Embodiments of Light
When I travel, I look for light. I look for the blinding rays, the filtered softness, the isolated manufactured beams. I look for light seeping in from edges and bleeding through frames, light shining white and tainted by hues. I seek contrast and darkness, crevices and silhouettes that give the light its outstanding brilliance.
I stayed in Idaho Falls for a couple days, working remotely and exploring in my off-time. On the weekend, I drove back and forth to the Grand Tetons, traversing the Teton Pass like it was my usual commute. Spending the day in the mountains at the glacial lakes, I listened to music and journaled my thoughts. And on the way back, descending down Teton Pass and back into the hills of Idaho, driving home always felt like chasing the setting sun. Turning into a foothill away from its hues just to come back around the bend to catch the fading light, I flew through the twists of these wild roads, always hoping for one more glimpse of the Western sun. And as soon as the sun fully departs, I know what is to follow.
A waning crescent, twinkling stars, remnants of the day above a black horizon line. On a day with no agenda and no obligations, this is what I chase. The visual story the light tells, hand in hand with its void counterpart of darkness. It’s a different narrative each time — with each sunset, sunrise, each golden hour and blue hour — no single second of light is ever the same. It lives in its own perfect imperfections, always begging for a longer look.
