I have not a slightest interest in taking pictures of other people's art, be it architecture, sculpture, decorative art, whatever, unless I can present it in a way the author has not intended it to be seen. This time I'd like to make an exception, because the author is our Mother Nature.
It was a quiet early morning. The beach was empty. Only a ghostly figure of a fisherman was barely visible faraway. Lazy, still sleepy waves sluggishly leaked the sand. I was ready to take a long jog along the water edge, when I noticed, my bare feet were right in the middle of an outstanding art work, created by the night waves with pieces of tiny seaweeds. The work, which Andy Goldsworthy would die for, was stretching along the beach as far as I could see. My plan for a pleasant jog was falling apart, as I just couldn't run over the masterpiece. My still half-sleepy mind shifted into a third gear: if I don't make a photograph of this now, an hour later, if not sooner, the masterwork will be gone. The waves, fed by a strong breeze, will lick it off. The vacationers with noisy kids will fill the beach and will destroy the rest of it. I ran back to the condo. The shooting session didn't take long. When I returned to the beach after breakfast, the gigantic seaweed version of a Hokusai drawing was gone. I have never seen anything like this since.
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