Re-entry was rough.
I’m glad it took me several hours to resort to the radio. It delayed the onslaught, extended my blissful ignorance, postponed the moment I learned of what an awful week had transpired in “civilization” while I was away.
As I drove through the mountains of Pennsylvania, making my way south and toward home, I felt overwhelmed by our collective and stunning inability to get past color. The irony of a week spent snapping what I thought were beautiful images in black and white — where the rich spectrum of variations between the two, their interplay and utter co-dependence, is the whole point — hung heavy around me.
These images feel like balm on a weary wound. I find myself all the more grateful for the opportunity to have been in place where black and white was green all over, not red with blood and fury.