...but there weren't many even though it's mid-October.
So my photos are in black and white. Of course, I love black and white so even if the colors had been spectacular my selects might still have been in black and white. These are from Graveyard Fields, an area off of the Blue Ridge Parkway where the colors change first because there was a terrible fire in 1925 that altered the soil, which in turn affects how chlorophyll breaks down.
I took the trail to the Upper Falls this time — this area is pretty close to my house and the hiking is excellent. It's also
I met people from all across the US who, like me, chose Black Balsam Knob to watch day turn into night and then back again in a few minutes time. At an elevation of 6214 feet and within the total eclipse zone, how could it not be extraordinary? Still, we weren't prepared. It wasn't like regular night. It was like magical night. At that altitude we could see edges of light at the periphery so the darkness was a massive swath across the sky with glowing borders. Audible gasps. Hushed voices. Awe.
I didn't take pictures. I just stayed in the moment and let my GoPro shoot video. When it was over we didn't know what to do with ourselves. We all kind of looked around a bit more and at each other then slowly and quietly packed up our stuff, respectful of what we'd just witnessed and aware that we were now a little different than before.
While sitting in my vet's waiting room today the people next to me were talking about one of the founders of Eyedrum, an avant garde art space in Atlanta, who had died recently. My heart sank — my favorite art teacher was a founder. A quick Google search confirmed that, oh no, it was him. Woody Cornwell.
In one design class he taught me more about how to use line, shape, balance and value than I would've ever thought possible. It clicked — the way he taught, the way I learn. He was fun, funny, patient, a rebel, a huge talent and a tireless advocate for artists and their visions. He wanted us to learn the rules so we could break them and then defend why we did it. Notes from his class are in my bookcase and a cutout shape of a chair from one of his assignments hangs on my studio wall.
Mostly he's in the photos that I take. These are a few random shots that probably wouldn't exist had I not known Woody. And here are a few more. I have hundreds, maybe thousands.
Woody, thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you. Way too soon, my friend. Rest in peace.
Shining Rock Wilderness Area. On the most perfect fall day, midweek.
My grandparents lived very simple lives in very simple homes. Both sets. They all lived into their 90s and all but one died at home.
(I had written a lot more but deleted it this morning, on 10/6/14. After rereading the post again, it sounded so callous to me. Not at all what I intended, which was love and compassion and admiration for my grandparents who I cared so much about. I don't know where my head was when I wrote it or maybe my head was in an overly sensitive place last night when I read it again for the first time in five months, but either way, it didn't accurately represent what I feel. I'll try again with it soon.)