I like winter, I really do. No one ever seems to believe me. I think it's because I grew up in Chicago, where winter requires a heightened state of being, where to dally could mean frostbite or worse. Winter is a time of activity, hurried steps and places of warmth and deepest cold. I miss those winter days, and these photos my father took a few weeks ago really take me back.
My appreciation for austerity was born here, on the leafless, barren planes, interupted by empty parks and endlessly tall buildings that fade into the overcast sky. Even popular places become like ruins in winter:
Even silly buildings look sedate in the cold. To touch the titanium skin of Gehry's bandshell would stick your hand to the spot:
Winter is one of the few things I miss. The people of New England are proud of their winters, and by extension their endurance in surviving them, but winter in New England is but a mild Spring in the Midwest. I miss the real thing.
And I think my dad's pictures are beautiful.