In February, amongst Yellowstone’s geysers, the earth’s breath ascends into a frigid winter day.
I’ll lift you and you lift me, and we’ll both ascend together. — John Greenleaf Whittier
A still, overcast morning… the English village of Coniston not yet awake… resuming our walk on the Cumbria Way before breakfast… Kathy and I came upon a ewe and her lamb resting beside the trail. The serenity I experienced in that moment returns each time I view this picture, which is perhaps my favorite from that memorable trip.
Boredom is the feeling that everything is a waste of time; serenity, that nothing is. —Thomas Szasz
As a photographer who began with film and will end with digital, the advances in the medium’s technologies (especially computer software) have transformed it in ways I didn’t imagine even ten years ago—is it photography? Illustration? Painting? The lines have blurred; whether you believe this has been an improvement or not will determine your approach to art.
With photography, you’ve captured a moment in time – it’s that moment only – and in painting, you play with it; you manipulate how time is presented. It’s about fantasy and illusion and the creation of desire. — Mickalene Thomas
Every season is a rehearsal for next year.
When in doubt wear red. — Bill Blass
Showing her age but still smiling, a full-bodied example of roadside advertising survives from an era when rounded usually meant but one thing.
I was the first woman to burn my bra – it took the fire department four days to put it out. — Dolly Parton
They were two impressive leather chairs, languishing in shadows where the stairway twisted between floors in an elderly Montana hotel. Adjacent to them, sharing royal red and gold carpet, an upright piano waited for a song.
Their town is small, set amid historic and geographic hot spots; you have to want to be there, and there were few guests the night I stayed. No one ran their hands over the smooth, time-worn arms, no modern bottoms felt the deep satisfaction of sinking into the cushions. The piano remained silent.
But, for a few precise moments, as evening peered through a tall window and I paused in the hallway, the glow of forgotten grandeur reappeared, and history sang softly in my ear.
Ever wonder where you’d end up if you took your dog for a walk and never once pulled back on the leash? — Robert Brault
Thompson’s Flouring Mills, the oldest surviving grist mill in Oregon, viewed through a window in the Millkeeper’s house, and (below) the millrace passing below the main building during a rainstorm.
People everywhere love Windows. —Bill Gates