It’s the time of year when plants are dead, dormant, or dying: dropping leaves, shriveling up, slumping to the ground. At least they are if you’re north of the equator.
But all year, if you look for it, there are signs of death in life, as well as the other way around. I look for them, for I find a strange, guilty pleasure in the beauties of death and dying.
I take photos of what I see, and since I take hundreds of photos (oh, the greatness of digital cameras: I don’t have to feel guilty about wasting film, or the poison chemicals it will take to process it)—since I take hundreds of photos, some of them turn out almost like what I was looking at, or, if I’m really lucky, like what I was feeling as I looked. I keep them. (To be honest, I also keep a lot of others; it’s a great way to learn how not to make a picture.)
In this post, I’m showing a few of the photos I’ve made on the beauties of death. As the number after the title hints, this isn’t going to be the last of this.
I know I’m not the only one who values the beauty in death: besides the fact that I’m not megalomaniac enough to think I’m that unique, I’ve seen some incredible photos on the subject, on the web and off. I’d be interested to hear of others’ transcendent moments with death, and maybe even do a guest post of photos, if there’s an interest. To me, the amazing thing is that, no matter how many people take (or paint) a picture of the same thing, any honest pictures will be fresh. No one sees things quite the same way.