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Sunday, January 20, 2013


This morning Steele and I woke up early to do some volunteer work for the Scholastics Art Awards. We woke to a dark room, and hobbled around the apartment in the cold, left the house late and went down down down the stairs, and out into the frozen air. The mist has been freezing at night and leaving the ground frosty and white. Everything was coated in a layer of white. Every branch had a tiny coating of crystals so perfect and crunchy. If only everything was magnified.



The drive we had to make is short but beautiful. Made even more beautiful by the low clouds and the sunrise. The sun was peeking just over the clouds, so perfect, and completely unrecordable with my camera. I kept having this pang of regret, that I couldn't capture this perfect moment. Like if I had an image of it I would always remember the feeling of driving along the highway with Steele, that feeling like you aren't just looking at a beautiful sunrise, but you are actually living inside of it. And the car, the road, the city that separates you from the sun doesn't exist. Then you raise a camera to your eye and all of the world falls back into place, all of the sudden there's a windshield in front of you, a city littered with stop signs and power lines, and buildings. And that huge circular sun orb hanging in the sky, the one that you lived inside for a brief moment, the one that appears so large and imploring. That sun is actually so tiny in your viewfinder.

The smallest possible crop of the very wide angle image I shot of the sun.

I'd like to say that I enjoyed the moment. The drive. That I was 100% thankful for the chance to see that sun at all. But I have drilled it into myself again and again to capture the moment I want to remember. And the thought of not being able to do that made me quite sad. But of course, now I've written about it, I'll remember it. And I've captured something more important: my insecurity at not being able to capture the sun.


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