FIELD. marco dadone, Sigma fp and 105 mm f1.4 Art
We live in the countryside, between hills and mountains.
My father owned the big corn field,
I owned friends and -when I was lucky- used to spend my days with the smiling girls from the village nearby.
Until he disappeared.
Nothing left of my father, except the field.
It seemed that anything, here, would have been the same again.
I was desperate, then that man came, one evening when the sun was about to die,
to knock on the tiny house I shared with my father just beside the field.
"Now You'll have to look at the field,
You're a big boy, help the corn grow with this seeds.
I was Your father's friend, this is my gift to You."
I planted the seeds,
and the field that had been left in a bad way,
came back more green and healthy than ever.
The young cobs were yellow as the sun,
wrapped in leaves greener than every forest I ever saw.
The work was much, every plant had its need;
soon that become my only road.
The village nearby seemed far and far away, the more my field grew up.
I saw friends no more,
and not many girls for me in the middle of the cobs.
I was always thinking of my wide field,
as the season went on and the first mists came from the mountains.
And how beautiful were the evenings.
I just stared, after a hard day of work, listening to the wind through the plants,
I felt it, a cradle for my very own thoughts.
Then into my hut, now sorrounded by millions of cobs,
I only think about my field, all nights long,
while the more cold winds begins to knock at the rotten windows.
No time to repair anything, the field needs constant attention.
Then a special evening came, after days of clouds
and it was deeper than the others
so I felt the field was ready.
I went
and stood in the middle all night long
until a sort of day came.
Corn fields are like a maze.
With the first lights into that maze I woke up.
In company of someone
calling me
between the silent flies waiting on the long corn leaves.
As I felt its voice and sight on me, I knew the field was the only friend of mine.
I am now in the middle of the field
it tells me what to do,
that I don't have to go to the village again,
it looks after me
and I
stay
with my field.
---------
ALL PHOTOGRAPHS WITH
SIGMA fp
and SIGMA 105mm f1.4 Art.
TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THIS BOKEH MASTER LENS:
SIGMA GLOBAL 105 mm f1.4 DG HSM ART (Click HERE)
Per l'Italia SIGMA by
Mtrading srl - Sigma Foto Italia - (CLICK HERE)
into the white lands - marco dadone -
I left with the blood of sprigtime dawns
and passed by the deception of summer
I cried with the last leaves
and talked with the skeleton trees
I walked the line between seasons
like a cut in the skin
then with the first snow,
I entered the wood
my path cleared and my sight deeper
as the wihiteness came
and slow flakes landed on my black hat.
I went on in my big boots
until I felt my nose no more
into things dissolving without a shadow
this meadow of cold air
owns a blessed silence
I'm a jigsaw
parts of me are made by snow
the creacking of the branches
that robin with round eyes
are happiness
so my forest has changed
I'm with her
unraveling.
All shots with SIGMA SD1 Merrill
with SIGMA 135 mm Art,
SIGMA 28 mm Art,
SIGMA 24-105 Art
and SIGMA 8-16
in north west Italy.
by marco dadone
the day we were stones - sigma fp - marco dadone
What kind of storm was that?
It came from the west after that summer without winds
First like thin hair on the sky
then like heavy clouds reflecting patterns on the sea
The waves become silver blades,
soon everything was mixed and we were caught inside.
It took away our eyes,
It took away our skin, our nails,
our thoughts.
-----
It took away ourselves.
And happened silently
on the night after the storm
Amongst that unnatural blue,
unnatural things happened.
The shy turtle who uses to swim into the moonlight,
was kept in by that night,
as a somehow different being
While the big sun on the following morning,
competed the game.
We were turned into stones.
First was the monk, who never used to sleep.
then all the people in the village square,
hit by a new sun, astonished.
and as the day turned in white and turquoise,
the curious childs were staring at that new life
the gentle damsel came out
and so did the guys on the boat
even the seals
and with them, without distictions,
the dumb of the village
and the thin wise man
and, for last, the boy who was fishing on the rocks
-----
But then,
after a very stange moonlit night
on the following dawn
the sky we used to know was back,
the green sea did return
Suddenly, as it came it went away,
we were stones no more.
And everyting was like before.
We, as after a nightmare,
had all back our skin, our nails, our eyes,
Our thoughts.
Ourselves.
And stones returned to be just those pebbles we use to walk on
between the earth and the waves,
we did forget everything.
We forget easily.
Except for the lovers.
You can still look at them, by the beach.
But that’s another story,
as they choose eternity.
__________________________
PHOTOGRAPHS and words BY MARCO DADONE
- Sigma Ambassador Italy -
USING
SIGMA FP
WITH WIGMA 105 mm ART
and SIGMA 40 mm ART.
(and Sigma SDQH on the blue night photos,
with Sigma 28 mm Art)
........
STONE BALANCING
by artist DANTE BARBAGALLO
------
shot in Liguria, Italy, autumn 2020.
to see the camera I used, click here:
SIGMA FP the smallest full frame camera by SIGMA
per SIGMA ITALIA m-trading, click here:
me on facebook:
the wooden spider
The wooden spider
shot with SIGMA dp3 Quattro,
the SIGMA fp and
expecially the bokeh master SIGMA 105 mm, f1.4 DG HSM Art
dp3Q
fp
105mm f1.4 Art
--------
LINK to the SIGMA 105 mm Art:
LINK to SIGMA ITALIA:
CLICK HERE (Mtrading - Sigma Foto Italia - )
Van Gogh's garden
marco dadone - realized with SIGMA fp and 40 mm Art -
These dawns
with the sun rays pervading the dark green of the olive trees
turning into gold the yellow blades
full of millions of white little snails,
were painted by a solitary man during his walks before the daylight
Between dried poppies
and strange creatures from the hotness of summer,
Vincent Van Gogh came here
at first hardly able to talk,
a heart full of sorrow and a soul full of visions,
stayed one year and slowly began,
again,
to paint,
to unravel the essence of things
to see the unseen
He spent there 53 week from the 8th of May, 1889, and painted 150 works of art
which means:
one,
every two or three days.
“the emotions that take hold on me in the face of nature go as far as fainting,
and then the result is a fortnight during which I am incapable of working”
(from a letter to Albert Aurier, 9 february 1890)
And at the end of his provencal time he would write to his sister:
“I worked like a madman”.
Once he began again to paint
he couldn't stop anymore:
life, grief, pain, joy, was all in there.
It's coming there at the end of July
- as I did -
that You can feel the heart of Vincent Van Gogh beating
outside Saint Rémy de Provence,
where the fields begin in front of the peaks of the Alpilles.
That’s where Vincent is still walking
brush in one hand
canvas on this shoulders
swept on his forehead
infinity in his eyes
He worked so deeply that now,
being here,
everything seems real just and only to the extent that it reflects his paintings.
And it’s so strange to wait for the sun to appear through the trees…
You’d expect that it could come out just made of oil paint,
to place itself amongst the rapid brushstrokes of the trees and the sky.
I discovered that it's here that under the tears of a wind called mistral,
the leaves of the sycamore trees are shaken
in the absolute blue,
as in a dream
and the cicades sing endlessy
on the branches and stems
like a mantra from other dimensions
I discovered that it’s here that the sight turns more intimate
and slides through shapes and time:
there’s a road
to follow
into the nowherelands of the golden fields,
where all paths bring elsewhere
and the unnaturally enhanced colors take men hostage
in their territories.
I went there.
and in the middle of the wheat field
I paced my easel
and tried to paint,
until the sun pervaded my senses,
my longtime friend the crow.
That was until I realize that this is the land where men become their paintings.
So, without a sound, I turned
It had been easy then,
as a blue and black bird
through the corridors of the sky
to begin again my search,
first in the tiny streets of Saint-Remy, between sun and shadows
then into the old monastery of Saint Paul de Mausole and its asylum.
Well the main door was locked,
but crows know other ways.
I went inside from a tiny window
and stopped on the floor
where Vincent himself walked on while going out in the fields,
like an early morning thief,
to steal the eternity on a canvas
and in a vertigo fever,
searching for more shadow relief for my shining new feathers
I entered the little church.
I saw the chair there,
behind the corner
the single one submerged in yellow light
a little apart from the others
where Vincent used to pray,
and still does from time to time
Then upstairs,
his room
I knew that to see beyond
is a strange gift
it can make a soul explode.
But as Provence in summer is something between a place and a vision,
use that chance,
try to find a little of those sparks and
dream, Your own way, always,
and more than ever, if Your heart bleeds.
....
One last thing:
take a stroll along the asylum,
towards the lavender little field and then
until You'll meet the half-dried sunflower,
which seems like it’s about to speak... he is,
and that is what he would tell You:
“in every shade
behind the simple shapes
around a reflection
beside those shadows
whenever You see something more
that is Van Gogh’s garden”.
And, dont' shoot at the crows.
-----------------
Shot in Saint Rémy de Provence, end of July 2020
using
SIGMA fp
with
SIGMA 40 mm f1.4 Art.
by marco dadone
