Jane Eaton Hamilton

"At the bottom of the box is hope." – Ellis Avery.

Tag: photography

Just a fun pic from my garden

Frog in Daylily; Jane Eaton Hamilton 2019

Happy spring from my garden to yours!

photos: Jane Eaton Hamilton 2019

 

Floundering

photo: Jane Eaton Hamilton 2017

Floundering

A friend and I spend the warm, sunny day on Crescent Beach. I once housesat a block from the beach so I could do a concentrated writing stint—a retreat for one. For months, shine or rain, every wintry morning I circled the town, trodding past tossing ocean headed for the mud flats with my binoculars, DSLR camera and my ubiquitous umbrella. Work was not going well. This riparian area beside the Nicomeki River, Mud Bay on Blackie Spit, was balm. Known for birdwatching because it’s on a migratory path called the Pacific Flyway, it’s also the only place nearby where Purple Martins nest. The swallows looped above while I strolled through demarcated paths beside the eelgrass, able to pull from my photography belt lenses of different focal lengths. I discovered seed pod decay was as beautiful through a macro as a blooming flower. I took photo after photo of rotting pylons, cormorants drying their wings atop. Later, when I became an art student at Emily Carr, I made a painting of one of the bleached white morning pylons. One day I walked late, and rounded the corner to town just as the sky lit up pure radiant orange from top to bottom, north to south; I shot the silhouettes of people as they stood watching. The photos were gaudy, like seventies’ paintings.

Today, I’m older, and for the same stroll I’ve brought a walker. I sit on our blanket, pulling my gear out to photograph great blue herons—I don’t count; are there ten? Fifteen?—fishing along the low tide banks, but I understand it would be chancy for me to hoist this heavy, long-lensed equipment while standing up. We eat our overheated picnic lunch while I feed a crow egg salad from my hand, hoping some nestlings will be the healthier for it. Kayakers paddle past. Behind us, a woman reads in a purple outdoor inflatable. We turn up our pants’ legs and make our way down to the water while mud oozes through our toes. The water pulls the sand from under our feet. It’s hard going indeed for my arthritic body, rife with pain the way uneven surfaces always are, but I love it—my body’s screams of objection at least have the courtesy of silence. A bay has formed a sand shoal and in the intermediate strip of water, as I slosh through it, I notice a creature leaping and flailing. I head for it, but I am slower than everyone, so have lagged behind when a father picks up a flounder to show his kids. I see the milky under-body, which looks like sole in the frying pan. I don’t know my flounders, but I enjoy pointing and saying, “Look there. A flounder is floundering.” It may be a gulf, summer, southern or winter flounder. It may be a sole or (just for the halibut), a halibut. It thrashes. It has two eyes on the top side of its body, jumbled close, which I later learn are ordinarily placed at birth then metamorphose to the top of the fish’s flat head. The child carries it across the spit to the deeper ocean on the other side, but it just lies there looking quite dead, exhausted from its ordeal, far too visible. It’s heron bait, if you ask me.

It’s low tide in my love life too. Epitonium sawinae seashells, dead mollusks picked over by crows, crusty seaweed. Brackish water, poor circulation. The water makes alligator patterns on the surface. My feet keep sinking. My hips keep hurting. My feet are in agony.

Sad, I think of that flounder all evening. I think how it needed a world, a circumstance, it was helpless to create. In the survival of the fittest game, it lost. It’s a bird eat fish world out there.

I am not strong, either, after multitudes of surgeries. I think of sanctuary, where to find it, what it means to the various creatures of the world. I’m lucky that for me, sometimes, sanctuary is as simple as the arms of a beloved wrapped tightly around me, the simplest of homes.

 

 

Mud Bay, Crescent Beach, Jane Eaton Hamilton, acrylic on loose canvas 2013

Spring!

JEH cherry blossom 2015

photo: Jane Eaton Hamilton, cherry blossom, 2015

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photo: Jane Eaton Hamilton, cherry blossom 2015

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photo: Jane Eaton Hamilton, magnolia 2015

 

Invite relief with impressionistic landscapes

 

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton

Part of having my tiny apartment torn out because of a neighbour’s leak inevitably involves sorting, and I came across a portfolio of my (admittedly rare) landscape photographs. I often tried to photograph landscapes as if I was painting them.

Seed pods

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image: Jane Eaton Hamilton 2015

Light breaks through cloud and catches the mist-balls of my clematis gone to seed, dense white beards stained purple at their root, thrusting themselves towards me from out of green faces. It’s one of those humoresques of nature, this weird seedpod the sparrows love to snatch as nesting material.

 

Eudora Welty reads Why I Live at the P.O.

 

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One of my favourite Welty stories. You can’t watch this one with its You Tube florid green screen, but you can listen to the master’s delicious voice:

Eudora Welty reads Why I live at the P.O.

Eudora Welty reads A Worn Path

Here she is talking to Gore Vidal:

Eudora Welty interviewed by Gore Vidal

Here is information about her photography career:

Eudora Welty, photographer

Half a Baby

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sketch: Jane Eaton Hamilton 2014

I recorded a new poem for Sound Cloud this morning.  ‘Half a Baby’ from Love Will Burst into a Thousand Shapes.

SoundCloud

More plum blossoms.

 

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Photos: copyright Jane Eaton Hamilton

I am always seeking ways to display what flowers mean to me, the happiness and hope I feel when spring arrives.  Half of these plum blossoms look like books, don’t you think?  Let’s read spring.  Let’s start on page one and go slowly, so slowly, all the way through the pages of sunshine and light.

Can’t you just imagine these 6 feet by 9 feet on a huge wall?

 

How could life be about anything other than blossoms?

 

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Dizzying beauty in front of my lens today in Victoria, a city burst into an uncanny bloom.  I saw rhodos, camellias, euphorbias, lavender, quince, magnolias, forsythia, tulips, violets, crocuses, irises and cherries and plums all blooming together.  The usual bloom time for tulips is May, which I know because kids used to steal ours for Mother’s Day.  Not sure what will happen for calendar spring.  Do you know?

Photography

Was putzing around on my old desktop computer and found a file with a few images from my days as a photographer.  I shot travel, my favourite, along with family and art.  When I was in the studio, I specialized in Hollywood maternity and newborns.

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The antidote to cranky–photograph flowers

I made these impressionistic photographs of flowers this afternoon.

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forsythia

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forsythia

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cherry blossom

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cherry blossom

Happy valentine’s day, my sweeties

blue

the hyacinth insists

throws cups of spring

at winter

from root bound pot

 

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James Agee’s text and Walker Evans’ photography redux

“On Tuesday Melville House will publish Agee’s original, unprinted 30,000-word article in book form, under the title “Cotton Tenants: Three Families.” The publication gives Agee fans a glimpse of an early draft of what became a seminal work of American literature.”

Cotton Tenants

 

Here’s one of my images used by the Vancouver Art Gallery

http://www.vanartgallery.bc.ca/about-us/about-us.html

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