The Night of the Meteor Shower
August 19th, 2010Once again this year, I tried and failed to get a usable photo of the Perseid meteor shower. I’m not sure if I need to learn my camera settings better or if night sky shots are just not feasible on a compact digital camera without a bulb-mode for shutter control.
It wasn’t all a wash on the photographic side, though. I managed to get a fairly good panoramic shot of the lights of Platteville off in the distance.
I really like the subtle curve of the horizon present in a long shot like this. It really reminds me that we are on a planet.
OK, so maybe I don’t need to be reminded of that, but it does let me see the Earth as an orb, which reminds me that the planet is not some infinite plane, but rather a discrete object. If I think of the Earth as an object, I think about the context of that object: it’s position, surroundings, and scale. This naturally leads to thoughts of space and distant stars, and of big rocks hurtling through the darkness.
So, even though I didn’t capture the meteor shower directly, I feel like I was able to capture some small part of what it feels like to watch the shower, maybe better than a picture of a streaking meteorite would have.
There’s a certain depth and complexity of emotion that comes with watching a meteor shower. Part of it comes from conflicting concepts of distance. The shower itself is a beautiful thing. Appreciation of beauty is an intimate interaction between an object and a viewer. It instills a sense of closeness to the part of ourselves that admires beauty.
But, there is another part of us that sees point of light in the darkness and thinks about remoteness and isolation. A part of our mind tells us that our place in the Universe is one of inconceivable distance from everything else we can see in the sky. It instills a sense of separation and loneliness, the sort of loneliness that feels less of melancholy and more like a purity and oneness of self.
The other exciting thing that comes with astronomical events is the sense of impermanence it gives to the basic foundations of the world we interact with. Though they spin about us every night, there is usually a unchanging totality about the stars in the sky. It’s true that the meteorites are not really falling stars, but it’s hard to watch one and not imagine it as some star that has finally left its appointed place, flying off to who knows where.
If I seem more chatty than usual over a photograph, it’s because lately I’ve rekindled a desire to probe the question of photography as art. I wonder if it matters to you as a viewer whether my feelings on the night I took that picture influenced me to shoot it in the way I did or whether they originated after I viewed the shot for the twentieth time. To be honest, I’m not sure whether it matters to me, either. I’ll save those thoughts for the next meteor shower.

