Whispers of Heat and Dust: A Photographer Between Seasons

Lately, I've been receiving photo messages from my other half, sun-drenched scenes from Sydney where koalas lounge lazily in the crooks of eucalyptus trees and cicadas hum a rhythm only summer understands. The heat there, I’m told, clings like a second skin, almost unbearable. Meanwhile in Boston, the air still clutches winter in its bones. Cold seeps through everything here: the sidewalks, the wind, even the mind.

And yet, yesterday, I noticed the first defiant signs of spring. A few brave blossoms were beginning to push their way through bark and frost, as if to whisper, not yet, but soon. I paused, startled by the gentle shock of color. In that moment, I realized how long it had been since I lifted my camera. It sits now with a soft layer of dust, like a relic or a hibernating animal waiting to be woken.

This image, what I call an animated photograph, is part of a scene study I created in 2024. It isn't just a memory. It's a still frame where time stirs gently, where nature shifts subtly, speaking in light and motion. I find myself thinking more and more about the fragility of these moments.

The contrast between hemispheres, between fire and frost, drought and melt, feels almost too stark this year. Koalas, once iconic symbols of the Australian landscape, are now climate refugees in their own forests. Heatwaves there are no longer news; they are the new norm. Meanwhile, in the northeastern United States, prolonged winters and erratic springs disturb the migratory patterns of birds and the blooming cycles of plants. Nothing arrives quite on time anymore.

Photography, for me, has always been a way to hold onto time, to press pause. But in these days of rapid ecological unraveling, I feel a greater urgency. Not just to document beauty, but to witness consequence. A blossom in Boston or a koala’s yawn in the Sydney heat is no longer just a sweet image. It’s part of a global story about survival and adaptation, about what we lose when seasons shift too fast and too far.

Perhaps the dust on my camera isn't shameful after all. Perhaps it's a symbol, a moment of pause, a breath before a renewed commitment. The earth is changing its rhythm, and I want to listen more closely, through my lens, through light, and through the stories we tell about this precarious, beautiful planet.