Driftwood

Some days the Atlantic Ocean looks more like a big lake, with lazy wavelets washing gently against the careless arm of land that arches north and south to the horizon. Instead of a roar, she whispers to us in soft sibilant susurrations. On such days we take long slow walks at waters edge. My partner often stoops to examine a shell or to pick up a stray piece of frosted sea glass, encomium to ancient technologies on the plastic littered beach. I carry my camera firing the digitized mechanism and bagging sea, beach and sea grape encrusted dunes.

I have photographed this particular giant piece of gnarled driftwood as it materialized, vanished and resurfaced at various locations on the beach after each wintry northeast blast of algid and damp wind. I shot it from every direction, up close, and far away at various times this past winter and spring. I like the way the tortured wood looks against the serene backdrop of languid water, sky and beach because it captures our feelings during weekly beach escapes from the turmoil of our loud and crazed contemporary culture.