RANDOM ACTS OF PENMANSHIP

This week’s image of the week is not really one of my best. So why post it you say? Well, actually I have been itching to do some HDR images, but I was sorely disappointed to find out the Apple’s Aperture does not support HDR stitching. Yet. You have to do the dirty-work in Photoshop.

That route of course was a bit too cumbersome, and of course it would have helped to study the process a little better. But, noooo, I had to jump right in without reading the manual. I just happened to be on a photoshop with my mentor, Neill Whitlock at the Dallas Convention center. I snuck off with my 40D and tripod in-hand. I couldn’t pass up capturing some long exposures of this glass and the cars passing in front of the building. I had to take several exposures to get the headlight trails just right. This image was created with 4 layers at different exposures. I tweaked them with appropriate layer filters. After several combinations, I was somewhat happy with this resulting image.

Although, I think I could have done better with this image. I think I’ll apply what I have learned with this one, to the next image that i shoot for iOTW. I think I’ll do some landscape photography over the next couple of weeks. We’ll see how that goes.

You see it immediately. The pride. It closes the empty space between you and envelopes the air in a tight grip of familiarity. You can’t escape the urge to look into his eyes. Go ahead. He’s waiting to greet you.

He spent a minute polishing his only pair of black shoes with a worn out brush, careful not to mix dust, dirt and grime on this of all days. He ironed the trousers you can not see to pristine crispness with a charcoal impregnated iron. On his sinewy arm, an old but trusty time piece slipped passed carefully cut ragged nails, past bulging, surging veins of life’s precious fluids hard at work. It rests, albeit slightly askew, in it’s rightful place.

The maid was alerted. Tea is almost ready. Maybe chicken if you stay long enough.

Yes, the shirt, it too was carefully selected on this bright of days, to maximize it’s glow. It drapes him, soothes the prideful, beating chest. From the pulsating color, to the hand-stitched craftwork lace patterns, distinction at it’s best.

“So, welcome,” his eyes say to you, peeking through a cloak of darkness into the daylight that brought your humble presence.

“This is my home,” he says gently. A twinkle of pride glances off his eyes. He rests his palms gently on the window seal, you trace a shimmer of sweat coating his blood-vesseled forearms. Then it hits you like a bolt of sneaky foreshadow.

They built this house. They built this humble abode that you have entered. This abode, with it’s crudely framed wooden window frames. This humble home with it’s hand-stacked mortar and village-fired brick. A home as rough on the exterior, with it’s exposed handiwork and uneven lines, as it is cozy and comfortable and inviting as the man in the window. This is his life’s work.

This is his home. His pride. His private sanctuary on earth. And you, you are it’s most humble of guests.

“Thank you,” you say, catching the nearly imperceptible twist of a smile on his lips. He’s happy to see you.