Tag: #introVisual

For this assignment, we had to choose a “bad” photo. I made something that seemed unfocused or just not quite right, and turned it into something more intentional. I picked a photo of a zooming motion-blurred hallway. At first glance, it’s nothing too special. The image is blurry and there’s no clear subject to focus on. But that’s kind of why it works. Hallways are the spaces we pass through without really seeing. In that way, they’re just as much a part of everyday life as anything else. You walk through them on your way to the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom. Sometimes you stop there without knowing why. You were in your bedroom and remembered you had to do something real quick. You proceed to step out into the hallway just to then stop and pause. Huh? What was I doing again?

After I added the vintage effect, the hallway took on a sort of dazed quality. The colors got warmer but not in a comforting way… more like the way things look when you’ve been staring at them too long without blinking. I kept the text simple: “the mess can wait. healing can’t be rushed.” It’s not meant to be dramatic, just something a person might think to themselves as they pause without knowing why. The hallway doesn’t really seem to lead to anywhere, as it just exists, stretched and blurred like your brain when you’re overloaded and trying to remember what you got up for in the first place. That blur wasn’t planned, but it started to feel intentional the longer I looked at it.

I didn’t think much about it at first as it just looked like a mistake. But over time, it started to feel like the blur was doing something on purpose. It softened the hallway, made it feel less like a place and more like a feeling. I found this article that talks about how blur in photography can symbolize uncertainty, memory, or even emotional weight. That made me think differently about what I’d captured and the significance of blur if I had taken a motion-blurred image for my photo blitz. Maybe the blur isn’t just visual noise; it can be part of the image that makes it feel real, like a moment you’re trying to hold onto, even as it slips away. The blur could be symbolism for forgetfulness. That’s what I like about this assignment as it gave me an opportunity to let imperfections speak.

I think that’s what makes the photo work, even if it’s technically a bad one. It doesn’t say anything directly, but it sort of captures the blur of being in motion all the time: mentally, physically, and how sometimes you just stop in the middle of it, blank. And maybe that pause is where things quietly start to heal. Not because you figured it all out, but because you allowed yourself a second to stand still. No answers, just space.

For this assignment, I was asked to take a photo of a common everyday object and then manipulate the colors to tell a different kind of story. I chose a piece of wall art that hangs in my home. It’s this print of koi fishes swimming among the rocks and autumn leaves, art that I pass by almost every day without really thinking about it. That’s kind of the point I guess. Wall art is one of those things that fades into the background once it’s been hanging long enough. It’s become part of routine, almost invisible. But once I started paying attention to it, it didn’t feel invisible anymore. It felt like something that had more to say, especially when I began to shift the color palette. By choosing this object, I wanted to see if something quiet and ordinary could take on a new meaning, perhaps hinting at something deeper hiding beneath the surface.

At first glance, it just looks like a colorful, slightly surreal painting of koi fish and floating leaves. Something you’d expect to see hanging in a hallway or maybe a living room. That’s why I chose it. Wall art is one of those everyday objects most people stop noticing after a while. But I thought maybe if I shifted its colors, giving it some artificial edits, it could take on a new meaning. I wasn’t trying to make it loud and drastic or anything. Just… unsettling enough to make someone pause.

After messing around with the colors, the koi don’t really look alive anymore. Their purples and icy blues kind of make them feel unnatural, like they’ve been touched by something they weren’t supposed to. And the leaves too. They used to feel calm. Now they’re green and shadowed in a weird way, not natural at all. It’s like they’re fluorescent or maybe like they’ve absorbed something from the water that changed them. If you look closer at the cracks in the rocks, there’s dirt building up in them. I didn’t add that part. It was already there. But after changing the tones, it suddenly stood out more, like the pollution wasn’t just color… like it was hiding in the texture all along.

I guess that’s what I wanted to say with this, that pollution doesn’t always make itself loud and clear. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s already there, just beneath the surface, and we don’t notice because we’ve gotten used to how things look. But color has this way of shifting the story. And even something as ordinary as a painting on a wall can hold a different meaning if we’re willing to look twice. I also started thinking about what koi fish usually symbolize, things like perseverance, transformation, and resilience. I found this article that looks at how koi show up in Chinese and Japanese art and culture and it helped me see the contrast between their usual meaning and how I reinterpreted them here. It kind of deepened the message with how even symbols of strength can be slowly altered by their surroundings, especially when something harmful goes unnoticed for too long.

Let’s say I was in a quiet little town tucked into the hills. The kind where you hear wind before cars and there’s this hardware store that is still using handwritten labels! I’d wandered out after breakfast, coffee still in hand, and ended up behind an old restaurant with chipped paint and a few crooked parking signs. I wasn’t aiming for anything in particular, just walking. That’s when I saw this odd little post tucked in some gravel and weeds. It looked like it meant business! … even if there wasn’t anyone around to enforce it. Something about how serious it looked in such an empty lot made me stop. So I took a picture. I liked the contrast; how the world can be so quiet yet so dramatic at the same time.

The original sign said “DO NOT LEAVE THIS PARKING LOT WITHOUT YOUR CAR (CARS WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER’S EXPENSE),” but I chose to look at it a different way, “DO NOT LEAVE THIS PARKING LOT.” The phrase on its own feels weirdly forceful. Like… it’s not about parking anymore, but about control. Almost like life itself is standing there with crossed arms saying, “Hey. Don’t even think about going anywhere.” Perhaps, if I treated it as life advice, maybe it’s a reminder not to bail on my responsibilities, not to leave a place or situation before you’ve done what you came to do. Or perhaps it’s the opposite–warning not to stay stuck in the same place just because you’re scared to leave. It’s funny how chopping off a few words can flip meaning completely.

Hm… this was an interesting creative challenge now that I think about it. We’re so used to reading signs without thinking, but if you isolate part of some text, suddenly it feels poetic or unsettling or just strange. It makes me want to pay closer attention when I walk past signs or labels and play with them for a bit, like they’re unintentional metaphorical messages hiding in plain sight. They show that meaning isn’t what it seems. It’s built by what we different individuals see in it and what we take away from it.

This whole experience reminded me that even the most ordinary things like a parking sign can become part of a story if you look at them differently. I came across this piece on traditional signwriting and creative lettering, and it made me think about how much intention goes into the way signs are made, even when they seem purely for functional purposes. Whether it’s letters painted by hand or bold block fonts, signs are designed to be noticed. But when we crop them, reframe them, or just read them out of context like for this challenge, they start to feel more like poetry than instruction. That shift from directing to reflective is what made this assignment so unexpectedly fun.

My Quiet Dream House

I spent some time today looking through Zillow, just scrolling without really expecting to find anything that felt right. Most of the homes I saw looked too big, too polished, or just not for me. But then I came across 1430 Antrim Street in Salem, Virginia and it felt different. It’s nothing flashy. Just a small three-bedroom, one-bath home with about 950 square feet, but it feels like a place that’s waiting quietly for someone to make it their own. The outside is simple and painted in a soft red-neutral tone and the yard looks manageable. Enough space to breathe but not enough to feel overwhelmed trying to keep up with it.

I decided to put an old-time filter on the house photo I saved and when I saw it in those faded tones, it felt almost like looking at a memory rather than a Zillow listing. Almost like it was a home someone had lived in for decades and loved quietly with its own quiet history. I imagined myself stumbling upon this house decades from now, finding it on a quiet street during a road trip I took by myself when I needed space to think. I parked my car out front and stepped into the yard just to sit for a moment. The grass felt dry beneath my shoes. The sun was out but not too harsh, and the wind moved through the trees. I took this filtered photo to remember the house as it was that day. I think that’s what I want in a home, not just something new and modern, but something that feels settled with calmness already soaked into its walls. The house was built in 1966 after all.

What I liked about this house wasn’t just how it looked but the feeling it gave me when I imagined living there. I could see myself setting my guitar against the wall by the window letting in some soft morning light when I wake up. I could see making coffee early when the world is still half-asleep and watching the sunrise from the kitchen window before starting the day. There’s something calming about this place. I think a house like that would let me focus more on the small routines that keep me grounded rather than worrying about luxurious spendings, filling up empty, unused rooms just for the sake of it. This is better for my self-development in my opinion.

I also tried putting a sketch filter on the house photo. Seeing it sketched out like that made it feel less like something for sale and more like a simple idea of home. Almost like when we were kids and drew houses the same way every time: That triangle roof, a door in the middle, and windows with little crosses in them. There was something so innocent about it. It reminded me that at the end of the day, most people just want a place that feels safe and honest, with nothing too grand. Just a place that feels like it’s yours without needing to prove anything. That’s how this house felt in sketch form. Quiet and sure of itself.

Thinking about the community around it made me like it even more. Salem sits right at the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Salem is part of the Roanoke Valley which lies “in the heart of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains”, and has easy access to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Even though it’s a small city, you still feel surrounded by nature. There’s Roanoke College nearby which brings a bit of energy and life into the area without making it feel crowded. They actively host and partner with the local community through cultural events, service, and education. Places like Longwood Park and Lake Spring are close if I ever want to sit outside and just think for a while. The Roanoke River Greenway runs through town too which means there are trails to walk or bike without cars zooming past you the whole time. And from what I’ve read, it seems like the kind of place where people actually show up for local events, small baseball games, or community fairs. That’s what made me heart this house. Not just the clean layout or calming atmosphere, but the thought that if I lived there, I’d have room to grow at my own pace without feeling rushed by the world around me.