I’ve been giving thought to how photographs speak to each of us. And how much of that conversation is grounded in the viewer. Or perhaps I should say reader . . . because those of us who love photographs don’t just look at pictures. We read them, study them, absorb them, and even feel them.
I have Nasturtium growing in my raised garden bed this season. I am delighted by the big green leaves tumbling over the edge of the cedar walls, floating like lily pads in mid-air. The jewel-toned blossoms hidden like little gems, delicately attached to long dangling stems. The plant is lush and lean and highly sculptural. This is a plant that I sought to grow. It was one of my mother’s favorites and growing it represents the healing I’ve experienced since her passing and the love I feel so deeply for her.
I’ve taken many floral photographs over the years. Sometimes I take them to celebrate their beauty. Or perhaps to study the botanical details. Or because I am overcome with their heady fragrance and I somehow think the picture will act to save the scent. Lately I’ve taken to making small installations in the garden, where the pictures live next to the real plants and flowers. A small surprise tucked among the stems and leaves . . . a peaceful place where love washes over me like rain.