Tag: Macro

Categories
Nature

Nomenclature

Ice-covered seed pod, possibly chestnut

At the beginning of a semester in high school chemistry, the teacher rhymed off all the general topics we’d be covering. That was the last science course I ever took, and I don’t remember any of the topics our teacher mentioned … except one. She said we’d be learning about nomenclature. One of my classmates put up her hand and asked, in all seriousness: “Who’s Norman Clature?” She thought maybe he was a famous chemist.

In certain circles, people think Norman Clature is a big deal. In other circles, not so much. In photography, people’s views divide down the middle. A lot hangs on what a given photographer thinks their photograph is for. If, for example, a photograph of a bug is going to end up in a textbook on entomology, then Norman Clature will likely insist on correctly identifying the bug. On the other hand, if a photograph of a bug is going to end up in an artsy forum where viewers are more concerned about line and colour and composition, then Norman Clature may not be so fussy.

For me, the challenge is that sometimes I have no idea (nor control over) how a given photograph will be used. Take today’s image, for example. Focus takes our eyes to a spiky seed pod covered in a thin layer of melting ice. I have no idea what species of seed pod this is. Maybe a chestnut? When I set up my tripod and framed this shot, I wasn’t thinking: “Oh, there’s a fine example of [insert Latin phrase here].” I was thinking: “Isn’t it interesting how those spikes are sticking up through the ice.”

I find that birders are the worst. A guy with a pair of binoculars will see my long lens and ask: “Did you see that fine example of a double-breasted hairy hoober goober?” And I’ll shrug and say: “I’m just here to shoot pretty birds.” I understand why it’s important for birders to bring Norman Clature into the field with them, but not all of us care for his company. Sometimes the visual effect of a photograph doesn’t depend on whether you can name the thing represented in the photograph. There it is! Look at it!

Categories
Bugs

Grasshopper

Grasshopper on Grass

I wonder what it would be like to be a grasshopper. Imagine being able to jump 100 times your own height. That would mean I could jump onto the roof of a tall skyscraper. And if I missed, or if I crashed into the side of a neighbouring building, it wouldn’t hurt because my exoskeletal shell would protect me.

If I wanted, I could cling all day to a stalk of grass. And while I can’t say that my life would be carefree (given that I’d have to be wary of birds and frogs and other natural predators), still there would be moments of supreme pleasure as I swayed back and forth on the midday breeze. I think I’d be one of those grasshoppers given to stridulating all day long. I’d probably join an important community chorus, maybe the Mormon Tabernacle Stridulators.

And imagine looking at the world through multifaceted eyes. What a brain it must take to see a hundred different images of the same thing and compile them into a single coherent visual field. It’s like the James Webb telescope with its 18 separate mirrors. I might not be able to see to the edge of the universe, but I’d be able to see to the edge of my universe.

The only drawback of life as a grasshopper is that sex wouldn’t be terribly interesting. That’s the downside of an exoskeletal shell. While it protects you from injury, it makes you less sensitive to touch. I don’t know. Depending on your point of view, that might be an upside. If Donald Trump was a grasshopper, the women grasshoppers who worked for him wouldn’t have to worry so much: “You know I’m automatically attracted to beautiful grasshoppers—I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab them by the shell. You can do anything.”

Categories
Country Life

Frost on Old Maple Leaf

Frost on Maple Leaf Stem, Williams Farm, Wyebridge, ON

During the past couple months, culminating with the “Freedom” Convoy and successive marches that use the pandemic as cover to promote extremist ideologies, I’ve witnessed regular displays of the Canadian flag co-opted in the service of hateful speech. The red and white, the maple leaf. People wrap themselves bodily in the flag and call themselves patriots, all the while turning the flag into yet another dog whistle for white supremacist tropes. I find it personally insulting that anyone should try to pass off this hate-mongering as patriotism.

To my way of thinking, patriotism grounds itself in gratitude. Like my dog whistling friends, I enjoy certain rights and freedoms, and for those I am grateful. But I’m more grateful for the fact that I am surrounded by people who, through their sense of duty, service, and social responsibility, safeguard my rights and freedoms. I express my gratitude by doing my part in turn to safeguard the rights and freedoms of those around me, including and perhaps most especially those who annoy me by wrapping themselves in the flag and saying things I contest.

The curious thing about the maple leaf that appears on the Canadian flag is that, of all the species of maple we could have chosen, we opted for the sugar maple. The leaf on the flag is a stylized representation of the sugar maple leaf. It calls to mind a practice—boiling sap to make syrup—that started on this land thousands of years ago. It reminds us of a gift—the gift of a specific knowledge—that Indigenous peoples freely shared with white settlers. And it points to something we have here in abundance, this sweetness that invariably brings us joy. Like our freedoms, it comes to us as a gift and needs to be acknowledged with gratitude.

One of the things that troubles me about these conversations is the way that patriotism gets passed off as a marker of personal identity. I am a white, cisgendered male who happens also to be … Canadian. However, history teaches us that what it means to be Canadian is tightly bound to the exercise of colonial power. It is contingent and rooted in stories of oppression. What’s more, as millions of refugees flee Ukraine, the rest of the world looks on and sees how nationality as a marker of personal identity can be snatched away in the blink of an eye.

The Ukraine people can console themselves with the certain knowledge that all powers fall and finally crumble to dust. Here in Canada, we deceive ourselves when we intimate that we are somehow exceptional. Like the maple leaf consumed by the morning frost, our cherished symbols lose their potency and their meanings fade. It may well be that of all possible markers of personal identity, national affiliation is the least stable.

There is an antidote to the feelings of instability that arise when we lose our grip on a shallow patriotism. The antidote is to acknowledge that, all along, we were asking the wrong question. We don’t invoke patriotism to answer the question: who am I? We invoke patriotism to answer the question: whose am I?

Frost forms on blades of grass.
Frost on Grass, Williams Farm, Wybridge, ON
Categories
Nature

Porn sprouts like mushrooms on Twitter

Mushrooms on Log

In my previous post, I mentioned that pornography has sprouted like mushrooms on Twitter. At the same time, Twitter has announced that it will remove photographs if the subject hasn’t consented. The multi-billion dollar corporation will make exceptions for any photograph that “adds value to the public discourse, is being shared in the public interest, or is relevant to the community”. I guess porn doesn’t get caught up in this discussion because it’s consensual. At least we’re supposed to think it’s consensual. Consensual in the same way that exploited workers have always consented to their wages and working conditions.

Ah, says Twitter, that woman giving a blow job isn’t exploited; she works for a fun guy.

Fungi.

See how I made that segue? Because, really, I wanted this post to be about mushrooms. In particular, I wanted to show off this beautiful bunch of mushrooms I found on a log when I was walking along a country road in Haliburton. An overcast sky softened the shadows and made the colours more saturated. Perfect conditions for shooting with a macro lens.

Just so we understand one another: the fungi gave their consent to appear in my photo.

Categories
Wildlife

Jellyfish on Croy Shore

Jellyfish on a beach south of Dunure, Scotland

Featured above is an image of a jellyfish, one of thousands washed onto a beach in Ayrshire in the southwest of Scotland. Walking along a beach on the western shores of Scotland makes me mindful of how important the Gulf Stream is to life in this part of the world.

Glasgow sits at 55.9 degrees latitude. It is a northern city. By way of comparison, Toronto sits at 43.7 degrees and, despite what people say about Canada, it isn’t a particularly cold place. In fact, it’s further south than a third of the continental US. And it’s further south than almost all of France. Summers are hot and humid; winters are moderated by its position in relation to the Great Lakes.

A few years ago, I sat up all night with friends around an open fire on the outskirts of Glasgow. At three in the morning, I gazed up into the sky and noted that it wasn’t really dark. This was the end of May, three weeks from the summer solstice and I was closer to the Arctic Circle than I was to Toronto’s latitude. For a comparable view in my home province, I’d have to travel up to Fort Severn, the northernmost settlement in Ontario.

Periodically, scientists express concern that maybe the Gulf Stream, aka the Atlantic meridional overturning circulation (AMOC), might shut down as climate change progresses. See this Guardian article for an example. If this happened, it’s impossible to predict what impact that might have on Scotland’s climate. Currently, it’s moderate there: summers are never terribly warm, but winters are never terribly cold either. This is, after all, the land of the kilt. But if all that warm water stopped flowing through the North Atlantic, Scotsmen might have to start wearing something underneath.

Jellyfish on a beach south of Dunure, Scotland
Categories
Bugs

Bee on Teasel

Bee on teasel, shot on Lower Don Trail north of the Bloor Viaduct.

Living in the heart of the city, it’s only natural that a lot of my photos are unnatural: traffic, buildings, people rushing through urban spaces. Even a lot of my nature photos happen in the heart of the city. For example, I shot this bee on a teasel flower in the Lower Don Trail just north of the Bloor Viaduct. It required a macro lens, a tripod, and patience.

Categories
Bugs

Fly and its Reflection

Fly and its mirror image reflected on a glass door.

I’m not an entomologist so I have no idea what kind of bug I’ve captured here. If I had to understand everything about a scene before I photographed it, I’d never photograph anything. I was mesmerized by this insect and its doppelganger and that was good enough for me.

I’m not sure what it is about reflections that is so universally compelling, like the twins in Kubrick’s The Shining, or virtually anybody taking a selfie these days. Maybe it has something to do with ancient myths like Narcissus. Or maybe it’s something lodged in our Jungian collective unconscious. Or maybe it has to do with the bicameral structure of the human brain. Or maybe I’m overanalysing things.