I honestly have no idea how the image above of the rooftops through the trees appears to others whose gaze might sweep by, by coincidence or not. How could I? I just know that it brings back memories of one of my least elegant periods to date. Don’t think miserable would be an overstatement.
Some ok photographs happened though, during the misery, at least they feel right somehow. Almost as if they are tangible, carry a substance, something worthwhile, contrary to a lot of the images made since. A lot. In that sense I’m fond of it. Others too. Like the one overlooking the reservoir with the spruce trees in the background and the lone—what was it—birch? And a few more.
Then it’s interesting to note how the memory of where and when a particular image was taken becomes a set of filters on top of it. How the image, a recording of a subject of certain shapes an colours, takes on the associations of the circumstances in which it happened. And time. How time makes it all sort of blurry and far away without managing to completely wash it away, the set of filters, whatever they might consist of. And it’s ok.