Our lives are made up of a thousand passages across the seas of birth and death, playing out again and again, in endless motion, like the movement of the hands of the clock, like the comings and goings of the seasons. Each winter gives way to a new spring, each ending, a new beginning. And so it goes.
There is poetry in the progression, magic in the emergence and calm in the senescence.
Last fall I gathered some fresh crabapples, bitter, nearly inedible fruit, to use in some photos. Their colors speaking to me of the brighter days of autumn. I stuck them in a paper sac, along with other treasures gleaned from walks along the banks of the Seine near my home. And there the sat, during the long, grey, Parisian winter.
Spring came, as it always does, and with its return, the crabapples blossomed once again, pale pink blossoms, luscious crimson buds. Wanting to capture and safeguard some of their essence, I snipped a few branches and brought them home to photograph.
It was then that I remembered the fruits I had collected last fall. The paper sac was still on top of my armoire, thankfully undisturbed by our curious, height-seeking kitten. She had left my sac of treasures alone. I pulled the crabapples out and they were completely shriveled on the stems, but, to my pleasant surprise, well-preserved. And as you can see, a photo series was born.
In this season of growth and promise and abundance, I am reminded of the fact that the wheels are forever in motion. This prompts me to slow down and savor. And photography gives me a vehicle for preserving the character of the moment.
Until next time,