Lake Davis, Orlando, August 1, 2025
I wasn’t the only one who noticed the pastel tapestry of clouds in the sky yesterday evening. Two young women, hair pulled tightly back, fit bodies encased in monochromatic white athleisure, who also responded to the ecstatic panorama above us. Phones held up at the right height, chin lifted becomingly, they posed lakeside. Further down the sidewalk, a gaggle of geese honked a cacophony.
I took my Leica to the edge of the lake. The grass had grown out and was soft as a dog’s fur. The water was clear enough to see a turtle the size of a dinner plate languidly swimming below the surface. Ducks, geese, turtles, and the occasional swan. Bathing, swimming, dining, honking, parenting. Everyone going about their Friday-night business.
The camera’s settings were off at first, and each exposure returned acid colors. Adjustments were casually made. Now too underexposed, too ethereal. The sun continued its descent and the colors and shadows around me deepened. A different approach: Just shoot. Try different settings on the fly. Photograph omnivorously. I wasn’t seeking an “accurate” image of the night anyway. I thought of JMW Turner’s skies. All drama, operas in impasto.
Florida be extra. There’s not another way to say it. From the desk in my office, I watch a bird—feathers a neat pattern of blue-white and inky black, its head acid red—explore the palm tree beyond my window. Afternoon rain in the summer comes sudden and heavy, and everywhere you look is a blur, a slurry. And then it vanishes just as swiftly, and clear bright sun asserts itself. A baby having exhausted its tantrum, now smiling radiantly even as a final tear slides down its round cheek.
These extremes appeal to me. Always have. Upstate in winter, hiking in the too-cold on icy ground where every step demands attention. In the desert, parched, caramel-colored dirt crunching beneath my boots. The jagged coastline and smashing waves of Northern California—a scene from a tourist pamphlet in the day and a film-noir still at night—violent and stunning. Suburban predictability soothes some people, but for me it’s a lie we tell ourselves. We’ve got it all under control. But big cities and wild nature—they know better. Imperfect and perfect. Both things at once.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed the pastel tapestry of clouds in the sky yesterday evening. Two young women, hair pulled tightly back, fit bodies encased in monochromatic white athleisure, who also responded to the ecstatic panorama above us. Phones held up at the right height, chin lifted becomingly, they posed lakeside. Further down the sidewalk, a gaggle of geese honked a cacophony.
I took my Leica to the edge of the lake. The grass had grown out and was soft as a dog’s fur. The water was clear enough to see a turtle the size of a dinner plate languidly swimming below the surface. Ducks, geese, turtles, and the occasional swan. Bathing, swimming, dining, honking, parenting. Everyone going about their Friday-night business.
The camera’s settings were off at first, and each exposure returned acid colors. Adjustments were casually made. Now too underexposed, too ethereal. The sun continued its descent and the colors and shadows around me deepened. A different approach: Just shoot. Try different settings on the fly. Photograph omnivorously. I wasn’t seeking an “accurate” image of the night anyway. I thought of JMW Turner’s skies. All drama, operas in impasto.
Florida be extra. There’s not another way to say it. From the desk in my office, I watch a bird—feathers a neat pattern of blue-white and inky black, its head acid red—explore the palm tree beyond my window. Afternoon rain in the summer comes sudden and heavy, and everywhere you look is a blur, a slurry. And then it vanishes just as swiftly, and clear bright sun asserts itself. A baby having exhausted its tantrum, now smiling radiantly even as a final tear slides down its round cheek.
These extremes appeal to me. Always have. Upstate in winter, hiking in the too-cold on icy ground where every step demands attention. In the desert, parched, caramel-colored dirt crunching beneath my boots. The jagged coastline and smashing waves of Northern California—a scene from a tourist pamphlet in the day and a film-noir still at night—violent and stunning. Suburban predictability soothes some people, but for me it’s a lie we tell ourselves. We’ve got it all under control. But big cities and wild nature—they know better. Imperfect and perfect. Both things at once.