The light is different in New Hampshire.
I remember first hearing of Jaques Henri Lartigue in college, probably mentioned during my history of photography class. Not immediately intrigued by his (more famous) black and white photographs, he fell into the great pool of photo knowledge sloshing around in the back of my mind. A few months ago, I picked up Lartigue: Life in Color, and I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the French and Italian countrysides and his varied female companions, and by the quality of light he captured, whether in the dead of winter or the last days of summer.
One pairing of images in particular found me unable to turn the page:
|Left: Piozzo, September 1956 / Right: Florette, Piozzo, September 1956|
I'm hoping to a make a trip north in the next month or so to be able to capture some of that golden light myself, before we descend quickly into winter. Why is it that this gorgeous, cozy season seems to pass so much faster than the others? I think I'd be happy living in perpetual fall.