One of twelve

December is only one of twelve months.  Nothing new there.  Not exactly a news flash.  But, there's something about the month of December that sets it apart from the previous eleven.  As firmly as I decide, generally about the time the autumnal equinox rolls around, that I'm going to resist December's mysterious draw, I fail year after year.

 

It could be the holidays, out of control and over the top as they are.  Several years ago, though, we and our respective families decided to cease and desist the craziness, not to mention the costliness, of exchanging gifts.  So, the intensity of shopping and wrapping and mailing is no longer a factor in December's appeal.  We still send greeting cards, Tal and I.  Maybe that's it.  Partly, anyway.  And, December is easier now that I'm not in full time parish work anymore.  But, even when there was too much to do and I was working when other people were off and with their families, there was no denying some sort of magic.

 

Maybe what's special about December is the light.  The steadily diminishing daylight as we head toward the winter solstice used to be more worrisome to people than it is in our 21st century world.  But, just because we know shortening days won't shorten into permanent darkness, we sure do light up the place with shimmering, glimmering, flashing, blinking light.  We're just doing our part to insure the return of the sun, I suppose.

 

No answers.  I'm going to satisfy myself that December isn't a regular month.  I can pretend that it is; I can resist its allure.  Or, I can simply "be" in December and enjoy it.

 

Form

Tuesday was a tough day.  Facing the truth is oftentimes very hard.

In the conclusion to my post that day I wrote this:

All I really want to do is ... feel proud of the handful of images that are really good -- and there are a few.

This what I am talking about. 

A pitcher. Yes.  Part of an exhibit at the Erie Canal Museum in Syracuse NY.  That, too. 

Are there things wrong with the photograph?  Yes, again.  The object is too close to the right edge.  There's a paint brush on the flat surface along with the pitcher.  I could go on.  But ...

What's right?  For me?  The way the light falls on the pitcher.  And, on the left edge of the handle.  AND, along the closest rim.  It seems to glow.

I like the curve of the pitcher, the out of focus curtain letting the viewer know the proximity of the window. 

It's all about the form.  The curves and the light.  The actual object could be anything and it could be anywhere.  Why it's part of an exhibit in a museum in Syracuse doesn't matter at all.  (A good thing since I recall none of those details.) 

A photograph doesn't have to be "of" something and it doesn't have to be static.  This one captures a moment during which I, myself, was captivated.

An image can extend a experience.  I am satisfied.