art
A snapshot of photography as an art form; explore art museums and galleries devoted to photography, iconic photographers, the history of fine art photography and more.
Facing Down the Dragon
I crouch down in on Government Street in front of the Mystics of Time House, inside the baricades as the revelry of Mobile’s Mardi Gras rages on. MOTs—Mystics of Time—time is a mystery, isn’t it? For how can one moment stretch into an eternity, how we simultaneously exist in the moment and in reverie. From these decorative floats, masked riders throw beads that land on the ground, snatched by tiny, plump ready hands, while some dangle from trees, a glittery tapestry like little glowing seeds of fun and revelry.
By Insouciant Ennuiabout a year ago in Photography
Captured in a Photo, Held in my Heart. First Place in Through the Lens Challenge.
How do you capture the love of a grandmother? It has been just over three years since my Nana passed, and this is a question that lingers in my mind, as persistent as the memories of her.
By Hannah Hessabout a year ago in Photography
The Haunted Yogurt of Wüd Grane
I had always regarded yogurt as a safe foodstuff—perhaps not as reliable as your standard whole milk or cheddar, but certainly more innocuous than an exotic cheese. If you eat something called a ghost pepper, you might reasonably expect something spooky to happen, but I hadn’t ever encountered a yogurt named after the grim reaper or a disembodied spirit.
By A. S. Lawrenceabout a year ago in Photography
Take A Hike
At the summit of the tallest mountain in the United Kingdom, my chest heaved for air and my legs threatened to give out. I yearned to collapse, but I told myself I couldn’t sit down yet. I had to finish this trek. I had to make it to the summit marker. After four and a half hours of vigorous hiking, I would get my photo from the summit.
By Taylor Westwoodabout a year ago in Photography
Tracing the Roots
It's a quiet mid-August afternoon when my feet hit the dirt trail leading into the park. There's an opening in the fence at the bottom of the hill, across from the road leading up to my childhood home. The home to which I no longer return and haven't for over six years now.
By Alyssa Mussoabout a year ago in Photography
Moondust in the Daylight
I galloped through the night, and my breath puffed out before me. Brother bounded along at my side, and I could hear him panting as his steps pounded against the ground. We heard them in the distance, the pack of coyotes, and we ran out to secure the perimeter.
By Killianabout a year ago in Photography
Art and Worship
The soft, swelling music of the piano filled the room, blending with the gentle hum of voices in unison. Every note seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken prayers, hanging in the air like a sacred offering. The atmosphere at Resonate Worship and Arts Conservatory was electric with a sense of expectancy, as though the room itself was leaning forward, waiting for something extraordinary to unfold. The worship team began to play the familiar chords of Jireh, and the melody seemed to resonate deep within Bella’s chest, stirring emotions she had buried for weeks. In the dimmed light, Bella stood in the third row, her hands trembling slightly as she closed her eyes. She had almost skipped the event, too exhausted from the burdens she had been carrying—financial uncertainty that kept her awake at night and the ache of a relationship that felt like it was slipping through her fingers. But here she was, standing among the crowd, unsure of what she needed but desperate for something to change. The words “You are enough” spilled out across the room like waves, crashing over her heart and washing away the isolation she had been drowning in. Her chest rose and fell with deep, uneven breaths as tears began streaming down her face, not out of sadness, but from an overwhelming realization: she wasn’t alone in her pain.
By E. C. Miraabout a year ago in Photography
In the Hall of Crosses
Where was my head at when I headed down to my hometown’s art gallery? It was the day after the New Year rolled in, and I was aware that I would be leaving in less than a week. I had been spending most of the time with my family and noting the frailty in my mother and stepfather, more so in my mom (she will not be stopped when her home has to be clean and meals prepared). I went over to visit relatives during the holidays, but I felt like I was looking at something from a distance. Most of the people I know are all working in the same soul-deadening spots I managed to avoid, and I cannot really explain why I see their lives as sadder and more limited now. My neighbourhood has not changed at all (perhaps there are more people buying some of the newish homes around us; perhaps more people are retired and keeping to themselves – no change there, either). I had gone for a walk on the Bruce Trail on the birth of the new year, and there were the usual friendly faces and greetings, but it felt like I was stuck in a terrible pattern that I built for myself since I first discovered that path through nature. I had less than a week left, and I wanted something unique that spoke to me, and lifted me out of the deep funk I felt seeing where I came from (it also did not hurt that the day after New Year’s Day was a free day at the gallery; you take what you can get). So, on a Thursday, I caught a bus – could not get anyone interested in heading down with me and a bus seemed to be the right method of entering the downtown core – and with a new stop that put me a little too far from my destination, I went into the brown, brutalist structure that is our municipal gallery.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Photography
