golden hour.
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golden hour.

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The sun’s beginning to lazily drift down in Saint Paul de Vence when my tour guide casually mentions that Marc Chagall is buried here, in this unassuming French medieval town 12km west of Nice. We’re standing on the parapets of the walls, gazing down at the cemetery, and she happens to point down at a plot where a man and a woman are standing, holding something in their hands. “That’s his grave,” she says, and then sees my expression. “Do you want to… go see it?”
—
It’s a simple grave. There are no visible signs at the front of the cemetery, nothing here to signify that one of the greatest artists of the 20th century was laid to rest here at the age of 98. Chagall was a giant of European Modernism, with his work heavily influenced by Jewish traditions.
Born in Belarus to a traditional Jewish family, Chagall was witness to almost a century of world events: the Russian Revolution (and the end of the tsars), two World Wars, and the Cold War. During WWII, he went into exile in the U.S., before returning to Paris in 1948 and then to the Riviera in 1949.
In 1966, Chagall and his wife built and settled down in a house in Saint-Paul’s countryside. Here, he worked on his commissions, unwound and painted visual odes to love: couples set against blue skies, surrounded by birds and flowers. He remained here until his death in 1985. To give you an idea of how respected he was, his funeral consisted of a handful of family members, close friends, and diplomats of three nations (the Soviet Union, France, and Israel).
It is not hard to imagine why he might have wanted to stay, at the very end, in a place that gave him such joy—overlooking the Mediterranean, listening to the birdsong at dusk, the sweet scent of spring flowers lingering in the air.
—
Chagall’s tomb, as part of Russian and Jewish tradition, is scattered with small stones. For a moment, it feels like we are holding our breath in the face of such history. It is one thing to know everything Chagall did and painted and made, but it is another momentous, heavy thing, to then come to his grave and look at all the lives he touched and changed and impacted, represented in small pebbles. A rather fitting symbol of the permanence of legacy and memory for such a giant of an artist.
New York sunsets

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冬日莫愁湖
Winter Scenery of Mochou Lake, Nanjing City, China
Snow treks out in Central Park. Narnia comes to visit every year.
Tucked away on Eldridge Street in Chinatown is the Eldridge Street Synagogue, one of the first synagogues erected in the U.S. by Eastern European Jews. It was originally built in 1887, and until the mid-20th century, it was a declaration of the Jewish community’s religious freedom, serving over a million immigrants in the neighbourhood known as the most “crowded place on earth.”
The synagogue has some fascinating architectural details: It incorporates Moorish arches, 67 stained glass windows, a Gothic rose window, and Romanesque masonry. Today, it’s been restored and designated a National Historic Landmark.
“Name one thing you think you’re really good at.” “Easy. Taking photos with shallow depth of field.” “...What?”
anyway we went for a nature hike, it was lovely.
Snow on a screen makes for a very satisfying snowy effect.

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Bird-watching in Croton on Harmon.
Throwing food photography into this mix, why not. My parents and I made kuih bangkit over break, a Malaysian cookie that we usually eat around the festive holidays of Chinese New Year or Hari Raya. Kuih bangkit is a coconut cream cookie, and if my Malay serves me at all, ‘bangkit’ means ‘to rise’, whereas ‘kuih’ just denotes any small treat— could be cakes, biscuits, if it’s bite-sized it goes.
Anyway, making kuih bangkit is no joke—we had to toast pandan leaves to give the flour a nice warm flavour, then knead the dough, then pack it into these moulds, then figure out how to knock the moulds out, and after all of that, the cookies STILL CAME OUT CRACKED. You know the saying—try, try again.
Golden hour sunset in Coyote Creek, San Jose. (No coyotes were spotted.)
First snow of the 2018 winter season today. Manhattan and Queens look very good in the snow.
Autumn in Central Park, part 1.

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Been missing for a while since I was moving and looking for new flats! But I’m slowly coming back. Took a stroll in Greenpoint’s Newtown Creek Nature Walk, and it was a nice little break from the concreteness of the city.
The walk is about a quarter mile long and you can take it yourself and walk along the waterfront! As you walk, you can read the many plaques scattered on the route, which tell you about the native trees that were planted here, from mint to horsetail plants. It’ll even give you some context as to what might have grown here when Native American peoples still live in the area. It’s pretty cool, and doesn’t take too long at all.
In New York City, life moves fast. And so do the cars.