Quotes from National Geographic: The Photographs

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“Cuando la gente pregunta cómo nuestros fotográfos hacen las fotos más estupendas del mundo, ellos podrían encogerse de hombros y decir "f/8 y estar allí". Pero estar allí significa mucho.”
― quote from National Geographic: The Photographs


“A Bob Sacha le gusta trabajar de noche, cuando puede ver las cosas de manera distinta. Realizando un reportaje en Nuevo México para el artículo "Los primitivos astrónomos americanos", tomó una fotografía nocturna de la Casa Rinconada, una kiva anasazi en el Chaco Canyon. Sacha creyó que el mejor modo de plasmar la imagen de esta estructura circular -construida con la precisón del compás- era mediante una fotografía que mostrara los desplazamientos circulares de las estrellas sobre ella. Para conseguirla necesito una exposición de varias horas. Dispuso su cámara directamente en la puerta sur del edificio, y apuntó el objetivo ojo de pez hacia la puerta norte. Iluminó cada sección de los muros durante a penas un instante; para ello trabajó en noche sin luna, caminando al rededor del edificio y disparando el flash repetidas veces. Para iluminar los nichos encendió una vela en uno de ellos, contó hasta tres, y la apagó y avanzó hasta el siguiente e hizo lo mismo, con el obturador abierto todo el rato.
"Con largas exposiciones como ésta, no tienes ni idea de lo que realmente está pasando" dice Sacha ". No puedes mirar a través de la lente.”
― quote from National Geographic: The Photographs


“Psihoyos usó flashes de estroboscopio para tomar múltiple imágenes de él mismo en el antiguo teatro de Epidauro, en Grecia. La ciudad levantó un santuario a Asclepio, días de la medicina, que se cree que realizaba sus curaciones durante el sueño.”
― quote from National Geographic: The Photographs


“Para mí, un éxito es cuando termino un reportaje y estoy triste porque estoy alejándome de alguien de quien había logrado estar cerca" dice Karen Kasmauski”
― quote from National Geographic: The Photographs


“Incluso en esos días, los fotográfos de Geographic tenían fama por algo más que las fotografías. Como uno de ellos expresó recientemente, "me encantaría haber vivido la vida que la gente cree que he tenido". Si la dinámica imagen del fotográfo de Geographic parece exagerada en novelas, folclore y cine, bueno, su vida es todavía nada aburrida. Nuestros equipos fotográficos han sobrevivido a ataques de tiburones, ejércitos invasores, aviones estrellados y volcanes en erupción.”
― quote from National Geographic: The Photographs



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― Mary Stewart, quote from The Last Enchantment


“The Dying Man"

in memoriam W.B. Yeats

1. His words

I heard a dying man
Say to his gathered kin,
“My soul’s hung out to dry,
Like a fresh salted skin;
I doubt I’ll use it again.

“What’s done is yet to come;
The flesh deserts the bone,
But a kiss widens the rose
I know, as the dying know
Eternity is Now.

“A man sees, as he dies,
Death’s possibilities;
My heart sways with the world.
I am that final thing,
A man learning to sing.

2. What Now?

Caught in the dying light,
I thought myself reborn.
My hand turn into hooves.
I wear the leaden weight
Of what I did not do.

Places great with their dead,
The mire, the sodden wood,
Remind me to stay alive.
I am the clumsy man
The instant ages on.

I burned the flesh away,
In love, in lively May.
I turn my look upon
Another shape than hers
Now, as the casement blurs.

In the worst night of my will,
I dared to question all,
And would the same again.
What’s beating at the gate?
Who’s come can wait.

3. The Wall

A ghost comes out of the unconscious mind
To grope my sill: It moans to be reborn!
The figure at my back is not my friend;
The hand upon my shoulder turns to horn.
I found my father when I did my work,
Only to lose myself in this small dark.

Though it reject dry borders of the seen,
What sensual eye can keep and image pure,
Leaning across a sill to greet the dawn?
A slow growth is a hard thing to endure.
When figures our of obscure shadow rave,
All sensual love’s but dancing on a grave.

The wall has entered: I must love the wall,
A madman staring at perpetual night,
A spirit raging at the visible.
I breathe alone until my dark is bright.
Dawn’s where the white is. Who would know the dawn
When there’s a dazzling dark behind the sun.

4. The Exulting

Once I delighted in a single tree;
The loose air sent me running like a child–
I love the world; I want more than the world,
Or after image of the inner eye.
Flesh cries to flesh, and bone cries out to bone;
I die into this life, alone yet not alone.

Was it a god his suffering renewed?–
I saw my father shrinking in his skin;
He turned his face: there was another man,
Walking the edge, loquacious, unafraid.
He quivered like a bird in birdless air,
Yet dared to fix his vision anywhere.

Fish feed on fish, according to their need:
My enemies renew me, and my blood
Beats slower in my careless solitude.
I bare a wound, and dare myself to bleed.
I think a bird, and it begins to fly.
By dying daily, I have come to be.

All exultation is a dangerous thing.
I see you, love, I see you in a dream;
I hear a noise of bees, a trellis hum,
And that slow humming rises into song.
A breath is but a breath: I have the earth;
I shall undo all dying with my death.

5. They Sing, They Sing

All women loved dance in a dying light–
The moon’s my mother: how I love the moon!
Out of her place she comes, a dolphin one,
Then settles back to shade and the long night.
A beast cries out as if its flesh were torn,
And that cry takes me back where I was born.

Who thought love but a motion in the mind?
Am I but nothing, leaning towards a thing?
I scare myself with sighing, or I’ll sing;
Descend O gentlest light, descend, descend.
I sweet field far ahead, I hear your birds,
They sing, they sing, but still in minor thirds.

I’ve the lark’s word for it, who sings alone:
What’s seen recededs; Forever’s what we know!–
Eternity defined, and strewn with straw,
The fury of the slug beneath the stone.
The vision moves, and yet remains the same.
In heaven’s praise, I dread the thing I am.

The edges of the summit still appall
When we brood on the dead or the beloved;
Nor can imagination do it all
In this last place of light: he dares to live
Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings
Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.”
― Theodore Roethke, quote from The Collected Poems


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