Turns out that “Wiggling the Camera” is not the official term for the technique I used to make these photos. I learned that it’s actually called “Intentional Camera Movement”, or “ICM” for short. It sounds a little bland and stuffy, in my humble opinion, though I suppose it does win points for accuracy.
I Intentionally Moved the Camera during a long-ish exposure time (shutter speed of 1/4 second) to achieve an abstract, painterly look here.
Whatever it’s called, I like it.
You may already know that winter isn’t my cup of tea. At this point in the season I’m usually huddled indoors, pale and depressed, counting the minutes until spring. But I can say that, surprisingly, I think I’ve finally begun to appreciate the glint of the sun on the snow, the lines and texture of bare tree limbs reaching up and away, the otherworldly peace as dense drifts of snowflakes end their travels piled in a thick blanket on the earth.
In line with this startling revelation, here are a couple of treeline shots I made yesterday after a brief snowfall. As you can probably tell, I was in somewhat of a reflective, minimalist mood.
I may be pale, but at least I’m venturing out from beneath my comforters every once in a while.
Dead weeds (🤨) + Rain (😩) + Freezing temperatures (😰) + Sunshine (😊) =
Sparkly goodness (😍)
You’ve walked alone in the snow for nearly two hours this morning with your camera bag slung over your shoulder but you haven’t even made a single shot, though it doesn’t matter because you are just being right now, just listening to the swish of your snow pants with every step and just watching the dense downward drift of the snowflakes that look like a bazillion tiny white stars, and when you stop moving there’s only silence so you tip your face to the whiteness of the sky and close your eyes and concentrate on the snowflakes coming to an end on your skin, the feathery tickles as they pool in freezing droplets on your cheeks and your chin and your glasses… so, in honour of your kids, and indeed of childhood itself, you open your mouth wide and catch the falling snowflakes with your tongue and you don’t even care if you look ridiculous, there’s no one here to see in any case; only the trees and they really don’t seem to mind, and then you finally pull out the camera and make the only photo of the day as you stand among the stoic trunks of the conifers, an unremarkable picture except for the fact that when you look at it you’re reminded that you are very small and the world is very big, that there is beauty in silence and solitude and in the crisp, cold taste of a bazillion falling stars.
I discovered that I’m less afraid of winter if I’m armed with my camera.
You may know that I’m not a winter person. But I’ll put my boots on for this kind of light.
Some mornings, you just open up to the world.
And everything is a photograph.