When I go to an art museum, I take the most direct route to the Impressionist collection (if there is no Impressionist collection, my visit will likely not be long). Once situated before a Monet, Renoir, or Degas, I stand and gaze (and gaze) as if with that on-going act, I can drink in the beauty. The colors, shapes, and lines are themselves a language nearly understood, a dream just on the other side of memory, an evocative, sweetly sad, joy.
I was therefore quite happily surprised by my play with an in-camera technique for a more “painterly” photograph (inspired, in part by Eddie Soloway’s beautiful work). There, before me, was an evocation of the Water Lillies I’ve contemplated, and with it a similar stab of joy.