"Illuminated Lily 3" by Eric Rennie
Louis of Bavaria, son and heir of Charlemagne and emperor over much of Europe, died of fright during a total eclipse of the sun in 840 CE. I gleaned this fact from Annie Dillard’s magnificent essay, “Total Eclipse,” which described her own experience of an eclipse in such vivid terms that you can understand how the elderly emperor (he was all of 62) might plausibly succumb. She wrote:
Eclipses were not unheard of in Louis’s day. The ancients had been accurately forecasting them for centuries. But, as Dillard so harrowingly noted, nothing really prepares you for the actual event. The only preparation you usually get is advice to use protective eyewear, like the welder’s goggles Dillard wore. Except for the two or three minutes that the sun is entirely obscured by the moon, you will damage your retinas by staring directly at an eclipse.
Not long ago the shadow cone of a total eclipse cut a 195-mile wide swath across the United States, racing at 1,800 mph from Oregon to South Carolina. I live in New England, far from the cone’s path; still, the sun was two-thirds darkened at the peak of the eclipse in our region. My family and I were driving from Connecticut to Cape Cod at the time. Electronic highway signs en route cautioned us to turn on our headlights. But there was no need. The sky remained brightly lit at the midday peak, although the sun dimmed by two-thirds. Even on its low beams, the sun offered more than enough light to get us safely to the Cape.
If Cezanne actually said, “God is light,” I can find no source, although he did go south to paint, presumably because the light was better. If too much light makes you crazy, Cezanne showed no signs, unlike poor Van Gogh, who also went south. Cezanne did say, “We are an iridescent chaos,” which might sound suspect if taken out of context. However, he was talking about his landscapes. (Presumably, a little crazy-talk is allowed if you are an artist.) The English landscape painter J.M.W. Turner would stare directly at the sun for such extended periods that others wondered how he could do so without destroying his eyesight. His dying words were reportedly, “The sun is God,” thereby confirming critic John Ruskin’s characterization of him as a pagan sun-worshipper.
Photographers have long known there is such a thing as too much light, which is why they normally don’t point a camera anywhere near the sun, except at sunrise and sunset, when the light is highly refracted in the atmosphere. Lately I have been photographing flowers close-up in a dark room, using a macro lens. I have been achieving dramatic effects by shining a single high-intensity beam from an LED flashlight on the blossoms. However, as I am discovering, I must be careful not to overwhelm the image with concentrated light. I am usually directing the beam from below in order to capture the delicate translucent petals, but it is easy to wind up with a blown-out image, much as if I had pointed my camera too close to the sun.
Light has long been a metaphor for God, and before that people simply worshipped it. Archeological excavations of Neanderthal settlements have found that dwellings, ritual sites and graves all faced toward the rising sun. Megaliths in Britain and elsewhere are aligned with the sun and moon. Lest we dismiss such pagan practices, Christian churches were traditionally oriented to the east, and priests were instructed to celebrate Mass facing in that direction.
Divine encounters in the Bible were often accompanied by intense displays of light. Moses was warned when he went up Mt. Sinai that he could not directly look upon God’s face and live, so he hid himself in the cleft of a rock when the Lord passed by. Jesus went up a mountain with three of his disciples, and he “was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his garments became white as light." St. Paul was blinded by a light from heaven on the road to Damascus, presumably because he wasn’t outfitted with welder’s goggles. However, there were no recorded instances of biblical figures driven mad by too much exposure to light from heaven.
I wonder what it would be like trying to take a picture of God -- or at least God as he is portrayed in Scripture. Suppose a photographer had accompanied St. Paul on the road to Damascus or followed Moses up Mt. Sinai. According to the New Testament account, Paul was blinded by a light from heaven and therefore saw nothing. I suspect the same would be true of the photographer, unless he had the foresight to bring welder’s goggles. Even if he got off a few pictures, I suspect they would be completely blown out. As for the photographer who ventured up Mt. Sinai, he would probably have followed Moses’ lead and hidden himself in the cleft of the rock. He might have gotten a few shots of the Lord’s back, which would be par for the course, since all of creation, in effect, is the Lord’s back. Would Moses (and the photographer) really have died if they had taken a peek at God’s face as he passed by? I’m not sure we need to take such accounts quite so literally. As the hapless emperor of Bavaria demonstrated, too little light from heaven can be far deadlier than too much.
"Cotton Hollow" by Eric Rennie
If you go walking in any old New England cemetery, you will see many tombstones are so worn by time that their inscriptions are barely legible, if at all. The granite used now to mark graves is more durable than the marble, slate or brownstone once favored for this purpose. However, even the hardest rock will eventually succumb to the elements. In the end, nature defeats every effort to leave one's mark on the world.
As it is with the stones that mark our passing, so it is with the structures we build to mark our civilization. Sooner or later, even the most monumental edifice will return to the earth as we do, worn away by the elements and by time, until no trace can be found without digging. The photograph above is meant to convey this: the ruins of an eighteenth-century cotton mill gradually disappearing into the woods. The biblical curse on humankind in the Old Testament extends to every human artifact: from dust they came and to dust they shall return.
This image is part of a juried competition appearing at the Garner Center at the New England School of Photography in Waltham, MA. The exhibit runs from May 1, 2018 to June 1, 2018. The juror is photographer Jim Dow.
Two of my images shown here are among 59 works that have been accepted for a national juried competition of black & white photography at the South Shore Arts Center in Cohasset, MA. Juried by gallery owner Arlette Kayafas, the show runs from April 12, 2018 to May 21, 2018.
"Up before Dawn 7" by Eric Rennie
"Harbor Park in Fog" by Eric Rennie
This picture of the first air show at the Grand Palais in Paris in 1909 is neither a lithograph nor a painting but a color photograph taken decades before the introduction of color film by Kodak and other companies in the 1930s. The Lumiere Brothers -- better known as pioneers of cinematography -- developed the first practical color photography process using a glass plate covered with a thin layer of potato starch granules dyed red, green and blue, which acted as a color filter. National Geographic printed its first natural-color photograph in 1914 using the autochrome process. Exposure times were long, whcih resulted in a softer focus. In combination with autochrome's muted color palate, this produced striking painterly effects.
"Man and Beast" by Eric Rennie
This may be the only photograph I have ever exhibited that was taken with a telephoto lens; certainly it is the only one entered in a juried competition under the category of portraiture. It was taken from across a corral at an ox pull held at a New England town fair some years ago. Something about the pairing of the oxen and their keepers caught my eye and evidently caught the eye of Amy Arbus, who judged a group exhibition called “Portrait: Image and Reality” at the Black Box Gallery in Portland, OR. The show runs from March 1, 2018 until March 20, 2018.
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