Sometimes an image offers little detail yet says so much. Something about the moment speaks to you and you take the shot. Granted, there are tons of throwaway and very awful samples in my pic collection that I've been too lazy to cull from my stack of digital shoeboxes, but when I go back and look again, I sometimes don't know what I was thinking when I took the picture – until a mood comes to mind.
Maybe it's the Texas sun that bakes me every summer, but for me, cloudy days aren't a bummer. By the way, I'm going to leave that accidental rhyme in there because it fits the mood. I feel energized by cloudy days. It's like a canvas wiped clean. It covers the day's distractions and leaves me face-to-face with a purpose that I have yet to figure out but I'm excited about anyway. It's a great day to do something; I just don't know what. I'm OK with that. Those are the best times for me to grab a camera and go somewhere.
I love the way the sky is always changing and I don't mind those times when the grey covers it all. Doesn't that happen to all of us eventually? Yet, when the scene is pierced by something different – a building, a person or object – that juxtaposition is what takes the scene to a whole moody level – in a good way, I think. That lone object could be a victim, overtaken by the grandeur above; or a warrior willing to take on an enveloping menace; or even a curious explorer, ready to discover what lurks beyond the haze. For me, clouds and fog are the soft caress over a scene asking to be washed in newness.
Clouds are moody. Their ever-changing characters are molded by the atmospheric play between wind, temperature and moisture, much like our own moods are drawn from the bits and pieces around us, influencing our moments.
The haunting silhouettes of storm clouds make us fear their power and ferocity. But we sometimes forget that they're a call for balance – a dramatic manifestation of something not quite right. And the purge that follows, though sometimes destructive, is as liberating as a long-held scream that's finally released.
In the mornings, clouds tell the story of what's happened overnight and what's expected for the infant day. Even when there's not one to be seen, you get a sense that the temporary clarity is by permission more than chance. Clouds are also our evening's visual serenade, sometimes quieting the moments before sleep, while other times pulling apart like curtains revealing the next performers taking the stage for the night's celestial ballet.
They can scold like parents; they can drench our spirits; but the clouds I see are like a trusted friend that casts no judgment. They might seem upset at times, then forgiving, then revealing. Always there, they drape over my mood like a parental embrace that says: "everything's going to be OK."
The next time you look up, or take a picture of an interesting sky you absolutely have to capture, try and remember the mood. We may be small against the scale of everything above us and beyond, but there's a story up there and you're just the person to tell it. I know I like to.
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