Cold and crisp to the touch, I walk slowly through my frozen paradise of spring. The city is empty tonight, save for this lone photographer and the occasional howls of drunken valor muttered from passing cabs. Such bravery is lost in the wind’s grace and melted away by the city lights. But I am no saint myself, for my hands are warmed only by my friend Sam Adams. With a far too confident step I plod through the city looking for my next target.
It is not long before I realize that it is I who is being targeted, my demeanor closely watched, my expressions broken down into their constituent hopes and fears. I stop at this violation and look around me for the culprit, but there is no one around except for the poor souls whose only home on this cold night consists of tattered and torn blankets – reminders of dreams long forgotten. It is only when I stop looking that I begin to see my stalker.
Slowly she materializes before me, revealing first her mysterious expression, carved carefully in ancient stone. Next, I see the makeup she has placed ever so carefully around her face in order to mask her age, but it hardly works. The holy light above illuminates her every imperfection and draws my attention inward, not to her modern adornments, but straight to the heart of her very existence. I love her, you see, my imperfect stalker. I begin to fumble for my camera in hopes of catching my stalker in the act and in the midst I realize that my friend Sam Adams has left, yet my hands are still warm and my thought, clear as the night which surrounds me.
Holy Light
Here is another shot of Trinity Church on the left, the Hancock Tower on the right, and in the center, that building which no one knows the name of but which has a pretty light on top of it that changes color with the weather. I only noticed this just now when I uploaded the photo, but if you look closely you will see 3 stars directly above each part of the “trinity.” Creepy but very cool.
Cold and crisp to the touch, I walk slowly through my frozen paradise of spring. The city is empty tonight, save for this lone photographer and the occasional howls of drunken valor muttered from passing cabs. Such bravery is lost in the wind’s grace and melted away by the city lights. But I am no saint myself, for my hands are warmed only by my friend Sam Adams. With a far too confident step I plod through the city looking for my next target.
It is not long before I realize that it is I who is being targeted, my demeanor closely watched, my expressions broken down into their constituent hopes and fears. I stop at this violation and look around me for the culprit, but there is no one around except for the poor souls whose only home on this cold night consists of tattered and torn blankets – reminders of dreams long forgotten. It is only when I stop looking that I begin to see my stalker.
Slowly she materializes before me, revealing first her mysterious expression, carved carefully in ancient stone. Next, I see the makeup she has placed ever so carefully around her face in order to mask her age, but it hardly works. The holy light above illuminates her every imperfection and draws my attention inward, not to her modern adornments, but straight to the heart of her very existence. I love her, you see, my imperfect stalker. I begin to fumble for my camera in hopes of catching my stalker in the act and in the midst I realize that my friend Sam Adams has left, yet my hands are still warm and my thought, clear as the night which surrounds me.
Cold and crisp to the touch, I walk slowly through my frozen paradise of spring. The city is empty tonight, save for this lone photographer and the occasional howls of drunken valor muttered from passing cabs. Such bravery is lost in the wind’s grace and melted away by the city lights. But I am no saint myself, for my hands are warmed only by my friend Sam Adams. With a far too confident step I plod through the city looking for my next target.
It is not long before I realize that it is I who is being targeted, my demeanor closely watched, my expressions broken down into their constituent hopes and fears. I stop at this violation and look around me for the culprit, but there is no one around except for the poor souls whose only home on this cold night consists of tattered and torn blankets – reminders of dreams long forgotten. It is only when I stop looking that I begin to see my stalker.
Slowly she materializes before me, revealing first her mysterious expression, carved carefully in ancient stone. Next, I see the makeup she has placed ever so carefully around her face in order to mask her age, but it hardly works. The holy light above illuminates her every imperfection and draws my attention inward, not to her modern adornments, but straight to the heart of her very existence. I love her, you see, my imperfect stalker. I begin to fumble for my camera in hopes of catching my stalker in the act and in the midst I realize that my friend Sam Adams has left, yet my hands are still warm and my thought, clear as the night which surrounds me.
Your photos are spectacular. By the way, the building with the light on it has long been known as The Old John Hancock building.
You need to move some of the boston photos to your imagekind site….they are stunning.
Absolutely fantastic. Do you have any suggestions for converting to HDR? Do you use photoshop? Any advice would help.
Best-Brady Whealon