In the glass facades of corporate office buildings, I photographed the reflections of other such buildings, which festoon Houston, TX.
To produce these images, I converted the originally color photographs into black-and-white, then boosted contrast. From these, I created line pictures (with what is called *edge* in my software, using a "Roberts" transformation), which I then converted into negatives, whose contrast I adjusted to bring out the building's structure. The resulting lines, I then tinted to taste, often choosing zany colors to contrast with the humorlessness of these edifices.
Here's an unusually clear demonstration of the technique. The lines of the mirroring building form a crystalline lattice, which the reflection of the other building then plays off of, disturbing the lattice, usually with lines that are curved and that I have colored differently.
By zooming in on one pane of glass, I dispensed with the lattice in the mirroring building and gained another view of one mirrored.
The mirrored building has become unrecognizable as a building, it approaches pure pattern -- without, I sure hope, becoming *merely* abstract, bloodless, flat. An instrument dependent on incoming light can yield an image insistently suggestive.
The large sheets of glass are uneven in ways that distort consistently any lines reflected in them.
The window frames make for the lattice. The large sheets of glass, each distorted differently, vary the patterns within the frames. This portfolio, like some others, follows a strategy of matrix and variations.
Although this pattern seems pure, disconnected from visual experience, I find it hard to resist seeing it as something that I could see, indeed have often seen: a waterfall. What force pushes me toward this particular? Why bring what's imaginative down to earth? Why resist it, though? After all, seeing it as a waterfall is a leap of metaphor, and such jumps are usually enjoyable.
The former Enron building provided the mirror here.