In midsummer, in the south… or west… or southwest, the unmitigated heat of the day is bookended by measured episodes of color, temperature and airflow, that… somehow, make the midday seem worth it.
I see the twilight peak of sublime color through the studio window… or the soft caress of the nighttime breeze, as we, both drunken and clear with the salt-riddled evening air, waves lapping around our thighs, ditch our clothes and wade into a pitch-black South Beach night… a twilight sojourn through a deep-blue soaked grove of cliff, fern, stone, moss and impossibly massive sage giants on the shores of a glacial lake in Strathcona… the brisk, clear winter air, and the dry crunch of autumn leaves on an overcast day. All these moments mark both a reverence and transient sublime awe that mitigates joy with reverence, and sheer awe with a melancholic awareness that these fleeting moments pass, and that bleak moments are bookended by moments of sheer transcendence.
The moon, as we, and our two dogs, breathed in deeply tonight, illuminated the landscape sharply in dark swathes of indigo, and seemed to project a silent, yet reassuring comfort. We stared up, a brilliant white orb that yielded its infinite pits and crevices as our eyes adjusted to its intensity. We stared up at the night sky before, the night, bone-dead silent after September 11, 2001, and saw a similar, brilliant yet distant orb. It was still there. The silence of the complete and utter absence of air traffic absolutely indescribable in its alien manifestation, like the velvet muffling of sound in a winter’s snowbound night.
Ted Kincaid, Nocturnal Landscape 810, 2015 Digitally Manufactured Photograph printed on Hahnemühle Rice Paper 100 gsm Chine-collé mounted to Stonehenge Natural 320 gsm 22×18″ Edition of 3