Ever wanted to murder a butterfly? I flew into my latest homicidal rage while trying to photograph a monarch in the Pump House Museum garden. It swooped with abandon too fast to capture, lit on leaves in shadow instead of radiant blooms, then spread and folded its wings in far too mundane a manner.
I usually wait these things out. Knowing nature does as it does and luck tends to be the residue of design, I stake out a site, like the Pump House garden, rich in imagery, find a time when the sunlight shows it to best advantage, then park myself with my camera pre-set and best lens on for shooting butterflies.
I can’t tell you how many hours I have happily wasted in this manner, cell phone-free and away from professional obligations like digging into the latest scandal, poring over records, arming myself to ask subjects “Are you still beating your wife?”-type questions.
Oh, I can. There are issues very much worth examining and exposing. Always will be. My issue is I am too tightly-wound to press such probes—which folks on the other end may view, with good reason, as attacks—without myself feeling guilty. Then I just want to stand in a field of butterflies or walk around ponds trying to shoot a heron.
For full story, pick up a copy of the Aug. 14 Commercial Record or subscribe to the e-edition.