A span of 10,000 years spreads between now and the first possibility of settlement on the island of Eire, then swept clean to bare rock by the weight of ice. Current scholarship of the Dún Aonghasa ruins, Inishmore, County Galway, the Irish Republic place a settlement within the inner of the four dry stone rings after 6,500 years (1,500 BC or 3,500 years ago). By way of scale, the first settlement took about 30 times the duration of the U.S. Constitution ratification through 2025: the last state, Rhode Island, ratified the Constitution 1789.
By 700 BC, 2,700 years ago, a series of upright, closely placed stones, were erected between the second and third rings called a cheval de fries field (“Frisian horses” in English) today, this defensive structure evokes the enormous scale of the struggles around this place of defense.
This is a portion of that field, I believe, taken as Pam and I approach the inner ring entrance, walking a wide path cleared of barriers. Click the photograph for a larger image with caption.
In November 2003, at fifty and traveling Arizona with my son Sean, I returned to the University of Arizona for my first Homecoming since graduating in 1975. I’d made the freshman cheerleading squad my first year in Tucson, and when the alumni invitation arrived, I couldn’t resist.
At the cheer alumni reception on November 7, the room felt instantly familiar—handshakes, stories, and a current squad packed with scholars as well as athletes. I mentioned to advisor Phoebe Chalk that I hoped to photograph the parade. “The squad already had photographers”, she said, so I planned to work from the sidelines.
I came prepared the next day with a Sony Cybershot F828. It was “Sony’s flagship prosumer digital camera” at the time. It worked well that day, the variable lens was especially helpful.
At the staging site, I solved access with a simple ask. I approached UA President Peter Likins, explained I wanted to photograph the cheerleaders, and he nodded, made a quick call, and waved me on. The team recognized me from the evening before, and I fell in step with them at the head of the procession
As we passed the Flandrau Science Center and crossed Cherry Avenue, a stunt group set quickly: bases J. Justin VandenBerg, Ricardo Abud (captain), and Robert Scoby with flyer Taylor Hendrickson. They launched her high for a full flip and clean catch. I caught the moment of collective focus—an image I call Mind.
We progressed until the stunt group reset. This time I framed the instant of takeoff—limbs aligned like clockwork—I call this image Aerialists.
The next flyer to launch was Kristen Ortega, here standing on the shoulders of her partner.
In front of the review stand, flyer Kristen Ortega rose into a poised extension and flight returned safely to the same three pairs of hands. Grace is the image title.
The rest of the parade streamed past in a blur of alumni, bands, and banners. Afterward, a squad member took a picture of me with the team—two eras in one frame. The cheers change; the spirit doesn’t.
Colored lights of our skies are lifelong triggers for the imagination. On any moonless, crystal night—far from the town-glow—three thousand or so stars and the wandering planets scatter across the dark. We read them instinctively, stitching patterns the way our ancestors did, turning a brilliant chaos into stories. Along the ecliptic, twelve of those patterns became the constellations, a starry calendar by which careful observers told the seasons. When Cancer, the Crab rides high, winter has the northern hemisphere in its grip
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On the night of January 20–21, 2019, a full moon climbed from the horizon and slid into Earth’s shadow, transforming a familiar face into a copper coin. As it rose, that low-horizon “larger” moon—an illusion born of context—felt close enough to pocket. Hours later, the moon darkened to a dull copper color and appeared to float amid Cancer’s dim stars.
I set up a Canon DSLR on a tripod with a 24mm f/1.4 lens, pushed the ISO to 3200, and shortened the exposure to 1.3 seconds—a compromise between freezing star points and preserving the feel of the sky. The moon, of course, was overexposed in that wide frame; later, I overlaid a correctly exposed moon (from a telephoto shot later in the night) at its true apparent size to match the scene as the eye saw it. Is it the most “technical” astrophotograph of the eclipse? No. But it is faithful to the moment I witnessed and good enough to carry the story forward.
The Moon on the Crab’s back
Cancer is never an easy connect-the-dots. Its stars are modest, more suggestion than signature. Look just to the side of the moon’s position that night and you come to Delta Cancri, the orange giant nicknamed the Southern Donkey. Draw a mental line down and slightly right to the faint pair Nu and Gamma Cancri—white stars that only masquerade as twins. They are not physically bound, merely near each other by line of sight: Nu about 390 light-years away, Gamma at 181. Scatter in Alpha and Beta off the Crab’s back and the outline becomes more plausible, the way a minimal sketch becomes a creature once the eye knows what to look for.
The Beehive
Between Nu and Gamma, edged closer to the moon, lies the real prize: the Beehive Cluster—also known as Praesepe or M44. Even with modest binoculars, Praesepe explodes into a field of delicate sparks, a thousand stars loosely wrapped into a hive. Galileo famously turned his early telescope on this cloud and teased forty separate points from the mist; modern optics reveal a populous neighborhood of stellar siblings in shades from ice-blue to ember-red. It is one of those sights that converts a casual sky-gazer into a repeat offender.
Total Lunar Eclipse and Surrounding Sky with labels for primary element of the Cancer constellation
Later in the night I lifted the telephoto—70–300mm at 300mm, ISO 3200, 3.2 seconds—and let the moon fill more of the frame. At totality, the light thinned to a clay-jar red as Earth’s atmosphere bent sunlight around the planet and into its shadow. The effect is both simple and profound: every sunset on Earth happening at once, projected onto the moon’s face. Craters and maria softened into relief, and the globe stopped being a flat disk and became a round, ancient body again. Even without Delta, Gamma, Nu, and the Beehive in that tighter field, the sense of placement remained; I knew the Crab’s back was there in the dark, and that the moon had joined it—just for an hour—as a guest at the manger.
“Beehive” with Total Lunar Eclipse with labels for primary elements of Cancer Constellation
The Total Eclipse
What I love most about an eclipse is its pace. Nothing is impatient: the bite appears, the light drains, the color warms, and the world around you changes temperament. As the bright glare wanes, neighborhood sounds recalibrate—the hush between footfalls, the small click of a door, even the steadying breath you didn’t know you were holding. A total lunar eclipse is an astronomy lesson that behaves like a poem; it teaches by arranging time and light until awe and understanding meet.
And then, quietly, it returns what it borrowed. A thin wedge of white blooms at one edge, a rehearsal for dawn. Copper gives way to pearl, and the old moon looks new again, just higher and smaller against the deepening night. Cancer recedes into suggestion; Praesepe goes back to being a faint cloud to the unaided eye. The camera is packed away, the tripod shoulders its own shadow, and you keep the best exposure of the night where it can’t be corrupted: in memory.
If you have binoculars, mark Cancer on a winter chart and step outside when the sky is clear. Find Delta, sweep toward the dim pair of Nu and Gamma, and then rest your gaze on that hazy patch between them. Bring a friend into the circle and let the cluster resolve, star by star, into something alive with depth. It will not be the last time you look for it. And if you’re lucky enough, as we were that January, the moon will pass nearby, reminding you that even the most familiar companion can be made strange and beautiful by the turn of a shadow.
The sky is a storybook, yes—but also an instrument. Nights like this tune both.
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From milkweed egg to striped caterpillar, jade chrysalis, and fluttering monarch, witness metamorphosis, migration, and our role in protecting Danaus plexippus across North America today.
On the underside of a milkweed leaf, the world begins small enough to miss unless you kneel and look closely. In this first photograph the newborn is still a whisper of life, a pale pinhead egg collapsed into a glistening scrap, the tiny caterpillar beside it like a gray comma punctuating the green. It has just eaten the soft shell that cradled it—its first meal, its first thrift. The leaf’s pale roads of veins radiate around the hatchling; within that simple map lies all the geography it needs.
By the second photograph appetite has taken its proper throne. These pilgrims wear a uniform of warning: bands of yellow, black, and white—stripes as bright as hazard tape, a heraldic banner advertising the bitterness borrowed from milkweed. Each bite draws down defensive latex; yet the caterpillars feed undeterred, pausing to snip the leaf’s veins to quiet the flow. Their black, threadlike “tentacles” nod as they travel, and their peppery pellets—frass—collect like midnight hail. Five times they will outgrow themselves, shrugging off skins to reveal wider, hungrier versions within. The room is strewn with green rib and ragged edges; the air has the gentle smell of cut stems. All the while, milkweed’s poisons, the cardenolides, pass into growing bodies and become their bodyguard.
At last a hush. A final meal, a purposeful wander. The caterpillar chooses a high eave of the world—a stem, a stick, the corner of your rearing tent—and hooks itself into a downward J. Within hours the skin splits like a soft zipper; the striped creature pours itself out of itself and seals into a smooth chrysalis.
Here, the caterpillar has attached itself to a silk pad from which it hangs. Underneath the skin, the caterpillar is transforming to the chrysalis. In these photographs the silk pad and chrysalis attachment from a previous transformation are in the foreground.Macro of the Monarch butterfly chrysalis. The black stalk attached to the silk pad is call a cremaster.
The following photograph and video catch the moments into becoming: the jade lantern has become transparent, darkening, its gold studs glinting like constellation points, and through the thinning walls the folded wings show, orange smoldering under smoke. Inside, old tissues have dissolved into a living broth; imaginal discs—tiny blueprints carried since the egg—have flowered into legs, eyes, and flight. To call it “metamorphosis” is correct; to call it mystery is truer.
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When the case opens the butterfly backs into the bright. It clings while the crumpled wings fill and flatten, hemolymph pumping life into every cell. In the next image the adult drinks from a petunia trumpet, a jeweled ember with white-spotted hems. The monarch—Danaus plexippus—tests the wind with new, purposeful wings. Its scientific name nods to ancient stories: Danaus after the Greek mythic king of Argos, a father who fled with his fifty daughters across the sea; plexippus for Plexippus, a figure of the same old tales—his name carried forward into this wanderer of the sky. The English name “monarch” is said to honor both its regal size and domain, and, some say, the orange-and-black of William of Orange. Kings and myths gathered like cloak and scepter around a creature that weighs less than a paperclip.
No butterfly has entered human life more completely. Schoolchildren cradle jars of milkweed sprigs and tape handwritten labels to chrysalides lined like seed pearls along a classroom window. Taggers kneel in September light, add a tiny disc to a wing, and write down time and place so the journey south can be traced. In the mountains of Mexico, where oyamel firs hold winter like a secret, people fold the monarch’s return into the Days of the Dead, believing that souls ride home on those wafers of flame. Gardeners tuck swamp milkweed into narrow beds and call their yards “waystations.” Photographers, such as myself, record the stories that happen leaf by leaf.
In early July a Monarch caterpillar revels in milkweed flowers.
Yet our touch is not simple. Fields simplified by herbicides have shaved milkweed from fencerows; tidy mowing removes nectar from roadsides in the tender weeks of migration; captive rearing in vast numbers, though done with reverence, may carry unintended risks of disease and weakened orientation. The monarch asks us to enlarge our sense of home beyond the fence: to let patches of milkweed lift their pale crowns in rough corners; to choose late-blooming asters and goldenrod; to keep a few ditches shaggy until the travelers pass. Conservation, like metamorphosis, is work that happens inside ordinary days.
Watch the cycle again in my images—egg to appetite, appetite to stillness, stillness to wing—and hear what it whispers in the steady voice of milkweed leaves and soft fall air. Rachel Carson wrote that “those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.” Here beauty wears stripes and beads of gold, sips from garden petals, and threads a continent with its frail insistence. The monarch’s life is a ribbon we can follow with our eyes and, if we are willing, with our hands—gentle hands that leave room for milkweed to rise, for caterpillars to feed, for a chrysalis to darken and a window to fill, one bright morning, with wings.
On a personal note, this season was a success. Monarchs visited our milkweed patch several times allowing me to save/harvest nineteen eggs/caterpillars and raise them until release.
Selected references
Carson, Rachel. The Sense of Wonder. New York: Harper & Row, 1965. (Reissued: HarperCollins, 1998; Open Road Media e-book, 2011.) The quoted passage (“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth…”) appears early in the book; the Open Road edition places it on p. 41.
Wikipedia contributors. “Monarch butterfly — Etymology and taxonomy.” (useful overview with primary citations).
Oberhauser, K. S., and M. J. Solensky, eds. The Monarch Butterfly: Biology and Conservation. Cornell University Press, 2004.
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A quiet moment along the Virgin River reveals the artistry of nature—where water, stone, and time shape Zion’s majestic Narrows in subtle, surprising ways.
In Zion National Park, where towering sandstone cliffs rise from the desert floor, the Virgin River weaves a persistent and graceful thread through deep canyons carved over millennia. The river is the creative force behind Zion’s signature landscape, sculpting stone with a patient hand. Among its greatest achievements is the Narrows—a sinuous gorge where water and light perform a timeless duet. The two photographs shown here draw us into an intimate corner of that realm, where water flows past a rock face marked by both subtlety and drama.
At first glance, what stands out is the unusual structure on the wall behind the river—a feature that at a distance could easily be mistaken for a man-made stairway. But closer observation reveals this to be a natural element, the result of erosion acting upon cross-bedded Navajo Sandstone. The texture and linearity of these formations are remnants of ancient sand dunes hardened into rock nearly 190 million years ago, during the Jurassic period. What looks like precision carving is, in fact, the legacy of sedimentation, lithification, and the scouring action of water over time.
In the first photograph, the scene is bathed in soft, diffused light, lending a quiet tone to the flowing water and the weathered rock face. The surface of the Virgin River becomes a silky sheet, its motion captured with long exposure so that it seems to glide effortlessly past the cluster of smooth stones in the foreground. Here is a deep calm—the kind that can be heard in the hush of water over stone and felt in the breathless silence of a canyon morning.
Click each photo for a larger view
Taken using the Kodak DCS Pro SLR/c mounted with a Canon EF 50mm f/1.4 USM lens
The second photograph, taken under brighter conditions, reveals the same scene with different character. The increase in light clarifies the water’s transparency, the greens of moss and lichen on the wall, and the golden tones of the sandstone. What you see is a pattern formed by layers of wind-blown sand, once part of vast dunes, now standing as a stone ledger of time. The river, its bed visible beneath the shallow flow, seems to read this text as it passes—century by century, pebble by pebble.
The Virgin River begins high in Southwestern Utah, at the Navajo Reservoir in the Dixie National Forest north of Zion National Park and travels over 160 miles to join the Colorado River, carving through layers of sedimentary rock as it descends. In the Narrows, the canyon walls rise up to a thousand feet while the corridor narrows to just 20–30 feet across in places. The intimacy of the Narrows contrasts with the vast openness elsewhere in Zion, enclosing the traveler in a world of water and stone, shadow and echo.
Walking the Narrows means walking in the river itself—an experience that engages body and spirit alike. The water is rarely still, and neither is the trail. Slippery rocks and ever-shifting current demand attention and balance. Yet, this very immersion invites a deeper kind of awareness. You are observing nature from within it, shaped by nature, and held by nature.
What the photos capture so eloquently is that Zion is a place where the work of nature can appear deliberate, even architectural. The illusion of stairways in the sandstone, carved not by hands but by wind, gravity, and time, is a reminder of how little separates the human sense of design from the forms nature produces. We recognize rhythm and repetition, elevation and flow, and are drawn to interpret meaning from these patterns.
But perhaps the meaning lies not in what we impose, but in what we receive. The Virgin River’s passage through this sculpted corridor teaches patience, resilience, and the beauty of gradual transformation. Its waters do not fight the rock; they yield, swirl, and persist—until the rock, by degrees, gives way. What results is a landscape both eternal and ever-changing.
Zion’s grandeur is easy to admire its many amazing overlooks, but its soul is found in quiet places like this—where sandstone walls, smoothed by water and time, speak not in shouts but in whispers. Here, beside a seeming stairway that leads nowhere and everywhere, we come face to face with the artistry of the Earth.
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Cushendun (from Irish: Cois Abhann Doinne, meaning “foot of the River Dun”) is a small coastal village in County Antrim, Northern Ireland. It sits off the A2 coast road between Cushendall and Ballycastle.
It has a sheltered harbor and lies at the mouth of the River Dun and Glendun, one of the nine Glens of Antrim. The Mull of Kintyre in Scotland is only about 15 miles away across the North Channel and can be seen easily on clear days.
In the 2001 Census it had a population of 138 people. Cushendun is part of Causeway Coast and Glens district.
SONY DSC
Here are several of the information placards near the harbor explaining some local history.
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Ballyteerin townland, where Shane O’Neill was killed, is on the road to Torr Head.
Reference: Wikipedia, “Cushendun.”
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It was the kind of overcast morning that seems to cradle the island in a blanket of mist, a gentle hush falling over the land as though even the Atlantic held its breath. Pam and I had arrived by ferry at Kilronan, the main settlement on Inishmore (Inis Mór), the largest of the Aran Islands nestled in Galway Bay. There, amid the bustle of arrivals and greetings, we found our driver—a wiry, weather-worn man with a soft brogue and kind eyes—and his horse trap, a simple two-wheeled carriage with room enough for three and the sounds of hooves to accompany our journey.
We set out up Cottage Road, the stone-paved track winding westward from the harbor. The sea fell away behind us as we climbed, a gray shimmer stretching to the hazy outline of Connemara’s mountains on the far side of the bay. Our destination was the dramatic cliffside ringfort of Dún Aonghasa, a place older than memory. But it was the unexpected moments in between—the ones not printed in guidebooks—that linger longest in the mind.
As we rounded a bend flanked by low stone walls, wildflowers blooming defiantly in the cracks, our driver pulled the reins gently and pointed with his crop.
“There,” he said, nodding ahead, “is a fine example of a traditional Aran cottage.”
And there it was—a vision from another time. The thatched roof curved softly like a that blanket itself, straw golden against the brooding sky. The walls were whitewashed to a perfect matte sheen, gleaming in spite of the cloud cover. A crimson door and two window frames punctuated the front façade like punctuation in a poem. Just to its right, set further back on the hill, stood a tiny replica of the same cottage, identical in every feature. I blinked, half believing it was an illusion.
This thatched cottage with matching child’s playhouse is on Cottage Road out of Kilronan Village on the Aran island, Inishmore, County Galway, Ireland.
We only stopped briefly—it was a private residence—but the sight of it left a kind of imprint. I turned in the trap seat to keep it in view as long as I could. The cottage was perfectly placed, facing Galway Bay with a commanding view. I imagined the light pouring across the line of mountains, catching the glint of sea and sky.
“There’s a name for that finish,” I said, recalling something I’d read, “whitewash, or lime paint.”
Our driver nodded. “That’s the old way. Made from slaked lime. We’d call it ‘whitening’ when I was a lad.”
Whitewash differs from paint in the most elemental of ways. It becomes part of the stone, absorbed into the very surface. Like a memory of bone. And yet, it requires care. Apply it to a wall not properly cleaned or moistened, and it flakes, pulls away like a broken promise. But done right, it lasts, breathes with the building.
Upon our return, researching “whitewash,” if found this photograph from the Yarloop railway workshops Yarloop, Western Australia. There, on a shelf, where three old boxes sat like relics: DURABLO, WESCO, and CALCIMO. All contained kalsomine—the powdered form of lime paint. CALCIMO promised to “beautify walls and ceilings” and was proudly marked “LIME PROOF.” There was something quietly heroic in that. Lime-proof, as though against time itself.
Looking at the box of Calcimo, a product of the Murabo Company of Australia, I was struck by how far the tradition had traveled. From island cottages in the Atlantic to distant corners of the Southern Hemisphere, the language of whitewash—of simplicity and purity—had touched the world.
We returned by the same road, past that same cottage, the small one still keeping watch beside it like a child beside a parent. And I knew then that the islands hadn’t just given me sights—they had offered stories, silent ones written in thatch and stone, in lime and wind.
Sources for this post: search wikipedia for “White Wash”. White wash photo author: Wikipedia commons user Gnangarra
The wind carried the scent of the sea as we stood at Punta de las Salinas, the furthest tip of Punta del Este, Uruguay. This was a place of myth and mystery for us, where the Atlantic Ocean merged with the Río de la Plata, and where the rocks bore witness to the timeless interplay of water and stone. Here stood “El Canto de las Sirenas” (The Song of the Mermaids), an evocative art installation by Lily Perkins, first completed in 2012. The sculptures seemed perfectly at home here, their placement deeply intertwined with the mythology they evoked.
This is at Great Britain Square, Punta de las Salinas of Punta del Este. We are at the tip of the peninsula, the easternmost point of Uruguay. This is the art installation El Canto de las Sirenas” (The Song of the Mermaids) (2012) by the artist Lily Perkins. Punta del Este, Departamento de Maldonado, Uruguay
The sirens of ancient lore were said to dwell at perilous points where land met the untamed sea, luring sailors to their doom with haunting songs. These rocky outcrops, both a boundary and a threshold, have long held symbolic power as places where the natural world is at its most raw and elemental. Punta de las Salinas is such a place. Its jagged rocks and churning waves create an environment as beautiful as it is treacherous. It is easy to imagine mythical sirens choosing this very spot to weave their spellbinding melodies.
This is at Great Britain Square, Punta de las Salinas of Punta del Este. We are at the tip of the peninsula, the easternmost point of Uruguay. This is the art installation El Canto de las Sirenas” (The Song of the Mermaids) (2012) by the artist Lily Perkins. Punta del Este, Departamento de Maldonado, Uruguay
Lily Perkins’ installation captures this essence. The sculptures are not idealized depictions of mermaids; they are rugged and raw, encrusted with shells, stones, and marine debris. Their weathered forms mirror the harsh, untamed beauty of their surroundings. It is as if they have emerged from the ocean itself, born of the waves and the salt-laden air, to stand as sentinels at the edge of the world.
The central figure, with her face turned skyward, evokes the myth of the siren’s song—a melody so enchanting that it drove sailors to risk their lives against the rocks. Her posture suggests longing, perhaps for a connection beyond the horizon, or perhaps for the very mortals she is fated to ensnare. Nearby, a broken figure reclines against the rocks, her form partially encased in green netting and mosaic-like tiles. She seems more grounded, her siren’s call muted, as if weighed down by the realities of the modern world. The use of marine materials in her construction—a blend of natural and human-made debris—suggests an awareness of humanity’s impact on the seas.
The third figure, slightly apart, is the most enigmatic. Encrusted with barnacles and weathered by the elements, she seems lost in thought. Her gaze is directed not toward the sea but toward the land, as if contemplating her place at this meeting of worlds. In mythology, sirens were liminal creatures, existing between realms—the sea and the shore, the mortal and the divine. This figure embodies that in-between state, rooted in the rocks yet shaped by the sea.
The placement of these sculptures at Punta de las Salinas is no accident. This headland is the easternmost point of Uruguay, a natural boundary and a crossroads where two vast bodies of water meet. For centuries, sailors navigated these waters, their journeys fraught with danger. The rocks here are unforgiving, and the waves crash with relentless power. To stand at this point is to feel the raw energy of the ocean and to understand why myths of sirens arose in such places. The sirens symbolize both allure and peril, a reminder of the ocean’s capacity to inspire and to destroy.
As I walked among the sculptures, the mythology seemed to come alive. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks could easily be imagined as the sirens’ song—a hypnotic rhythm that draws you in and holds you spellbound. The figures, though silent, seemed to hum with an energy that echoed the sea’s eternal motion.
I feld these sculptures were not merely placed at Punta de las Salinas; but had emerged from it, their forms shaped by the same forces that shaped the rocks beneath our feet. The shells and stones embedded in their surfaces tied them physically to the sea, while their mythical resonance tied them spiritually to the place.
The mythology of the sirens speaks to the duality of the sea—its beauty and its danger, its capacity to give and to take away. Standing at Punta de las Salinas, surrounded by Perkins’ sculptures, I felt that duality in a profound way. The ocean stretched endlessly before us, a vast, unknowable expanse, while behind us lay the solid ground of the peninsula—a place of safety, but also a place that ended here, at this edge.
Lily Perkins sculptures are restored…..
As we left, the figures seemed to watch us go, their silent song lingering in my mind. The sirens of Punta del Este are more than art; they are a dialogue between myth and reality, between the natural world and the human imagination. In their weathered beauty, they remind us of the stories the sea has always told, and of the enduring power of those who give those stories form.
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The morning sunlight bathed Punta del Este in a soft, golden glow we rode in a tour bus with large, clean windows along the streets near Punta de las Salinas, my camera Canon dslr at ready, with a Canon EF 70-300 f/4-5.6 L IS USM lens. This was the perfect time of day for street photography—the light was forgiving, and the people were starting their routines. There’s something magical about candid moments, the kind you can only find when the subjects are unaware they’re being watched. It’s these fleeting, authentic snippets of life that draw me to photography.
I came across the Centro de Información Turística, a modest but bustling hub for visitors. A man in a bright turquoise tank top walked briskly past, talking animatedly into his phone. He was a splash of vibrant color against the clean, white facade of the building, his movement so dynamic that I couldn’t resist snapping a photo. The contrast of his modern, casual style against the timeless architecture behind him captured the essence of Punta del Este—a place where history and the contemporary coexist seamlessly.
Candid shots of people at their leisure in and around Great Britain Square of Punta del Este. Departamento de Maldonado, Uruguay
We were headed to the shoreline for the sound of the waves and the refreshing scent of salt in the air. There, on a low stone wall, an older man in neon green shorts leaned back, exercising his arms. His weathered face was relaxed, a picture of contentment. Behind him, the ocean swirled and crashed against the rocks, and I marveled at how effortlessly this simple scene captured the spirit of life in this coastal city—a balance between the energy of the waves and human moments.
Further down the walkway, a group of people strolled leisurely, their conversations punctuated by laughter. One couple caught my eye—an older man in sunglasses walking beside a woman in a bright red sweater. The warmth between them was palpable, the kind of comfort that comes with years spent together. I raised my camera and framed them against the endless blue horizon. The waves rolled in behind them, their rhythm a perfect counterpoint to the couple’s measured pace. It was a reminder that even in a world that feels transient, some things remain steady and enduring.
Crossing the road, I noticed a young family out for a walk. The parents, both casually dressed, pushed a stroller with a little boy inside. The child’s curiosity was evident as he leaned forward, his tiny hands gripping the sides of the stroller as if ready to leap out and explore the world. The scene felt timeless—youthful energy, familial love, and the sense of new beginnings. It was an image I knew I had to capture, a slice of life that would resonate universally.
Progressing to our destination, we passed a small exercise area, where two women worked out on bright green outdoor machines. Their movements were deliberate, their focus unwavering. One wore a vivid orange top, her energy radiating even from a distance, while the other in teal moved with a more relaxed rhythm. The scene was a perfect metaphor for the city itself—a blend of activity and leisure, where people embraced life at their own pace.
We passed a row of homes and modern apartments facing the ocean. One balcony caught my attention—a young woman stood there, brushing her hair as the breeze played with it. She seemed lost in thought, gazing out at the sea, her solitude a sharp contrast to the bustling streets below. The light hit her at just the right angle, turning her into a silhouette against the backdrop of glass and steel. I clicked the shutter—a quiet moment amid the city’s liveliness.
Further along, another balcony revealed two women sitting at a small table, sharing what looked like breakfast. They were deep in conversation, their gestures animated as they leaned toward one another. The table was set simply, with two cups and a plate of food, but the scene exuded warmth and connection. It reminded me that even in a city known for its glamour and style, the real beauty lies in these intimate, unguarded moments.
As I reviewed the images on my camera, I felt a sense of satisfaction. Punta del Este had revealed itself in layers that morning—a city of contrasts and harmonies, where every street and every person seemed to have a story to tell. Through my lens, I had tried to capture not just the people, but the rhythm of life here, the interplay of light and shadow, motion and stillness, solitude and togetherness. And as the sun climbed higher in the sky, I knew I had witnessed something special—an ordinary morning made extraordinary by the people who lived it.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I stood at the edge of Punta del Este, Uruguay, I marveled at the wild beauty of the place. We were at Punta de las Salinas, the very tip of the peninsula, the edge of where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Río de la Plata. This easternmost point of Uruguay, where time feels suspended as restless waves crash against rocky shores. A sea breeze carries a distinct salty tang.
This is at Great Britain Square, Punta de las Salinas of Punta del Este. We are at the tip of the peninsula, the easternmost point of Uruguay. Punta del Este, Departamento de Maldonado, Uruguay
Pam, my wife, stood beside me, a bright smile on her face as the ocean wind tugged at her sunhat. Behind her, rising among the rocks, was an art installation that seemed to embody the spirit of the place “El Canto de las Sirenas” (The Song of the Mermaids). These sculptures by the artist Lily Perkins, their forms shaped and worn by the elements, appeared almost as though they were natural extensions of the rocky coastline. They gazed out to sea, their haunting beauty a poignant reminder of myth and humanity’s eternal connection with the ocean.
The sirens, crafted with an earthy texture and adorned with bits of marine debris, seemed to tell a story of resilience and adaptation. They stood stoically against the backdrop of the churning waves, their barnacle-like surfaces merging seamlessly with their rugged surroundings. I felt a strange connection to them, as if they were silent witnesses to the ever-changing dance of the sea and sky.
Pam during our 2016 South American tour. This is at Great Britain Square, Punta de las Salinas of Punta del Este. We are at the tip of the peninsula, the easternmost point of Uruguay. Over her shoulder is the art installation “El Canto de las Sirenas” (The Song of the Mermaids) (2012) by the artist Lily Perkins. Punta del Este, Departamento de Maldonado, Uruguay
The morning was perfect for photography. I adjusted my Canon camera, capturing the interplay of light and shadow across the jagged rocks, the turquoise waves, and the statues. The textures of the sirens came alive through the lens, each detail hinting at the passage of time and the endless conversations between water and stone. Pam posed in front of one of the sculptures, her presence adding a touch of humanity to the scene, as though she were part of this mythological tableau.
I took a moment to step back and absorb the scene. The coastline stretched out before me, rugged and raw, with the waves crashing in an eternal rhythm. The sirens belonged here, their forms shaped artist hands, then also by the elements. They merged into this unique place, much like the wind, the rocks, and the ocean.
As we walked along the rocky outcrop, the sound of the waves filled the air, drowning out any other noise. It was easy to lose oneself in the hypnotic patterns of the water, the spray catching the sunlight like tiny jewels. I found myself reflecting on the history of this place—Punta del Este, a meeting point of cultures and stories, a place where the natural world and human creativity converge.
Great Britain Square, where we started this journey, seemed an apt setting for such an installation. The name itself evokes a sense of exploration and connection across vast distances, much like the sirens that seem to call out across the waves. The symbolism was not lost on me as I thought about how we, too, were travelers, drawn to the edges of the earth by a desire to explore and understand.
Plaza Gran Bretana (Great Britain Square) is named for the World War II naval battle near here between the German battleship Graf Spee and the English ships Ajax, Achilles and Exeter. The plaza also has an anchor marking the boundary between Rio de la Plata and the Atlantic Ocean.
Pam and I lingered for a while longer, taking in the scenery and enjoying the peacefulness of the moment. The sculptures seemed almost alive, their forms shifting subtly as the light changed. They reminded me of the stories of sirens from ancient mythology—creatures that lured sailors to their doom with their enchanting voices. But here, they seemed more like guardians, watching over the waters and the land, their presence a testament to the enduring power of art and nature.
As the morning wore on, we made our way back, leaving the sirens behind to their eternal vigil. The experience stayed with me, though, a vivid memory of a place where myth and reality intertwine. Punta de las Salinas, with its rugged beauty and its mysterious sirens, had left an indelible mark on my heart.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 