What is Real?

As a photographer of sorts, mainly of landscapes, I am asked often "How did you take this picture?" It seems that many times what they are really asking is, "Is this real?" So when I was working on photos from a trip I took last year, I got to thinking about this question and it led me to write this.

When I look at this photo taken on Maui, I wonder - Is this real? Was the sky that color? Was the tree that perfect? Did I use some trickery - or in photographer language - did I "work" this image in some way? The answers to these questions are: yes; mostly; yes; and to the last question, sort of. But it really is all in your perception of an image, I suppose. This is what I "saw" when I came out the door one early, early morning in Maui. It was raining over the mountains in the distance and the sky was on fire with colors reflecting off the low clouds as the sun was coming up. The sky over me was that beautiful sunrise blue. I had to lay down on a chaise lounge to get the angle I wanted with the blue meeting the tree in just the top third - rule of thirds, remember? - and the other colors just swirled into place. Now, I don't recall the purple being so vibrant but it is what it is.

So to answer the question that is asked so often these days about photography: Is it real? It is as real as my mind's eye saw that day and as unreal as digital photography allows us to make it...hmmmmm.

Coffee

I read the most perfect poem today - it was about two wonderful things: Coffee and Nostalgia. I read it once and then again and again. It touched a chord in me for some reason. I am not sure why except that I love coffee as anyone who knows me will testify. I drink it morning, noon and night without regard to what effect the caffeine might have on my ability to concentrate or to sleep.

What is it that I find so wonderful about this simple black liquid? I love the feel of a sturdy mug in my hand in the morning and in the evening it is even better to have a beautiful china cup that I can hold delicately by the handle...ahhhh. I love the taste of it, mixed with cream - the color is so important - I love the smell as it drifts up from the cup and into my waiting nostrils...pungent and full-bodied. The scent conjures up memories of other cups of coffee in my life - my first cup of coffee, sweetened to a syrupy consistency and consumed at the diningroom table with my dad; the cups I drank with a friend at Denney's when I was just a teenager, bitter and stale; my first "coffee house" cup, smooth and delicious years ago, long before Starbucks appeared; the first cup of coffee after too much alcohol the night before, "Oh coffee, help get rid of this headache, please." There are coffee memories of snow storms and beach sunsets, early mornings out in the wilderness and even of my husband's famous "camp" coffee. There are coffee memories of people past and present too. What a perfect drink. What perfect memories.

So as I said before, this is a poem about coffee and nostalgia - or is it?

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

She Knows

her hands

cool silk

cupping his warmest thoughts

in their deepest recesses.

gone now

by decades,

but those cool hands

part time

sink inside

the folds of his mind.

a silver spoon

stirring the moon

into his coffee,

lifting velvet kisses

to his lips.

she knows

he thinks of her

even now.

wraps her

cool silk hands

around a

warm china cup,

purses velvet lips

gently blows

steam from her coffee.

she smiles as

vaporous lovers

swirl and dance.

she knows

and drinks him in.

by Karen Suriano