotland was the result of being interested in single malt whisky. I've made quite a few trips there since 2001, and visited quite a few distilleries. Although all Scotch is made with the same ingredients of malted barley, water, and yeast, "cooked" in copper and aged in oak, it never ceases to amaze me how different the end product from each distillery can be.

Scotland, of course, is much more than whisky, and the place has stolen my heart with her beauty and interest. This photograph is from the distillery of one of my favourite whiskies, Laphroaig, on my favourite island of Islay. The stillman is tending to the spirit safe, where the first sight of the new make spirit coming from the stills can be had...the beginning of a long process of making single malt whisky which can take anywhere from three years up to 40, 50, even 60 years (the latter being very rarified stuff!).

Port Charlotte

I highly recommend the Port Charlotte Youth Hostel should you ever visit Islay, one of the Inner Hebridean islands of western Scotland. The windows of the lounge and kitchen look directly out onto Loch Indaal. This photograph is from the beach just below the hostel during my stay last September. I was lucky enough to catch the rising sun one morning while stumbling to the bathroom and cursing a small bladder (oh, sorry, too much information?).