The beginning borders on violence, as things at their start often do. A constant wash of wetness clings to everything, even on the warm dry days, even when the sky is full only of the barren sun. The whiplash of the growing season is rustling up the remnants from the last season, exposing its leftover decay. The nakedness of the past will be carried away on the pushy wind, leaving behind the scent of flowers and the settling of a new rhythm.
Where I Stand Sunday is an ongoing photo essay examining the different places I spend my life standing. Too often we take for granted the everyday places we spend our lives walking on. The ground we tread on has its own stories to tell. (You can view Year One of the project here and the gallery for this year here.)
Where I Stand Sunday is an ongoing photo essay examining the different places I spend my life standing. Too often we take for granted the everyday places we spend our lives walking on. The ground we tread on has its own stories to tell. (You can view Year One of the project here and the gallery for this year here.)
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