art
A snapshot of photography as an art form; explore art museums and galleries devoted to photography, iconic photographers, the history of fine art photography and more.
Tracing the Roots
It's a quiet mid-August afternoon when my feet hit the dirt trail leading into the park. There's an opening in the fence at the bottom of the hill, across from the road leading up to my childhood home. The home to which I no longer return and haven't for over six years now.
By Alyssa Musso12 months ago in Photography
Moondust in the Daylight
I galloped through the night, and my breath puffed out before me. Brother bounded along at my side, and I could hear him panting as his steps pounded against the ground. We heard them in the distance, the pack of coyotes, and we ran out to secure the perimeter.
By Killian12 months ago in Photography
Art and Worship
The soft, swelling music of the piano filled the room, blending with the gentle hum of voices in unison. Every note seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken prayers, hanging in the air like a sacred offering. The atmosphere at Resonate Worship and Arts Conservatory was electric with a sense of expectancy, as though the room itself was leaning forward, waiting for something extraordinary to unfold. The worship team began to play the familiar chords of Jireh, and the melody seemed to resonate deep within Bella’s chest, stirring emotions she had buried for weeks. In the dimmed light, Bella stood in the third row, her hands trembling slightly as she closed her eyes. She had almost skipped the event, too exhausted from the burdens she had been carrying—financial uncertainty that kept her awake at night and the ache of a relationship that felt like it was slipping through her fingers. But here she was, standing among the crowd, unsure of what she needed but desperate for something to change. The words “You are enough” spilled out across the room like waves, crashing over her heart and washing away the isolation she had been drowning in. Her chest rose and fell with deep, uneven breaths as tears began streaming down her face, not out of sadness, but from an overwhelming realization: she wasn’t alone in her pain.
By E. C. Mira12 months ago in Photography
In the Hall of Crosses
Where was my head at when I headed down to my hometown’s art gallery? It was the day after the New Year rolled in, and I was aware that I would be leaving in less than a week. I had been spending most of the time with my family and noting the frailty in my mother and stepfather, more so in my mom (she will not be stopped when her home has to be clean and meals prepared). I went over to visit relatives during the holidays, but I felt like I was looking at something from a distance. Most of the people I know are all working in the same soul-deadening spots I managed to avoid, and I cannot really explain why I see their lives as sadder and more limited now. My neighbourhood has not changed at all (perhaps there are more people buying some of the newish homes around us; perhaps more people are retired and keeping to themselves – no change there, either). I had gone for a walk on the Bruce Trail on the birth of the new year, and there were the usual friendly faces and greetings, but it felt like I was stuck in a terrible pattern that I built for myself since I first discovered that path through nature. I had less than a week left, and I wanted something unique that spoke to me, and lifted me out of the deep funk I felt seeing where I came from (it also did not hurt that the day after New Year’s Day was a free day at the gallery; you take what you can get). So, on a Thursday, I caught a bus – could not get anyone interested in heading down with me and a bus seemed to be the right method of entering the downtown core – and with a new stop that put me a little too far from my destination, I went into the brown, brutalist structure that is our municipal gallery.
By Kendall Defoe 12 months ago in Photography
Her Widow Road
It didn’t just here—it was as if Hell had frozen over with her heart. She walks to God’s river to pray and back home alone—cloaked in dark. There were whispers in the trees, in the shrill of the osprey as the icy wind whipped around her knees.
By Insouciant Ennui12 months ago in Photography
The Trip Back to My Hometown
My grandmother and I were chit chatting a little during the late evening hours just of life in general and random talking points here and there until she had asked me of my trip visiting my hometown on a mission to see Edgar. It was a short amount of time I’d get to see someone I was so close to in an almost previous chapter of my life before he would return to his base somewhere in Tokyo, but I had to take the chance while it was right in front of me. I was able to drive, had just started breaking in my “new” car, and had enough of a financial cushion to take this trip towards my hometown I once knew.
By Guillermo12 months ago in Photography
The Favourite Embrace
I used to live in a high block of flats. Most people in Warsaw do. Almost twenty years of my life have passed on the eleventh floor out of twelve, my windows facing west, and no buildings of equal height stood close enough to tarnish the views. To me this meant a greater share of glorious sunsets, racing clouds and vast skies in unreal colours than others may see in a lifetime. Let’s not forget about rainbows too, their colours all too predictable, but always inspiring fresh awe no matter how often observed.
By Katarzyna Popiel12 months ago in Photography
A Rose in the Snow
The snow fell softly, swirling through the pale winter air like delicate confetti. Each flake was unique, but together they blanketed the world in a muted coat of white, hiding the earth beneath it. The world outside my window felt suspended in time—quiet, serene, and almost impossibly still. The temperature was well below freezing, but despite the harsh chill, I found myself drawn to the garden, where nature was performing a delicate dance of survival and beauty.
By Latoria Hall12 months ago in Photography
School Pictures. Honorable Mention in Through the Lens Challenge.
I only went to school here for half a year. There shouldn't be that much to say. Yet when I saw the school blocked off from the roadway by a pelt of grass, grown in over the past decade, despite driving past so many times before, this time I turned and went searching for it, the lost way in.
By Raistlin Allen12 months ago in Photography
Smoke and Mirrors
The gray blanket lying over the coast began to rise, breaking into gigantic, airborne pillows that slowly wisped out of existence. The late morning sun gradually broke through, casting long rays through the darker clouds that snagged on the forested hills on the opposite shore.
By Dana Crandell12 months ago in Photography
