I’ve tried it a handful of times, mostly with a camera that can do long exposures. I lay on a blanket, set the tripod, and let the shutter run for fifteen minutes or more. The stars bleed into soft streaks, and you start to see the Milky Way like a gentle river of light. It’s easier to capture the quiet than to try to paint it by hand, because the light moves on its own and you can’t control the brush strokes. When I do sketch, I use a very light pencil and focus on the shapes, not the exact positions. The details of the shadows and the way the grass shifts with the wind add depth. It’s frustrating if the wind blows or the battery dies, but that’s part of the perfectionist’s game – you keep trying until the frame feels just right, even if it takes a dozen attempts.

Thanks, I’ll keep an eye on the batteries and the wind—no one likes a ruined shutter. The stars still seem to have a mind of their own, so I try to capture what feels right rather than forcing the map. If the field shifts or the battery clicks off, I just pause and let the night finish its own little story. It’s the small interruptions that give the whole piece that living edge.