I saw a feed on Facebook recently, posted by a friend, which asked her followers where they were or what they were doing when they received the news that President Kennedy had been assassinated.  The question obviously dated her and those who responded, but it got me thinking about those significant events in each generation that pinpoints a certain day, a certain month, a moment when life irrevocably changed for better or worse.  This not only happens in epochs and eras, it happens in personal ways too.   Some of them are captured in a picture- your first car, blowing out birthday candles at a party, your date for the Prom, time spent with at a favorite place or with a best friend; each of these moments take hold in your life story and define who you are in a deep and enduring way.  They are benchmarks on the timeline of your life and each moment is captured forever in your memory thanks to the picture in your hand.
 
Photographers are moment stealers.  Whether on film or in a digital file with the press of a button they freeze a moment and make it theirs in a picture.  The thoughtful photographer will do this with uttermost care.  They recognize the moment they are capturing is precious even if it is something as simple as feeding a flock of greedy seagulls on a blustery winter’s day.  The “Happy Snapper” shoots haphazardly, wondering if they’ll get “anything good”.  But for those who treasure the ability to preserve for posterity a moment that was significant to someone, capturing the moment becomes a visual trophy of success.  It is something that is gained by “being at the right place, at the right time”, studying and calculating the light to get the perfect shot, or by waiting patiently to see the moment unfold.
 
 Life has a way of causing us to forget how precious moments are until someone asks the question, “Where were you when…”, or we are riffling through a pile of papers and we stumble on a long forgotten photo which causes us to pause and think about “the moment”.  Should “capturing the moment” only pertain to putting it on film or in a digital file?  I’m starting to think that every moment is special, even if I don’t have a camera in my hands.  But for the times when I do capture “that moment”, moments have become even more treasured because they are now preserved forever thanks to the connection of my finger to the shutter.

            A photographer cannot help but be attracted to color.  Even if you are seeing it as a stepping stone into black and white, color is central to your shot.  But lately color has lost its original identity in our culture and I am saddened by what it has been forced to become.  It was never meant to be a measuring stick or a dividing tool, a political platform or ethnic distinction.  Scientifically color is defined by light, either reflected or emitted, and the way it interacts with an object.  But for most of us it is simply the hue or the general complexion of something.  
            I would prefer that each color be given equal status, but it is true of human nature that in the realm of art we can be drawn to one color over another.  My mother had an aversion to purple.  I’m not sure why, but I never wore it as a child, except for one lavender sweater that I picked out when someone other than my mother took me clothes shopping once.  But technically, it wasn’t until well into adulthood that I actually bought something purple to wear and in the beginning it felt very strange to put it on!
            I think we were meant to enjoy all the colors of the rainbow.  We were meant to feel the passionate fire of red, the warm glow of orange, the cheery smile of yellow, the hope of possibility in green, the flowing ocean of feelings in blue, the melancholy sorrow of indigo and the quiet strength of purple.  A rainbow lacking in any one of these colors is not complete in our eyes and we know our eyes have failed us when colors become dim.  It is a sad condition that thanks to the polarizing effect of politics and the people who perpetuate the extremes, that we can no longer enjoy color as color.  Color is not a hue or shade now; it is an “issue”.
            I decided to get my nails done the other day.  I admit it is a bit frivolous, but it is a small way to pamper myself without breaking the bank.  When you walk in the door of the salon you are met by a wall of color and the receptionist says, “What color do you want?”  There are literally hundreds to choose from.  As I sat with the manicurist I couldn’t help but be amused by the wide variety of patrons: a grandma with her daughter and granddaughter, a talkative lady who was an expert on everything from the theater to essential oils, a woman who called herself “Bridezilla” and her flamboyant bridesmaid, a business woman, a pregnant lady, and a couple who seemed to be just as amused by the friendly “know-it-all” as I was.  Lots of people- lots of color in every sense of the word- and I was loving it!
            Why do we separate colors so severely?  What condition compels us to no longer view them as a unified spectrum?  The destruction of color has taken the joy of color from our experience and replaced it with the ugly display of selfishness we see forced on us every day by those who demand that it is an issue.  Color is not a lethal weapon in a war of words and ideologies.  Color is the art of life and beauty.   If we could learn to view people this way, I think we’d enjoy one another a lot more.  So, I say it is time to reclaim color as it should be- the delightful range of sunlight as it falls upon and is absorbed by the world in which we live.  It is time to return color to the feast for the eyes that it was meant to be.
Ann H. LeFevre

            I have come to believe that time is both generous and selfish.  It will give you the impression that there is plenty of it to go around and then without warning slip from your grasp.  This is never more apparent than in pictures where generations of loved ones can parade in front of your eyes in a moment’s time.  Children with smiles and ice cream in the span of one glance pass through the teen years and become adults.  Beloved parents and grandparents embrace us with a hug and are then remembered by their graves. 
            How does time manage to do this?  The answer has eluded me.  Perhaps I am thinking about it more due to my own revelation that my time on this earth will not last forever or because I now have more than one generation following my own.  The reason could be that as soon as I’m used to the fact that it’s Monday, Friday rolls around.  How do the days go by so quickly?  And it’s not just the weeks or months!  I wake to the sun coming in the window, blink and I’m turning down the bed wondering just where the day went.  What happened to those days of childhood which seemed to drag on endlessly when I was waiting for my birthday or Christmas?
            All this musing about time has made me realize that it is truly something precious.  If I’d known I’d only have a few hours to prepare for this or that, would I have spent some of it washing dishes instead of putting my best into whatever I’d be on call for?  If I’d realized that my children would grow up much faster than the time of childhood indicated would I have played with them more, held them more, sacrificed myself a little more than I did?  Had I known the time I’d spent with my father during the last week of his life, was actually that, the last week of his life, would I have treated it differently?  Or that when I saw my mother that weekend in July that it would be the last time I saw her, would I have remembered to thank her for shaping me into the person I am today, hugged her a little longer, or even prolonged the visit?  I’m not sure I understood in those moments that those times were as special as they were.  I do now.
            And yet, I know that I have treasured time as well.  There are thousands of pictures that attest to this!  In moments when I miss my father or mother, I turn to a picture and cherish the memories that are attached to it.  I catch a look or see some sort of action by my grandson and place it next to a picture of my son doing the exact same thing and can’t help but smile over the mystery of genetics.   I remember the places I’ve visited and the wonderful experiences that took place there and can feel them all over again by looking at a picture taken when I was there.   While time can (and will) steal that physical moment it generously gives it back in my memory.
            While time is allowed to speed by in our culture, and in fact, it is virtually pushed to its limit by our non-stop pace, it can easily come crashing to a halt when a catastrophe strikes.  Storms, illness, or personal issues can all too quickly put time into a position where we clearly see its value and fleeting nature.  So it is all the more reason to look closely at how we are spending it and with whom.  For we never know when time will be gracious, or when it will slip away without warning.
Ann H. LeFevre                                                                                                                                    3/8/2017

  Mun-dane:  Relating to, characteristic of, concerned with commonplace, ordinary.  You might say, "Boring".  If you are a photographer it is something that you are going to avoid photographing.  Mundane subjects are, well, something we'd rather pass by because we do not see them as something "extraordinary".  Mundane things are something we've seen a million times and it has never grabbed us.  As photographers we aspire to create ART, or record a significant MOMENT either in our personal history or that of the entire human race.  Why photograph such common things as a paper clip, drinking glass or hammer?  These things will never rise above their common place because they are decidedly common.  Yet, if we truly aspire to be a great photographer as an artist or a photojournalist, we should be compelled to at least attempt to make the mundane rise above its lowly state, shouldn't we?

The way we see life is like that as well.  There is nothing spectacular about paying the bills, doing the laundry or washing the dishes.  Some things like electric can openers, microwaves and remote controls do make life easier, but we wouldn't consider them art gallery worthy subjects.  We've been conditioned to think that "the ordinary" has nothing to offer us both as a photographer or in our general attitude in life.  But I contend that we are wrong.

When I first started taking photos as a record of my day to day activities, I was always on the look-out for something different or eye-catching.  But I quickly realized that those things are rare.  It forced me to look more closely at what was at hand.  And the more I looked, the more I saw the magic of the mundane.  I saw the way the light changed in each room of my house throughout the day.  I saw shape and form in fruits and vegetables in my kitchen.  I saw the lines and curves of forks, window shades and hammers and the colors of fabric, cut glass and ceramics.  Suddenly, what once was "boring" became another thing which my camera could transform into art.  My attitude in life changed too because I became thankful for those ordinary things when they opened my eyes to see the beauty that was lying beneath them.

There is art in every corner of our day, if we are willing to look for it.  Now when my first thought about something stirs up the phrase "ho-hum" in my brain, I automatically take another look.  For I've learned there's magic in the mundane hidden just beneath the surface.  And I never know what will reveal it next.

     I was given a wonderful gift this Christmas.  I hadn't asked for it and wasn't expecting it, so it made the gift all that more special.  It was a macro lens and the first thing I did was go home and attach it to my camera.  I knew that this lens was designed to photograph small things at a very close range, so my initial subjects were all little.  Being that I am a person who loves little knick-knacks and doo-dads, I didn't have any difficulty finding subjects!  It was fun to see how big the lens made these little things look.  
     Eventually the "small made big" format started to become redundant and it finally occurred to me that this was not the only thing the macro lens could do.  I became adventurous taking pictures of pieces of things and tiny portions of even larger subject matter.  The results amazed me.  Pages of a book became silvery thin icicles, the veins of a leaf a roadmap, lace an intricate web of loops and circles.  One day, when the weather was still favorable, I ventured outside to see what the woodpile might offer.  Perhaps there was some piece of wood with textured bark, or the weights we used to keep it covered might have some rust.  As I walked along inspecting the pile my eye landed on some fungi we call "Turkey Tails".  Summer long past, the plant was dead but still attached firmly to its formerly living host.  Since it could no longer find sustenance from the tree, the Turkey Tail had shriveled up.  "Interesting," I thought, "It'll make a great black and white."  So I took some pictures from several different viewpoints but didn't think much about what the final result would really look like.
   Later that evening, after the dishes were washed and the laundry folded I loaded the pictures into the computer.  I was delighted by what I discovered.   Suddenly a world I had barely acknowledged existed was there in all its glorious detail right before my eyes.  The Turkey Tails which had looked shriveled and dead to my naked eye was now a ruffled piece of art.  And just as I'd expected, it made a great black and white.
     We tend to go through life in a familiar routine or pattern.  We get used to seeing things in a similar way.  Because these aspects of our lives are "pre-set", we're surprised when they change.  A friend gets a new haircut, a store moves its inventory around, or something is left out of place and we stumble upon it in the dark and it jolts us out of the "usual".  We become accustomed to following this route because it helps our sometimes chaotic lives appear more steady.  It's not necessarily a bad thing if our lives go this way, but it does keep us from recognizing that there is so much more to see and sometimes those things are not visible to the naked eye.
     Seeing in the macro world involves pointing the lens of our eyes toward the minute details.  It involves expecting to see the unexpected although we may need a little assistance to do so.  But there are great rewards for looking at the world through a macro lens and I've only just begun to do so.
   

     Simplicity is the absence of luxury or showiness and plainness according to the American Heritage College Dictionary.  Yet every time I take a photo to demonstrate the simplicity of something, I am surprised by the complexity of my subject.  Such was the case with this "simple" blade of wild grass which I photographed near my mailbox.  The setting sun illuminated the golden stalk as it made its way boldly through a crack in the pavement.  After loading the picture into my computer I was struck by the detail of the individual strands anchored into the stalk which stood out so clearly against the dark roadway I was tempted to count them!
     We often hear the home-show gurus tell us to simplify our lives; to rid ourselves of clutter and unnecessary belongings which overtake the space we live in.  But the process of simplifying is as complex as the strands on a blade of grass.  My biggest fear when cleansing my world of clutter is that I will throw something out because it has no meaning at present but might become significant when I no longer have it!  Simplifying my life should not be so stressful!
    However as I gaze at the beauty in this single blade of grass I am reminded that simplicity is not so much a process as it is a state of being.  A simplified life is confidence in knowing that one's basic needs have been met and that a roof over one's head, a bowl of soup on the table and a loving family is really all you need in life.  You do not have to pursue what someone else determines as success.  You do not have to possess what someone else determines is fashionable or desirable.  Nature displays that the frenzied striving for material things such as these is counter-productive.  If the flowers bloom in the garden and the birds are able to forage for food, then I can live in a simplified manner such as they do if I set my mind to it.  This will truly release me to enjoy what some call "the simple pleasures" in life.
  While simplicity may remove what is in excess in my life, it does not remove the essence of it.  It is like the blade of grass which appears to be simply a stalk, a few feathery strands and some seeds but becomes far more than that when the sunlight shines through it and my camera snaps a shot.  In the end I must develop the eyes to see it and then to continue to live it and that is hardly simple at all!

     I finally made it to the Farmer's Market this September.  I knew it existed and always promised myself I'd get up early on Saturday morning and head down to take advantage of the bounty of our local farms.  Yes, I told myself I'd do that, but come Saturday morning, I'd lounge around and dawdle until it was too late to go.  It's not that I had such a busy week that I was exhausted or had things that needed to be done around the house.  It's that I can be so lazy!  But a commitment made through our photography club forced me to get up and go that September morning and it was all I needed to realize I was missing out on something good!  One walk around the market and I was anticipating all the wonderful things I would be making with the fresh vegetables and fruits I'd purchased.  It was also a photographer's delight with the shapes, textures and colors of all those farm-grown goodies. 

     Our market also moves indoors in November as some of the farms produce products such as bread, milk, free-range meat and goods like home-made soaps and wool.  This past Saturday, armed with a list of ingredients needed for the upcoming week's meals, I ventured into the indoor market like a child bringing a list of toys desired for Christmas to Santa.  I wasn't disappointed and happily checked off most of the items on my list.  The bonus of visiting the market on a dreary and gray Saturday morning in Autumn is the wonderful colors of the all the late Fall produce still available to shoppers like myself.  I was particularly struck by the color of the lettuce and herbs.  The colorful leaves of Fall may be gone , but the farmers are still bringing the gift of green to the market table.

I often hear people talk about "living green".  They simplify and upgrade their lives so their carbon footprint shrinks or the energy their homes consume pull less resources out of the environment.  They buy organic foods, use homeopathic remedies and stay away from anything that's processed or made with synthetic ingredients.  There's no question that the food at the Farmer's Market tastes better.  One bite of a salad made with fresh lettuce harvested the day before and it's hard to eat the same kind off of the supermarket shelf again.  But while most of the people I know who live this way are doing it for the health benefits or because they believe the sermons of pseudo-scientific studies which proclaim we've poisoned the world with our technology, I am of a different mindset.  It's not that I don't agree with the benefits of eating more natural foods; I do.  It's not that I think we should just consume, consume, consume with no regards to the consequences; I don't.  What I believe is that the closer we get to how it was "in the beginning", the better off we are.

Like the beauty of a green head of lettuce on a gray Fall day, green in itself is a gift.  When you look at it there is truly a sense of life at its most vibrant.  There is a sense of earth and growth in this color that no other color possesses.  It is not a lofty or esoteric color, rather it is familiar and inviting.  It brings us closer to where we came from and reminds us to enjoy the scenery on the way to where we are going.  How pleasant it is then to pick it up, put it in a bag and bring it home for dinner!  As we head into a season of Thanksgiving here in the United States, I am mindful of how thankful I am for the gift of green.  It connects me to the world I live in and reminds me to care for it in the same way I would care for a precious gem or a person I love.  The gift of green is a treasure in every sense of the word.  But we often forget how wonderful the world that brings it to us truly is.

I oftentimes look up into the night sky and become mesmerized by the moon.  It has always been that way.  I can remember as a young girl sitting by my window at night and staring at it until my mother would admonish me that it was bedtime, not "moon time"!  I made a short-lived attempt at finding a college where I could study astronomy.  Short-lived because once I learned how much mathematics were involved in this field, I quickly abandoned the idea.  Simply put math is NOT my strong suit.  Still, my attraction to that round ball in the sky, captured by the Earth's magnetic pull to eternally circuit our planet, never waned. 

When photography opened the way for me to peer at its beauty more closely, my fascination deepened.  But in the beginning my cameras were not capable of capturing a detailed view.  It made me want one all the more!  I would scrimp and save and get just close enough to purchase the necessary camera only to have some bill or household need take precedence over spending the hard-earned cash on a frivolity such as a camera!  I'd see the pictures of others or the amazing shots which come from those satellites or spaceships we blast into the universe and start the process all over again thinking,  "I'll get it this time!"  After four years of this see-saw like cycle, the dream finally became a reality.  One summery night I drove down to the boat launch of a nearby river and using the recycling bin as a tripod took my first official moon shot.  There was no looking back after that!

There is something within the human spirit that wants to know things that are bigger than itself.  There is something that believes in the glorious.  We look into the heavens and see the Moon suspended there, floating and drifting across the night sky and sometimes even take for granted that something keeps it from colliding with our Earthly home.  But if we take the time to really look at it; to see its bumps, bruises, craters and patterns, we can't help but be amazed by what we see.

One of these nights my neighbors will discover that when the Moon calls to be photographed, that I usually slip outside, pjs hidden underneath a coat, tripod in hand and camera tightened down to it, and walk about my yard until I find the perfect view.  They will probably shake their heads and chuckle to themselves, "There she goes again!" as I admit they've seen me just as determined to photograph plants and bugs in my garden.  But if they could see what I see through the view finder and later on my computer screen they would understand my fascination.  While they smile at my antics, I will smile at sight of that silvery orb and the memory of my mother's voice will sing to me, "I see the moon and the moon sees me..."

Ann H. LeFevre
October 29, 2015

Photography has become a source of wonder for me.  Truthfully though I have always looked at the world around me with a sense of awe and surprise.  As a child I loved going to the Museum of Natural History in New York City.  The replica of a massive whale suspended from the ceiling in one of the galleries totally fascinated me.  But my favorite spot was the planetarium and  I was mesmerized by the stars and planets which somehow magically appeared on the domed ceiling just like they did in the sky.  Through the years I have been blessed to see some pretty amazing places: The Grand Canyon and the Painted Desert, The Rocky Mountains, The Thousand Island region of the Saint Lawrence River, Niagara Falls, both the Atlantic and Pacific coastlines, the rock formations of Meteroa, Greece and the Wadi Avdat in Israel. 

While the Earth we live on offers a cornucopia of natural wonders across its surface and below, the world of the living things which inhabit it have their own assortment of surprises.  From the Redwoods (something I've yet to see) reaching their skyscraper heights to the little bugs which industriously crawl through the folds underneath a mushroom top, I am constantly given to wonder when I see what I've seen appear on the computer screen before me.  There is always some detail, some little aspect of that picture that either my naked eye could not see without enhancement, or some piece I did not see before until I "saw it large".  The camera in my hand extends my ability to see, but even more importantly, gives me a reason to wonder.

Wondering is nowadays associated with facts and figures.  "I wonder how much time it will take to get there?"  "I wonder if so-and-so will remember to make that phone call?"  "How much do you think this will cost?  I wonder if I'll be able to afford it?"  But to truly wonder is not to really be concerned with those types of specifics.  It is to be surprised, delighted, fascinated with something that does not seem possible, awestruck.  It is to me that very moment when I looked up into the night sky and saw the Milky Way for the first time.  The stars were no longer dots of light magically projected above me in the Planetarium.  They were actual points of light in the sky shooting towards Earth from distances beyond my imagination.  I was wonder-filled.

I am saddened to think that most of us go through life rarely being concerned about our loss of wonder.  That's not to say that we don't have moments when we look at something with wonder.  But I think it happens far less in our technological society.  We can virtually explain away some things that used to be quite amazing- electricity, weather, health and the human body to name a few.  In the past it was wonder that drove men to look through telescopes and microscopes to figure these things out.  Just when I think that wonder might be limited in this technological age, my camera reminds me that it is alive and well, and that technology itself may just be the new vehicle of wonder.  I catch the movement of a hummingbird by one of my flowers.  But off she flies before I can blink an eye.  Quickly I grab my camera and tripod, set the focus on a plant and hope that she returns.  The swiftness of her flight is a challenge, but undaunted I press the shutter and am rewarded with...wonder.

Most people would not normally associate a picture of bread with the phrase "the Good Earth".  No, most would probably conjure up a field ready for harvest, rows of grapes in a vineyard, the bountiful clusters of fruit in an orchard or maybe even a farmer bringing forth the fruits of his labors.  But for me this shot is more than a representation of what the earth can yield.  It reminds me of the farm where it was produced. 

 I'd gone to Apple Ridge Farm in Saylorsburg, Pennsylvania to take photographs of the garlic harvest.  And I spent a good portion of the morning following the farmer and his crew around taking shots of the garlic, the chickens and the other crops that were growing in the field as well as the barn, the tractor and the people.  There was a lot of pride in the integrity of their organic farming, the wholesome crops it produced and the wonderful flavors and fragrances that come from truly fresh food.    I then made my way over to the on-site bakery where a batch of artisan bread was being prepared for the brick oven.  The aroma was heavenly!  I spent some time learning about what was being made, where it would be delivered and taking photographs of bread, cookies and all sorts of baking equipment.  I realized it was just about lunchtime when I saw a large platter of sandwiches being prepared for the crew and was about to excuse myself when it was made clear that I was invited to join them.  Who could say no when every inhale filled my head with the delicious aroma of fresh bread, fresh basil, fresh tomato, fresh mozzarella- you get the picture!

There were about a dozen of us who ended up sitting in an odd collection of plastic lawn chairs and other make-shift seats around a table that held a spread fit for a king.  Along with fresh lemonade there were the aforementioned sandwiches as well as linguine with tomato sauce, fresh beets and cookies for dessert.  If your mouth isn't watering by now, I give up!  The conversation ranged from what needed to be done that afternoon before the predicted rain shower moved in to a community movie night and upcoming orders for the farmer's market.  As I listened to the conversation and watched the way they interacted with one another I was struck by this little microcosm of humanity.  Some had come from far away, some local.  While all of them were younger than myself, age did not seem to matter so much as working together.  And although many employees tolerate one another on the job and go home without so much a thought of other employees, this group actually enjoyed each other's presence and planned to socialize the following week with a pot-luck dinner.

Suddenly the phrase "the good earth" popped into my mind.  Good earth not in the sense of productive soil or bountiful harvests but good earth in the sense of the qualities of a good community made up of good people.  On the outside the plastic chairs, paper cups and disposable utensils might have looked very 21st century, but on the inside, the people here reminded me of what must have been the predominant characteristic of a community when this country of ours was primarily an agricultural society.  They were good people who looked out for the good of others, good people who offered hospitality to a budding photographer, good people who enjoyed sitting under an oak tree partaking in a good lunch.  And these good folks had put out a good spread too!

While much is made of bad people and the bad things they do in the media with the conclusion that ALL people are like this and that's the way our culture is now, I truly believe my experience at Apple Ridge Farm is more indicative of what people are really like.  In community we bear the same qualities as a loaf of artisan bread which the Good Earth produces- appealing to the eyes, fragrant and inviting to the senses and nurturing to the soul.  Although I was not one of the crew I felt right at home sitting there with them and enjoying the meal and conversation.  "This is really good!" I said and it was taken as a compliment on the food.  But in my mind I knew I was saying so much more.  So while I could wax eloquently on the virtues of community and organic farming, I'll keep it short and sweet.  Simply put, as Good Earth we are good for one another.