Crow Collection — Almost

I’d spent the whole morning combing the Dallas Arts District, working block by block from the zig-zag glass of the Winspear to the stony hush of St. Paul United Methodist. By noon the sun felt punitive, my shoulder was raw from twenty pounds of gear, and my truck in the lot across Flora Street looked like salvation. I’d already replayed my lunch order in my head when a tug in my peripheral vision stopped me cold.

Off to the right, the entrance to the Crow Collection of Asian Art — an opening I’d hurried past a dozen times — glowed in the reflected light of a neighboring tower. Stone lions guarded a terraced fountain; teak-trimmed pilasters drew an almost ceremonial frame. It became the last stop of the day only because fate had parked it next to my ride. Exhaustion argued, Keep walking. Instinct overruled. Tripod legs snapped open, the lens locked in, and I mapped a three-frame panorama — left, center, right — to catch every brick without bending the lines.

. . . If you’re going to do something,
do it now.
Conditions rarely wait.

Two exposures in, the viewfinder delivered a gut punch: a blue construction tarp drooped over the left-hand doorway, half-hidden behind the nearest lion. Perfect symmetry, sabotaged. I muttered curses to myself and finished the sequence anyway, telling myself it would serve as proof of concept.

Back home, Adobe Lightroom displayed the damage with clinical clarity — flawless on the right, wounded on the left. Desperation bred a mildly dishonest solution: move the image to Photoshop, mirror the pristine lion, flip it across the center, mask out the tarp, feather until even I had to squint to spot the fraud. The composite worked — barely — but the victory felt hollow, like forging a signature you know you could earn honestly if you’d only wait.

I promised myself I’d circle back, call the museum, arrange an after-hours reshoot — no tarp, no crowds, maybe even interior access. I never did. Life accelerated, new projects elbowed in, and the Crow slipped down the to-do list. The stitched, half-fictional image remains in my archive as a stubborn reminder: if you’re going to do something, do it now. Conditions rarely wait. Granite may endure, but tarps, scaffolds, and “closed for renovation” signs appear without warning and linger just long enough to poison a perfect frame.

Yet the file teaches a softer corollary, too: sometimes, even when you think you’ve missed the moment, there’s still something worth saving. Symmetry gave me a loophole; Photoshop gave me a lifeline. The picture isn’t flawless, but it’s proof that a compromised scene can still yield a photograph — and a lesson — worth keeping.

Next time I round that corner, the truck can wait.

When have you “almost” missed a moment — yet managed to salvage something meaningful?

— Lawrence

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