A cyclist crosses a small iron-railed bridge in Munich’s English Garden, blurred in motion against a wall of autumn gold. Weeping willows hang over both banks, and the last of the morning mist lifts off the water below, lit by the same yellow light as the trees.
This was the third frame of that October morning, about forty minutes after sunrise. The light that had barely touched the weir less than an hour earlier now came low and straight through the leaves behind the bridge. I framed the span in the gap between the willows, where the color burned brightest, and waited for the park to cross it. A fiftieth of a second was slow enough to soften the rider into a shape against the railing’s scrollwork and fast enough to keep the bridge sharp. The garden belonged to its regulars again, each of them on the way into the day.
