The presence of diagonals in an image creates a sense of movement. Our eyes naturally follow the line to see where it leads. Often diagonals are used to create leading lines, taking the viewer on a journey through an image to a specific point you want to highlight.
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If public art can be defined as creative, decorative works that can be viewed by anyone at no cost, then the lorries of Nepal should rank as one of that country’s significant contributions to the genre!
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We often choose to go away at this time of year and this year was no exception. At the end of October and through the first part of this month we were travelling in Nepal.
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Paved streets gently wind uphill, lined with brick houses three or more stories high. Every door, every window is surrounded by exquisitely carved wood. Locals sit chatting, their day’s work over, or watch from an upper window.
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Are there places you know and love which you hesitate to tell others about, because you are tempted to keep them to yourself? Places relatively unknown that you fear might become spoiled if discovered by too many? And yet, they are so lovely you can’t resist singing their praises!
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Oh dear! How many times have I fallen precisely into the trap of marvelling at the beauty of terraced fields, forgetting how tough it must be to farm these hillsides.
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When I travel I always want not just to capture the big ‘sights’ but also the tiny details. I often photograph something that perhaps could be found anywhere: a leaf, a stone wall, a ripple on the water. But I found it here in THIS place and I want to capture it.
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In the early morning mist we drifted slowly with the current, our boat man using his single oar simply to steer us. Here on the Narayani River, which skirts the northern boundary of Chitwan National Park in Nepal, the setting was beautiful, the atmosphere tranquil.
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Arguably it’s the fragility of glass that makes it so beautiful. Not only does it look lovely, we know how easily we could lose it. Glass has two main properties; we can look through it, or we can see the world reflected in it.
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Our visit to Indochina was only just over two years ago, yet in some ways it feels like a world away. A world barely touched by Covid, in which we didn’t question our ability to travel. Took it for granted, perhaps? Looking back at my photos I wonder why we didn’t realise that the disease already causing deaths and chaos in China would spread to engulf the whole world. Were we like ostriches, our heads in the sand? Or was it such an alien concept that we couldn’t envisage it?
