Photoblogs: Photo entries
Part 3 of the rainbow evening shoot, here are my herons, photographed on the beach just across the street from home. I wasn’t the only one interested in the herons, as can be seen. They most likely nest in the huge rookery just a few blocks away on the edge of Stanley Park - guano smell and constant cacophony, if you ask me...
There is something to be said for living on the 15th floor of a Vancouver high rise. Beach Towers will have been a haven of peace and the most fantastic location I’ve ever lived in. In over two years spent in my 23 floor building, I’ve never had really inconsiderate neighbours. The premises are kept squeaky clean, 
the parking is hidden underground and newly repaved (ok, that was a bit of disturbance at times, but quite bearable.) The building managers were nice and the rental office staff, simply brilliant. How many people can say they walk in to see their landlord and are greeted with friendly smiles and a helpful attitude? When I explained I was leaving soon, I was simply told « How sad, we don’t want to lose you! » This coming from people who handle four towers - I believe that’s 600 apartments!
If I sound like I’m advertising, it’s because, well, I am. I honestly hope that someone will stumble upon my blog while searching for a place to stay and end up spending happy days here. I have nothing but praise for the Beach Towers and while I am aware that the experience might not necessarily be the same for everyone, I can’t remember ever finding a nicer, easier place to call home.
And then there’s the location. Last night when photographing the rainbow from my flat which faces east, I also leaned over to the northwest to get 
these shots of low languorous clouds clinging stubbornly to the slopes of the North Shore Mountains. Then I rushed out and simply crossed a street, and I was on the beach, interfacing with herons. I live at the end of a residential street lined with large trees and lots of flowers. Beyond my building is a park with a giant tree and a gazebo. Across the street, the Seawall launches in both directions, around Stanley Park towards Coal Harbour and Canada Place to the right, and back around False Creek bound for Kitsilano to the left.
Great gray herons are fishing by the shoreline and harbour seals surfacing a stone’s throw away. Within walking distance of here, in addition to seals and herons, I’ve seen bald eagles, river otters, raccoons, a beaver, swans, Canadian Geese, chickadees, jumpy squirrels, carps, cormorants, and I’ve so far missed the coyotes and hummingbirds. Sigh.
Earlier this afternoon, I called Marie on Skype. She answered a little out of breath, and untangling her earphones she said in an excited voice: « I was on the terrace. There is a 
beautiful rainbow! » Nice, I said, thinking that New York’s really got it all, mammatus clouds, rainbows and black cats.
Then later tonight, after the wind had picked up and blown hard bringing low grey clouds and rain, I caught a glimpse of orange light through my curtains and thought that maybe the sky was clearing a bit and allowing some sun to shine through 
before it sank beyond the world.
I got out on the balcony and my jaw dropped. Unknown to me, a perfect rainbow had formed to the east and was hitting the Shangri-La - highest tower in Vancouver - dead on. I rushed back in, grabbed both cameras and in my underwear, stood on the balcony and shot as fast as I could.
The sky was turning purple and windows were shining brightly in the evening’s first and last rays of sunshine. The rainbow seemed to be launching from within the Shangri-La in downtown and reached all the way to the other side of False Creek. At some point it even doubled up. Behind me towards the west, clouds lingered on the slopes above Howe Sound, fire within and shadows all around.
Later, the light seeming to last, I jumped in a pair of shorts and a sweater and ran out, tripod in one hand, camera in the other, a spare lens in my pocket and shoe laces untied. On the beach, I ran into two friendly herons. But that will be another post.
Bizarre, beautiful, maybe simple, often exquisitely complex, at times shy and others outrageously loud, whether orchids or carnivores, these 
are the flowers and plants of the Western Cape. They are the fynbos, part of the Cape floral kingdom, smallest of the world’s six floral kingdoms but also the richest per area unit.
Most shots were taken around Cape Point, Table Mountain and Silvermine, magical places if I ever knew one, on many a beautiful walk with Marie, nature all around, peace within.
I will label each specie once my specialist has looked at them and pronounced a verdict.
Leaving home a touch before sunset and only then heading towards Stanley Park was a smart move. Daylight was shifting slowly but steadily into a lower spectrum, yawning lazily while putting its night gown on. Afternoon 
heat had given way to a pleasant, perfumed evening gentleness. I found myself going against the human tide washing back to town, and on a Friday night, it was considerable. It was past nine o’clock and people would now be headed for their inebriating stations. Some had already reached them on a beach or a bench, judging by the loudness of their laughter and the complicated trajectory of their return to civilization.
A dozen police officers were strolling down English Bay Beach, chatting, eyes and ears awake but looking friendly and nonthreatening. I never see old cops in Vancouver. I wonder what happens to them past 30. They probably get recycled. In any case, Friday night on the beach sounds like a nice assignment.
The hot-dog man was at his ritual spot, selling long hot snacks dripping with multicolor condiments, their smell floating around and advertising silently for him. Just in front of his caboose, a street performer had taken position on the grass and was throwing his usual jokes at a gathering crowd through a squeaky microphone. Further towards the beach, someone was playing a music box. I paused for a moment, trying hard to put a finger on the familiarity of this scene. Then it all came back to me:
And the piano sounds like a carnival
And the microphone smells like a beer
And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar
And say « Man what are you doin’ here? »
Billy Joel - Piano Man
I pushed on towards Second Beach. The swimming pool had long closed down for the day and its surface reflected the sunset in a perfect mirror. I had intended to maybe go as far as Siwash Rock 
but as the glowing star began to dip behind the mountains on the horizon, I decided to settle down for a while and enjoy the show. The world shifted from « before » to « after » as a sailboat rolled softly at anchor, its mast repeatedly sweeping across the sun’s shrinking disk.
People stopped around me, some sat down on benches too and the air grew silent. There isn’t much else to do at sunset than stare and grasp a friendly hand very hard if one is available. Mine wasn’t, not just yet, but I could feel it nonetheless and found great comfort along with fleeting sadness as I reached over the continent and held her tight.
There is a strange, silent rule that seems to command most people to put their camera away once the sun has gone. It’s ironic because Abetoo only fully awakes at that time. Of course, a tripod becomes quintessential and most strollers don’t carry one. I walked a little longer, until I reached a place on the Seawall where I felt every second I wasted was a shot missed. There was 
a giant log stranded not far from shore and I elected it as my first willing subject.
Taking long exposures, using a 4x neutral density filter, low ISO and a high aperture number to compensate for the remaining light, I got a lot of time to look around me. People were passing by, curiously looking at my setup and clearly wondering what I was doing still out here while darkness crept in. One usually expects a photographer to peer endlessly through his viewfinder and the image of me nonchalantly standing next to my camera doing absolutely nothing will have made them ponder and maybe laugh.
As I pushed my exposures up to 4 minutes, I found that something was blurring my shots. There was no wind and the tripod could be assumed to be rather steady. It took me a while to realize that every time runners and bikers 
zoomed by a few feet away from me, they probably sent enough vibration through the asphalt to slightly shake the camera. I began to time my shots between human interference.
I had forgotten to bring my strong spotlight and with the night having for all practical purposes arrived, focusing on foreground subjects became increasingly tricky. My IS lenses aren’t parfocal and do not have a DOF scale, nor did I have my hyperfocal distance chart (I have since then printed it and will laminate it, scrogneugneu!), so everything became a guessing game. Silhouettes were floating next to me and I could see puzzled looks.
Eventually, when I could no longer focus accurately, I turned around and headed back home. Leaving the evening behind and having received so much from it in terms of beauty and peace, I felt a bit uneasy and worried that I had failed to reciprocate, to contribute.
So I do hope that these pictures - all of them shot in advanced darkness except for the 2 last - will compensate for my selfishness or even better, that they might make you decide to go for a walk around Stanley Park tonight, armed with a tripod, your camera and patience. And let the night do the talking.
Note: I titled this post « Reciprocity Failure » as a wink to the actual term and an intro to my last paragraph, but I should probably point out that it only technically applies to film, not digital photography.
However, I’ve noticed that a similar effect is felt digitally when reaching exposure durations beyond 30 seconds. For instance, if my meter fluctuates in Manual mode around 30 seconds, and a test shot at 30 secs seems only slightly underexposed (my camera’s speed dial goes from 30 secs to bulb), one would think doubling the exposure would be sufficient to achieve a correctly exposed image, hence exposing for 60 seconds. In practice, though, I’ve found that two or three additional f-stops are usually required to get a correct exposure, i.e. at least 120 seconds in this case. That to me sounds a lot like reciprocity failure minus the color shift...
On January 24, 2008, this beach saw the conclusion to a memorable day and the official beginning of a wonderful story. It will be revisited on a regular basis, just as we always go back to the places that became milestones in our 
lives.
It’s a small parcel of sand framed between high walls splattered with rich houses, as many enclaves of wealth that turn into anonymous sanctuaries when daylight wanes and candles are lit. Picnics are a ritual, here, and the beach candles not to be outdone by higher ones.
The sun sets beyond large boulders in the west and the Lion’s Head up above begins to fade through many shades of mauve. Sparkling wine then flows and tongues get tied as night moves in and the world spins into a darkness that only warms one’s heart.
This is a mere echo to Marie’s February post, as I am slowly sorting through my own South Africa pictures. Misty Cliffs at low (and fast rising) tide is a very beautiful and desolate shoreline, its yellow rocks literally covered with mussels and colorful anemones. Later we spent a while looking into tidal pools further down the coast. Oh and the mussels were very good, too, even if a few were slightly sand-crunchy... 
With summer knocking at our door once more, evening walks along English Bay become more frequent. A few nights ago, I’d brought the tripod but 
decided to play with my lens’ IS instead and these were all hand-held.
There are - and here I shall repeat myself shamelessly - very few places on Earth where the peace in the air is so tangible. With Stanley Park at my back and the bay stretching in front of me, a few sleeping giants at anchor offshore, sea birds flying by while a seal gently pokes its head up, people laughing softly all around, I am always struck by the simplicity of it all. And yet, how rare a city. How privileged a life. If only there was a recipe for such success, we could duplicate it at will around the globe.
But it seems Vancouver might just have been very, very lucky.
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Date of comment: 2009-06-30 20:33 • Reply