A Drainpipe in Spring

The Corte Madera Drainpipe | Mark Lindsay

The well-worn path is like a college dorm room. Old wall posters become invisible after a couple of years, even the ugliest of them. So too do the homely sights along my daily walks. Telephone poles, street signs—even abandoned tires in the local flood canal—they all melt away with repeated sightings. Mostly this is a good thing. When I was in college, there were some truly butt-ugly posters around. Grateful Dead fans, you know what I mean. And along with that omnipresent Deadhead skull of my youth, my selective vision has made a few power transformers simply disappear from sight. The human mind is a wondrous thing.

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A Shimmering Morning in San Francisco

Reflections in a Salsicceria, San Francisco | Mark Lindsay

Each city has its own way of wrapping itself in light. It's as if the places we inhabit were lit from within. Venetian light is famous for its pearlescent quality; its mystery, and intrigue. It is the light of Titian and Tintoretto, of medieval spies and foggy nights. There is no one set form to this light, it has many variations to its misty theme. But, once you see it, you know it forever.

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My Inner Dork

Split Portrait in Window | Mark Lindsay I love photography but walking around with a camera is hardly a comfortable thing. It's starting to cause a tingling feeling in my upper shoulder. The damned shoulder strap, made of some puny, little, sponge pad digs into the nook that forms the junction between neck and shoulder. I think its starting to create a permanent ridge.

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A Guy in a Reflection

Reflection of a Worker | Mark Lindsay

"I wonder who he is," I said to myself as I walked along the flood canals. A worker with a bright-orange vest stood atop the large apparatus that keeps the bay out of our neighborhood. Brief encounters mystify me. So many people come and go throughout a brief life. We never get to know ourselves let alone the myriad passers-by that cross our path. "I wonder who he is," I said again. This time I reminded myself not to talk aloud in public, a bad habit that has gotten worse as of late.

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As the Reflection Fades...

Fading Reflection | Mark Lindsay

I often find myself out on a limb—way off on a tangent. It's a borderline condition, not enough OCD for medication, but I do obsess a bit much on my art projects. Then—poof—they burn out like a pop of flash powder. So is it with my window-reflections series.

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