Tangled limbs dancing on the gently moving water.

This is very much what it actually looked like through the lens.
The colours are from yesterdays restless clouds and light, the silty bottom of the creek, and the branches and leaves reflected and simmering under the surface. The only post-processing I have done is a bit of cropping and slight level adjustments. And perhaps turning some things on their heads…

Today the leaves are mostly stripped bare and the trees are being thoroughly dampened.

© Karen McRae, 2012

A Slipping-by Surface

There is a path of crepe paper leaves that brings you here to this creek. The air is filled with the sound of small waterfalls and the earthy smell of an autumn afternoon.

As I am watching the water ripple by, several things cross my mind.

I am reminded of a recurring childhood dream where images slide by at a slowed-down-film-strip pace, a pace that seems to match this water.

Slow undercurrents and a slipping-by surface.

As I make small adjustments in the lens the surface shifts in and out of focus. I think of a very old book on my shelf that is covered in time-worn marbled paper, marbled somewhat like the reflections the trees are drawing on the water.

Where you focus changes everything.

I pass by a small child, he has just crossed the creek by way of a big log and he warns me of the dangers. He is bright-eyed and grinning broadly.

It is always good to meet a kindred spirit.


© Karen McRae, 2012

Surface, Submerge

Often, when I set out with an idea in mind, it becomes something else entirely.
I was thinking about the rich colours and light of autumn, and yesterday was one of those perfect autumn days.

But this is what I came away with.
The convoluted reflections of the trees.

And beneath those reflections, the autumn leaves, submerged and already fading into murkiness.

Moments of bare limbs and fallen leaves melding together in rippling shadows.
A fleeting reconnection.

© Karen McRae, 2012

The Demeanor of Gravity

Sometimes words just slip off the page.
Each formed letter gently falling into a small pile on a black desk.
This happens inaudibly. There is no punctuation at the end of this falling.
When you try to pick up these letters and reshape them, they dissolve at your touch.
You are left only with vague impressions and blurred thoughts.
Fragments on your fingertips.

My head is full of art history texts about ‘the photograph’.
I’ve been thinking about photography, painting, and drawing, and how they relate to one another. The seductive pull of these things and how they feel so necessary.
I keep pushing this series further into the realm of painting, but I like what’s happening.

I am currently stuck on the word pencil. It feels full of meaning somehow.
(Have you ever looked at this?: The Pencil of Nature )

© Karen McRae, 2012


We had our first real frost on the weekend and I headed out hoping to find some frosted seed heads but they were not really frosted at all. And for some reason the things that were quite frosted were not holding my attention. So I am back here. With the early morning dew, and just a touch of frost.

© Karen McRae, 2012