Aurora bore: trying to photograph the impossible
The sun flips its magnetic field every eleven years, creating potential for auroras - even if I can't seem to capture them
Every eleven years, the sun’s magnetic field reverses itself, in a process called the solar cycle. The north pole becomes the south pole as the star at the centre of our galaxy completes the biggest flip-reverse it since Blazin’ Squad.
Don’t be confused: this isn’t some kind of astrophysical Freaky Friday where everything’s upside-down for a day. But it does mean that when the sun is at the peak of its cycle, there are more eruptions and sun spots on its surface, which (as all attentive readers of NASA’s educational webpages for children will know) can increase the likelihood of auroras back home on Earth.
In pursuit of the northern lights
The aurora: it’s perhaps the second most-pursued photographic opportunity on the planet, just behind “pretending to push the Leaning Tower of Pisa upright” (or “Leonardo DiCaprio with a woman his own age”). And your humble author has failed—not once, but twice—at photographing this event. In two separate countries, no less.
Here it isn’t, in Iceland a few years ago. We went on our tenth anniversary and although we didn’t specifically go anywhere to see the northern lights, or go at a time when they were commonly seen, I think I half-expected to just stumble upon the winking green radiance when we rounded each bend. Everywhere else in the country was so unfairly beautiful and rugged that by this point of the holiday I was fully inured to the sensation of jealous appreciation of the natural wonders of the place.
But it wasn’t to be: the skies over Reykjavík was mainly populated with airplanes full of elderly American tourists complaining that it wasn’t as big as Alaska.
Aurora BOREealis
This brings me to last weekend. Our beloved sun, having “flipped out” for another eleven year cycle, was now emitting more spots and eruptions than a teenage boy the week before school prom. News websites warned us to expect the aurora, and I diligently read up on the best ways to see (and photograph) it.
Friday night arrived, and at 11.30pm I opened our bedroom curtains and craned my neck out of the window, briefly spotting my neighbour on the next street who seems to constantly be sitting using his toilet, silhouette unmistakable, whenever I look in the direction of his house. Ignoring the northern shite taking place to the left, I focused on the skies above me. Nothing at all to be seen.
I assumed that, like in Iceland, the aurora just wasn’t visible at this time of day, in this part of the country. I went to bed and thought no more of it.
When I woke up, though? AURORA FURYALIS. Everyone I’ve ever met, seemingly, had stayed up for thirty minutes longer than me and captured beautiful, life-alteringly profound photos of the aurora. I scrolled through my Instagram feed with growing irritation, assuming by the tenth photo that this was a joke at my expense by the entire universe.
I resolved to experience the aurora on Saturday night: it was predicted to be visible once more as the sun continued its coronal mass ejections (honestly, what a drama queen). Despite a 5am wake-up call with the kids, I stayed up until midnight and diligently trooped outside—security lights disabled—to observe nature at its most sublime.
I didn’t fucking see it. Nobody else did either, as I understand it. The show was over, folks. Come back in eleven years, when the sun’s magnetic field next decides to pirouette for our entertainment. I was gutted.
A thirst for vengeance, probably
There isn’t a profound, inspirational ending to this anecdote of failure: I didn’t learn that I only needed to “look closer to home to see the shining lights of profundity” which would give my life meaning, or discover that “the real aurora was the friends we made along the way”. I didn’t even learn how to use my phone’s night mode camera properly.
What I did learn, though, was that sometimes, getting increasingly angry with all your friends for experiencing something you missed out on can fill you with a driving thirst for vengeance and one-upmanship, frightening in its scope and depth.
I’m now going to dedicate the rest of my life to having an experience none of them will be able to replicate, and document it obsessively so every scroll of their social media will remind them of their failure to see whatever incredible, unbelievable thing I’ve seen. I just need to make friends with Leonardo DiCaprio first.
Mini-feels this week
Robot music is coming for your earbuds
I’m in the process of recording songs for my second album, and Logic, the software I use for production, just released a new version. In this one, Apple have added a bunch of automated, AI-enhanced “session musicians”.
I had a play with it when the update came out this week and was horrified to see how good it is. You tell the app what chords your song uses, press a few buttons, and suddenly you have a professional, creative and slick bassline accompanying your song, or a fully-fledged pianist making your music feel gorgeous and layered.
I was too embarrassed to actually use any of it on my songs, for the same reason that I wouldn’t use ChatGPT to generate lyrics… it’s cheating, isn’t it? But plenty of other people will have way fewer scruples about releasing music “performed” by bots like this, flooding the streaming services and trying to make a quick buck. If you want a vision of the future, imagine an R&B-infused bass player stamping on a human face – forever.
Links to the man feeling web
I forgot to do this last week: links to things I’ve read/watched online this week which relate—vaguely—to “man feelings”:
The Guardian: Male drivers: why are they such a menace behind the steering wheel? – I wrote back in January about being a man and driving. This piece nails it.
Fesshole: I fucking love being a dad, it's the best. – Fesshole is normally used for semi-disgusting anonymous confessions, but this one (which I’ve only included the opening line of) is beautiful and lovely.