Cementerio de la Recoleta

ARG Cemetery

I have a group of awesome friends in Buenos Aires who took me to the historic Cementerio de la Recoleta.  The cemetery dates back to the 1700s and is home to many exceptional Argentinians such as Eva Perón.  Beautiful and haunting, I could have spent an entire week there taking pictures.

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

Rocks of Light

Rocks of light_wm

There are days when I get a little more than agoraphobic.  I keep my curtains closed, turn off my cell phone, and shoot in my apartment.  Sometimes this results in objects fostering creative qualities I never saw before.

The above photo is a close-up of a clay lamp filled with sandstones which diffuse the light from a bulb buried beneath.  It’s one of my favorite hermit photos.  Maybe I should hide away from the world more often!

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

 

Arc

Sydney Opera House
Experimenting with black and white textures using this iconic Australian landmark.  The opera house was fun to shoot, as some buildings are basically photo porn for photographers.

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

Antiquity / Modernity

Louvre_wm

I took this in February of last year. It was a crisp and gorgeous morning waiting to get into the Louvre. I’m certainly not the first to capture the juxtaposition of old and new architecture, but the contrast is so visually striking!

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

Bishop Tower

castle_sky

I took this years ago at Bishop Castle in the San Isabel National Forest, Colorado. The entire structure was built by one man, Jim Bishop. Definitely check this place out if you’re visiting Colorado.

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

Echoes of Light

Red lights stretch

“Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.”
—John Milton, Paradise Lost

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

As It Begins to Rain

I stare at the digital clock on the nightstand. It blinks 12:33am. A flashing of red light that splashes rhythmically onto the white walls of the bedroom. I roll onto my back, scratching at the stubble on my chin before stretching out my arm. The pillow next to me is cold. I run my fingers along taunt sheets still tucked and unwrinkled.

The sound of typing bleeds in under the bedroom door. I slowly crawl out of bed, but the room begins to tilt as I stand, and I fall into an oak credenza, gripping the wood, waiting for stillness to return. Waiting for a semblance of calm that has taken flight to somewhere unseen and unknown.

I rub the bandages wrapped tightly around my wrists as I glance out the window. Sullen storm clouds loom high above the city, their pregnant bellies illuminated yellow from the noise of street lights below. A gust of wind shakes the branches of a few Ash trees rooted in an empty park across the street, their trembling shadows dancing silently on freshly-cut grass.

The hardwood floor creaks under my bare feet as I walk down the hallway, pulling on a black t-shirt over my head. Jeremiah’s at his computer, blue light from the screen spilling over his bare, freckled shoulders. His shock of red hair standing almost upright.

I walk up behind him and lean down, wrapping my arms around his chest. He continues to type. I kiss the back of his neck, but Jeremiah leans forward.

“I need to work,” he says amid the ceaseless clacking of keystrokes.

“Have you eaten?”

More typing. The minutes slide away between each breath.

I turn and walk into the kitchen. The clock on the stove flashes 12:47 in green. The ignitor clicks loudly as I turn on the gas burner, pulling out a large skillet of leftover campanelle pasta from the refrigerator. The sharp smell of pesto crowds the kitchen walls. Ice cubes ring sharply as they fall into two tall glasses. I fill them both almost to the brim with cold green tea, then toast two slices of bread in the oven, adding butter and a pinch of garlic salt. I garnish both plates with fresh parsley.

“Food’s ready,” I say, standing behind Jeremiah.

More typing. “Not hungry.” The clicking of the mouse.

I’ve heard that time heals all wounds. That’s bullshit. A maddening lie. Rather, time pulls and tears at the tender edges of the delicate flesh. It festers into scars soon to be fastened forever on the surface of the skin. A piercing echo of a mistake that cannot be unmade.

I sit at the kitchen table next to an empty chair, slumped forward. It’s only after the ice cubes have melted that the typing stops. The hallway floor creaks behind me. The bedroom door shuts quietly. My fork scrapes loudly against the surface of the plate as I push the pasta around in circles, parsley tumbling to the linoleum floor.

The clock on the stove blinks 1:49 in green just before the power in the apartments shuts off. Yellow light trickles down the walls. A flash of lighting. Thunder rattles a framed picture hanging next to the refrigerator.

And for only a brief moment I saw us both smiling, standing on the summit of Mount Elbert, both of us covered in dust and sweat, my head resting on his freckled shoulder, his arm around my waist. The Rocky Mountains, ancient and timeless, stretching deep into the horizon behind us.

I hear tapping against the kitchen window. I glance outside as it begins to rain.

Fiction and Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015

Tranquil Fury

beach

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

—Dylan Thomas

Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2015