Delusion

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pebbles, Potato Point

When I posted Beach pebbles, I thought “Aha, that's done. I've finished with pebbles as a subject.” How wrong I was! In fact, I'd merely attuned my eyes to pebbles and I'm photographing them more than ever. The day I walked without my camera, I gathered about twenty beauties in a plastic bag and took them home. The next day, I carried them back to the beach, doused them in sea-water to restore their colours and placed them one by one on the sand to photograph them. The ocean mocked me, running up my back as I knelt in pebble-adoration. However, I remain a pebble tragic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Beach pebbles

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pebbles, Potato Point

The beach is not always rich in shells and pebbles. In fact it's often quite bare of these treasures. However, the sea has been flinging beauty ashore for weeks now. All these pebbles are considerably less than 10 cm across and their variety in colour, texture and patterning invites curiosity about their provenance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Shell collecting

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Potato Point, shells

When I first began beach rambling at Potato Point fifteen years ago, I collected shells. I picked up only perfect specimens and even so my collection grew until it filled the bathroom windowsill and outside window ledges. My shells leaked sand, and protected the timber they covered from dust. At first I remembered the provenance of each: the exact spot, the emotion of the day, the particular sensuality of sun and salt air and watery horizon. Now the collection has been drained of all association, and I only notice it when the imminence of visitors drives me to dusting. My current shell collection is more manageable. I house it first on my camera, then my iPad and finally my blog. All the space it takes is megabytes.

Collecting offers me exercise, almost replacing my increasingly desultory routines from Warsaw physiotherapy. I squat on the beach, pretty sure that the sea will send a wave to cover the shell under my camera's particular scrutiny. I hold myself steady to photograph, and ready to leap out of the way before my precious lens takes a soaking. When I return home, I peruse my collection on screen, crop, and eradicate the less than perfect shots. At the moment, I'm happy with aesthetics, but I suspect I'll eventually want to begin the torturous naming ceremonies, struggling with taxonomies and less than explicit photos and excruciating, memory-taxing terminology.

But for now, I'm satisfied with beauty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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My tiny coral island

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Potato Point

I have something in common with Matisse. In 1930 he spent time on Apataki Atoll, one kilometre in circumference. He was never bored, and returned home with piles of pen-and-ink drawings and 'bad' photographs. My beach at Potato Point is also quite small, but every day there is change and a richness of detail that never falters. Each day it's a new beach.

This week, it has been thick with shells; I've just started to notice very distinct shell trails on the rocks; the sky is many different shades of spectacular; and the waves pattern the sands.

At the northern end, the infusion of black creates stunning designs, as if a master with charcoal has been sketching amongst the rocks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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What the sea brings in: Sea weed

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Potato Point, seaweed

You’re never quite sure what you’ll find when you amble along the beach at low tide. Last weekend, the northern end of Potato Point beach was deep in sea-weeds. So deep that sand had built up and the weed contained pools, drawing blue from the autumn sky. The seaweed floated, as it would under the ocean, and the watery gleam that is such a devil to photograph disappeared in the aquaeous light. For this luxuriance you would usually need a snorkel and underwater daring. All I needed was one eye watching where I put my foot, and the extra eye of the camera.

The seaweed entered my mind and wouldn’t leave. I lay in bed, between awake and asleep, trying to compose a description without using the letter “e”. Such bizarre disciplines only happen liminally.

Piling thick, from way down and far out, a wild uprooting. Mahogany, khaki, rust, tan;  dull mint, pistachio, amaranth, asparagus;  apricot, pumpkin, coral pink, burgundy, fading gold, glinting gold. Frondy, tubular, strappy; twists, coils, curls. Voluptuous in sand pools, floating, wafting, drifting.