It’s an interruption of light. That’s all it is. But it fascinates me — visually, conceptually, artistically, emotionally. Most photographers look for good light; I look for good shadow.

A tree in this small alley-turned-courtyard obstructed the sunlight falling directly on the burnt sienna wall, resulting in a dark, self-similar shape of that tree. We’re able to see that tree because light within a certain spectrum falls on it; we see its shadow because light is prevented from falling on the wall. A shadow is the only thing we see because of the absence of light.

The term ‘shadow’ comes from Old English, the language spoken by Anglo-Saxons between the mid-5th century and the mid-12th century. It shares the same linguistic root as ‘shade’: sceadu, which referred to a place protected from glare and heat. ‘Shadow’ itself, however, comes from a somewhat later and more narrowly defined derivation of the term: sceadwian, which referred to the act of creating a small bit of shade (most beautifully defined by one etymologist as ‘to protect as with a covering wing’).

Though shade and shadow are essentially the same phenomenon, we experience them as very different beasts. We tend to treat shade as a form of shelter; we generally see shadow as only the reverse projection of an object. And that’s a shame, because when you raise an awning to shelter you from the sun, you’re using a shadow to create shade. You are, in effect, mimicking a bird tucking its head under its wing. If you can’t see the delicate loveliness in that, there’s no hope for you at all, at all.

I entered this alleyway/courtyard seeking shade. In it, I found a shadow. And I was content.

It’s hard to explain the affection I feel for Utata — for the community itself, for the staff, for the members, for the very concept of Utata as a place where intelligent, creative people from all over the globe gather to chat, argue, and shoot photographs. We often refer to Utata as a tribe — a neo-tribal virtual collective that’s held together by kinship. But this isn’t a kinship based on consanguinity; it’s a kinship of attitude and spirit and intelligence and exceedingly varied interests.

I feel especially affectionate toward Utata today. That’s partly because today is Labor Day in the U.S. Ever since 1894, the first Monday of September has been a day set aside to acknowledge and honor the economic and social contributions of workers. At least in theory. In reality it seems as if the United State no longer honors men and women who perform labor — only those people who make money off those who labor. So on this day I’m reminded how very special are the men and women who volunteer their time and labor to make Utata work. They don’t get paid, they take some dull and grinding chores upon themselves, they sacrifice their leisure time — and they do it all simply to create and maintain a venue for other folks to be creative. That’s what we do.

This is the other reason I’m feeling affectionate about Utata today: we’ve released our summer project: Just One Thing. It’s a perfect example of what makes Utata unique. The concept is simple: focus creative attention on one thing  (or one type of thing). It might be a specific lawn chair moved from place to place in an Austrian town, or a wildly re-purposed red high heeled shoe, or a woman holding a variety of umbrellas, or a selection of grey post boxes in Canada., or a look at the world deliciously inverted through a glass apple, or the assorted old stuff found jammed in the hollow spaces of an interior wall and uncovered during home renovations.

It’s an odd collection, to be sure, but perfectly in keeping with the sensibilities of Utata. Beyond the obvious conceptual theme, one of the things that holds this project together is a generous sense of wit and whimsy. You will smile as you look through these photographs. And you will have thoughts you’ve never had before. That’s what we do in Utata.

I have a new camera. I’ve had new cameras before, but not like this one. Almost all of my previous new cameras were SLRs or DSLRs, and it was fairly easy to adjust to them. A slightly different feel in the hand, some variation in the menu system — that was it.

But not this time. This time is different. This time the new camera is a Fujifilm X10.

It’s a sweet little unit. Small but sturdy, beautifully constructed, extraordinarily quiet to use, pleasing to the eye but plain enough to be inconspicuous. It’s a rangefinder style camera, with an optical viewfinder that gives you absolutely NO information at all. No shutter speed, no aperture, no ISO, no hint at metering, nothing at all. If you want to get a good exposure, you’d damned well better know what you’re doing.

Oh, you can turn on the LCD monitor and use that to compose your photograph. That’ll provide you with nearly as much information as the Mars rover sends back to JPL. The LCD certainly makes shooting photos a lot easier. But I find I’m relying almost exclusively on the information-free viewfinder. It reminds me of my very first camera — an old Argus rangefinder from the 1950s. Completely manual, of course. I don’t think it even had a built-in light meter. It was just a metal box with a lens. Relying on the viewfinder with the X10 is like remembering how to drive a car with a manual transmission — you make some awkward and noisy mistakes, but you recall how much fun driving can be.

I wanted this camera to tote on my bicycle, but it’s turning out to be an ideal cityscape and street camera. I have no hesitation in pulling out the subtle little X10 in situations where I’d have been reluctant or unwilling to use a DSLR. There IS some hesitation before actually shooting the photo, however. Not because I’m uncomfortable with it, but because I have to pause a moment to consider issues of exposure. I have to hold back a bit while I judge the parallax error caused by the viewfinder.

It’s like learning to shoot photographs all over again. For the most part I walk around following the old Weegee rule for exposure: f8 and be there. But when immediacy isn’t an issue, I have to actually evaluate lighting conditions and decide on the proper exposure. Photography has become a challenge again. Every decision point that was second nature with a DSLR now requires active thought, which keeps me more engaged in the moment.

And isn’t that what photography is all about?

As you can see from some of these photographs, I’m still making mistakes. I sometimes get the exposure wrong, I screw up the composition by misreading the parallax difference, and I bungle the focus point. Rookie mistakes. Boneheaded mistakes.

I can’t tell you how much fun I’m having making those mistakes.