3:33

It wasn't till 3:33 p.m. that I set out for the Viewpoint today, on what had been a sunny, warmish day. But the moment I went out the door, the sun vanished. I was full of regrets as I made my way to the Viewpoint, but when I arrived, I was pleasantly surprised by a spectacular light show over the bay. Although there were even fewer leaves left on the Sentinel today than yesterday, down below, there was still plenty of brilliant fall foliage. There were several white sailboats moving about, punctuating the otherwise gray, blue-gray, yellow, red, green, orange and brown landscape.

I had two conversations. The first was with a couple. The woman wore red, the man beige. I told them it never seemed quite sure-fire to remember how to change one's clock at this time of year by means of the saying "Fall back, spring forward. I always wonder what's wrong with springing back or falling forward. It seems to me that both springing and falling can actually be done in either a forwards or backwards direction. The woman laughed and said, "Don't confuse me; it's taken me till now to get it straight." I think she was in her fifties or sixties. The other person I spoke with was a man who was walking from his car, a paper cup in hand, headed for the bench at the north end of the Viewpoint. The cup bore the logo of a well-known Seattle-based coffee company. I asked him whether he was drinking coffee or hot cocoa. He said, "Coffee." I said, "Decaf or regular?" He said, "It's got a little caffeine in it," just as he was sitting down on the bench. Then he said, "After all these years..." and hesitated for a second. I said, "...you deserve it?" He said, "No--it won't have much of an effect on me."

One Clump Left

There was nobody at the Viewpoint when I stopped by a few minutes ago. Most of the leaves had come down from the Sentinel. Only one small area of the tree still had leaves--a clump relatively close to the ground, at the side that faces the cemetery. There were lots of leaves, almost all brown, lying on the grass underneath the tree. The sky was cloudy, with no breaks. It was neither warm nor cold--just in between. Tomorrow it will be Halloween.

Before and After

Usually I go to the Viewpoint before writing about it. But this evening it will be just the opposite: I'm going to first write about it and then, after that, go there. That's a switch.

Sometimes it seems strange that we can rely on places to still be there when we set out for them. People are somewhat different in this respect. Sometimes they're there, and sometimes they're gone. How would it be if a place were suddenly gone. It does, of course, happen from time to time.

Now I can think of several places in Seattle that have gone through radical transformations--sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse...

I've been told that salmon used to come to spawn just down the hill from the east side Volunteer Park, near the cafe that for decades was a store. This is hard to fathom.

On top of this, an old man once told that decades ago, there were little deer living in Interlaken, and that they would come up from below to where the Viewpoint is. I hope my memory hasn't wandered too far off the path.

The Crane

When I stopped by the Viewpoint just now, there was nobody there--until an acquaintance of mine came along on a bicycle, stopping for a second, and then going on. There was a vaguely blue cast to the light, with a certain amount of haze in the distance. More leaves have come down from the Sentinel and the other trees, and it's even clearer that fall is past its prime. In just a few days, it will be Halloween, and then the typically rainy month of November will be upon us.

The one thing out of the ordinary that I noticed today was a crane jutting up into the sky around Hunter's Point, but on the other side of Union Bay, south of the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge. It's funny how from one place only yards long, you can see so much territory and observe the effects of so many human actions.

Lawnmower or Stroller

A few minutes ago, just as I was approaching the Viewpoint, I caught sight of a man mowing the lawn there. I saw him just out of the corner of my eye. After as split second, I realized it was a woman with a baby in stroller I was seeing--not a man waith a lawn mower. I parked on the neighboring street and got out of my car. I immediately heard the sound of an electric lawn mower and saw that there was, in fact, a man mowing the lawn. And suddenly I thought of the "rabbit or duck" toggle that was discussed in the course I once took on the psychology of visual art and then Gombrich's writings on how we see what we expect to see. Now, lawnmower or stroller isn't really quite analogous to rabbit or duck. Gombrich wrote about an artist who made a drawing of a building that had some architectural feature--a detail of the window frames or windows or something, I think--that was atypical of the style in which the building was designed. And this artist failed to notice the atypical element, instead rendering the building according to the cannons of that style, whatever it was. Isn't my perception of the man mowing the lawn more similar to Gombrich's anecdote than to the rabbit or duck perceptual toggle? But it was the rabbit or duck scenario I thought of first, once I'd realized my error in perception. Is that because the rabbit or duck image is "stickier"? As a meme, does it have greater fitness than Gombrich's artist who messed up on the building?

With all of that on my mind, I looked at the bay. There were still some nice colors down there, but, I tell you, fall is all over. It's downhill from here. We're headed straight for winter.

Pink Over Baker

When I dropped by the Viewpoint just now, about half the leaves were down from the Sentinel, and everything looked sort of soggy, although it was no longer raining. There was something anti-climactic to the whole scene. The sky was full of gray-blue clouds, but a patch of light orangish pink stood out in the north, somewhere close to where you see Mount Baker on a clear day. As I arrived, a person in black pants and a red shirt, who appeared to be very fit, was just jogging out of the park at the other end--the south end. I couldn't make up my mind whether it was a man or a woman. I couldn't see the person's face.
Then a guy came along from the north, dressed in a beige jacket and I think black pants and began taking photos with a small digital camera. It seemed like he was focusing on the area of sky with the pink patch. I wonder how many photos have been taken from the Viewpoint over the course of its history.

Yesterday and the Day Before

Yesterday and the day before were both perfect fall days--but in different ways. The day before yesterday was crazy weather. One minute the sun was shining, and the next it was raining. I happened to pass by the Viewpoint at just the right moment. It had just stopped raining, and out on the bay, there was a gorgeous, moody scene, always changing, as the big cumulus clouds passed by overhead, making for theatrical effects of light and shadow. Yesterday was a clear day. The sky was blue, and the leaves yellow, orange and red. There were still a few clouds, as I recall, but not as many. I thought I'd take just one or two photos, but it seems to me I must have taken almost 100. It couldn't have been more beautiful. It seems to me every season has one or two days that are the most wonderful, or at least the most typical, of that season. Today was cool and drizzly, and I expect there won't be any day quite as splendid as yesterday until sometime in the middle of winter, when there will be a snowy day, or a day when the mountains are at their prime. Of course there can always be incredible sunrises, but in my experience these are often best in about January. And then there are full moons, but sometimes around this time of year, it rains so much you don't even get to see the moon when it's full.

A Paradox of Memory

I haven't been to the Viewpoint yet today. I may make it still, but it's getting late, so I'm not sure. When I don't go to the Viewpoint physically, I go there mentally. It's interesting to think about how much we know about something familiar. How accurately do we remember it? I think I know so much about the Viewpoint, but every time I go there, I notice something I've never noticed before. I don't just mean things that come and go, like the constant stream of visitors--human, canine and other--nor the seasonal fluctuations in the plant life of the park, nor the endless shifting of the weather; I also have in mind spatial relationships and other features of the Viewpoint that are constant. How little we recall of the things we look at every day. What's odd is how much better we are at recognizing them than really understanding how they're put together. This is a paradox.

Sun Breaks

Today the visibility from the Viewpoint was greater than yesterday. I'm not saying that's better or worse--just different. Yesterday I was there around dusk, and there was a lot of haze in the air, so today the colors were brighter and less blue. There was a woman in a white top sitting on the far bench under the laurel tree. Her longish hair was strawberry blond. At first she was the only other person at the Viewpoint, but then a group of three came walking in, entering at the south end of the park. They all had on black shirts. Two were women and one was a man. One woman had on a black top, as well. It was decorated with silver studs--like something you'd see at a rodeo. Another woman had on a light blue top--a jean jacket, I think. And the man had an olive green shirt, it seems to me, although here my memory is less clear. The woman under the laurel tree began eating a banana. A man came walking along the neighboring street, with a dog on a leash, and then entered the park from the north end. It seems to me he was dressed in brown, and that the dog was brown, too. And I think both man and dog were on the skinny side.

There wasn't much sun, but every now and then, in the distance, there would be a sun break, and that made for a very beautiful effect. The muted shades of green, blue, red, orange and yellow were suddenly made bright, contrasting with neighboring shades of the same hues retaining their muted quality. And then it would all flatten out again, as the sun break moved on and away--the result of a certain amount of breeze. It was a beautiful scene and would make for a beautiful painting.

Two White Poodles Again

Just as I was getting to the Viewpoint today, around dusk, I heard someone calling me name. I looked all around, and then realized it was a crow cawing. Sometimes they sound so human. Then I saw a woman I've spoken with at the Viewpoint before--the owner of two white poodles. One is five months old, and the other seven years old. I think I got this a little wrong the last time I wrote about them. They're the big, energetic kind of poodle, not lap dogs. Their heads are round, and they have no topnots or anything like that.

I kept trying to capture the beautiful dusky blues around the bay, and beyond, but my camera wasn't cooperating very well with me. But I'll remember how they looked. What a beautiful painting this would make!

Big News

The big news at the Viewpoint is that the Sentinel is about three quarters of the way yellow now. And so are most of the bigleaf maples down below. There's still some green on many leaves of these trees, but for the most part, the transformation from green to yellow occurred almost overnight--unless I just wasn't paying attention. And down around the bay, and in Laurelhurst, there was a veritable riot of color to be observed. It looked so beautiful alongside the dull pale blue and periwinkle tones of the water and sky, especially when the sun showed itself wanly for just a couple minutes. The squirrels were at it again, and there was quite a parade of dog walkers, many of them with little dogs today. And the people wore interesting outfits. There were lots of knit items in oranges, reds and purples--both bright and muted.

Other Views

There's no rain this afternoon, but it's still fairly overcast. Here and there, there are patches of blue sky to be seen. The fall colors are richer now: lots of yellows, oranges and reds. I set up my tripod just to the left of the laurel tree, within the enclosure that surrounds it. A man was sitting on the bench, looking out into the distance. I didn't want to disturb him, since I felt certain he was enjoying the sense of calm that one can experience while looking at the great vista one sees from that point. But after I took a few shots, we struck up a conversation. He said this was one of his favorite spots in Seattle. I couldn't imagine anything within city limits that at all compares with the Viewpoint. He named Discovery Park and Carkeek Park as other places with wonderful views. Well, it may be that there are other spots with nice views, and I don't begrudge anyone the enjoyment they get from them, but I don't feel a pressing need to go to those other places. I have a long history with the Viewpoint, and I can't say that of those other places. It's not just the view--it's the curve! The edge!

Foggy Day and Tables Turned

When I drove by the Viewpoint about half an hour ago, the rain had just let up, at least almost. There was a lot of fog down on the bay and even rising up into the woods of the park below. From my car window I could see a woman under a dull red patterned umbrella, at the far end of the park, fumbling around with a camera, trying to get some photos without getting her camera wet. Her face was more or less hidden. I grabbed my own camera and my tripod and walked into the park. I hoped she would keep taking photos long enough for me to set up my tripod and get a shot of her without her noticing--not a shot of her face, just a photo showing her as a figure--an anonymous photographer struggling to some photos in the rain. I should have taken a shot before going through the steps to set up my tripod and attach my camera, not worrying too much about the focus or composition. It was too late! She hurried off, leaving via the south end of the park. So I took photos of the bay, instead. When I tried to take a close-up of the water, my camera wouldn't focus. I think it was confused by all the fog. I should have set it on manual, but it was beginning to rain again, and I didn't want my camera to get wet. I packed up and turned to walk towards the north end of the park, to my car. Just as I did so, I saw, over my left shoulder, the woman with the red umbrella, beyond the hawethorns, out on the sidewalk along the arterial. I think she was taking photos of me taking photos.

Purple and Yellow

I drove by the Viewpoint this evening. I didn't get out of my car. I was observing the reflections of the night lights of the east side, when two women came jogging along the walkway. I couldn't make out the colors they were wearing till they'd left the park and were on their way down the neighboring street. That was because the lights in the park are quite bright, and so while they were still within its boundaries, they were showing up mostly as dark silhouettes. One was wearing a yellow top, the other a purple one. I think they both had on black running pants, but I can't quite remember. They looked like they were probably in their fifties, but since it was dark, and they were in motion, I could be off by a decade or more in either direction. The one in the yellow had on lots of strips of reflective material.

Young Squirrels

The Viewpoint was full of young gray squirrels this afternoon. I counted six, all foraging for nuts. They were on the small side and obviously born this year. Two middle-aged women came jogging through--one in black pants and a purple top and the other all in black. The squirrels scampered up the trees and hid there till the women were gone. The bay was very calm, and on the surface of the water there was a beautiful, soft reflection of the trees on the north shore. I set up my tripod and took one photo. There was another photographer, a man taking photos with a point-and-shoot just as I arrived, but I'm afraid I scared him off because I was carrying a tripod. There's something about a tripod that makes a photographer look serious. People sort of get out of the way when you come along, assuming you're going to set the tripod up, and when it's already set up, they're often careful not to walk directly in front of you or even to come anywhere near you. I'd love to do a painting of the Viewpoint with squirrels in it, but they would be hard to incorporate in a scene painting since they're so small in relation to the total amount of space. If a leaf is represented by a casual brushstroke, and a squirrel isn't much larger than a leaf (and in some cases is smaller), that means the squirrel can be nothing but a dab of paint. The other options would be to do a painting focusing on a squirrel or two, but then you wouldn't see much of the view, I'm afraid. Or you could do a painting with the view and then one or more vignettes with close-ups of squirrels. I saw a show of landscape paintings with vignettes of species about ten or fifteen years ago. There was something sort of pedantic about it. I'll have to think about this further. Incidentally, it seems to me that when I was a child, there were more red squirrels around. I haven't seen one in years--just gray.

Hanging Branch

The most unusual thing I spotted at the Viewpoint today was a small branch that was hanging, loose, from one of the larger branches of the Sentinel. I've seen loose, hanging branches on the Sentinel before, but not often. The branch may hang there for days, even weeks, before the wind brings it to the ground.

There were three teenage guys hanging out in a van on the neighboring street. I don't remember what they looked like, exactly, or what they were wearing, but I think they had on either jeans or sweats or a combination of the two. I'm kind of remembering black, dark blue or gray. One of them had blond hair. I remember him best because as I was leaving the park, he nearly ran into my tripod, as I was folding it up and putting it back into its case. He had gone on a short excursion over the edge and was scrambling back up onto the cement walk where the edge meets the neighboring street. I was walking down that walk.

Other than this, I saw just two people while I worked with my camera at the Viewpoint: both joggers, both women in the range of about thirty to forty years old. One had on a black top and short red shorts. She had dark hair. The other had on a combination of black and white, I think, but I've forgotten the details. They both looked like they were in good shape.

I took just one photo--one of the bay. It's a cold day today, and the light is bluish, so I wasn't as inspired as yesterday. The landscape is punctuated by reds and yellows, although we're not to the height of autumn yet. I wonder whether the palm trees on the arterial will make it through the winter. I've noticed people are planting them more frequently than in the past. Up until a few years ago, the most exotic tree anyone grew around here was a monkey tree or a Chinese yew. The only place you saw palms was in the conservatory. They remind me of Miami and L.A.

Skateboarders and Picnickers

The weather is perfect today, and at the Viewpoint, things couldn't have been better. I could have stayed there all afternoon and evening, if I hadn't had other things to get to. The beautiful weather brought the people out. There were enough that I'm quickly forgetting how many I saw, especially since I didn't count them, and I'm losing many of the other details I tried to commit to memory. When I arrived, there were just two people, I think: two boys, both wearing white T-shirts, on skateboards. I felt a little bad setting up my tripod, because I felt that in their minds, once an adult was there, doing something that involves holding still, the atmosphere probably changed. But they kept on doing their skateboard stunts, and then a third boy joined them. He was wearing a black shirt. The other two were in jeans, it seems to me, but the one in the black shirt had on plaid pants. Around the same time he showed up, a couple came walking in from the south end of the park. They sat down at the bench directly across from the point where I've taken at least thirty percent of my Viewpoint photos over the years, as well as painted a large percentage of my Viewpoint paintings. The young woman told the guy, "No! These aren't the Olympics!" and laughed. I guess he was from out of town. I took a few shots and then moved my tripod closer to the edge, and in the direction of the laurel tree enclosure, which I think of as a sort of perch. Then another couple came along--a man and a woman whom I've seen many, many times over the years. I had a very interesting conversation with them. The woman said that she's often thought that if they put prisons in places with wonderful views, the outcome would be much better than it is. I have to agree. I told the couple how often I've seen people at the Viewpoint who are obviously in grief--coping with the loss of a loved one or some other tragic circumstances. I think they go there to be soothed by the beauty of the scene and also for the perspective the place gives. When you see such a huge expanse of reality, you're reminded that you're just a small piece of something so very much larger.

There were many other people who came through the park while I was there, and I only remember a fraction of them. For some reason I remember very vividly the shirt one woman was wearing it was brown with orange rims around the short sleeves, the waist and neck. And I remember that as I left, there was another family on a picnic blanket, again with a baby. In my experience, sitting on a picnic blanket isn't the most comfortable way to eat a meal, but there's something so romantic about it. And it's no wonder Manet and Cezanne were interested in portraying picnickers. A group of people spread out in a small area while eating makes for a scenario that's potentially very interesting from the standpoint of both composition and human social interaction.

A Few Seconds

I stopped by the Viewpoint this evening. There was a couple there, under the laurel tree: a young man, wearing white pants and sitting on the section of bench that faces the edge, and a woman, dressed in black, who was standing up, looking more in my direction. She had dark hair but light skin. She had a faint smile on her face. There was no one else at the Viewpoint. I walked the length of the park, then walked it again, in the opposite direction. I was only there for a few seconds.

Tortoise Shell

When I stopped by the Viewpoint just now, the moon was hidden behind the clouds, but you could still see where it was, since the clouds weren't too thick. There was an interesting, tortoise-shell effect. It would be wonderful in a painting but hard to do.

Memory Game

I'm always testing my memory. As I passed through the Viewpoint on my bicycle today, I looked to see how many people there were, what they looked like, what they were doing and what they were wearing. I didn't take any notes. Now, about half an hour later, I'm going to see how much I remember.

On the bench just southwest of the laurel tree was a couple, maybe in their sixties, who looked like they might have been from another country, or at least another city. They were looking at a map or a guidebook and, I think, trying to identify the different things they saw in the distance. Maybe it was mountains they were pointing to.

On a blanket spread out close to the edge, between the Lovers and the Sentinel was a group of five people. There was a man in his thirties or forties with a little baby on his lap in the upper right corner, another man, who had glasses and short gray hair and a bit of a beard--or maybe just stubble--in the upper left corner, and then two women with blond hair, about shoulder length, in the lower right corner and lower left corner. The baby--a boy, I think--was dressed in bright red. The two women's hair was similar enough that I wonder whether they might not have been sisters. And maybe the men were their husbands. I've forgotten what clothing any of them was wearing, but it seems to me the blanket may have had some sort of plaid pattern. By "upper right corner," etc., I mean in relation to where I was as I looked at the group. I was more or less to the west of them, in other words, further from the edge, out on the walkway that runs the length of the Viewpoint. What a wonderful painting this scene would make!

Just entering the park, coming around the curve of the edge, was a woman with a dog on a leash. The dog was smallish, but not super-small. It looked like it was at least part terrier. The woman had on a brown top with a white or cream-colored vest over it.

It was sunny at the Viewpoint. The Sentinel was partly in shade, and it was casting a shadow to its west.

I wish I could remember more.

The Reflection

The moon, about three quarters full, was making a wonderful reflection on the lake when I stopped by the Viewpoint this evening. I was struck by the great variety of shades of deep, dull blue in the sky. If you look at the night sky in isolation, you think it's black, but when you compare it to the silhouette of a mass of trees, you immediately see the trees as black and the sky as deep blue. The moon's reflection was very broad.

Later in the Afternoon

Some days, as you look to the horizon in the east, it's so clear you can see all the way to Touchet--well, if not literally, then at least figuratively. There, in Touchet, on a hillock, above a golf course, is the grave of America Smalley, a child who tragically lost her life in a fire. Her grave is marked by a large, white wooden cross.

But this afternoon, despite the golden sunlight, coming from low in the western sky, there's an accumulation of purplish-blue clouds above the Cascades. Nevertheless, I see Touchet in my mind's eye, and that white cross on the hill.

Another Beautiful Day

It's another beautiful day at the Viewpoint. The water has stripes--well, bands--of different shades of blue. I'm not clear on why that happens, but I've seen it many times before. Does it have to do with variations in the degree of windiness in different areas, I wonder, which would cause different wave patterns, which would then reflect the sky in different ways?

At the head of the trail there's a floppy plant. That's not the official name of the plant--just the category I put it in. When I say "floppy plant," I mean any of that multitude of plants that have a few big floppy leaves rather than a network of lots of little leaves. I imagine there's some official designation for plants of this kind. I'll touch on that subject another day. Today I want to go over the classification of clouds, since there are so many of them to be seen from the Viewpoint.

Cirroculmulus, cirrus (floccus), cirrus (uncinus), cirrus (fibratus), cirrus (spissatus), cirrostratus (fibratus), cirrostratus (nebulosus), altocumulus (perlucidus), altocumulus (translucidus), altocumulus (floccus), altocumulus (castellanus), altocumulus (lenticularis), altostratus (translucidus), nimbostratus, stratus (nebulosus), stratocumulus (stratiformis), cumulus (humilis and mediocris), cumulus (congestus), cumulonimbus (calvus), cirrostratus, cirronimbus (cappilatus), cumulonimbus, cumulonimbus (mammatus) are all terms used in the classification of clouds. The painter John Constable would have loved the Viewpoint for its great variety of clouds.

From the Viewpoint one sees many of the Cascade Mountains--the range to the east of Seattle. From the highest point in the cemetery across the street, one can also see the Olympics--the mountain range to the west of Seattle, out on the Olympic Peninsula. Another day I'll write more about the mountains.

Awkward

There's no way around it: the Viewpoint is awkward. "Awkward" in the movers' sense of the word. If something is awkward, it's difficult to move even though it may not be as heavy as something else that's less awkward but more manageable because of its form and the distribution of weight within that form. The Viewpoint seems like it should be so easy to work with. You would think it would offer no end of perfect opportunities for the photographer or painter, but the truth is that it's a sort of visual Rubik's Cube. When you're setting up a shot, there's always one factor or another that's just not quite right.

The weather this afternoon is perfect for all those who love "good" weather. (I acknowledge that there are those who prefer a storm, but I think they may be in the minority.) Today it's sunny and warm, without being hot, and the air has a fresh scent to it. But over at the Viewpoint I struggled and struggled to find a good shot. As I've written at least once before, I can't find even a single shot that shows what the Viewpoint really is: a tiny park with a grand vista below and beyond it. I even photographed another photographer as he set up his tripod and camera, ready to take the perfect shot, but repeatedly failing as he switched from one vantage point to the next and in the end leaving with a disappointed look on his face. Today the blue of the water and the blue of the sky were so blue. But I couldn't figure out to show the expanse of either in a photo. I won't stop thinking about it, though. The Viewpoint is like a song I hear over and over again in my head, whether I physically go there or not. Some music sticks in your head, and so do some places.

The Wind

I've meant to get to the Viewpoint all day, but several things have kept me from it--amongst them, the wind. When it's windy, at the Viewpoint it's even windier. Today may be the windiest day of the year so far, although this is not something I can measure in an official way, and I don't keep track of it on the Internet.

Wind is one of the hardest things to paint, since it's invisible, although it's not so hard to paint its effects, many of which are visible.

Like A Dime

Shiny as a new dime, the full moon glowed above the Sentinel this evening, but there was no one to be seen there at the Viewpoint. Maybe if I'd waited a little longer. I once took slides of the full moon. I can tell you that to get a good slide of the moon isn't altogether easy. You have to do a lot of bracketing. I got one slide that was perfect. There was a tremendous amount of detail in the image, and the positioning of the moon within the rectangle was just right. But when I took it to the photo lab, the guy at the counter put his thumb on the emulsion, and that was the end of it. That was a decade ago.

From Rain to Shine

Today has gone from rain to shine. In the morning it was nothing but showers outside, but when I stopped by the Viewpoint a few minutes ago, it was drenched in sunlight. I noticed about five or six little red clumps around the UW ceramics studio. (I can never remember its official name!) These must be maples of some kind. Within the park below the Viewpoint, most of the maples are Bigleaf Maples. The area was once covered by a heavy stand of conifers, but these were logged off around the turn of the century, if I remember correctly what I've read.

The Photographist

As I was setting up my tripod today, two guys came clambering up the alternate path--the shortcut I mentioned previously. One asked if I was a "photographist"--then immediately corrected himself: "...um, I mean photographer. 'Photographist'--that sounds sort of German." So why did he say "photographist"? Just to be funny? Or was it because he was a little out of breath? The mind can do odd things when you're catching your breath after exerting yourself, just coming up the path from the ravine. In any case, in my mind's eye I can see it on a business card:

Paul D. Natkin
Photographist

It was overcast today, and it looked like it might rain. In fact I think it's raining now.