© Karen McRae, 2013
life
Spring Belongs to the Birds
Birdsong and squinting into the sun. The earth is greening.
© Karen McRae, 2013
Faint Wingbeats
[Merged wings and reflections]
From the series Surface, Submerge.
© Karen McRae, 2013
The Water Phoenix
This image is made from 2 photographs. One being a surface reflection of flowing water, and the other, remains of a seagull.
The seagull caught my eye because as it was lying in the water at the river’s edge, the wings were moving with the rhythmic lapping of the water, as though somehow, there was still a touch of life.
© Karen McRae, 2013
The Shape of Gravity
© Karen McRae, 2012
Winter’s Dust 2
A flutter in the chest. A small bird, caught inside. Almost weightless in its restlessness. Almost. At times nestled in, curled up, resting. At times. A flutter in the chest. Wing-beats and sharp feet. Pulchritude and ache in equal measure. Almost.
© Karen McRae, 2012
Sigh
There are trees falling in the “forest”, and I can hear them…
© Karen McRae, 2012
Shapeshifters
Things are not always what they seem. Sometimes when I am making pictures I notice that the plot is thickening. Other times, I don’t notice until later.
The camera though, it is a keen observer. It has spent a lot of time looking. It has developed a sense of humour. It understands how I love double meanings, a good pun, or an interesting metaphor. And it sees what I am looking for. Sometimes it is the one to point things out.
The lens. It knows how to make the tiniest of adjustments. It knows how shallow or how deeply I want to go into a subject. It makes sense of the light, filters it carefully. The lens is meticulous.
The subjects. They are generous with their time. They are frequently in transition and often surprising. They too have a sense of humour. And they are always teaching me. Showing me how to look at things. Showing me how things are and how they are not. But also, how they could be.
Do you see the things I see here in these images? These shapeshifters?
All images © Karen McRae, 2012
Gesture
I love the sound of it, yes. But also what it infers. Gesture. My impression of this word itself, a movement in my mind.
If you look up the meaning, you might turn a page; a thin paper between your fingers and thumb. A whisper as the page rustles from your movement. A small intake of air as you recall the smell of this book that has been on a shelf close to you for as long as you can remember. You might find that you have stretched this word; made it bigger, filled it with as much meaning as you could get into it. Or, maybe this small word really is that big.
The fleeting gentle moments are the ones that stick in my mind. There is a purity in these moments. The smallest of movements. Communication. A demonstration of respect. Intention. Or without intention even.
Perception.
A time-worn beauty in the curved, slouched back of the man waiting to cross the street. A slight shifting in anticipation. One shoulder leaning into a movement that hasn’t quite begun.
The weight in the feet of the crows as they lift off from the side of the road. Draping feet. Briefly left behind. Suspended.
Voices. Blended voices in harmony. Entering the body and filling you for a moment. From one body into another. Pitch perfect. Grace.
An arm held out. Outstretched, the palm open. Fingers slightly bent. Just barely touching a pane of glass. Hovering. Just barely.
The wind sweeping across the fields. Flattening the grasses. Raising them up. The wind not making up its mind. Shifting the sands. Always shifting.
Fleeting poses. Your arm moving in its own quick gesture to find the lines. To find the light, the dark. A gesture to capture a gesture. Making marks.
These small things, I find they are not small. The people, the landscape they are in, these things are not small.
A single gesture can ripple through them.
© Karen McRae, 2012
draw and shoot 