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 Shortcut

Last night I looked at the edge in the dark; today I looked at it in the day. The question is which way I can remember it best. When it's dark, the edge is clearly delineated from the space beyond it. The edge is illuminated; the space is not. But in the daytime, I can see more about what's going on with the edge as it curves around the hillside than I can at night. For instance, roughly six feet to the southwest of the Sentinel, there's a stretch of bare earth going down from the edge to the trail below. This stretch of bare earth is an unofficial trail, formed by the clambering feet of all the people who have chosen to take a shortcut from the park to the official trail, instead of walking to the end of the park, where the rock marks the official beginning of the trail. I remember at least once or twice taking photos of someone scrambling up this unofficial trail--or tearing down it. There are two large exposed tree roots that form "stairs" on this shortcut, as well as a third that sticks out at a funny angle at the bottom. At night you don't see the shortcut at all, but it's an important marker of distance in the curve as it wraps around the hill. One more thing I should mention: the greatest degree of curvature occurs on the other side of the Sentinel, in the direction of the adjacent street. I've taken a lot of photos to document this. It's a simple, humble curve--like a simple, humble song.