DARIN HAYTON

Tag: Morro Bay

  • Mirror, Window, or Smoke-Fogged Glass?

    Mirror, Window, or Smoke-Fogged Glass?

    I wonder how much of the vogue for photographs to express some deeper meaning relates to Szarkowski’s mirror-window dichotomy? It seems to me there is a strong preference of late for a rather blunt or simplistic version of the mirror side of the dichotomy, echoed in the oft repeated disdain for “merely aesthetic” or “calendar” photos (I’ve mused about this before). Photographs that hint at the inner, psychological states of the photographer garner praise and elicit awe (usually phrased something like, “I don’t really get it, but …” or “I don’t really like it, but …”). Somewhat paradoxically, those same photos are rarely considered pretty. How often have I heard a person compliment a photograph but then say they wouldn’t hang it on their wall.

    Urban #181230.2. A photograph of a boat docked in the predawn gloom.
    Urban #181230.2

    I need to go read Szarkowski’s Mirrors and Windows. American Photography since 1960 and see how in 1978 he characterized the distinction. I suspect most photography falls somewhere between the two. It is, again I suspect, less a dichotomy and more a spectrum. I don’t make photographs that reveal or hint at or otherwise broadcast my inner states of being, at least not in a blunt or crude way. But the camera always points both ways, is always a mirror and a window, and so all my photographs necessarily emerge from my psychological space. So while the “calendar” photos I take are, I hope, “merely aesthetically” pleasing, they also do more than merely look pretty on a wall.

    Landscape #230612. A color photograph of a butte against a cloudy sky.
    Landscape #230612
  • Morning by the Sea

    Morning by the Sea

    I struggle to recall the Before Times when I could stop into the local donut shop and get a cup of coffee and warm my hands before heading back out to enjoy the last bit of darkness. Social distancing comes naturally to me. I have always needed to be alone. Not every day, perhaps, but regularly. That morning before the town had risen and before the fishermen climbed onto boats, I spent the last hours of night wandering the docks. A gentle lapping sound of the water against the pylons, the creaking and stretching of ropes tied around cleats, and my footsteps on the wooden piers.

    Urban #181230.1. A photograph of a boat docked in the predawn gloom.
    Urban #181230.1

    I watch as the eastern sky brightens and think, soon these docks will be bustling with locals and tourists. It was the middle of winter, so probably more locals than tourists that time of year.

    Urban #181230.2. A photograph of a boat docked in the predawn gloom.
    Urban #181230.2

    I have never developed a fondness for the coast and the little towns that cling to the shore, too busy and crowded. But that morning, sitting on a bench on that pier, I understood why so many people do like these towns. They are lovely and can, at the right time of day, be peaceful.

    Looking at these photos reminds me of a time when being alone was a choice, a time of day or a place. They also remind me of not being alone, of walking away from the docks and back to have breakfast with my family.