Pamela Goodyer is recognized for her mastery of light, composition, and emotion, and this piece exemplifies her distinctive vision. Through careful attention to every element, she has created an image that resonates with depth and nuance. The photograph reflects her technical precision and artistic sensibility, making it a striking addition to any discerning collector’s collection.
Limited to fifty prints, in her favorites collection, Goodyer’s has a deep connection to this piece; despite photographing in the cold and darkness, she dedicated hours to perfecting every element until the image expressed an emotion both powerful and enduring. In this one-of-a-kind photograph, the innovation, imagination, and meticulous artistry are evident in every detail, making it an unparalleled addition to any discerning collector’s home.
THE STORY BEHIND THE ART
By Pamela Goodyer
I returned to the Bayonne Bridge as if fulfilling a covenant made with myself in another life. Earlier, I had consulted tide charts—the waters had retreated enough that the pylons emerged like the metacarpals of a tentacled hand reaching through clandestine silk. This place lived in me already: each approach, each shadow cataloged, each angle of light memorized.
I sought that liminal silence that only reveals itself in the mathematics of long exposure. The boats would come—they always did—pinpricks of existence persuading luminous threads across the water’s skin and etch light trails that burn into the image.
Yet as I stood there, breath clouding before me, something transcended my calculations. The universe contracted to this single point of witness, this sliver of existence.
Contemplating above me in awe, the Bayonne Bridge: a steel colossus suspended against the May night, its presence both dividing and adhering worlds. I stood beneath it, where the park gives way to the apartments, in that widening gap that seems to measure our solitude.
How strange that a structure of such magnitude could make the world feel small while simultaneously expanding something inside me. I became aware of time’s elasticity—how a moment can expand until chronology loses meaning.
The city’s vibration entered me not through my ears but through some deeper faculty, as if the concrete and steel and water were transmitting messages through the ancient pathways of bone and blood and memories past.
Even now, I cannot fully recover it: that moment when I was both utterly present and somehow dissolved, holding something as profound and ordinary as starlight traveling ninety-three million miles to die in my open hands.
