The Great Guides of the Sky

A photograph can tell an accidental story. At the right place, at the right time, the lens may open to a scene such as this, where we see a raven flying before a crashing wave, while in the deep background a single-master under no sail seems to be heading out to sea. All three subjects are in a state of becoming. The raven is recently airborne. The wave has crested and is about to crash. The sailboat is heading off to find the wind. Man, animal and the forces of nature. A trio of powers, a duo of wind-harnessers, bound by happenstance and caught by the magic of the light-snare, the memory augmentation device, the supplemental eye-brain that augments our reality and holds it fast for further inspection. And what do we see? The graceless and disheveled corvine, its feathers a blotch of curves and hard lines, hardly aloft in mid-flap. It struggles against the wind. He is the protagonist of this almost surreal tableau. The story is about him. The camera tracks him. He is the first layer. The second layer is the wave, breaking in two directions at once, it seems almost a mirror image of itself. The sloop is barely visible but it is clear that it is heading away to the right,  leaning slightly toward the camera. Each is in motion and on a trajectory of its own, yet the trajectory of the camera happened to coincide with all three. Wave, wind and light. Three forms of energy in momentary harmony. That is what the camera does. It harmonizes. The photographer, maybe, brings them into tune. Everything about this image is an accident. Except of course, there are no accidents. The story here was written for one man in one moment and only through the lens of his experience will it make any sense at all. Follow the raven. That is the lesson. Always follow the raven. They are the great guides of the sky.

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