It’s so much fun to ask people, “What in the world is this?!”
They tilt their heads, quizzically, studying the photograph. Some immediately say, “It’s lava!” while others say, “Wait…there’s snow…how can that be?”
Welcome to the visual conundrum of “Firefall”, the natural phenomenon in Yosemite National Park.
What is it?
For a couple of weeks in February, the sun is perfectly lined up with Horsetail Falls in Yosemite National Park. If we are lucky, when the sun sets over the ocean, it cuts across the flat part of California and infuses Horsetail Falls with the same color of the sunset for all of ten minutes.
But it doesn’t always happen. There are so many variables involved that there can be years in between that the phenomenon doesn’t appear.
For instance, there may not be enough snow, or melting snow, for there to be a waterfall. And even if there is, humidity and cloud cover affect the appearance of Firefall.
This gorgeous and rare photograph took William 18 years to capture. Notice the details—the cragginess in the granite, the reflection in the mist, and the pine tree at the top that glows in the sun’s last warmth of the day. This picture was taken on a little known path, very far away, and yet every single detail can be seen. All the details add up to an exquisite moment of time and beauty.
This is the world of William Carr…his photographs are the gateways to that world. Come experience it for yourself in The William Carr Gallery.
Aaaaah Venice, the magical “City of Romance” that has captivated artists and poets for centuries. Timelessly alluring, there’s no other place quite like it anywhere else across Europe. The city’s canals speak directly to the soul revealing countless tales of intrigue, but only if we pause and take the time to listen to the call. For this shot, the forces happened to align…and Venice’s whispering call was heard.
For weeks, I searched the maze-like streets in this “Queen” of cities, looking for a color, a shadow, a lonesome beam of light. I searched for weeks, to no avail.
Then one day, only when returned to this spot much later, I discovered the poetic scene above, a tableau I immediately recognized as pure, sublime magic. Ever so quietly so as not to disturb the morning’s peace, I set up my equipment. Holding my breath, I pressed the shutter, and subsequently captured a moment as eternal as the city herself.
Photographers have a love of spontaneity.
An image captured with just a single click.
Just that one single click that freezes time.
But, I am a photographer who shares that love of spontaneity with a love of returning to the past, to places I have been before. A lonely beach in Polynesia. The ruins of an ancient castle in Austria. The sense memory of perfume wafting over a field of lavender in Provence. Pondering the music of the stones at an ancient Native American site.
So, it is with the thought of revisiting and reacquainting myself that I return to Oregon every Fall. I return to revisit my sensory memories and to renew them.
I load up my 4wd and head out, up to Oregon for a four day shoot. Fall seems to have come early this year. There’s a definite bite in the air and the birds are sparse. They’ve headed south weeks ago, leaving just a few hungry strays lingering.
I stop frequently to see the ocean, venturing out on the towering cliffs. The mist has a chill in it, a salty taste of the approaching winter.
I drive a narrow coastal route, remote and still. I stop for lunch and to wade the tide pools that are tucked like pockets into the bottom of the cliffs. Nestled into remote beaches and caves, they glimmer like dark jewels protected by towering walls.
I head inland, passing miles of trees. Their leaves have turned a fiery red as per the seasonal decree of Mother Nature. They stand in stark contrast to to the dark and gloomy day that surrounds us.
On the third day, I came upon an amazing tree. I had to capture it.
An ancient Japanese Maple, it was in the final days of a glorious and fiery display, a spectacular collage of deepening autumn hues. It stood like a timeless patriarch in a secret garden of scarlet and crimson, it’s beautiful branches bending like the arms of a dancer.
The challenge now was in finding the light. The day was overcast and dark like all the mornings so far. It was chilly and damp, dark and gloomy. It was nothing like the blazing tree in front of me.
I studied the best way to bring to light the magestic stature of grace and strength of this iconic tree. I juggled my camera from a hundred different angles, hoping that some sun would seep in from somewhere. There just was not enough light.
And , as I was trying to capture the image from all these angles, an amazing thing happened.
The sun broke throught with a beam of pure white light.
I felt a shudder, a sense of elation.
Something magical had just happened.
It was Brilliant, my latest release.
One of nature’s most elusive mysteries still remains the migration of the Monarch Butterfly. They endure a 2000-mile migration that relies on four generations to complete the entire journey. I have been patiently waiting. For just the right timing to rendezvous with the Monarch in a protected Eucalyptus grove on the central California coast. As I reach high with my telephoto lens I notice how the cluster looks like stained glass. Nature is truly remarkable. We must maintain a “World Focus” to protect our fragile environment so future Generations can enjoy these fleeting moments in life.
Mr. William Carr,
During the MLK weekend I had the opportunity to visit your gallery. I cannot begin to tell you how awe-inspiring your work is. I spent a very long time in the store and was amazed to find out that you were actually present amidst your work and talking to other admirers. Upon my return home, I immediately had to visit your website and learn more about you. I read your past blogs and realized that in June of 2011 you had asked for people to write in their personal experiences involving you or your work. So here I am, feeling the need to convey to you how your work, your passion, and your desire to give has more than inspired me. Aside from your beautifully captured work, I feel obligated to speak of the “behind the scenes” things that solidified my newly found admiration for you and your work. While in your gallery, I read the placard on the wall that described your desire for giving back to those who are less fortunate. I feel that this exemplifies that your passion is more than just photography itself, but helping people through your gifts. I was also amazed to see you there in your gallery, speaking freely with all those who entered. (I must admit I was a little intimidated to introduce myself, but I was also engrossed in your newly released book) I hope that you realize how important it makes one feel when they can come into your gallery, marvel at your work and then be able to meet you in person to get the background, history, or personal feel of what created it. It makes the experience so much more personal. Lastly, after reading your blog, I was much appreciative of how you have no regard for keeping your talents to yourself. You freely explain to aspiring artist on how to create a portfolio as well as explain how you are self-taught (with descriptions of your earlier work). To me, this is unheard of anymore. So often I find that artist want to keep their knowledge and experience to themselves, they don’t want others to master their techniques or worse, improve upon them. You have no issues helping others make something of their passions in fact you encourage it. You have inspired me to follow my heart, to always think of others before myself, and to continue on with my passions. Thank you for your work, but most of all thank you for what you stand for and what you represent. You are more than just an artist, you are a breath of fresh air.
I got to Venice at six am on Christmas Eve.
The sun was rising on St Mark’ s Square.
Bells were ringing all over the city, interrupting the serenity of the approaching dawn.
As I was walking, I captured this image totally off the cuff while I was heading to my hotel. The gondolas were lined up in the harbor, their shadows cast on the waters of the lagoon.
Dark and mysterious, they typified the secrets of Venice.
I checked into my hotel, a favorite spot with ex patriot Americans, I heard laughing and headed to the bar. It had been a long trek to Venice.
The Pope was on TV. I ordered a Campari and soda and toasted the holiday, along with a room full of revelers.
I decided to leave Florence on Tuesday. I jumped in my suv and headed for Cinque Terre. The Cinque Terre is a rugged portion of coast on the Italian Riviera. I had been there this past June for the celebration of Corpus Domini…the blessing of the sea. My plan this trip was to capture a different type of image of Riomaggiore than I had ever done before.
I arrived at two in the afternoon and the town was bustling. Riomaggiore is the most southern of the five cities of Cinque Terre and dates from before the 8th century. Very picturesque, it has a shoreline on the Mediterranean’s Gulf of Genoa with a narrow beach and wharf framed by towering houses that seem to stagger up the hillside in a jumble.
I figured I would check into my lodging and then roam the city the next day. I stayed in a small hotel with a beautiful garden at the top of the hill. 340 steep steps above the train station. I ate a late lunch in the hotel garden under the shade of the vineyard where I smelled the scent of flowers. The house specialty? Fried anchovies. This area is known for wine and I drank my fair share that afternoon. It is known as Sciacchetra and it comes two ways…sweet and sweeter. It is a beautiful yellow color with amber reflections and the scent of apricot and acacia honey. Delicious. And, intoxicating.
I sat in the garden and wondered what it must have been like in the days of the pirates. Pirates trolled the entire coastline and that is probably why the castle at the hill was built. Built in the 15th Century, the castle rises on a rocky crag and overlooks the sea.The Castle is reached by climbing the steep road from the railway station and heading pretty much straight up.
As I sat in the garden, I realized that time has not touched the Cinque Terre. The villages are connected by paths, trains and boats. Cars are scarce. The path known as Sentiero Azzurro or the light blue trail, connects the villages. When you first see Riomaggiore, you see the colorful old houses, stacked haphazardly on top of each other climbing the hills.
I decided that the castle was definitely on my agenda for tomorrow. As evening fell, I watched the night fishermen head out from the small harbor for the anchovies. They were starting their day and I was finishing mine.
In the morning , I woke up to the chiming of bell towers. The bells are the background music of Riomaggiore. ..they ring throughout the day. I had my coffee in the garden, dew on the fragrant plants. Even though it was early, the city was bustling. I have noticed that the small villages of Italy have a placid exterior but underneath, they are constantly moving, changing, so active and vibrant.
I headed over to the old castello of Riomaggiore. The castle has a square base. The longest part of the castle base overlooks the sea. Two towers flank it. The entrance to the castle is located between two towers. There is an external staircase that leads into the tower itself. Dark and shadowy, it has the feel of something ancient and haunting.
The castle is fascinating…but I did not think I could get the image I was looking for…
I explored the town and around five , I headed down to the small harbor.
The light was stunning. The warm light of day was melting into the golden light of sunset.
I was at the foot of the harbor. But, I wanted to shoot Riomaggiore from the sea…looking straight at the city. Out in the harbor, there were giant boulders of marble. They were huge pieces from the Carrera quarry. The quarry that was made famous as the source for the marble of Michelangelo’s David. White and slippery, they formed a jetty. And, they would ultimately be my footpath to capture the image I needed.
I spotted some stairs on the side of the crag that lead down to the water. I figured that if I went down the stairs, I could jump from rock to rock with my camera balanced on my back. That sounded realistic at the time. The stairs were the easy part. The marble was slippery and wet. I inched my way out into the harbor. I knew this was dangerous. But, what can I tell you? I wanted to shoot from the middle of the harbor. The night fishermen were eyeing me suspiciously but I just kept on going. Moving slowly out on the jetty. I got to the middle of the harbor. I set up my tripod and camera on the slick marble, moving slowly so as not to slip. One mis -step and me and my camera would be in the drink. I got into position. My tripod was balancing against me and the slippery marble. The light was amazing. Golden and warm, it was making the terraced houses of the town literally glow. It was a fantastic panorama of the town, a few people, a dog…perfect.
All that was behind me was the open sea.
Just as I was reflecting on the beauty of all that was before me, I got slammed with a rogue wave that hit me from behind. Drenched, I was hunched over my camera, trying to save it from a soaking like the one I had just gotten. I am standing in a harbor, on a wet rock, clinging to my gear. Small boats are sailing by me.
I got my footing back. I repositioned my camera. I looked out across the water and there it was….Riomaggiore glowing like a jewel across the harbor.
Click. That was it. My Riomaggiore.
I crept back across the slippery marble towards the steps. Frogs were chattering on the rocky shore and the night fisherman passed, headed out for anchovies.
I walked back to my hotel to change clothes. I was soaked.
And then I trekked over to the Bar & Vini , a local hangout perched on the side of the mountain, for a last few glasses of wine .
Tomorrow, I would head for Venice.
From Santorini, I headed to Italy.
To Tuscany. The land of the golden light.
I would be staying in Val D’Orcia, literally off the old Roman road, Via Francigena.
Tuscany is the place of Dante,Galileo,Puccini and Michelangelo. A rich artistic legacy that grew from an agricultural base and built a great cultural stronghold before, during and after the Italian Renaissance. It rivaled Florence politically and artistically.
Literally a valley of poetry, it presented a landscape which fascinated the great painters of the Renaissance and the Romantic writers of England and Germany and France. And, she charms us still today with her subtle hues and golden light.
I arrive late in the afternoon. The sun is low in the sky but it still paints the landscape…colors of dry clay and golden earth, hills green like moss and ancient farmhouses dot the landscape.
I am staying in the old stone farmhouse of a working vineyard. The workers are heading in, pulling their carts into an old stone barn, and waving to the guests under the portico. Time stands still in Tuscany. I finish my Chianti and call it a day. I plan on an early start in the morning.
Morning comes and I head downstairs to grab a quick coffee. But in Tuscany, there is no such thing as a quick anything. It is a slow place, a place where life is enjoyed and the simplest of routines are savored. So, in the dining room I have an espresso and fig focaccia, a specialty of the kitchen. I am warned by the staff to be back on time because dinner is pasta shuta, a favorite of mine.
I am off down the road in my rented SUV, my gear stowed in the back. When I say the road, I mean The Road. Via Francigena is a road the Romans built. Centuries old, it winds along the countryside, weaving in and out of the valleys and past the hills that are notched with ravines. My innkeeper has given me directions to some interesting places in the valley and I plan to spend my day meandering. So I wander, shooting images here and there and chasing the light around Tuscany.
And then, I came upon it. “It” being a spectacular place. As I rounded a bend in the road, I saw the old stone farm house perched on top of a hill, sitting like a jewel in an ancient crown, guarded by manicured orchards and spikes of cypress. The farm was the only thing still lit by the afternoon’s fading light. And, it was lit with a wand dipped in gold. As I got closer, I saw the earthy colors of the vineyard melding with the silver grey of olive groves and the graceful cypress. The beautiful palette of nature is before me…the burnt sienna of art classes gone by is a reality on this afternoon. That hazy golden light hangs over the vineyard, touching all the other colors below and seeming to linger past day’s end.
I set up my gear and I know that I am at the feet of the Masters. I am in the middle of the flourishing Renaissance. I look through my lens and sheer poetry comes back at me. I capture my image …the golden jewel farmhouse set in the crown landscape of umbers and greens and silvers. And, I wonder, how can this rich painting of nature be just part of an everyday landscape? But that is the beauty of it and that is the secret of it.
The mystery of Tuscany. A suspended place in time that has never surrendered to progress.
I head back to my lodging, knowing that I have possessed timeless Tuscany for a brief moment with the click of a shutter , the thought of pasta shuta and a glass of Chianti waiting for me.
Ah, Bella Campagna.
I awoke to find myself in a strange land, far away from my Southern Utah roots.
I was on a European shoot, planning to cover about fifteen hundred miles or so. I went to my window and gazed out to the Southern Aegean, out onto the bluest of blue seas, 120 miles south of the mainland of Greece.
Santorini is essentially what remains of an enormous volcanic eruption that occurred three or four million years ago. It is a place of great beauty and history. I grab a quick coffee and my gear and head out for a trek up to the top of the city.
And I say up because I am staying near the harbor and the rest of the city is above me. Far above me.
Actually, the whole town is really a harbor of sorts. The city clings to the top of a cliff, looking down on a lagoon. The lagoon flows through a break in the sea wall and boats sail in and out.
I start my trek up, pausing at intervals to view a calm sea below. The pace of life in Greece is slow but constant, children dart in and out of alleys, women carry their groceries on a long slow walk home. A fish monger leans out his door, enticing me with a fresh caught octopus. A few men are talking, laughing, arguing about a lamb being barbecued at a small taverna , sipping their first glass of wine of the day. I stop and chat along the way, engaging myself in their conversations. I laugh at their observations and comment on a chess move or two.
This is Greece.
Slow but energetic, it’s pace a seeming contradiction.
But, my journey is singular and I return to hiking the narrow streets , up to the top to capture the City from a perch high above. I am determined. Determined to make it to the top to catch the early evening view. To see the sea of legends in the moonlight.
It is said that the island was formed after a huge volcanic explosion several million years ago. And this Big Daddy of volcanoes caused the entire Minoan Civilization to perish. Known as Thera, her fury is thought to have been responsible for the legend of the lost city of Atlantis.
By the time I have climbed to the top, the sky is dark. The sky is as blue as velvet can be, it presides over this ancient city and frames the harbor with a matching cloak.
The domes of Santorini dance across the rooftops like little blue hats. A place as old as time but yet as lively and timely as today. I glance down at people walking and at boats bobbing on the bay…a bay with winds that seem to laugh at the land above.
I have been to Greece many times and I know the ancient stories and legends surrounding the place. And , I feel their presence up here.
Standing on top of the World.
Standing on top of Santorini.
I survey the City below, knowing immediately where I can capture my image. I find it in my lense. And then, click. There it is.
My Santorini captured in time.
I began my trek back down those cobbled steps. But in the distance, I smell the faint aroma of a familiar lamb on a spit.
Powered by wordpress customer service chat