A great photo can work on many levels, and though it needs no words to tell its story, it can inspire volumes. A good picture, in other words, tells a story. But a great picture tells many. Each of us is given a pair of cameras when we're born, and each of us, willing or not, houses a great gallery.
Our selections bring about emotions of fear and joy, of deep sorrow and free refills of laughter. The best photographers understand this. They know about how fireworks make day at night and how Porches accelerate through our dreams. They know what images do to us.
Passers-by gaze at the fusion of post-war engineering and timeless art, trying to remember the days when Berlin was still divided and no one knew which way the wall would fall.
The car has survived much. It doesn't mind the rain.
In the ashes and rust of abandoned Soviet Factories, in the long shadows of ruined concentration camps, in the yellowed, moth-eaten edges of forgotten prospects, hope is stubborn.
Like a dandelion whose seed lays long dormant in a tomb of soil, hope will return.
Trust comes easy at the outset, when all things are soft and green and cool.
Then the thorns and stones appear, and we wonder if it is worth going back to our safeguards, or if we should just let the adversity thicken our skin.
His gloves are strictly for grip. Cold and dirt and inconvenience are long forgotten, caught back to shore on tides of winter grass and adrenaline.
The single piston hammers out a rough anthem of exhilaration.
"Do you remember how new everything was?"
"Not really. I wish I could."
"It scares me sometimes, just the size of it all."
"I still get that. Don't worry, though. I'll be right here."
The whole town assembled once a year and turn their faces toward the unreachable sky.
A glorious vision filled the zenith, and they remembered the hot shrapnel and dirt geysers as if they'd been there.
The ones who had been there drained their tears and smiled.
Spring tugs our eyes from our screens and drags us outside toward a healing that all the world's genius and productivity could never offer.
We set down our things so we can pick up the beauty.
Many sharp situations draw us together, though we differ so sharply.
And at the end of the road, the simple and cunning, the peaceful and bellicose, the classic foes of all the ages, unite under death.
I'm still ready to go. Gravity's coming on, I can feel it. But wake me and I'll show you everything. Years, years since I've felt the plugs firing in my gut.
The oxidized cancer spreads. But I'm still ready to go.
The reflection in the pool seems so much cleaner, so much simpler than the deep and visceral world we breathe.
But the present is a work in process. The air will be cleaner, the hearts wide open on that day.
The images in this post are used under 'criticism and review' of Fair Dealing, and are reproduced in small versions in this article. Please click on the lins to see them in high resolution.
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