Ylena In-Albon | Somewhere under way I started this attempt with blurring and adding layers in order to increase energy and intimacy of the pics. So I have to apply that to the images published prior to that…
Today I started my second run-through. The first selection of 322 images made me wish that I’d had taken more photos depicting the whole scenery. But in these years of shooting my ambition mainly was to come close to the players in order to show the intensity of focus, motion, reaction and emotion. So the following photos will show more of those close-ups. My idea is to give tags to each photo and make these categories available on separate pages and via the respective search term. I start with it today and hope to come up with the re-tagging for the initial 322 pics soon. You’ll find them at the bottom of each post.
…So, now I am finished with all the old photos. As you might have realized I skipped many many pics. I left them in the database in order for everybody to be able to find ‘their’ images via the search function. Some of them I will take on later by re-thinking things like frame and other things. Also I probably will be much more radical with the manipulation. I have nothing to lose and for me the arts aspect has clear priority nowadays. But first I will re-think and if necessary re-do all the twothousandsomething previous pics…
…it’s more about photography and allegory here than about individual players. Given that I only have attentive and smart visitors everybody will know that by now. Yet still one cannot explain enough…
First published on: Apr 29, 2025 at 22:41 as ‘n:ew pic #1548’
It happens to be that photos tagged with ITF partially are from German Bundesliga, which is another even smaller category. For me it’s ok here to distinguish between the bigger WTA and the inferior ITF stage, whether it’s all correct or not.
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I found out that one can upload pictures to ChatGPT and ask it to describe them. Obviously one can influence the way of that by the prompt. I chose to keep it quite open just asking it to decribe it ‘lyrically, like a poem, in English and in German’. Some of the words come stunningly near to what my intentions are with this project. Other parts are just so so. Hope it’s as much fun to read for everyone as it is for me. I decided not to change one single syllable of what the AI is coming up with here. Given the restrictions for non-paying users I only can do three images at a time and then have to wait for some ten hours before I can upload the next. At the moment it doesn’t make sense to me to upgrade to the required 20-bucks-per-month Plus-Version. For now I chose to be patient and do what I can with the restrictions.
At the end of the post you find a better readable bigger version of the texts…
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ChatGPT:

In Praise Of Shadows
© Christian Brockmeier | all rights reserved
Im Flug eines Augenblicks
Aus dem tiefen Schwarz
tritt sie hervor wie ein Gedanke,
der sich dem Vergessen widersetzt.
Um sie herum verschwimmen die Konturen der Welt,
werden zu Nebel, zu Schatten,
zu lautlosen Spuren einer Zeit,
die niemals stillsteht.
Doch in ihrem Blick
brennt ein anderes Gesetz.
Dort lebt die Konzentration,
scharf und klar wie eine Klinge aus Licht.
Dort gibt es kein Gestern,
kein Morgen,
nur den kleinen weißen Ball,
der für einen Herzschlag
zum Mittelpunkt des Universums wird.
Ihre Hände formen Bewegung,
lange bevor der Schlag vollendet ist.
Der Körper erinnert sich an das,
was Worte niemals erklären könnten:
an Rhythmus, Instinkt, Hingabe.
Und während die Dunkelheit
alles andere verschluckt,
zeichnet das Licht ihre Gestalt
wie eine Skizze aus Mut und Ausdauer.
Es ist der Augenblick vor der Entscheidung,
wenn Hoffnung und Zweifel
für einen Wimpernschlag dieselbe Sprache sprechen.
Dann wird Bewegung zu Schicksal,
Anspannung zu Freiheit,
und der Ball verlässt den Schläger
wie ein Stern,
der seine Bahn durch die Nacht findet.
Für einen Moment
scheint die Zeit den Atem anzuhalten.
Und in dieser Stille
gehört die Welt nur ihr.
The Flight of a Moment
Out of the deep black
she emerges like a thought
refusing to be forgotten.
Around her, the edges of the world dissolve,
becoming mist, becoming shadow,
silent traces of a time
that never stands still.
Yet within her gaze
another law is burning.
There lives concentration—
sharp and luminous as a blade of light.
There is no yesterday,
no tomorrow,
only the small white ball
that, for the span of a heartbeat,
becomes the center of the universe.
Her hands shape the movement
long before the stroke is complete.
The body remembers
what words could never explain:
rhythm, instinct, devotion.
And while the darkness
swallows everything else,
the light sketches her figure
like a portrait drawn from courage
and endurance.
It is the moment before decision,
when hope and doubt
speak the same language
for the briefest instant.
Then motion becomes destiny,
tension becomes freedom,
and the ball leaves the racket
like a star
finding its path through the night.
For a moment,
time itself seems to hold its breath.
And in that silence,
the world belongs only to her.