When I point the camera, my imagination spins wondrous tales. For my eyes only.
The National Gallery of Art with its imposing facade brings a vision of the artists lined up on the Mall with their cherubs, ladies, and sinewy models cheering as their art journeys through the tall pillars and imposing doors to their final resting places.
The dome of the US Capital is replete with interesting stories of the artists and their art. My mind sees enthusiastic and creative folk laboring on scaffolding, perfecting each stroke.
This exterior corridor of a building in Philadelphia...
... and the nave of St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City send chills down my spine thinking of cold pre-heating days when women and men wore hundred layers of clothes and prayed fervently for summer to arrive.
The roof of the atrium in the Portrait Gallery excites me with the thought that that the people in the portraits slip out at night to race in a Jumanji-like game, running across the trellis with floodwaters raging all around.
The geometric perfection of these skylights makes me wonder if 007 might come crashing through the glass while elegant ladies and dashing men sup at tables below.
The lights in the tunnel between the east and west wings of the National Gallery of Art transport me to a Star Wars set with imposing spaceships and buzzing lightsabers.
And the congruence of glass, tiles, lines, and circles bring memories of childhood, of sliding on shiny floors playing with my friends. Now, with the intrigue of the lens, I can revel when I want.
