Saint John NB

Look the other way

January 21, 2019

**The sunset adds a touch of orange to these stately homes on Douglas Avenue.**

**The sunset was colourful, but I didn’t have time to find a good location.**

Sunsets are lovely. Sometimes they are spectacular! I don’t often take sunset photos, though I have watched many sunsets from inconvenient places – that is, I was driving, or indoors or not otherwise near a photogenic location. And once the sun starts to set, the whole show is over in minutes, so at that point there’s no time to find a good viewing spot.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. Often the sky is more colourful after the sun has set. And there are days I’ve driven, um, quickly, to a higher location so I can catch some of that golden light.

When it comes to sunsets, here’s one thing I’ve learned: the best photos are often behind you. So whenever you stop to enjoy a sunset, don’t forget to look in the opposite direction. The photos here were taken just as the sun was setting, and though I did get a few sunset shots, I thought the view looking east was much more interesting.

In the photo at the top and to the left, you can see the warm light just touching the houses as the sun sets. As I was photographing, I watched the light change from intense gold to a more subdued pinky-orange as it crept from the ground floor up to the roof. It didn’t take long for the lovely golden light to dissipate, but I kept taking finding new scenes to capture.

The image below was taken a few minutes later. The sun is gone but the glow remains, and the light is still sublime. I would have missed these photos if I hadn’t turned from watching the sunset to look the other way.

**The light is still lovely after the sun has set.**

Joy in the park

January 10, 2019

**Cai’s joy is boundless**. Fujifilm X100F f5.6 1/210

After days of bitter cold, the temperature has risen to above freezing, and we are glad to get out of the house. The ice that coated roads and sidewalks is melting, the snow in the park is perfect for walking, and the dogs are full of energy. We follow a trail down into a valley. I see a frozen brook in the woods, and stop to take photos…

This could be a post about the reasons to always carry a camera with you (Reason #1: to record memories). Or I could write about Rockwood Park, one of the largest (if not the largest) municipal parks per capita in Canada. Or this could be about how to use cameras in the winter (that post is coming soon). But not today. Today it is all about joy.

Joy is my first thought when I look at this image. The joy of Cai, bounding happily toward me on the snowy trail. The joy of our other corgi Savvy, waiting with her ears cocked, ready to join in the fun. The joy of Janet, laughing at the big smile on my face as I crouch down to greet our playful dog, camera in one hand with my index finger poised on the shutter button. The joy of this beautiful park, the mild winter weather, the scent of spruce and snow and clean fresh air.

I love this photo because it captures a joy-filled moment. I love photography because it gives me a tool to capture this memory. I love learning about shutter speed, exposure, perspective, aperture, focus (and other details about my camera’s operation) because without those aspects of photography I would be able to take this particular photo. Sure, I could have used a camera or a phone on auto mode, but what are the chances I would get this picture when my camera or phone is making the choices for me?

I have found that the best way to capture these fleeting moments is to know my camera so well that I can adjust my settings without looking. I have discovered that I depend on tactile memory a lot, adjusting settings more by instinct than by deliberate thought. That’s not to say that every image on my memory card is perfect — far from it! There are many times when my reflexes are not fast enough, resulting in blurred or underexposed images, or I haven’t anticipated a shot and the composition is, well, meh. But that’s one of the reasons why photography is a lifelong pursuit for me; I’m always trying to learn and improve. And along the way, I find a few images that give me joy.

catch something

January 4, 2019

**Ice follies… on the Kennebecasis River.** Fujifilm XT2 50mm f2 1/125

Sylvia counted her strides, each sweep of her skates making a crisp snick as it cut into the ice. One, two, three – then a quick spin in the other direction – one, two, three. If she lengthened her glide, she could reach the end of her tiny ice rink in two strides and a bit, but that required an awkward series of half-hopping steps to fit in the turn at each end. Besides, she liked the efficiency of three-turn-three.

Over the steady sound of her skates on the ice, she could hear a few words carried on the breeze. “Can you believe it… was before the Spanish flu… needed more space to dig… likely story… but Danny said…” Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Ben and Miles shifting uncomfortably as they squatted beside their fishing hole. They had shovelled off a narrow strip of ice for her to skate on before picking a nearby spot to drill, wielding the heavy auger with the ease of frequent use. She listened to them because she knew that when they caught a few smelt, they would pack up and head home. And she was skating to keep warm.

“Hey guys, catch anything yet?” she called out as she executed another perfect turn. The yarn tassel on the tip of Ben’s brown toque bobbed. “Nope, nary a nibble,” he replied as he always did. Miles sprawled on the overturned bucket, head tipped back, following a herring gull as it circled. Ben jiggled the short rod as he hunched over the ice. Nary a nibble – where did he get that from? Sylvia wondered, watching the darkening sky. It must be getting late, she thought, trying not to think about her toes.

One, two, three — turn — one, two … oh. She caught her breath as her blade slid into a jagged crack in the ice. For a long second, Sylvia was falling, her feet flying up as she collapsed onto the ice. She heard a faint screeee from the passing gull, and then the snow crunched beside her head. “You ok, Syl?” Ben bent down until his face was inches above hers. She contemplated his upside-down mouth. “I’m cold,” she said, just then registering the chill of the ice against her back.

Ben stepped to the side, then reached out and grabbed her gently by the shoulders, pulling her to a sitting position. He brushed snow off her hat, looked at her closely for a moment, then turned and called out to Miles, “Pack up, bud, no more fishing today”.

“Did you catch anything?” Sylvia asked as Ben pulled off his mittens and started unlacing her skates. He smiled. “Yeah,” he said, leaning toward her. His kiss, a snowflake on her lips.

Where is home?

January 1, 2019

**Saint John, looking east.** Fujifilm X100F f8 1/80

This small city, on the north shore of the Bay of Fundy, is struggling to survive. Fortunately, it is as tenacious as the tide. It might not be here at all if Samuel de Champlain hadn’t been passing through on St John the Baptist Day in 1604. Then the Loyalists came, and even the passing centuries and waves of immigrants – from places as diverse as Ireland, Vietnam & Syria – have not completely managed to erase the city’s starchy Britishness.

Proud Edwardian homes line stately streets radiating out from the city centre, where stalwart brick establishments – which once sold dresses, furniture, sandwiches and other sundries – serve small batch beer and upscale coffee. A predictable sprawl of suburban neighbourhoods mark the city boundaries on three sides (the fourth being the sea). But if you turn left instead of right, just here, or you follow untamed roads lining the broad river (that empties tumultuously into the harbour through treacherous rapids at low tide and then reverses direction with nearly as much gusto at high tide), you will find another city composed of fading wood frame houses that have seen too many winters, many perched on rocky outcrops that would daunt any modern developer.

**The 250-year-old St. Luke’s is next to a McDonalds.**
Fujifilm XT2 55mm f5.6 1/1100

This is a city of contrasts, of wealth and poverty, of opportunity and apathy, of growth and decline, steeped and in many ways stuck in history. An underlying resentment simmers within many deep-rooted residents, expressed as a certainty that nothing will ever be as good as it once was. When the glory days occurred is up for debate, but the economic downturn could be traced back to the turn of the century, when steam had supplanted sail, and industry, people and prosperity all packed their bags and moved to Upper Canada.

Like many Maritimers, I moved to Upper Canada as well, looking for something more than the few opportunities available at home, wanting a taste of big-city life and independence. I lived in Ontario for nearly 20 years before I came home. Yes, home.

There is something about this city that gets under your skin. It could be the salt air or the fog, the small-town friendliness or the historic heart, or it might just be the familiarity of the particular spaces that became mine while I was growing up, especially the wild places where I wandered, and wrote bad poetry, and learned how to listen to my heart.

I’ve been back in this city for nearly 10 years now and I cannot imagine wanting to make my home anywhere else. That doesn’t mean I don’t plan to leave – I hope to travel and explore for many years yet – but this is where I will return, the place of my heart. This is Saint John.