Since being invited to take a foray into black and white, I’ve happened upon scenes which translate well–metaphorically–into the absence of color.
There has been no unifying theme, but it occurs to me that three were taken looking down at the earth beneath my feet. Two–one of a tentative spring bird, and this shot of billowing pure white beyond black steel twisted into a colony of perpetually flying birds–aimed up at the heavens. Only one, though sunlit, was taken indoors.
The five pictures were taken in three different states. None was taken at my own eye level. Although two were taken downtown in heavily populated cities, not a human is in sight.
I don’t want to read too much into this, and today marks an anniversary prone to plummet me into not necessarily productive solitary musings, but I sometimes wonder why my vantage point so effectively seals me off, even in a city of millions.
“And out on the street, there are so many possibilities to not be alone. . . .” And yet I am.
It can be empty out there, even when the streets are filled.