Nature writes in a kind of shorthand, at first glance it looks chaotic, but stay a little longer and a quiet rhythm appears. That’s what drew me to today’s set. I arranged the frames like a window so the textures can speak to each other: variety in every square, but a shared language across the whole.
Top left, a cluster of tiny fungi cling to rough bark like stacked coins. Their shapes feel random until you notice how they echo one another, ovals repeating, overlapping, stepping upward. Top right, the bark curls into a rosette, rings within rings, as if the tree once scribbled a spiral and never stopped. Bottom left, the orchid leaves cross like brushstrokes, each blade cutting a clean line through the tangle. And bottom right, lichen maps a continent of cracks and shorelines, a world inside a palm-sized surface.
I leaned into black and white for this series to strip away the distraction of color and let the structure do the talking. Pushing the contrast lifts the highlights on the fungi, deepens the creases in the bark, and gives the leaves a glossy edge. What seems random becomes readable—repetition, rhythm, and a hint of symmetry hiding in plain sight.
That’s the fun of photographing texture in nature. From one angle, everything is unique; shift a few inches and you start seeing the similarities. Patterns appear, then dissolve, then reappear in a new form. It keeps me curious, keeps me walking, and reminds me that there’s always more to notice if I take the time to look.
”To see in color is a delight for the eye, but to see in black and white is delight for the soul.”
~ Andri Cauldwell
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