Once, I spent half a day by the lake, taking photos of stones and water.
It sounds like an eventful day — especially if you don’t mention that the stones mostly stayed still, and the water was doing what it always does.
From the outside, it must have looked rather strange: someone wandering along the shore, studying boulders, and seriously photographing what most people don’t even notice.
But water and stones have a remarkable quality: the longer you look at them, the more interesting they become. At least for me.
The stones lie exactly where they lay yesterday, ten years ago, and quite possibly long before anyone thought to capture them.
One stone turns out to be nothing like another, and gradually they stop being just stones.
The water, on the other hand, does all the creative work — constantly shifting reflections, glimmers, and patterns.
One patch catches sunlight directly; another turns into an abstract painting.
And then, suddenly, you realize several hours have passed.
It turns out this wasn’t even a photoshoot — it was a therapy session, where nature is the therapist, and textures, reflections, and contrasts do the talking.
And finally — one autumn leaf that somehow survived the winter cold and spring rains, still clinging to a stone.
A touch of color in a world that has otherwise managed just fine in shades of gray.
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