Red stop lights against deep orange dawn light in the purple of the night blend (16 April 2024)
This grab shot of the dawn light is good enough as writing prompt, but as a likeness to the visual experience via eyeball and brain it is a poor representation. Probably a fancier camera and more time to compose the shot, or at least to finesse the exposure, would give a result that is closer to the original feeling of awe and wonder. But even that would be two-dimensional with imposed borders to the viewing area. The raw experience was immersive in three dimensions and with time’s passing to make the colors change and the clouds move. In the original moment there was no picture frame to cut off the adjacent context since the central vision supplied the sharp details and color, while the peripheral vision filled in the surrounding spaces and range of light values. And, of course, at this busy intersection the cross-traffic was streaking past at speed, lending to the sense of surprise at such fine beauty in the distance even as commuters motored along with their minds on the road, the radio or some other audio accompaniment to pass the time, but maybe oblivious of the breaking light of this morning.
By analogy from the experiential gap between image and reality, there is something similar that happens in a larger sense. One’s life experience is filled with things that defy verbal description or maybe exceed one’s power of reasoning, too. Communicating to others inevitably loses something in the translation from raw event to spoken (or written or recorded) words. Unintended meanings may well tag along while other things that felt significant, fail to elicit similar impressions on others who were not present. Thus, it is worth acknowledging this gap between original instance of something and any rendition that is derivative to the source material. For practical or economic purposes the frail and provisional version of the sturdy original might function all right as a place holder, as the basis to begin a discussion, or as something suitable to illustrate a point. So there is value in a sketch, photo, recording, or verbal summary. But there should never be any confusion between the “real thing” and its portrayal later.
Rising sun mixes with car headlights at equal intensities for mutual benefit: both sources are enhanced.
Headed east in the hour before dawn, the sky slowly grew lighter until the horizon could be seen. Along the roadside here and there were farms and single-family houses lit by yard lights or porch lights. On the road itself oncoming cars lit by yellow marker lights and bright headlights painted the road surface in a small pool of light. Vehicles headed in the opposite direction shone their tail-lights and brake lights. In the pre-dawn light most of the scene was dark, punctuated by the roadside buildings and by the traffic. So there was little depth of vision; things looked dull and flat, two-dimensional. Then as the artificial light sources were momentarily matched in the growing light of day there came a period of a minute or two when the impression of three-dimensionality turned the entire landscape into one glowing marvel of intense depth that stretched from the tail-lights in front all the way to the horizon. The foreground, middle ground, and background were briefly all connected in one vast carpet of luminosity combining natural and artificial light. Sadly, this photo does not convey the magic, but instead serves a aid to memory and writing prompt.
The question is why and how mixed lighting sources in approximate balance can enhance the impression of depth and distance that connects, rather than separates the subjects near and far. The answer seems to lie in the light conditions that occur before the transitory twilight minutes and afterward, too. Pre-dawn there is foreground (e.g. cars on the road lit by their own lights) and background (street light or windows of a building in the distance). But in-between there is only darkness and little sense of depth perception. The relationship between near and far is disconnected. During the minutes when dawn’s early light (or the fading dusk) roughly matches the amount of light coming from the artificial sources, then the relationship of foreground to background is smooth and continuous; everything seems to flow together. A few minutes later the sun breaks over the horizon and overwhelms the remaining artificial lights. In that case the momentary communication between artificially lit subject and naturally lit subject is broken; the connection is lost. It is the fleeting harmony between artificial and natural that is eye-catching and seems magical. Neither the predominantly dark predawn, nor the predominantly bright first hour after sunrise can rival the magical minutes when mixed lighting is balanced.
Perhaps there is a similar (sensory) logic in the case of time perception that takes place during the change-over from day to night and again from night to day. Those twilight minutes between the blue hour and the even weaker light of the gray hour allow the imagination to run free of the ordinary daytime reality-checks. A person can soon imagine the view is transported to another time in the past or in the opposite direction of time’s arrow, to the future. When details and colors and movement is fading from sight then the mind can fill in some of the missing information, adding in believable details to complete the picture. When the scene is all-artificial lights or instead is filled with daylight then ordinary clock time seems to be unquestionable. But during the brief minutes between day and night, a time when mix-light sources can match each other for a short while, that is when everything in view seems to connect and flow all together, with all parts in motion.
What these observations mean for people carrying a camera and those with no camera but keen to look out for beautiful light is that each day around the dawn and the dusk the balance of artificial and natural light can create moments of wonder. What these observations mean for readers who are intrigued by the parallels between Seeing and Thinking is that (short-lived) moments when there are multiple sources of illumination (insights from literary greats, dramatic performances, rituals, poetry and song) that are co-present, then the approximate balance between the sources brings a magical sense of communicating between and among the subjects: spatial separation grows more intensely linked, gaps in history and time may seem to join together, differences and similarities combine to form a living whole. So the next time you find yourself at the place with artificial light matching the natural light, stop long enough to enjoy the interplay of foreground and background, historical time to the present, the present to the times yet to come.
In the past decade the Japanese word to describe a particular dimension of flavor, different to the salt – sour – sweet – bitter (and/or astringent) foursome, has come into pretty wide use on the airwaves, Internet, and other places where people exchange ideas. Umami refers to a buttery, protein-derived mellowness that fills the senses. The Japanese word itself simply means Umai (delicious) + Mi (flavor) and is associated with the ubiquitous Miso Soup (miso shiru) or other foods simmered, basted, or grilled with miso paste (fermented soy bean mash). In Western cooking, the umami can often come from deglazing the carmelized meat juices from pan, or when making beef stock by roasting the bones at low heat in an oven to fully cook the marrow. But how to make the leap figuratively from taste buds to the rods and cones of one’s eyeball and the impression created in one’s visual cortex?
shortly before daybreak the colors become visible
Umami is the word that first comes to mind to describe this quality of light. Sometimes the shadow details are illuminated indirectly by the overhead reflected light from the sky itself, rather from a specific source, like sun or streetlight Sometimes that skyglow comes when the sun is only just out of sight before daybreak or soon after sunset: the so-called “blue hour” that follows the low, warm light of the “golden hour.” Why should the taste of ‘buttery mellowness’ apply to this low-light situation? Perhaps it comes from the lack of harsh contrast, strong shadow or line, and colors being muted when not lit by direct, bright light. Or perhaps this “easy on the eyes” effect of mellowness comes from reduced separation of subject and background, and between one subject and the ones nearby. When things sit well together, not starkly defined by color or line, then they can relate to each other in a kind of quiet conversation that is not felt in the strong, loud light of day.
color and contrast to separate subjects on sunny late afternoon
Whatever the cause for ‘mellow, delicious’ (umami) lighting conditions, one thing is certain. After you taste this light, your appetite grows bigger and you begin to find it appearing in more and more places: in the weak light of twilight times, or in the middle of the day in the shadows that faintly glow from the illumination reflected into the dark to create an indirect light source.
see2think 