Because my Dad died in 1975 at thirty-three when I was five years old, I never really knew him. I would ask family members and friends for their memories of him and they would recall a promising young architect who liked skiing, wood and canvas canoes, Porsches, airplanes, and classical music. He and my mother converted a fire-gutted barn in Wallingford, Connecticut into a modern and stylish home that was featured in several newspaper and magazine articles. He was also a serious amateur photographer who studied with Walker Evans at Yale in the Sixties. My Dad left behind wooden boxes full of carefully printed black and white prints of architectural details, landscapes and portraits. Through his photography, I came to know my Dad.
Welcome to my new blog about being a freelance photographer in Vermont. Pictures can say only so much. Sometimes words add a new dimension to the story. This will be an occasional blog. Here goes:
One foot in front of the other, breathing in, breathing out, I hike steadily north along the Long Trail from Lincoln Gap towards Mount Abraham. An azure sky soars above, a warm breeze rustles the early-turning yellow maple leaves, and Mazy charges ahead on her extendable leash, inhaling the smells of early fall in Vermont. After a morning working at the computer, it’s time to soak up the day and hike to the summit of Vermont’s fifth tallest mountain. Instead of dwelling on the past or worrying about the future, I try to focus on the present, the details of the forest around and the views of Vermont from the rocky peak. Sometimes as a photographer, you need to reconnect with the simple pleasures of making pictures.