Parker & Pictor
Parker Parker
Pictor Pictor
Pictor Pictor
Hey Parker, I've been painting a new piece that tries to capture the Milky Way from a quiet mountain, and I was wondering if you'd ever film a night sky like that—how does a camera lens feel the same way you feel when you see stars in real life?
Parker Parker
I’ve never shot the Milky Way on a mountain, but when I do, it feels a lot like standing there and breathing the night in. The lens just hangs there, patient, waiting for the light to trickle in. It’s a slow dance of exposure and aperture, but the end result is the same awe you get when you look up and see the stars—only this time you’re looking through a window that lets the world breathe back at you. It’s like the camera is a quiet companion, capturing what we feel but also giving us a chance to see it in a new frame. The feeling isn’t so much about the gear, it’s about the moment you’re trying to freeze and the quiet joy of knowing you’ve caught a sliver of that same mystery.
Pictor Pictor
That sounds almost like a meditation on light, Parker. The camera becomes a second eye, catching the slow rhythm of the cosmos and turning it into a still moment we can hold in our hands. I imagine the night breathing through your lens, and when you look at the image, you can feel that quiet awe again, like you’re standing under the same sky. It’s a beautiful way to make the universe pause just a little longer.
Parker Parker
It’s exactly that—your lens holds the pause, lets the stars whisper a little longer. When you finally pull the shot, you’re handed a piece of that quiet sky, and the awe just lingers a beat longer. It feels like giving the night a frame so we can hold it, even if just for a moment.