mediterranean wood 2

Product Placement
Peter Solarz
cherry valley forever

#extradirty

@theartofmadeline
Cosimo Galluzzi
we're not kids anymore.
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
todays bird

pixel skylines

Janaina Medeiros
Claire Keane
Game of Thrones Daily
One Nice Bug Per Day
Cosmic Funnies
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
dirt enthusiast
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Monterey Bay Aquarium
Mike Driver
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Morocco

seen from United States
seen from Morocco
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seen from Türkiye

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seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia
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@quadernodicaccia
mediterranean wood 2
mediterranean wood
cycling, just it
the beginnings
summer holiday in Germany
summer holiday in germany
But for the majority of my work I use a Wista 4x5 Field Camera. I've used it for the better part of 15 years. Although many might believe it's cumbersome to trek around, I've found that it helps me out of numerous situations when the weather is less than pleasant. In cases when temperatures have hit minus 40 [degrees Farenheit] and all my battery-operated gear has tuckered out, my 4x5 is still shooting away. Also, as long as I keep the film dry, I'm able to continue using it in extreme rain without cover or much fuss. "From the aesthetic and process standpoints, there's a sense of time slowing down when I use this camera. Nothing is or can be immediate. I can't work overly fast, and it can sometimes take weeks for me to see my images. This way of working allows me to experience my story on a very different level from that of shooting digital. I can't escape the moments I'm seeing; I must engage on a more visceral level."
https://www.nationalgeographic.com/travel/travel-photographers-favorite-cameras/
Exposed, the question was about taking photographs of others then I started from myself #selfportrait #blackandwhite
One more cup of #coffee for the road (dylan), first step in #vanlife
A #van with a view, first impression about #vanlife, South France
Bruce Chatwin (making of a writer)
“In the summer holidays I travelled east, as far as Afghanistan, and wondered if I was capable of writing an article on Islamic architecture. But something was wrong. I began to feel that things, however beautiful, can also be malign. The atmosphere of the Art World reminded me of the morgue...
After a strenuous bout of New York, I woke one morning halfblind. The eye specialist said there was nothing wrong organically. Perhaps I'd been looking too closely at pictures? Perhaps I should try some long horizons? Africa, perhaps?
I went to the Sudan. On camel and foot I trekked through the Red Sea hills and found some unrecorded cave paintings. My nomad guide was a hadendoa, one of Kipling's 'fuzzy-wuzzies'. He carried a sword, a purse and a pot of scented goat's grease for anointing his hair. He made me feel overburdened and inadequate; and by the time I returned to England a mood of fierce iconoclasm had set in. Not that I turned into a picture siasher. But I did understand why the Prophets banned the worship of images. I quit my job and enrolled as a first-year student of archaeology at Edinburgh University. My studies in that grim northern city were not a success (...) For the second time I quit.
Gradually the idea for a book began to take shape. It was to be a wildly ambitious and intolerant work, a kind of 'Anatomy of Restlessness' that would enlarge on Pascal's dictum about the man sitting quietly in a room. The argument, roughly, was as follows: that in becoming human, man had acquired, together with his straight legs and striding walk, a migratory 'drive' or instinct to walk long distances through the seasons; that this 'drive' was inseparable from his central nervous system; and that, when warped in conditions of settlement, it found outlets in violence, greed, status-seeking or a mania for the new. This would explain why mobile societies such as the gypsies were egalitarian, thing-free and resistant to change; also why, to re-establish the harmony of the First State, ail the great teachers - Buddha, Lao-tse, St Francis - had set the perpetual pilgrimage at the heart of their message and told their disciples, literally, to follow The Way.
The book grew and grew; and as it grew it became less and less intelligible to its author. It even contained a diatribe against the act of writing itself Finally, when the manuscript was typed, it was so obviously unpublishable that, for the third time, I gave up.
Penniless, depressed, a total failure at the age of thirty-three, I had a phone call from Francis Wyndham of the Sunday Times magazine, a man of outstanding literary judgement, whom I hardly knew. Would I, lie asked, like a small job as an adviser on the arts? 'Yes,' I said. We soon forgot about the arts, and under Francis's guidance I took on every kind of article. I wrote about Algerian migrant workers, the couturier Madeleine Vionnet and the Great Wall of China. I interviewed André Malraux on what General de Gaulle thought of England; and in Moscow I visited Nadezhda Mandelstam (...) Each time I came back with a story, Francis Wyndlham encouraged, criticised, edited and managed to convince me that I should, after all, try my hand at another book. His greatest gift was permission to continue. One afternoon in the early 70s, in Paris, I went to see the arcliitect and designer Eileen Gray, who at the age of ninety-three thought nothing of a fourteen-hour working day. She lived in the rue Bonaparte, and in her salon hung a map of Patagonia, which she had painted in gouache. 'I've always wanted to go there,' I said. 'So have I,' she added. 'Go there for me.' I went. I cabled the Sunday Times: 'Have Gone to Patagonia'. In my rucksack I took Mandelstam's Journey to Armenia and Hemingway's In Our Time. Six months later I came at. this time, did get published. thought that telling stories was the only conceivable occupation for a superfluous person such as myself. Eileen Gray's map now hangs in my apartment. But the future is tentative.
BRUCE CHATWIN 1983
forse per un debito di discendenza della fotografia dalla caccia, come il tiro con l’arco, forse per un debito di onestà rispetto al piatto già pronto che acquisto congelato al supermercato, forse solo per curiosità mi avvicino al capanno dei cacciatori e ne fotografo le tracce in attesa di trovare il coraggio di un incontro
Waiting for nothing. #seashore
#esterel #sunday #afternoon
#1 or none
#2 or #1
#1 or many