Barrier to entry

Chain link fence
Lyle Street, London, ON, December 11, 2006
[Click to embiggen]

Fences like this are everywhere, especially in run-down areas where business owners and homeowners alike try, usually unsuccessfully, to keep the riff-raff out. The building inside this compound was dead silent in the middle of the day, likely another victim of time. The fence stood silently, keeping watch over an uncertain future. I thought that was rather poignant, so I focused on the perimeter instead of the building itself.

Your turn: What comes to mind when you come across a fenced-in, dead-silent old building?

Quoted - Globe & Mail - The Year Ahead

It's been a while since I posted links to my "other" life, the one that says I'm a tech analyst who, when not writing about geekdom, chats about it with journalists from near and far. I've been too busy to post the links here, but if you search for me in Google News, you'll see what I've been up to.

Got some good news today: I've been rather extensively quoted in the Globe & Mail for a piece that looks ahead to 2007. It's entitled A year for launches from the big guys and it was published in the special Globe Outlook 2007 section.

The sub-head is: Apple could turn the PDA world on its head, and Microsoft will finally get serious about security. Byline is Simon Avery, the paper's technology reporter. It was also included in the paper's print edition (page E2). That link is here.

I'll hang out here while you read it. Take your time: our furnace's pilot light blew out last night and I'm too much of a chicken to re-light it (yes, natural gas frightens the bejeebers out of me.) So while we bury our kids in layers of excess clothing and turn it into an overnight adventure before the repair folks get here tomorrow, I'll make a giant mug of tea and hang out on the blog. Say hi when you check back in.

Your turn: Do you agree/disagree with my predictions? Why/why not? Do you have any other cold house survival tips? Do you have any idea why my technological wizardry can't extend to the furnace room?

Blue brick, yellow brick

Contrasting Brick
Lyle Street, London, ON, December 11, 2006
[Click to enlarge the pixels]

We don't tend to give too much thought to brick. It's a timeless building material that can either look really rich, or really destitute.

While wandering the neighborhood just east of my office (see this entry for the back story), I found myself standing next to a building that had clearly seen better days: Windows were either boarded up or left open the elements, water streamed from a leaking pipe, and the brick was crumbling in places. The owners resorted to the long-held tradition of painting the brick at the somewhat-more-serviceable front of the building. This is a short-term fix at best, for the typical paint succeeds only in suffocating the brick and locking in moisture, which only accelerates its decay.

Still, the ill-planned but well-intentioned shade of blue contrasted nicely with the traditional yellow brick behind it. And when a smiling white-bearded gentleman carrying used furniture emerged from a door around the corner happily wished me a good day as he carefully walked past me, I figured this building had some life in it yet.

Your turn: From the looks of my stats, I've been getting lots of readers, but few commenters, of late. If you're lurking, I hope you'll take a moment to delurk and share your thoughts on the bricks in your neighborhood, and the stories they tell.

Doorway to nowhere

Abandoned doorway on Lyle Street

My office is located in a fascinating part of town, on the very eastern edge of a district known as Woodfield. Some of the oldest buildings in London are found here, and it is here where London's ruling elite first built homes in the 1800s. Walking the streets here is a lesson in history and humility.

Just to the east lies a neighborhood that is just as old, but nowhere near as lovingly preserved. Known derisively by Londoners as East of Adelaide - or EOA, for short - this half of the city is often considered the place that time forgot.

Of course, it's easy to make black-and-white assumptions about a neighborhood. Sure, the shopping strip along Dundas Street has seen its better days. And, yes, the streets that adjoin the main drag can be forlorn to the uninitiated. But the photographer in me thinks there's a hidden story in this place, a glimpse into a world most of us from the so-called right side of the tracks would almost never take the time to explore.

But explore I will. If I've got some time over lunch and I happen to have my camera with me, I'll wander the streets and capture whatever scenes speak to me. The poignancy of a decaying urban environment has always been a strong interest of mine. I don't know why. Maybe because it's different. Maybe because no one else takes the time. Whatever the reason, I hope it lets me grow as a photographer.

About this image: A forgettable one-storey painted brick building houses a place called Bingo Country. It's right across the street from The Adult Superstore (go ahead, use your imagination) and even on a sunny day, it's a miserable and gray place to be. This door likely hasn't been used in years. One wonders what lies behind it. Or maybe it's better that this question remains unanswered. Either way, its stark lines remind us that not all doorways are welcoming to passers by.

Your turn: Urban decay. Why do you feel this has appeal to the storytellers among us?

Little man learns from failure

I wrote this a couple of months back when our kids finished their most recent set of swimming lessons. I often write about the milestones of our children's lives. Sometimes, I even write about their disappointments. I hope you enjoy it:

Learning from failure
October, 2006
By Carmi Levy

Failure has a funny way of introducing itself to a child. And despite a parent’s best effort to cushion the blow, it isn’t always enough.

As I walked with our three kids into London’s Canada Games Aquatic Centre on a cold and gray October afternoon for their final swim lesson of the term, we talked about not expecting too much, about how proud my wife and I were of their effort since starting lessons a few weeks earlier. As a former lifeguard, it’s always been important to me that our kids become comfortable in and around the water. And whatever happened that day, I wanted them to know that we cared about much more than whether they were promoted to the next level.

As they got changed, I coached them against getting their hopes up too high. We’d been subtly and none-too-subtly saying pretty much the same things all week long, trying to prepare them in case things didn’t go their way that afternoon. And it was our youngest son who was the most adamant of all that he would be happy no matter what happened.

“I’ll be OK, Dad,” he insisted. “I know I’m a good swimmer, and I don’t need a badge.”

“So you won’t be upset if you repeat this level?” I asked carefully.

“No Dad,” he said, slowly and confidently, reinforcing his words by locking his eyes onto mine.

Barely an hour later, our six-year-old came back empty-handed. He had made solid progress this term, but he still needed to work on building confidence while swimming on his own. Just a couple more tick marks on his progress card and he’d be there. But six-year-olds don’t appreciate perspective and context all that well: all he heard was that he had failed.

“I quit,” he insisted, as he sadly walked away from his instructor for the last time. His progress card was filled with words of praise for all of his accomplishments this term. But it didn’t have that all-important badge attached. “I’m never going back for swim lessons again,” he barely blurted out before dissolving in tears. I wrapped him in a towel and held him tight.

The irony of that moment was that my wife and I have never been more proud of him. In a few short weeks, he transformed from a virtual non-swimmer with a consistent fear of the water and mistrust of instructors to a kid who couldn’t wait for his lesson to begin. He learned to enjoy being in the pool, and he regularly did virtually everything the instructor asked. He far exceeded our loftiest hopes for him.

But at that moment, he didn’t have a badge, and his older brother and sister, who had passed their respective levels, did. He said it wasn’t fair, and in many respects, it wasn’t: he worked just as hard as they did, and he got nothing in return.

Since that fateful day, we’ve continued to repeat our already oft-repeated message that not everyone makes it on the first try. We’ve shared stories about the value of persistence. We’ve explained how failure is often a good thing because it teaches us to try harder next time. I’ve told him how many times I failed to advance in my own childhood swimming lessons, and how I learned to swim at the ripe old age of 10. He’s slowly learning that life isn’t always fair, and that we don’t always get everything that we want.

Eventually, we’re certain he’ll get over it. Time has a way of softening the edges out of childhood disappointment. But I won’t soon forget watching the first moment in my son’s life when he strove to succeed and failed to do so. Nor will I forget how I wanted to make it all better for him, and couldn’t. As much as I wished I could wave my hands and make the sadness go away, I knew it was just as important for me to stand back and let him learn about disappointment first-hand.

In a society that seems to value only the tangible trappings of success, the more subtle achievements of incremental progress are often ignored. This is virtually impossible to explain to a little guy who thinks he didn’t measure up, but we’ll keep trying because that’s how he’ll learn and grow. Just as we encourage our kids to never give up, we must always challenge ourselves to find new ways to explain the unexplainable, to gradually help them explore more of the chaotic world around them.

After he fell asleep, I tip-toed into his room and kissed his forehead. I wondered what he was dreaming about, and hoped it was a happy dream.

Given enough time, he’ll no doubt forget this speed bump of childhood. Amid all the success and achievement that my wife and I hope lies in his future, we know that he’ll also experience disappointments that will make this one seem relatively insignificant. But everything is significant to you when you’re six years-old. And going through it for the first time means this is only the first scar of many to come.

They didn’t tell us this when we decided to have children. Then again, they likely didn’t tell our parents this, either. Or our grandparents, for that matter. And even if all of our ancestors had been better informed about the challenges of parenthood, I doubt that knowing all this in advance would change anything anyway. We seem to be writing and rewriting the parental manual on an almost ad hoc basis.

As I held his crying little form and helped wipe the tears away from his face, it dawned on me that a parent’s role won’t always be to simply provide protective comfort. At some point, I’ll have to let him go as well. And I hope I don’t fail to do all the right things to prepare him for that day.

-30-

Your turn: Thoughts?

The morning after

Click on all images for extreme closeup. Click here for part 1 to this snowy story and here for the night-time imagery.


Covered deck

I took this picture immediately after we got word that the entire city was shut down. Schools, businesses, even the transit system...all going nowhere. We received anywhere between 2 and 3 feet of the while stuff, and it still snowed lightly through the morning as if to remind us that we were still at the mercy of the weather.

The kids were thrilled. My wife was thrilled. I was glad I had a camera with a fully charged battery and a large, near-empty memory card. So many experiences to capture...


View from our kitchen window

This is where I often set up for my closeup/macro pictures. The light from this south-facing window is always just right for whatever I'm shooting. On this morning, the venue became the subject.

There's something comforting about sitting here and watching the world unfold over breakfast. When the usual external responsibilities that pull us out of the house have been put on temporary hold, we have a chance to sit here and linger.


They play

I remember a winter storm when I was about 3 years-old when the snowdrifts were taller than my parents. When the raging snow and winds subsided enough for us to get out of the house, I remember feeling very small amid the towering sea of snow. My parents dug us out. My older siblings (a brother and sister) and I played. And someone took a picture of us amidst the unique wonder of it all. I don't know where that picture ended up, but it remains burned in my memory. Funny how that works.

I thought back to that moment as our kids wrapped themselves in their warmest winter clothes and charged out of the door. I thought about how I wanted to capture their utter joy at being outside in a veritable wonderland. I moved fast and did my best to keep the camera from catching any snow.

BTW, the famous Levy family maple tree is at the extreme right of the image. The huge rock is to its immediate left, buried under an impossibly thick layer of snow. It didn't take long for the kids to clear it.

Your turn: What is it about a snowy winter's morning that brings out the kid in all of us? Do you have similar recollections from your own past?

Scenes from a snowy night

Note: Click images to embiggen

When an intense snow storm began its dramatic march from Lake Huron this past Thursday, I wondered how I would be able to record the experience with my camera. I happened to be outside early in the afternoon when the first squall swept in off the lake and turned a brilliantly sunny scene into something like Dante's Inferno. I was carrying my camera at the time, but I didn't dare take it out of its case for fear of coating the lens with flakes. Not my idea of photographic excellence.

So I went home and tossed it around my head some more. Outside, the winds picked up and the snow intensified. Our kids tucked in for the night, unaware of the adventure that awaited them the next morning.

Just after 1 a.m., my wife and I were still awake. We opened the drapes in our room and marvelled at how much snow had already fallen. Then it hit me: just put the camera on the tripod and take some long exposures out the window. Longish - 6-second - exposures would allow decent depth of field and give the security light on our street a chance to cast a subtle glow over each image.

These images were shot from our bedroom window. Shooting through windows isn't always an optimal solution, but it beat standing outside in howling winds. These images were only possible from a sheltered, interior vantage point.

Eventually, the plow came by to dig our little neighborhood out. I thought it might be neat to leave the shutter open for 30 seconds or so to see what cropped up. I've been thinking about head- and tail-light tracks lately, and this capture is my first crack at it. I think I'll be staking out late-night street corners in the near future, so expect to see more ghostly tracks of light before long.

The last image is my favorite: a wide shot of the maple tree that protects our kids' beloved giant rock on the front lawn. I've captured it many times before on this blog. As I've noted before, the same subject can serve as the basis of dramatically different pictures depending on when and how you shoot it. This time, our beautiful tree didn't disappoint.

Your turn: How would you record a winter storm in progress? Did you enjoy these? (I've got more from the next morning, which I'll upload in a subsequent entry.)

Columnar

Columns and light [Click to render image more closely to your retina]

Not a day goes by when we shouldn't be inspired by something. I walk through these columns every morning on my way into a building that can only be described as a lovingly restored example of a past none of us ever got the chance to witness. But as you step through this building, you can almost hear whispers of what it must have been like over a century ago when these elements were first built.

The irony that our raison d'etre is to research the latest technologies in use by modern businesses is not lost on me. It's another one of those neat things I keep in the back of my mind as I work my way through another professionally challenging day.

Your turn: Does architecture speak to you? How?

They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot

Parked [Click to embiggen]

Considering the fact that the world around me is suddenly buried under a few feet of snow, I find myself sifting through pictures taken barely a few weeks ago that depict a massively different reality. The world changes so quickly that it's sometimes difficult to keep up: taking pictures of the overlooked surfaces of our world helps me keep track of it all.

This image, taken in the parking lot of one of the local big box stores, is little more than a simple exercise in composition. But anyone who knows me knows that I like these kinds of studies. Painted lines shouldn't be interesting in and of themselves. Yet when viewed through a camera lens from an unusual perspective, I suspect they are never perceived the same way again.

Your turn: The camera can make the boring seem unboring. Please discuss.

Snow: 2 feet, counting

Looks like London is going to be snowbound for a while. We've received between 2 and 3 feet of the white stuff over the last 18 hours or so, and it continues to fall. Squalls continue to roll in off of Lake Huron. We've lived here for ten years, and we've never seen anything like it in this part of the world. Cool!

The city's shut down. The kids have a snow day, so they are, as one might expect, giddily gleeful. Watching them bounce over to the window for a first look at the world of white was a joy to watch, one of those moments where you're glad you became a parent.

I'll work from home because writers with laptops, high-speed wireless Internet connections, remote desktop and a host of other tech goodies can't use the weather as an excuse. In the meantime, if anyone needs a pseudo-scientific explanation of the term "lake effect", e-mail me.

Pictures to follow....

Your turn: What's Ma Nature doing in your part of the world? Want us to send you any snow?

Lens turned inward

One of the pitfalls of being the designated photog of the family is the relative paucity of pictures that include me. I'm not complaining, mind you, because frankly I hate being in pictures. I'm not comfortable in front of a lens: I never know whether I should be serious, silly, or somewhere in between. The whole smiling-for-the-camera thing strikes me as unnecessarily artificial.

I'm much happier when I'm behind the lens, where I have a lot more control over the outcome. Maybe it's the storyteller's wish to never be his own subject. Whatever the case, it's amazing what a few inches of distance can do to one's psyche.

Despite my discomfort, I sometimes take self-portraits because I can't think of anything else to shoot at that moment. The self-portrait is a whole other animal, because I don't have to rely on anyone else's shutter finger. I don't have to stare at the photographer and second-guess every compositional and technical decision he/she makes. I don't have to fret over having my head cut off or my nose getting caught at the wrong angle. When I'm doing my own shooting, If I hate the outcome, I simply blame myself. Then I delete the offending file and try again.

So when I found myself in front of a mirrored door with a few minutes to burn off, I turned the lens on myself and had a little fun. I like this one because I'm not trying to be someone's subject. I'm simply doing what I so enjoy doing. After all, that's what a picture should capture, right?

Your turn: Do you do self-portraits? Why/why not?

Lesbians have kids, too!

Sometimes, all it takes is a headline to make my head snap. CNN.com ran this one earlier today:

Vice president's lesbian daughter pregnant

Funny, but I wasn't aware the Mary Cheney's sexual orientation was worthy of a leading-story headline on a global news site. I didn't think that the fact that she's gay qualified as news any more than the fact that I'm straight would have garnered me similar headlines when our kids were, um, conceived.

I'm tempted to draw parallels between this story and three recent issues of orientation and race:

• Michael Richards goes off on a racist rant
• Mel Gibson has a drunken anti-semitic outburst
• Neil Patrick Harris comes out of the closet

In the case of the first two, is hurling the n- or the j-word at a crowd or at a cop any different than tossing the l-word into a headline? Do they not all qualify as examples of highlighting minorities for no beneficial purpose? Although these examples were anger-fuelled and the CNN posting was not, I can't help but think that there's an air of darkness associated with pulling the definition into the headline as justification for making this "news".

In the case of Mr. Harris, why on earth would we care who he's having sex with? When I was a kid and my cultural tastes were somewhat less baked, I liked him in Doogie Howser, M.D. I think he's grown into a versatile actor with good timing and a solid future. Beyond that, as long as he isn't holding up liquor stores and carjacking grandmas, I simply don't care what he does on his own time - and neither should anyone else.

Someday, we'll move past the point where the "who a person sleeps with" question matters to us as little as what he/she drinks for breakfast in the morning. In my case, it's orange juice, and I expect you care about that as little as you care about who I sleep with.

Your turn: Thoughts?

Wounded bird

I took a walk over lunch yesterday. I headed a couple of kilometres west of the office to the river (the Thames, big surprise) that cuts through the center of town. I had it in my head that I would take a few pictures of whatever birds were hanging around the park before the inevitable freezing of the fingers would drive me back to the office.

I tossed my camera bag over my shoulder, buttoned up my trench coat and headed out into the off-and-on snowfall.

When I got there, I saw the usual noisy band of ducks and Canadian geese hanging around the riverbank. They were fighting over scraps of bread, which made it easy for me to take my camera out and start shooting without frightening them. As I shot - and shot, and shot, and... - I moved from left to right to change up the perspective. After about a minute or so, I had what I thought I wanted. Then I noticed a lone bird off to the side, down on the pavement.

As I walked closer, the bird eyed me, but did not move. It was clear that something wasn't quite right. My hunch was confirmed as I continued to quietly step to the right and caught sight of a flash of bright red on the goose's feathers.

Wounded bird. I didn't know what to do. Not being an expert birder, approaching it seemed like a rather silly and dangerous thing to do. So I let my zoom lens do the talking for me: I used it to reach across the gap to capture this poor thing as it watched its compadres frolic in the nearby water.

I took my pictures then quickly headed back to the office. As I walked back, I felt frustrated that I knew so little about helping an injured bird, that I was unable to help.

Then I started wondering about the other wounded birds around us. They're not always birds, though. They can be people, children, strangers, people we work with, family. They are found everywhere and anywhere. But who is looking out for them? How will they make it in a world that seems to be built only for those of able body and mind? Who's there to help them when they can't help themselves?

So many questions. Sadly, I don't have any answers. Just a simple hope that a bird I met yesterday was able to survive the cold day and night, and that those around us who find themselves hurt and on the fringe can somehow find their way back to the flock.

Going to see a man about a horse

Early Morning Exercise
Mohawk Raceway, Campbellville, Ontario
November 9, 2006

I was on my way to Toronto with a colleague to meet some clients - about a two-hour drive from London. We stopped for gas just off the 401 and we noticed we were right next to the racetrack. I took out my camera and shot through the fence. Somewhat oddly, I felt a sense of peace as I tripped the shutter. Maybe it was the gray morning. Perhaps it was the constant thrum of hooves on dirt. Either way, I felt like I was a temporary witness to a very different world, and I wanted to remember that moment.

Part of me felt like I was intruding. Another part of me felt whoever this gentleman was, he was probably used to being in the limelight. Regardless, no words were exchanged, and I barely got a sideways glance as he impassively rode on past. I wonder what he was thinking.

Your turn: So what was he thinking? Feel free to use your imagination.

Memorable nuggets

Chocolatey goodness, November 2006

When I was a kid, my grandparents used to bring us snacks when they came to visit. Although I'm sure they brought a variety of treats over the years, the only brand that sticks out in my mind is Glosettes. They're chocolate-covered raisins or peanuts, and they are something of a Canadian confection tradition.

We don't often have Glosettes in the house, but every time we do, I think back to when I was our kids' age. So when they showed up in the treat bowl a few weeks ago, I tossed them onto the kitchen table and let my lens do the rest.

It's funny how a simple kind of food can evoke such powerful memories. Something tells me my grandparents would appreciate that a small gesture would lead to this.

Your turn: Do you have a food from childhood that takes you back every time you have it? I hope you'll share your story.

Really expensive bread

Focaccia, London, Ontario - click to embiggen (extra points if you pinpoint the source of the word)

Where we shop for food is often one of the most local, personal decisions we will make in our day-to-day lives. It's no different in my neck of the woods. Like most cities, London's got a fairly broad array of supermarkets. From low-price-leaders to upper-end gourmet-focused specialty shops and megastores, we're never at a loss for places to forage for our next meal.

As I cruised the aisles of the neighborhood Loblaws last week, I came upon a sample lady offering focaccia. I'll admit right now that I'm a sucker for these kiosks. As long as it's not massively treif (read shellfish, meat, mixes meat and milk, or made of anything from a pig), I'll bite. Then I wonder if it's polite to eat and run, as if I'm somehow more compelled to actually buy the product now that I've had a free sample (yes, I have a guilty soul.)

So as I happily gobbled my free sample of focaccia and smiled broadly at the lovely taste and texture, my wife asked if I wanted to pick up a package. Thoughts of sweet, fruit-filled pastry-like bread for breakfast danced in my head as she nodded and picked up a package.

Fast forward to the checkout aisle. Six dollars for a tiny loaf of fruity pastry. Six bucks! But the next day's breakfast beckoned. Yes, I am a sucker.

For six bucks, you just know I needed to take a picture of the thing. But I'll be watching those sample ladies with a much warier eye on my next trip into these hellish bastions of consumerism.

Your turn: What do you do when you encounter the sample ladies at the supermarket?

Sunset over a church graveyard

Arva, Ontario, December 2, 2006, 4:47 p.m.

The kids had a playdate this afternoon just north of the city. As I turned off the main road into the subdivision on my way to pick them up, I noticed the sun setting behind the church on the corner to my west. It glinted off the gravestones and served to highlight every subtle nuance in the old stonework - at least that what I gathered as I took a mental snapshot from the wheel of the car (you didn't think I'd drive off the road while scoping an image, did you?)

I knew I had to come back before the sun went below the horizon. So after I collected the munchkins, I drove back, wondering how I'd capture the scene I'd seen so fleetingly from the road.

When I arrived, the fast-moving sun was too low in the sky. The gravestones were mere silhouettes, and my earlier plan was toast. But a flock of Canadian geese was practicing its formation flying. Around and around they flew, their honks echoing off the silent gravestones. I levelled the camera against the adjoining fence and started shooting. Birds don't really listen to
instructions all that well, so I held my breath and hoped against hope that they'd add just the right finishing touch to the scene.

Your turn: Does this graveyard merit a return visit?

One more thing: While I captured this, the kids waited in the car and ruminated on the creepiness of where they were. They're used to this sort of thing by now, and I'd like to think having an eclectically photographic father will give them some interesting and memories as they grow. And if it inspires them to follow the road less travelled every once in a while, then I guess I'll have done an OK job as a dad.

Pretty front porch

I took this one as I wandered back to meet my wife after shooting my railroad images (here and here). Porches speak to me because they remind me of a lifestyle, a neighborhood that no longer exists.

People used to sit in front of their houses, actively contributing to the life of the streetscape. Now, they drive up, hit the remote control garage door opener and drive on in. Front porches have all but disappeared from new homes. The few times that we do go outside, we use the back deck because it ensures privacy. Community has been replaced by isolationism.

At first glance, this was a quick shot of a predictable geometric pattern. It was so cleanly pretty that I just had to have the picture. But after I got it home, I looked more closely at the image and discovered that uniformity often hides details.

Your turn: I hope you'll explore the picture a little more closely (click on it to enlarge). Not all is as pristine as it seems.

Shattered and forgotten

Abandoned building, William and York [click to enlarge]

This picture was taken just beside the railroad tracks that define the southern border of London's downtown core. The richness of the worn red brick startled me when I first saw it, and I tried mightily to get the wall and the adjacent tracks into the same shot. In the end, the lighting didn't work. Neither did the composition. I was trying to tell two different stories, and that isn't always feasible in the same frame.

[Please see my earlier entry, Wrong side of the tracks, for the other side of this story.]

So I stood on the tracks and shot straight north. The resulting image of ruined architecture haunts me. I know that society has its fair share of tangible and intangible fringes. I generally keep such thoughts in the back of my mind, namely to ensure I don't end up on the wrong side of the tracks at the wrong time of day. But the fact that they are off-limits makes them a source of curiosity to those of us lucky enough to have a warm home to return to.

They had to have been livable and nice at some point in time. The area wasn't always populated by drug users and other seeming castoffs of society. What happened to precipitate these buildings' - and the people who lived and worked in them - decline? Can we learn anything by heading down there and taking a look?

I don't have the answers. But I do know that I need to look at the uglier aspects of our world a little more often through my lens. Whatever stories lurk there, I hope to reflect them in some way here.

Your turn: What are your perspectives on ruined architecture?

100 bottles of beer on the wall...

Sitting at lunch with my colleagues recently, I noticed a strong shaft of sunlight beating down on a glass of beer. The colors and shadings grabbed my attention, and although metering a severely backlit subject is difficult at the best of times, it wasn't as if I was wasting film in the process. So I pulled out the camera and, to the good-natured banter of my compadres, set up for a few quick captures before our lunch was served.

I've commented previously on how light can make the same scene appear completely different, and this truth holds when looking at - or through - any kind of liquid. It's a scene I've photographed before, but one I think I'll be returning to when I next see a flash of light through a glass. I'm strange that way.

I couldn't pick my favorite of the two, so I posted both.

Oh, one more thing: the beer wasn't mine. I was driving that day, so it was iced tea for me. Not as photogenic. Thanks to Mark for allowing me to hijack his beer momentarily.

Your turn: I'm taking suggestions for beverage types and vessels for possible future picture-taking. Go nuts!