A bouquet of red, white and blue artificial flowers contrasts with the eroded sculpture of a child named Georgie. The weathered grave marker tells us that this child died many years ago – the cemetery itself dates back to 1838. The image asks us to consider the donor of those flowers. Is this child still remembered by family descendants? Or is the poignant memory of a life cut short cause enough for strangers to pay such tribute?

This was among the most expressive grave markers I found at Green-Wood. The patience conveyed by the position of the arms, combined by the upraised face, suggests a sense wistful longing. The sculpted figure sits atop the grave of a man – could this represent the mourning wife or daughter that he left behind? I framed the sculpture in foliage, both living and dead, bringing the life cycle of nature itself to bear upon this figure from another time.

I photographed in Green-Wood as its colors were changing. The metaphor of dying leaves in this vast city of 500,000 departed souls was always foremost in mind. In this image, hundreds of yellowing leaves already cling to the masses of still green branches that fill the entire background. The branches rhythmically repeat the flow of the bent arm and pointing finger of the sculptured classical figure rising before them. I framed the image to create scale contrast between the statue and the trees in the background.

The 60-acre estate of John and Mabel Ringling embraces a 30,000 square foot garden, along with museums housing the Ringling’s art collection and circus memorabilia. A feature of this garden is a stand of 13 historic Banyan trees, surrounding a bronze statue of a Grecian figure holding a vessel in its arms. The statue’s green patina, and the rich green color of the high grass, contrasts to the golden brown root structures of the surrounding Banyan trees. Together they create a feeling of tranquility that expresses the essence of the estate itself.

Just as the figurehead in the preceding image, this urn was created to bring a Mediterranean touch to the massive gardens of Vizcaya. These gardens are among the best examples of Italian garden design and architecture in the United States, and were created to reflect Miami’s subtropical climate. I use soft reflected light to define this classical stone urn, one of the many decorative features that make Vizcaya’s gardens so distinctive. This urn is an antique from Sicily, and probably dates back to the 17th century.

A fourteen foot high sculpture cast from solid aluminum blocks and mounted on a bronze pedestal now stands at the intersection of Rodeo Drive and Dayton Way in Beverly Hills – a visual gateway to one of the world’s most upscale shopping street. Commissioned by the Rodeo Drive Committee and presented to the City of Beverly Hills, the sculpture was created by Robert Graham in 2003, and is known simply as “Torso.” Graham’s sculpture is an abstracted body of a woman, without a head, arms, or legs. In this image, I take the liberty of abstracting it photographically as well, cropping the statue from thigh to chest and shooting it from behind. Rather that describe the statue or the street, my abstraction emphasizes the way light and shadow play on the aluminum surface of the statue. I include a cropped palm tree in the background to give retain a bit of California context. By simplifying the image to this extent, I intend to express the elegance of both the sculpture and it’s setting to viewers, and allow their own imaginations to take it from there.

The Los Angeles community of Beverly Hills is one of the most upscale neighborhoods in the world. At its urban center runs the shopping street of Rodeo Drive, dominated by the presence of a princely hotel known as the Beverly Wilshire. Two marble fountains face each other at the entrance to this hotel, featuring symbolic marble masks of kingly creatures. They should be spewing water, but have been converted instead to lush planters. I moved in with a wideangle lens to emphasize the flow of vegetation pouring out of one of the marble masks. The cascade of leaves glistens in the reflected light, abstracting much of the marble from which it flows. The contrast between the well-watered greenery and the handsome marble sculpture speaks of wealth, power, and money, all of which are in evidence on Rodeo Drive.

This ornate monument, constructed for the Barcelona World’s Fair in 1888, towers almost 200 feet over the city’s harbor. It marks the spot where Columbus returned to Spain after his first voyage to the Americas. At the top, a statue of Columbus points out to sea. I photograph the base of the column, where four winged victories take flight towards the four corners of the world, above paired griffins. I link the movement of the statues to the delicate clouds that float in the background, as well as to a smaller sculpture on the top of a nearby building.

This tomb is intended to memorialize, yet time has eroded its stone figure, creating a haunting vision of death itself. I converted it to a black and white image, removing all traces of life, and intensifying the coarseness of the slumbering figure upon its gravel bed. The railings that enclose it symbolize containment – the figure seems locked in its place forever.

The huge metal sculpture of “Love,” by Robert Indiana, naturally attracts children because of its interactivity. I return to this park often, and photograph children making it their own secret place. In this image, one child has wrapped herself within the letter “E,” while at the same moment a toddler is led away by its mother in the background.

View my additional images of this sculpture at: http://www.pbase.com/pnd1/image/23370264 , http://www.pbase.com/pnd1/image/23370265 , http://www.pbase.com/pnd1/image/124556248 ,

http://www.pbase.com/pnd1/image/134800705 , http://www.pbase.com/pnd1/image/134802625

Robert Indian's "Love" has appeared in many forms and languages. In 1973, it was featured on a US postage stamp. There are 17 versions of this sculpture in the US, and 17 others around the world. You see the list of locations at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Love_sculptures

This image expresses both the passage of time and the notion that death can become a part of life itself. The old tomb is cracked and scarred by the elements, while the grasses and leaves of nature slowly encroach upon the slab and flourish upon its surface. Even the crumpled piece of trash tells a story – the grave, and the person within, are essentially lost to time.

While many of my fellow-cruise passengers headed to the lovely beaches of Barbados for the day, I spent several hours shooting in two of Bridgetown’s oldest cemeteries. It seemed strikingly incongruous to me that after photographing many monuments more than 200 years old, one of the more recent headstones (2006) was already lopsided and sinking into the earth. I contrasted it to its upright neighbor, and the softly focused fence slowly toppling over in the background.

This wreathed horse’s head decorates the façade of what once was George S. Bowdoin’s early 20th century private stable in mid-town Manhattan. Today, this one-time Dutch revival carriage house is a multi-cultural center for Spanish and American art. I shifted my vantage point here to frame a long vine on its diagonal path across the frame, its green leaves echoing the circle of stone leaves around the horse’s head. The resulting contrast between leaves of stone and real leaves energizes the image.

It the custom to honor the memory of veterans of America’s past wars by placing flags next to their grave markers. These particular flags commemorate the service of soldiers who fought in the American Revolution, more than 230 years ago. More than 75 colonial soldiers – many of them killed at the nearby Battle of Bennington – rest here, along with several British and Hessian soldiers. The passage of time and the work of nature have brought a greenish tint to many of these stones. The crisp red, white, and blue flags here pose a great contrast in color to the old, softly focused stones. The flag at left seems to bow in respect to those who rest below these old gravestones.

Standing in a park adjacent to Santa Fe’s historic St. Francis Cathedral, a fairly recent monument depicts the relationship of the soldiers, priests, and farmers that settled Santa Fe 400 years ago.

The figures tell the story of the town’s early history, and by relating its bronze figures to the lush greenery in the background, this image seems to make the monument about to come to life.

This grave is in exactly the opposite condition as the one in the previous image. ( http://www.pbase.com/image/125665797). I made both images in the same cemetery within five minutes of each other. The man who is buried below this toppled and cracked stone died at age 43. He mined for gold, and his wealth paid for a handsome stone, replete with a carved angel. His stone now lies among the weeds, yet the wooden enclosure around the gravesite incongruously remains upright, and while peeling, it has obviously been maintained over the years. Yet the cracked marble slab seems ghostly in its abandonment – almost as if it was the lid of a coffin.

This bronze rider seems to become a note of music as he rides into a background of overhead power lines against a flaming violet sky. We would often pass him as we walked down Kiev’s Shevchenka Avenue near our hotel, and every night the song would be a different one as the sky changed its colors.

The passage of time, and perhaps a nudge or two from a mindless vandal, has dislodged an entire set of family headstones deep within this vast cemetery overlooking the city of Montreal. The dappled light and litany of first names add a mournful dimension. The domino effect of these fallen monuments is both incongruous and rich in symbolism. The members of this family seem to be reunited in death, closer to each now than ever before.

I moved in on the head of this statue to stress the raindrops that cover its surface. Although fearsome in its demeanor, the huge beast seems to be weeping here. It is one of two statues that flank the back entrance of a mansion once belonging to the Crane Plumbing family.

The 32 acre Jacksonville Cemetery is a Victorian treasure, its gravestones often echoing the sadness of untimely deaths. I was drawn to the shining star and open gate on Myra Simpkins’ stone, which also notes that her “bridal song and burial hymn were sung in one short year.” Her stone was brighter than the others around it, which fade here into the darkness of time itself.

A bronze angel, its wings and arms spread wide, rises out of the trees on one of the many hills that shore up the old mining town of Bisbee. The sculptor has the angel looking down, possibly to locate its potential customers. I was drawn to the colors and textures of both the bronze and the trees – they seem to feed on each other here. The trees provide energy for the angel, and the angel enjoys the protection they afford her.

This image of a World War I soldier with bayonet at the ready, was painted on the cinder block wall of the American Legion Post’s building, along with figures of soldiers from other wars. I moved in on the figure, and echoed it's “L” shaped form by comparing it to the “L” shaped form of the wall itself, and the softly focused steps beyond. I remove all traces of color by converting the image to black and white, abstracting the soldier and the steps and stressing instead the play of light on the roughly textured wall that now divides the image. Both walls and wars divide us, and I use the rough, stark nature of this wall as a symbol of the nature of war – a painful, divisive and costly barrier. A memorial tribute to soldiers of the past becomes, through my own lens, an image questioning the validity of war itself as a means for settling our differences.

The sharply focused trees provide a layer of symbolic reality to the softly focused ornamental façade in the background. By placing the façade, with its reflective windows and its decorative classical statue in soft focus, I suggest a dream like memory of New York’s past. The bare trees imply the inexorable march of seasons that stretch into years – years that bring constant change to the city, yet that past still somehow endures.

A string of flags leads to the statue of Tunisian poet Abu Kassim Chebbi. I photographed in this statue in backlight, and played it against a cloudscape in the background. It is difficult to make an image of poetry, yet I feel that this photograph expresses a poetic feeling of its own. The abstracted figure of Chebbi and the beautiful pattern of the late afternoon clouds seem to fit each other well.

Death is part of life, and I weave the strands of both life and death together in this image. This gravestone, a slab resting upon the top of a tomb, plays host to vegetation that flourishes and perishes along with the seasons. I use color to define the line between life and death here. The rich green of the living plants, the reddish brown of dead vegetation, and the words memorializing the dead who lie beneath the slab, are inextricably linked here. Within the letters of those words rest fragments of red decay, adding still another layer of symbolic meaning to this image.

A huge bronze statue of Ho Chi Minh, painted in silver, dominates the waterfront of Can Tho. At night it becomes a beacon that can be seen from blocks away. I made this photograph from the window of my hotel room. Many travel photographers enjoy making pictures at night, using tripods, small apertures and long time exposures. To make such images expressive, however, there needs to be some degree of abstraction, incongruity, or human values present. In this image, the fact that Ho Chi Minh is silver – an unusual color for a public statue – makes it incongruous. The lights on the roofs of the buildings in the distance add context and Vietnamese atmosphere to the scene. Since I do not carry a tripod on my travels, and had to make use of the windowsill for stability, I could not use a small aperture and long time exposure for this image. Instead, I used my zoom lens at its widest aperture, selected my full telephoto reach of 420mm, and employed a slow, but not long, shutter speed of 1/8th of a second. There is still enough depth of focus here to include both Ho Chi Minh, who was a block away, and the buildings well behind him.

After making this photo, I made some experimental photographs of light in motion, zooming my lens while the shutter was open. To see the result, click on the thumbnail below.

I returned again and again over a three-day period to this garden behind a Denver art gallery. Each time, the light told a different story. In this image, shadows engulf the nude sculpture and its immediate surroundings. Yet the brick wall of an adjacent building turns flame red in the late evening sun. The sculpture is surrounded in lush, living greenery, yet the fiery brick wall behind it suggests the opposite. I use a vertical frame and a wideangle focal length to lead into the subject. It has come so far, and can go no further – its gesture asks for directions. But none will come.

Architect Bernard Maybeck designed this lavish structure for the 1915 Panama Pacific Exposition. It was built as a temporary wood and plaster structure. When the exposition closed, money was raised to duplicate the building with permanent materials, but the process took 40 years. In the 1960s, philanthropist Walter S. Johnson led a drive the rescue the crumbling palace from demolition, and in 1975 it was presented as gift to the people of San Francisco. The classical beauty of Maybeck’s vision is still fresh in this photograph. I used indirect reflected light on this image as well. I emphasized the figures closest to the lens, forcing them to flow into the smaller figures behind them. The towering urns in the background give an overall sense of scale to the massive structure.

The graves of a husband and wife rest on a hillside above the distant highway. Someone has taken the time and effort to border both graves with stones. In a way, these borders are more of memorial than the headstones themselves. They show that someone still cares. I made this image with a 28mm wideangle lens, shooting straight into a sun setting beyond the distant hills. A few seconds after I made this photograph, it was dark and we left the occupants of these graves to rest in peace.

While walking the perimeter of the gardens that surround that old railroad hotel, I was struck by the play of light on this saintly sculpture set within a niche in the garden wall.

No doubt Mary Colter, the famed architect who designed La Posada in 1928, noticed the play of light here as well. I spent about fifteen minutes photographing the sculpture from various angles, and found this slightly off to one side vantage point worked most expressively for me. The spirit of the saint, in the form of a shadow, leaves the body and fills the illuminated wall of the niche. Colter’s graceful arch encloses both sculpture and shadow. The stones that radiate from the arch echo the rays of the sun itself. I photograph more than a statue here. I photograph its relationship to light, shadow, and architecture, and imply its meaning – spirituality -- in the process.

The most fascinating aspect of this multi-generation memorial in Naha's Asahigaoka Park is the deterioration of the portraits. Water has worked its way into the frames, forcing the faces to struggle for recognition through a haze of oxidation. Memorials and tombs have always represented mankind’s plea for remembrance, yet nature eventually intervenes, as it does here. I've made a similar image to this one, featuring a photograph on a tombstone in Zagreb, Croatia. While the subject matter is essentially the same, the point of the image is entirely different because the pictures on this Okinawan tombstone are gradually fading from view, while the photo on the Croatian gravestone is strikingly vivid and life like. (See http://www.pbase.com/image/50093459 , to compare images.)

His king has been dead for centuries; yet he seems to spring from the earth, knowledge in hand, ready to advise. The contrast between the green circles of bushes, the field of grass, and the forest of live trees and the serene but stained and crumbling figure are strikingly symbolic. Nature renews itself, but royalty does not. Kings come and go, but nature remains around forever. This is one of the many figures that flank the entrance to the Mausoleum where 300 former rulers of Guilin are buried.

Ignacio Allende, who led San Miguel’s town-folk in rebellion against their Spanish rulers in 1810, perished in the effort, but in the process, he had his name appended to the name of the town. I photographed this statue of Allende as a close-up because it was contained in a screen of wire mesh. It is actually a protective device, but it can also represent a young man seemingly trapped in a web of intrigue and politics. The incongruity of a statue caught in such a web creates a statement based on human values.

Someone had left a bouquet of artificial flowers just to the side of this gravestone. I noticed that the shape of the bouquet followed the posture of the grieving angel on the stone. I moved my vantage point until the bouquet fit tightly against the figure on the stone, echoing its flow. The flowers symbolize life, the grieving angel represents death, and the two become opposite sides of the same coin. I expose on the flowers, allowing the figure of the angel to recede into the shadows.

These soot covered goddesses holding gilded horns have graced the façade of this ornate guild house for the last 300 years. I spot-metered the vividly colored flag (probably a banner of a trade association) and allowed the statues, façade, and dramatically reflective windows to go dark. The building is a historical treasure, and should look as old as it is, while the flag appears to be brand new – symbolizing the dynamic present.

The medieval bishops of Bruges all seem to relax with a good book in death, at least according to the marble effigies that top their tombs. This one is in the Church of Our Lady, which took 200 years to build. I further aged this image in the post processing stage by darkening it, adding a slightly grainy texture, and giving the cold marble a touch of sepia warmth. My goal is to express the idea that this Bishop has been sleeping in this position for a very long time now.

On Khone Island, we visited remnants of the French attempt to build a railroad linking various islands in the Mekong River. The effort failed, and today little is left but a bridge and some rusting equipment. Historical relics such as this rusting boiler are also monuments of sorts. This old boiler represented the aspirations of another country, and as such is not honored but instead left to decay. I found a vantage point where the foliage seemed to overwhelm the rusting equipment and used the shade to create a mood that reflected the neglect. It is said that “history is written by those who win.” The French were driven from Southeast Asia, their dreams of empire shattered forever. This is how they are remembered in this corner of Laos.

When I visit a city or place, I search for small things that can mean a lot. Dublin is full of monuments, particularly those honoring its famous authors and poets such as James Joyce, Oscar Wilde and W. B. Yeats. Yet in an obscure corner of the city’s beautiful St. Stephen’s Green, I found this modest Art Nouveau memorial sculpture almost hidden from view by a cluster of bushes. In style and form, the nostalgic Art Nouveau movement flourished at the end of the 19th century – a time when all of the above Irish authors and poets were enlightening the world. Using the lens on my Leica Digilux 2 to record maximum image quality and stress the subtle detail in both metal and stone, I worked with soft, indirect light to bring out the beauty and meaning of that time and relate it to this place. Softly dappled sunlight was barely sifting through the surrounding trees, but it produced a sublime, understated glow, softly illuminating this memorial sculpture, and expressing, at least to me, the essence of what Dublin once had been, just over 100 years ago. Do you agree? If so, or if not, please leave your comments, questions, or criticisms below. I’ll respond, and we’ll all benefit from the discussion. Thanks.

On the surface, this looks like a very familiar cliché. It is, after all, just picture of a statue of a long dead authority figure seated before his old domain. However we must evaluate an image based on what it says, not what it shows. And the more we look at this photo, the more it speaks to us. The ghostly grey color of this man of marble, contrasted to the austere brown building that soars behind him, suggests that we are looking a ghost. And that is why I made this picture. Ghosts are spirits from the past. I am sure the 19th century Irish academicians who placed the Provost before this building did not have ghosts on their mind. Yet by my choice of angle, the flat nature of the light, the grey coloration I have chosen to bring to the marble, I have created a story-telling image suggesting that his spirit may still roam the haunted halls of this old school.

Archbishop Fonseca III founded Fonseca College in Santiago in the 16th century. To offer viewers a good sense of this place, as well as the Archbishop himself, I integrate a section of the cloister with a part of the statue. This image is as much about light and color as it is about things. Once again, a spot meter allows me to expose for the brightest part of the picture – the center part of the cloister itself. Everything else in the image becomes underexposed – the left side of the cloister, the bush and the statue. Because of these dark shadows, the cloister and statue look old, very old. That is how I wanted this image to feel. We are encouraged to study the image, looking at its now subdued detail. We see a small sculpture of a turbaned figure on the cloister, no doubt a reference to the Moors who once ruled here. A Latin inscription streams cross the top of the picture. I carefully adjusted my camera position to allow the elbow of the Archbishop to just touch the column of the Cloister. He becomes a part of it. His body language is exquisite – hunched over, deep in thought, perfect reactions for a man with great responsibilities – and ambitions. By using almost a quarter of the picture for that bush, I was able to also to stress the contrast between yesterday and today – the greenery flourishes amidst the old stones and metal around it.

O'Connell Street is at the very heart of The Republic of Ireland's capital. Splitting it right down the middle is The Dublin Spire, the tallest structure in the city. Popularly known as "The Spike," the structure is the world's tallest sculpture. It was completed in 2003, replacing Lord Nelson's Pillar, which was blown up by the IRA. The Spire was a highly controversial project, primarily because of its four million Euro cost, and its lack of a viewing platform. Yet many Dubliners feel that it has the potential to become Ireland's version of the Eiffel Tower. I symbolize this controversy by dramatically slicing the picture into two parts. The barrel distortion of the 24mm wideangle converter lens on my Canon G5 also helps make this point by tilting the buildings towards the spire, almost as if the different sides of the street were arguing with each other

A spectacular sculpture of Big Jim Larkin, founder of the Irish Labor Party, stirs the clouds from its pedestal in the middle of Dublin's O'Connell Street. Instead of recording the appearance of the statue from the front, as most photographers would do, I saw this statue as a symbol of an appeal to a higher authority. I moved behind the statue, backlighting it, and placed my spot meter on the brightest portion of the cloud. Larkin and the distractions of downtown Dublin – traffic, pedestrians, and the trees that frame the statue, all are abstracted into black shadows. The image becomes a symbol of a symbol. Instead of a describing a statue of an Irish labor leader, I attempt to create a metaphor for man’s futile efforts to control his own destiny. We may beg and plead and shout at the heavens all we want, but in the end it will still rain on our parade.

The Rossio Square is to Lisbon what Trafalgar Square is to London. It is the nerve center of the city. The square is home to the Rossio Rail Station, the National Theatre, two huge fountains with multiple sculptures, and a towering column topped by a figure of Dom Pedro IV, the fist emperor of independent Brazil. There are far too many monuments for ten pictures, let alone one. I chose one small statue to sum up the grandeur of the place – an angelic water nymph in one of the squares massive fountains. This image is intimate, rather than all encompassing. Her eyes are lifelike, and gaze intense. Yet this image is also incongruous. Instead of flesh, we see calcium stained metal on her face and chest, at odds with the smooth classical beauty of her features. I position the hands and arm of the sculpture in the lower right hand corner, tilting the camera so that the head flows into the upper left hand corner, creating diagonal tension and energy. My goal is to express the beauty and flamboyance of another time, because that is exactly what Lisbon’s Rossio Square is all about. By choosing part of just one monument to represent all of them, I make use of abstraction to best tell this story.

The Se is Lisbon's great Cathedral. Built in 1150, it holds many tombs within its solid Romanesque walls. Among them is this striking marble sarcophagus of Lopo Fernandes Pacheco, companion in arms to Portugal's King Alfonso IV. Sword in hand and a dog at his feet, Pacheco fought alongside of Alfonso at the Battle of Salado, turning back the final invasion of the Moors in 1340, not far from Gibraltar. To make this more than a literal postcard shot, I moved in with my 24mm wideangle converter, deliberately distorting the image by making the hands on the sword and scabbard larger than the head. Most photographers would have probably backed up and included the entire sarcophagus, giving equal to all parts of it. Yet this man, who has been dead for almost 700 years, was a fighter, and that is why he is still remembered. My interpretation of this tomb rests in who this man was, not what the tomb itself looks like.

(Subsequent comments by Jen Zhou and Marek Warno have convinced me that there is really an element of futility in this scene. As such, black and white offers a stronger form than golden marble to cloak this darker story. And so I have converted this image to black and white. Your comments are welcomed.)

Crowned by its medieval abbey, Mont St. Michel rises from a small, quasi-island, separated by one kilometer of waves from the mainland at high tide. A village, established in the Middle Ages, grew up below its fortified walls. Its ramparts and location repelled all assaults and the Mount became a symbol of French national identity. Mont St. Michel is now the second most popular tourist draw in France, topped only by Paris. Most visitors prefer photographs showing Mont. St. Michel as it seems to rise from the sea at high tide. That kind of photograph may capture its unique appearance, but it doesn’t tell you what it feels like to actually be there. My photographic goal was to give my viewers a medieval experience by capturing it’s feeling instead of its appearance. This image is my solution. I focused on a splash of dappled sunlight as it skimmed over the thousand year old stones in the interior of the Abbey’s Church. This interior is vast, dark, cold, and spartan -- very much as it must have looked and felt during the middle ages. I focused my spot meter on the brightest part of the light as it played across those stones, and the room went virtually black, with only the play of the brightest sunlight on a few of the church’s stones still visible to the camera. I know that I am taking a chance with this picture. Many people would probably prefer to actually see what the inside of that church actually looks like. But description is not my purpose. Expression is. I chose to interpret the church as an experience honed down to a highly abstracted glow of light representing a thousand years of spirituality. Some have told me that if they squint their eyes, they can even see the shape of a cross within this glowing area. That was not intentional. If people want to see such symbols, they can, and they will. I had simply hoped to characterize the essence the Mont. St. Michel experience by showing less and saying more. I hope this picture, as well as entire gallery, has helped you appreciate how to express more meaning through your own travel images of monuments, statues, tombs, and historical sites. If I’ve been able to help you do this with the examples in this gallery, I’d welcome your posted comments and questions. And if I haven’t, be sure to post a critique, with any suggestions you may be able to offer for improvement. Either way, I’d enjoy hearing from you. I’d be delighted to respond.