The New Street Photographer's ManifestoFebruary 7, 2013/by techgnotic
Street photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson called it the “decisive moment”— the captured instant when all the photograph’s elements come together to tell a story in a way a text narrative of thousands of words could never begin to. It is what hooks people, both practitioners and advocate-devotees, on the art form. It is uniquely completely immersive in life— step out into the streets— in which the moment of artistic epiphany can never be guessed at until it suddenly happens. When it is properly mastered, it is as pure as the dawn of each new day, as true as the living organism of a teeming street scene catching a breath as one.
It's no easy task to pull a book together for publication and "The New Street Pho
LoveHe cannot wait forLove4 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
Her words of tenderness and
Grace: so patiently
He will sit near the gateway.
Still, it cannot change she's dead.
To all the photography lovers out there.Have a look at this short selection of Leonard Freed's New York City Police work (1972-1979).To all the photography lovers out there.2 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
And do not forget to keep browsing through magnumphotos.com, where you find gems like these below.
Nyc67213 by noperson
Pax11292 by noperson
Time for God We are so busy with life , that we can hardly find time for God. But its not the question of finding time for God.Time for God1 year ago in Philosophical More Like This
God gives us life for each day. He gives it generously, so that we may live it fruitfully in HIM. And we on our part, hardly spare any time for God.
God gives us a full measure for each day and HE expect us to return it in full( our fruitful work ).And the only way we can do this, is by doing our work in the awareness of HIS presence- by living each moment in God.
This is the duty of each moment - to live in the presence of God, believing that God-is-with-us.
Broken Glass and Fake Smiles"Momma...don't cry. I still love you, Momma." Glittering eyes, olive green, and wide with a mix of fear and uncertainty, look up from under brown bangs, overgrown like the tangled weeds in the front yard.Broken Glass and Fake Smiles5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Chubby fingers, with nails lined in dirt, desperately try to brush back the hair that's matted to his mother's face with her own blood. Tears have carried rivers of her cheap eyeliner across the premature wrinkles in her face, and she tries to hide her eyes from her worried son. "Just go play, Nathan." Her hands lash out, and she chokes out the words, and he's pushed from his protective place beside her bed, landing on the hardwood with a thump.
Tears welling in his round eyes, he stands and heads for the door, "I love you, Momma. I promise." He whispers, brows pulled together, as he stands at the door, taking in her shuddering frame, knees pulled to her chest, and face shrouded in a mess of hair and shame.
Their empty apartment seems to ring with her sobs, as he slinks away from her,
NinjutsuNinja artsNinjutsu9 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
1) Shadow clone Jutsu
Ram, Serpent, Tiger
3) Lightning Blade
Ox, Hare, Monkey
Serpent, Boar, Ram, Hare, Dog, Rat,
Bird, Horse, Serpent
1) Fire Ball Jutsu
Serpent, Ram, Monkey, Boar, Horse, Tiger
2) Phoenix Flower Jutsu
Rat, Tiger, Dog, Ox, Hare, Tiger
3) Dragon Flame Jutsu
Boar, Dragon, Hare, Tiger
1) Water Prison
Ram, Horse, Hare, Ram, Horse, Hare
2) Water Dragon Jutsu
Ox, Hare, Rat, Boar, Bird, Ox,
Horse, Bird, Rat, Tiger, Dog, Tiger,
Serpent, Hare, Ram, Serpent, Boar, Ram,
Rat, Ox, Monkey, Bird, Dog, Rat,
Boar, Dog, Monkey, Bird, Dragon, Bird,
Ox, Horse, Ram, Bird (0.0) (That's one long ass jutsu)
3) Water Vortex
Tiger, Ox, Monkey, Hare, Rat, Boar,
Bird, Monkey, Bird, Rat, Ox, Horse,
Dog, Boar, Monkey
Boar, Dog, Bird, Monkey, Ram
Boar, Dog, Bird, Dog, Ram
Shallow WaterIt was just a little kiddie pool in the backyard, unlovely pink-and-yellow plastic under the hot summer sun. But on those nights when Mom came home from the swing shift tired and met Daddy sitting in the kitchen angry, it was Amy’s only sanctuary.Shallow Water3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She wasn’t a sound sleeper. Her parents still talked about how it had taken her infant self six months to sleep more than two or three hours at a time. During the school year, when her life was full of classes and friends and sports, it was easier to drop off, but summer nights were always more difficult. They were hotter, for one thing, and the long, indolent, inactive days often left her feeling too tired to sleep.
But mostly, it was because her parents had their arguments at night, right when Mom got back from the station. Daddy would send Amy to bed -- or at least her room, to pretend to sleep -- hours before. Then he would wait, sitting at the kitchen table and facing the door like a judge, hands folded in front of him
Another lifetimeAnother lifetimeAnother lifetime3 years ago in Sketches More Like This
The final battle was at its highest point and Hermione was running faster than she ever though she could, Bellatrix was chasing her and throwing curses at her.
She rounded a corner, and tried to hid herself but Bellatrix was right after her and she threw a crusiatuscurse at her and her eyesight blinked and she hit the floor and all her mind could register was pain, enormous pain.
She heard someone yelling the killing curse and her brain told her that this was it; she was going to die, right her, right now. her eyes was shut and she felt something brush her cheek, her eyes fluttered open and met sad silvery eyes staring down at her. Was she in heaven?
One moment later she recognized the eyes, and her environment was slowly being registered in her brain, she was in danger.
She could not move, her body being heavy and powerless, he picked her up and sneaked up towards the Ravenclaw tower, on the way he found an empty classroom and pulled her in and looked the door and put
To The One That Martyred HerThe Little Matchgirl to Hans Christian Andersen:To The One That Martyred Her4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You sent me a vision of
A feast I could not have
What is a word for
A god with no mercy?
I should have used my matches
To burn the city down
For Some Reason I Think HomeHe staggered to the ruins, soaked with sweat. Blood dripped into his eyes in crimson rivulets. It was over. He was home now. Fatigue and nostalgia meshed together in a haze of memories and reality. The thick clouds above him blurring and molding together into a dreary gray sky matched his mood.For Some Reason I Think Home3 years ago in Sketches More Like This
How long had it been since he had seen this place: Weeks, months, ages? He ran his hand over the remains of a house wall. The craggy mortar and soft moss beneath his fingers seemed strange. Had this been his home? The toppled chimney behind him was growing a wild garden in the fireplace. Was this really home?
It had been a long journey, there and back again. He had fought and even loved it at times. He had the scars to prove it. He squeezed his arm tighter. More blood seeped through his fingers. The last battle that plagued him was finally over. Disapproval was the only thing that had spared him. The dense air popped his ears, muffling everything but his thoughts.
He ground his teeth at the memo
hauntingly broken , she plays music.The cold air greets me like an old friend, chilling me to my very core. My skin prickles as the foreign gusts settle deep into it. I put on your sweater that hangs by the bedpost – I wrap the blanket tighter around me and it instantly reminds me of your warmth. I miss it – I miss you. I remember that you’d walk close to me – an arm flung around my shoulders – and I’d always – always flick it off – but, you’d simply put it back – because you knew how I thought I warranted that attention – you knew how it was a ploy.hauntingly broken , she plays music.2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Some days I wonder why you put up with me – why you put up with my constant craving for important – my childish need to feel wanted – to feel special.
It feels so utterly foolish now – every little detail of our life – of our clockwork, mundane schedule. I dulled you out so disgustingly – wasted you away till you were nothing but a mere
Shield of the LionThis life is a waging warShield of the Lion1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
The fires rage in the streets.
Exposed day by day and in the eve of the night
The fires rage in our souls.
O Lion of Judah; you are the shield I carry.
You are the fire that breathes into my heart
And the breath that wakes me with refreshment.
O Lion of Judah; my heart raises your banner in my heart.
This war will end one day and you will reign
And your banners will be raised in your righteous eyes.
Lion of Judah; you are the shield I carry
And the battle cry I sing with the halls of my heart.
O Lion of Judah; roar in my heart!
You are the fire that will never burn out and my heart bows to you!
My heart forever sings to you the victor!
O King, I your servant and you go with me into the eve of battle!
You my shield and my refuge
I stand victorious in you.
O Lion of Judah; no battle and no war will defeat me
You are with me wherever I go.
OC Kursura InfoOC Kursura Info3 months ago in Profiles More Like This
Kursura (Boy) - age: 26 - Colour: Blue (#006699), Hair colour near black(#1E1E1E)
He can control an unusual omnipresent energy power. He siphons it out of the air around him and then uses it as required.
The energy is very dangerous when condensed and will disintegrate almost anything at the epicenter. It's also unstable and can't be primed for an attack for very long.
Theirs a number of different techniques Kursura can use the energy for including:
-Shockwaves and blasts at close range
-Projectiles, beams and waves of energy over long range
-Healing injuries (Passively over time and actively)
-Enhancing physical attacks (Faster or generating blasts usually)
High burst speed-
Kursura isn't that quick usually but can initiate tremendous bursts of speed for a move or series of moves. These need to be spaced out but can be done often.
He can attack while doing this too which can be devastating. He can withstand the impacts easily even as su
Religion and Computers 2005Religion and Computers 200511 years ago in Humor More Like This
Christianity is Linux
Countless versions exist, with most of them sharing common ideals. Founded on the principle that any person can modify the code in any way they see fit and present it as a competing product. This has resulted in countless distributions vying for space on hard disks. In the West, there has been a drive to reduce the effort needed to install Linux in order to increase its user base. Derived from Unix. Not as popular in English-speaking countries as the developers would like, but spreading fast in the developing world. The decision by American and Canadian Linux distributors to allow homosexuals to contribute to the source code has caused uproar among traditionalists. They insist that while Linus Torvald loves homosexuals, there's no way in hell he'd want them to go anywhere near the source code.
Judaism is Unix
Disciples of Unix can often be seen with large beards. Hard to understand and sometimes eccentric, the followers of this operating system claim
Why Spirit Day Is Not EnoughPrefaceWhy Spirit Day Is Not Enough4 years ago in Editorial More Like This
This essay was written in October of 2010 after DeviantART released this article supporting the Spirit Day movement to bring awareness to LGBT bullying.
I wrote it because there were so many comments on the official article that were defaming to one group or another that I felt the true issue had been lost in the rhetoric. The point of Spirit Day is to show solidarity and compassion for your fellow human beings. Not gay or straight or ill or handicapped - those categories don't matter. We're just humans, each flawed and each perfect. Spirit Day was an attempt to remind us of that.
I was confronted with two major arguments to this editorial in the original posting. One was that singling out LGBT suicides meant that I was putting more importance on that group than any other. For the purpose of the article, I suppose that's true. Spirit Day focused on LGBT issues, so the article (
Say My Name**Say My Name4 years ago in Romance More Like This
'Say my name and every color illuminates. We are shining and we will never be afraid again.' - Spectrum by Florence + The Machine
"Hermione, are you crazy?" Ron asked, grabbing her by the shoulders.
"No, Ronald, I am not!" she said, pulling away from him. "You believe me, right, Ginny?" Hermione asked, turning to the younger girl.
Ginny looked from Hermione to Ron and back to Hermione. "Uhmm I suppose we will just have to find out," Ginny answered, shrugging.
Ron groaned and threw his hands in the air. "But, Hermione, its Malfoy!"
"I know. I've been dating him for six months now! Can't you just get over it?"
"She has a point, mate," Harry said, joining the conversation. "The rest of us have. I think it's time you do too."
Ron huffed. "What's so special about him, Hermione?"
"Well," she started, "He's funny, sweet, caring"
"Not to mention gorgeous!" Ginny added.
"Well yeah, that too. He makes me feel special, Ron. He loves all my quirks and everything about me. I
MemoryAnd after it all fell apart, you were still left to carve your memories where it counted most. You knew your mind would never make it's desicion, knew the hurtful words that people had said to you didn't matter.Memory4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
But it still did...
You always counted on other people to make you feel real, to take the pain away, kiss it up and plaster cheap band-aids on the scars, and often, they couldn't live up to your standards. You were left, pushing them away by your own choosing. And yet there you stood, questioning why they left.
They always said you'd get what you deserved...
One day, you promised, one day you said you were going to leave your impact on someone. Make them have something worth living for, someone to be proud of. Maybe even someone who would remember you later...
You only hoped they wouldn't acquire the same scars
HeavenThere they laid; her hair toussled and tangled. The chill of the room was becoming unbearable and he had all the blanket.Heaven4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Her head nuzzled into his shoulder, and he rolled over, smiling. Stroking gently, he moved her hair out of her eyes softly. "I like seeing your eyes," he teased, a small smirk moving onto his lips.
Her cheeks, of course, flushed, the reaction he knew would follow the simple tease.
"Did you know you're beautiful? He murmured, her eyes immediately leaving his. She would forever deny any compliment, any comment on her "outer beauty." It wasn't her, she claimed. She wasn't that pretty little water flower that everyone said she was, and she never would be and that was final. He smiled at the sound of the pout that was always in her voice when she went on her rant.
She shook her head, of course, rolling over to look away from him. Only forcing him to wrap his arm tightly around her waist, and kiss the base of her neck. "I promise. I wouldn't ever lie to y
Why I Laughed at His FuneralWas dull, as funeralsWhy I Laughed at His Funeral3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It was nothing I could help, the sound of it
left me. And in the moving crowd of black
around collars and scarves and
the formless grays of our town
, bowel movement of black,
broken by a laugh, then two, then
a whole cascade. Who is to say
I wasn’t mad from knowing the truth
or wanting to, not knowing enough?
Bobby Sweethouse died
throwing himself off the school roof.
His mother was the first to collect his remains,
ashamed almost to see
all the mess her boy had made.
Many of my friends had said,
he deserved this for being a queer,
or something along those lines, I’m sure
they could pull whatever they wanted
from a long checklist of things to say,
or spit, or hurl. Words, after all, like these
are pre-prepared, ahead of time.
It wasn’t his fault for being outted.
Or born here, where the cruel earth fought
to make flowers shoot from the ground
only to be crushed by the lightning of words,
sneers, and stares.
I’d like to think he wasn
InsanityThere was nothing wrong with you. You knew there wasn't. There was no reason for you to be in this white cell with only a clock.Insanity4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
You still weren't sure why there was a clock. You would be insane by the time you got out if all you had to stare at was that clock.
You sit back against the wall. Before, [when was that again?] when you had lived outside of this padded prison, you wanted to be an architect. Design houses that everyone wanted to live in, make warmth and happiness flourish through the walls of the canvas you had created.
You decided this room would be much better as a red, or maybe a purple.
Slowly, you closed your eyes. Maybe that would help with trying to ignore the damn sound coming from the blasphemous clock above your head. You realized after a long moment, your arms were killing you, they were begging for release from this confound jacket. So they thought you were going to hurt yourself...
A Series of DecisionsIn its methodology, photography can be reduced to a series of decisions which determine the exact characteristics of each photo. When conducting street photography, in particular, the opportunity to make these decisions is limited. The process begins slowly, with lots of time allowed for selecting gear, setting the camera, and so on. It then advances to a fast stage with little time for the photographer to react—the actual moment when the photograph is taken. This is followed by another slow stage after the decisive moment in which the photo can be edited and processed.A Series of Decisions2 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
This decision-making process can be broken down in order to minimize the decisions that must be made during the fleeting decisive moment. This, in turn, allows the photographer more time to make the two key decisions that remain in that moment: composition and timing.
Before You Shoot: Gear Selection
The first decision the photographer must make is which camera and lenses to take out of the bag. Gear select
A ParenthesisYou were (a parenthesis, that pausedA Parenthesis3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the daily, mundane stuff
a bundled breath
of fresh joy,
and borne in the wonder
Gasping and grasping,
'til in quiet you laid
and I, my Child,
lie in quiet, still
And now, that is all you are,
and still so much more.
There Is Love Tucked Behind My WingsI notice with a hesitant touch thatThere Is Love Tucked Behind My Wings3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the contours of his heart are
made of pollen and petals.
His words are folded inside.
A shudder of spring and antennae
I try to whisper hope into his leaves:
it will coax him from sleep.
Winter had swarmed him and all at once
the buzz in my heart ceased its
desire and became fixated
on the space between
being rooted and setting him free.
An Astronomical Love StoryEmmaline would tell anyone who listened that there was an entire universe inside of her head. There were galaxies in her eyes, and the stars in them were formed in the nebula of her brain. Her mouth was a quasar, surrounding a black hole that would completely consume anything that crossed its event horizon. No one would believe Emmaline, and most avoided her, but she was not lonely because she was a universe unto herself. She contained multitudes.An Astronomical Love Story4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
One day, Emmaline met a boy. "I see galaxies in your eyes," he told her. She opened her mouth, and the light of the quasar drew him in. By the time he realized he was in the grip of the black hole, he struggled, terrified, but he could not escape. For a moment, he felt both stretched and compressed and then *pop*. He was gone, but from Emmaline's perspective, he was there with her forever, slowly red-shifting toward the event horizon.
Here Is No WhyHere Is No Why3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The bus was late. In the four switches Ben had made so far, he had come to accept lateness as an unavoidable part of this mode of travel. The first three times, he had been irritated. Now, at a little after eleven at night, he really didn’t care. If the bus was at least running, he would be happy. Working air conditioning was a bonus. Timeliness was asking too much.
He wished he could call Mae again, even though he had just talked to her half an hour ago. It had been a little over two weeks since he had seen his fiancée, and hearing her voice helped ease his frustration. But it was late, and she had gone to bed. She would still answer, he knew, and talk as long as he needed, but he didn’t want to keep her up.
Instead, Ben just sat at the little station, staring almost listlessly into his paper coffee cup. He let his mind wander. Of all places, it went to the station’s seating arrangements.
The orange plastic chair wasn’t particularly comfortable, but