top of page


Brinson Leigh Kresge
shoots with morgan.
![]() relent shoot. | ![]() laundry shoot |
---|---|
![]() garage shoot | ![]() subway shoot. |
![]() fleeting show | ![]() fleeting shoot |
![]() relent shoot | ![]() relent shoot |
![]() relent shoot | ![]() relent shoot |
![]() relent shoot | ![]() relent shoot |
![]() relent shoot | ![]() relent shoot |
![]() relent shoot | ![]() relent shoot |
![]() relent shoot | ![]() relent shoot |
![]() relent shoot | ![]() relent shoot |
![]() in the fishbowl shoot morgan won a photography award for this photo. | ![]() fleeting show |
![]() fleeting show | ![]() fleeting show |
![]() laundry shoot | ![]() laundry shoot |
![]() laundry shoot | ![]() laundry shoot |
![]() laundry shoot | ![]() laundry shoot |
![]() subway shoot | ![]() street shoot |
![]() in the fishbowl shoot | ![]() sparkler shoot |
![]() garage shoot |
mix-medium explorations.
![]() | ![]() |
---|---|
![]() | ![]() |
![]() | ![]() |
![]() | ![]() |
![]() | ![]() |
![]() | ![]() |
![]() | ![]() |
![]() | ![]() |
![]() | ![]() |
looking in from a distance.
(a story as seen through a keyhole and framed in poetry)
![]() Distanced by blue, barely mountains, | ![]() a lone house sits on a lone hill, where quiet shuffles in stiffly, like starched arms walking through a day-before's motions. |
---|---|
![]() It sits for tea, for time for tea; it sits (but without a creak in the chair). | ![]() It sits and waits for it's break, to be as a teacup breaks on wood, unexpected and hollow in its leaving of wholeness. |
![]() As quiet waits its turn to turn, | ![]() the evening sifts colors in the sky, |
![]() pushing slides, projected through a peeling wood window, then further sectioned frames; an open hole, blowing cream and curtain lace, (but soundlessly so), | ![]() and so, like so, seasons change and clouds change and winds change |
![]() and even change changes into something new that someone, somewhere, knew better than to expect. | ![]() The "expect" in the turning of hours, to be marked by a great grandfather clock, |
![]() …ticked by a grandfather clock, | ![]() tolled by all grandfather clocks. |
![]() The swing of brass behind glass, reflecting the chair, where, once quiet sat (in this room with windows) | ![]() and waited, as sound waits now, thick, in the tick tick tick of a moving hand. |
![]() If a young woman were to stand here, in a long, sloping, red-beaded, backless dress, perhaps a soft yellowing flower in her strong, burnt-brown hair; | ![]() if she were to turn from the clocks facing (where she studies her flower's framing), |
![]() she would eye a room spun in spurts, stuttering out a scene, but seen in continuum, | ![]() and she would perceive something's amiss. But, as she cannot see the song she learned as a child, learned in summer's full sway under the spark of fireflies between stars (the faint whisper of a creek creeping through mossy air) |
![]() like she cannot see that song, | ![]() having never seen it, she still knows it to be gone. |
![]() Or she would that is, | ![]() if this woman was in this house, on a dull, green hill bullied by barely mountains. |
![]() In this room, | ![]() with a grandfather clock and a wood chair on a wood floor, |
![]() framed by windows framing fleeing skies. | ![]() In her lack, a man takes the floor, he strides quarter boards with the tick tick tick, |
![]() of a clicking heel, of his steel-toed boots. | ![]() He is an old man (give him your father's name if that would make you uncomfortable enough to care), |
![]() he who has been here before. | ![]() As he sits, the chair creaks to meet his mass. |
![]() His sips cooled tea steeped in seawater, | ![]() until sips end give spin to a shadowed play, |
![]() a swirl, as if wind in a porcelain sky, | ![]() grains to ground, |
![]() a mound with swollen leaves as trees. | ![]() This man, (the name you know), he knows this place, placed within his cup, left by the wisdom of his own lips. |
![]() He stands, stills the clock, studies the mountain's breathless rise and sink. | ![]() (In the crux of the cup, a figure slips by). |
bottom of page