Lately as my near sight grows worse and worse, I contemplate Monet's view of things. He just painted what he saw, rather than all he knew to be there. He painted beauty in the eye of the beholder, really.
The camera is a struggle lately. What I see is more than my five year-old toy Nikon can capture, because unlike Monet, I see better farther off, and unlike the camera, I see the nuances of light without having to balance them all against each other.
Here's a photo of a tomato blossom, and if you click on it to see it huge, it's a treat:
I had the camera set on mostly automatic adjustments. I could have fussed with it a bit, to make it more accurate, but the fact is, putting my glasses on to do that and then taking them off to shoot the picture isn't always worth it to me. I end up shooting blind most of the time, then coming home and relying on my memory and Photoshop to recreate what I actually saw. Which looked more like this:
See, it's kinda blown out now, and still a little more blue than the light was just then, but this is how I remember it. So, yeah, I'll pay more attention to the exposure setting when I shoot it again, but to me, in my head, the thing just glows. It's very sensual. It's not more accurate, though. I could do that, and sometimes do.
And so now, contemplating what's more important to share; my vision, the camera's vision, or my memory of the vision. It depends on the situation, to my way of thinking. Most of what I've shared here with my garden photos has been just how it came out of the camera, except for minor lighting adjustments. But as food emerges from the ground, I want to treat it as visual art as well as edible art. So those photos will be tagged garden photos as well as garden, as it feels most honest that way.
I'm going to work on a painting today, that I'd set aside for some weeks waiting for more consistent light, and wishing for an easel. What comes out on the canvas is *never* what I see in my head. But I'm learning to be good with that.