When It's Nighttime

Lady in Yellow The Riders The Shadows

The Loiterers

They exist outside of the thin walls of the nine-to-five world that confines those in the buildings around them. In their posture they speak of their specific part in the liminal world on the streets and in the plazas around the cool, controlling buildings that stand impassive above them.

They lean in repose against a tree, precarious on a halted bicycle, indulging a break from their journey toward some unknown but unhurried goal. Smoking cigarettes bummed from the tie-and-suit folk who now and then escape into the loud air of the city streets.

Beside bags at the precipice of the curb, leaning on telescoping handles as though life had already aged them prematurely, bones and muscles weakened, supported by the tools of a well-laden hobbler. Outfit telling on their profession, already adorned in their occupation long before it need be, more conspicuous than those who ride a desk for a living, though not unpleasantly so.

Rigid and impassive they stand and wait for a bus to ferry them from this vector to another. Eyes forward, desirous of no contact beyond that which is necessary for their sojourn. Basking in the sun, ectothermic in the chill of winter, drawing power from the thinned light of their star coming low through the canyon walls.

Then there rest those who seem as though they have no later objective toward which to strive. They wander between those spots they know they will not be harassed—small islands of dignity in a world not designed with an eye toward them. They watch the fatted pigeons, glutting themselves on refuse, kings in their discarded kingdom. Winged loiterers also outside of the bounds of the expectations poured into the concrete and welded to the steel, though perhaps more suited to it by being so far outside of it. They do not have to contort to fit within the gaps; they are small and strange enough to lay comfortable within them. Not infrequently are they looked on with envy, until something scares them off and they take to wing, free to leave as they please, and under their own power.

Canus Familiaris

The Explorers

There’s a wide world out there to see together.

The Arctic Team

Nothing brings a team together like some good snowy days.

Sunshine Times

Turns out snow isn’t always necessary for joint adventures.

Whatever Happens

There’s a low-key kind of energy that slithers and sways its way down Main Street Annapolis at night when the bars are packed and the sky is clear. Some cities and towns, the bars bump and thump and seem to spill people out in a scrum. Shouting and moving fast, ejected from one fission reaction chamber out into a void to find another.

In Maryland’s capital city there appears to be less pressure, less force. People stroll and amble. Outside of bars and restaurants unbothered perambulators ease on by with their eyes on one another or glancing through the windows to feel out the capacity of their options.

The spire on St. Anne’s sits atop the hill, glowing, ominous or angelic depending upon the eye of he who beholds it. Those who stand outside of these nighttime watering holes exist in a liminal plane of existence. Is the night over? Is this a stop on the road, or have we reached our destination and do we now prep for a homeward trajectory.

Has the night brought to a close some unfortunate altercation that is now sealed and bonded by an embrace?

Are we now enjoined enough with the spirit of release through our drinking that we can dance unbothered and lacking all shame or self-consciousness with a strange who has produced a boombox.

At the end of the night the walk to the parking lot by Ego Alley brings you to the water, where the lights dance on the water and the voices carry through the openness. No city buses rumbling, no cabs racing red lights. No office workers spilling in a deluge from office to bar to bar to bar endlessly before they flood a metro. There is a solitude and quiet here that encourages one to break it, however gently, and to revel in the minor, controlled chaos in the shattering.

Distillery

The Still

The still arrives in a wooden crate, wrapped in plastic. It is then fitted into place and connected to the boiler.

 Calibration

Once the still is in place, calibration begins—making sure the cooling hoses and temperature controls are in place and functioning.

 The Mural

Our tasting room needed some characters, so we hired the impressively talented Brittany Herbinko to make up a mural of the whiskey production process.

 Distillation

Once the still is ready and the tasting room decoration is done, the real work begins—turning grains into spirits.

 Barreling

Spirits distilled, now we place them into barrels for aging and finishing.

 Finished Product

After aging and finishing, it’s time to quality check and bottle.

The process can become repetitive and stressful—especially if someone won’t stop taking pictures of you.

 In Business

It all leads to this—open for business and serving up spirits.

At the Bottom of the Canyon

Ground Level Elevated

Exterior Domestics

Just a series of shots of various pets (both mine and others) who happen to find their way in front of my camera.

Lounging

Our domestic companions know how to relax.

In the Sky

Nature photography isn’t my primary focus, but every so often an animal crosses my lens and the shot ain’t bad.

The Small

The Slightly Less Small

Am I Doing Ok?

New to the World An Old Family Friend

She meets her father’s bear, and gets one of her own.

 Showtime

Aging up into a delightful troublemaker.

 A Girl for All Seasons

No reason not to be outdoors.

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