BUTTERMILK POND
Though my parents moved from my small town after I went off to college, most of my free time when home was spent seeing old friends back in Pine Plains, NY.
On a visit before a summer trip to Europe, I headed back to my parent’s new home. I was feeling a bit of nostalgia for the old on the way to new memories. Passing Buttermilk Pond, I saw tall pampas grasses bathed in warm evening light. The symmetry and color made me pull over to take a photo. Perhaps it was the light alone that drew me. I took but one frame, visually estimating the exposure as the early Nikon F had no meter. I preferred Ektachrome-X at the time. It had more punch and was more consistent than the professionally popular Kodachrome slide film.
The slide went immediately into my Selects file. Its status was elevated when a most respected professor singled it out as ‘exceptional seeing’. The slide went in and out of countless slide trays for projection, was placed in many non-archival sleeves and was mailed around the country for publication, job queries and grad school applications. It sat in my closet, got moved to apartments around the country, and was transported between various houses. Once it was taken to NYC as I watched and learned dye transfer printing at a renowned lab. They made a 40x60 inch print on the most beautiful photo paper ever, and it was displayed prominently in my home for years. I never stopped being struck by the physical textural beauty of the print surface. Color is described by hue, saturation, and brightness. I believe it has another dimension- texture- and the surface of this special paper (what analog photographers called “glossy paper dried matte”) is still emulated by digital print papers. The photo was influenced by the vision of Eliot Porter. Ironically, he was a master of the dye-transfer printing, a craft whose knowledge and materials are long gone.
When moving to Hawai’i, the print seemed too large, and I gifted it to my real estate agent. It was partly abandonment as the surface had begun to crackle. The vaulted lab acknowledged the flaw was due to the improper mounting of the print. Had I taken it to the islands, I am certain, despite archival claims of this or any other color print, it would have faded. Besides, I had extras rolled in a tube. Sadly, pests got into the tube and destroyed the prints.
The original slide was professionally scanned years ago and I made a print for my home. I set aside the original along with another treasured slide “in a special place”. Surely, I would find it during my packing to move or my unpacking in Texas. Haven’t found it yet. Well, at least I had a great digital file. However, I couldn’t find that either despite care to back up across several hard drives. In a search for other images, I saw the image thumbnail on my last back-up option, a gold archival DVD. What joy! I finessed the file and used it to test some new highly rated printing papers. Each print was slightly different, and each made me happy to view.
I still long to locate the original, though likely it has some significant fading by now. I do question the point. Meanwhile I ponder the irony of an early photo still holding such cache´ considering hundreds of thousands (millions?) of exposures made through dozens of cameras and lenses. Should there be a more memorable or more significant image? How much have I advanced in a lifetime studying, teaching, and taking photos? Photography is multifaceted, allowing for approaches diverse in looks and intention. With deep dives into social injustice, war, famine, global warming, etc., can beauty be enough of a statement? Some might say not, but it’s what I love.
Just as a musician cannot be remembered for a single tune, a photographer is hard to define by one photo. So, GRASSES goes into in a very small folder of images based on the criteria of “if the house is on fire, which handful to rescue?” Photographers are their own worst editors. Likely, this folder contains critically undeserving picks while missing others some might believe essential to add.
In the end I realize my precious gem is merely costume jewelry to some viewers. It never won any prizes, is only displayed on my wall and is not the subject of critical social significance. But I never stop gazing at it with joy and wonder and awe. Enough?
The grasses along Buttermilk stopped me then, still stop me now.