I was originally trained in mathematics.   In photography, as in mathematics, we begin with a  language and a method.  As we work to fit these to a world, we might ourselves become fitted to it.  A good photograph persuades us to look into it for an insight, something truthful.  And it is like a good mathematical proof at least in these ways: it makes a page that is mysteriously beautiful; it prefers economy of expression; it is irrefutable.

 

For about half a billion years the place where I live was a shallow ocean.  Thick layers of sandstone and limestone built up. Eventually water receded and  glaciers miles thick moved from the north and as they melted deposited their embedded silt and clay upon the stony surface and left the flat rich prairies.  Here and there receding glaciers left enormous lakes which broke through embankment and emptied themselves sometimes in just a few hours. These cataclysmic  torrents carved river valleys and sculpted topography. This ended about twelve thousand years ago. There would have been people here not long after, as soon as things warmed up a bit. Then in the most recent moment, Europeans showed up here, including my ancestors, Irish and Scots arrived after being delayed in Virginia and Carolina. We're here for now.