Aurora Burgh-ealis: Reflections in Concrete
The sky usually is the spectacle on its own, but Wednesday night, even with the promise of the Aurora Borealis making a grand appearance, it stayed quiet and let the city do the glowing instead.
The clouds hung thick over Pittsburgh, swallowing anything that might have happened above them. In their place, the streetlights illuminated the pavement. Gold and quiet, soft and steady. I went out with my camera, hoping that the sky dance would give me the backdrop I so desperately needed to refuel the creative spark that drives my personal photography.
With all of the different parts of my life competing for my attention lately, it has been difficult to find time to go out and chase any of the forecasted solar storms over the last few months, especially given the unpredictability of their appearance. But this night was supposed to be different. Every news outlet, every social media post, every weather app notification lighting up my phone insisted the sky was likely to put on a show. The only thing I had to worry about was cloud cover, and I know that’s something that can change at a moment’s notice and might even be what makes the photo stand out.
That’s the thing, though. It’s never just what’s on the surface. Sometimes it’s what’s on the other side of the clouds, or what is reflected in the rivers. The ripples, the debris, the distortion that makes the picture human. That one image, that one moment in time, frozen forever, shows just how much more there truly is. Standing there, watching the soft light reflecting across the Allegheny, I realized it’s the same when you turn the lens inward. What we see first is never the whole story.
Photographers like me chase the obvious. In this case, that was the skyline ready to be backlit by colors we don’t usually see in the sky, but the real images we seek actually form in the quiet places we need to slow down enough to notice. The way a bridge hums under your feet. The rhythmic ambience of a city alive with purpose. The expressions on the faces of people who are truly immersed in their moments. And in those split seconds when everything lines up and the shutter clicks, time stops forever. It’s there that a photo or a song or a painting becomes art. It’s there that the obvious that we chase meets hidden realities. It’s there that we find real meaning. And it’s there that I always try and point my camera.
The aurora never showed, at least for me. The sky kept its secrets. But the city answered anyway. The halogen glow of the streetlights spilled across the streets, shaping a scene I never would’ve noticed if I’d stayed home waiting on something extraordinary. It was a reminder that sometimes beauty isn’t the spectacle you hope for. It’s what’s been there all along, steady and patient, waiting for you to look harder.
I know that this photo may seem a bit mundane and matter of fact. Maybe that’s the point. Some things are meant to be felt, not seen. Reflected, not defined. And maybe that’s exactly how it should be. The point is I felt this photo in that moment. It reminded me of photos I took years ago when my urban photography was finding its stride. Is it my life’s work encapsulated? Nope. But it’s a reminder to me that I see things in my own way, and that is what makes my creations truly unique.
Despite the lack of sky show that night, Pittsburgh gave the universe its own aurora, and it felt like the world paused just long enough to show me what I’d forgotten to look for.
