Photograph: a picture painted by the sun without instruction in art. — Ambrose Bierce
In this region of dry land wheat farming, my eye was dazzled by the endless fields, the windrows of golden straw left behind the combine harvester, stalks made even more golden in the glow of evening’s last light.
Nature is a painter beyond measure. The light as it washes across the landscape, low in the sky, expresses the forms of the hummocks and rock mounds, the textures of the windrows. It also conveys the spaciousness of the landscape.
It has been some time since I have felt so deeply immersed in the experience of photographing. Perhaps the quiet countryside, miles and miles of solitude, a silence that was uninterrupted by man or machinery, the expansiveness of the landscape, re-membered my contemplative nature and practice in the Zen arts.
With mind unencumbered and eye alert, paying attention to the way light and shadow defined forms, the subtle differences in tones, the interplay of color, I saw things I might have otherwise missed. It is this experience that makes photography a vital form for me.
I stood in this breathtaking beauty, a gleaner.