This week we'll have some misc. visuals and I think a lipstick review.
Otago Harbour, looking toward the peninsula on one of those silver-haze autumnal days overseen by the kind of zero hour contract clouds who look like they just want to go back to bed.
The same vapour is enclosing the house as I write from the comfort of my own bed in the form of utterly motionless sea fog, which is weird for spring. It's keeping the smell of toast and hummus inside the bedroom even though the window's open, so I'm not mad.
It was a mild, extended autumn and the kind of late and compressed winter that felt as though the world was preoccupied and had decided to present a greatest hits compilation of the season at the last fucking minute. In compensation, we're being treated to a warm spring which began as though with a flicked switch on Sept 1. As far as the global warming/climate change thing goes, the winters have changed in the 20 years that we've lived here; they are shorter, drier (except for an upswing in exceptional downpour events) later and less frosty.
It was not a vintage year for us photographically, although R's settled on a nice group of old lenses at the moment (he seems determined to cycle through all of them for some fucking annoying reason) so maybe the best is yet to come. Something tells me I'm not going to like the run up to xmas this year but we've got a month before jingle hell generally begins. I'll let you know.
Echeverias and that other little spotty guy with the candy pink flowers; always forgetting its name.
The loading area is full of alluring juxtapositional shit and staccato geometries but getting the angle is everything. There are two hills from which you can notionally do this and they're both in the wrong fucking places as far as lens distortion and compositional considerations go. This is a boring shot with a number of technical insufficiencies, but it does enjoy that weird rubbed, flat light that the tar seal throws up on occasion. It eats shadow and collaborates with smaller camera sensors to produce an awesome blown fake red and bonus nasty mustard.
It pleases me greatly. I cannot explain.
Brother Cadfael rose.
The fucking bush consists of three blotchy red sticks but takes a break from flipping me off to put out these shell-pink and coral-flushed blooms that stay my executioner's hand with their glowing honey and turkish delight perfume. So that I'm still mad but not actively vegecidal. Bitch better have my money this year.
They are a very superior sort of duck more closely related to geese than your average mallard, if memory serves me. You can keep your fancy northern wood ducks etc; to my eye they are the most beautiful of all waterfowl with their impossibly rich reticulated woodsmoke, new copper and Colombian emerald bits and striking sexual dimorphism. The female sports the ivory headgear while the male is the darker bird, which always reminds me of classical representations of gender on Greek pottery etc.
Paradise Ducks have a wide trashy streak, living for drama and romantic intrigue. Their days are filled with loud talking, studied overreaction, dramatic entrances and exits, lesbian kabuki shit and fighting in public places. Watching a group of them accuse one another of creeping on their man at the reservoir of an afternoon can be exhausting.