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Drawing our breath

August 8th, 2018

Drawing our breath

The hills above Tehachapi, California are lined with windmills because the wind seems ever present. On our arrival there on a long weekend a few months ago, the wind buffeted the car as we exited the freeway and parked at a local motel. It's the wind that yanks the car door handle from your grip when you open it and sends a thousand plastic bags to their doom excoriated on barbed wire fences to be shredded into nothingness. But for a few hours after dawn, I found it slowed to the gentlest breeze while I was out shooting.

I wonder about silly things sometimes, breathing in this gentle breeze I wondered where it had been before it had arrived here, did it cross an expanse of the great Mojave Desert? Did it sidle down the mountain valleys of the Sierra Nevada? Did it waft in over the coastal ranges from the mighty Pacific ocean? And with my exhale do I send it on it's way back? Or push it on into the Central Valley to blend in with the smell of newly disked earth and dance with the waving tassels of yellow corn?

To recognize that I too take part in this sometimes gentle sometimes violent flow of the forces of Nature is humbling. That just as my breath, my molecules of carbon dioxide, intermix with the Earth's own breathing makes the world feel differently to me, that our lines of demarcation, our flags, our borders, our us's-and-thems are not as clear cut as we think. We breathe the Earth, the Earth breathes us. Maybe that's all we really need to know about the place we think of as home.

And here is a picture of Tehachapi mountains (where the windmills did not grow) where I drew breath for a time.

The weight of these

January 22nd, 2018

The weight of these

I don't know why toys from a bygone era interest me, as a subject. I have always been a fan of history. I like to know what forces were at work when an item came into being. Toys made from steel, like the locomotive pictured here, were produced during the industrial revolution, undoubtedly in an era when some segment of society had enough disposable income to lavish gifts upon their children.

But I also think that these items carry the energies of their owners with them. That just beyond the escape of rational understanding, there is an unbidden understanding in which I can tell about every person whoever touched or cared for this toy, as is I have just seen them holding it. It has a preternatural history of its own. When I see or touch them myself, I wonder about those who held it before and what might have become of them.

In that wondering, the items are not so much objects of steel or historical artifacts, they become part of a rich and fluid drama in time about human happiness and discovery or maybe loss and sadness, about love expressed and reciprocated between parent and child or favor bought and sold. To hold these items is to feel the weight of these, not in pounds and ounces, but in lives that have come and gone.

Where Land and Sea Meet

November 28th, 2017

Where Land and Sea Meet

Water, as a theme, has always represented the spiritual to me. For many years my dreams were of leaky houses (the spiritual trying to find a way into my life) or being adrift on the ocean, giant swells lifting me up and setting me down, or being on a tiny boat as massive ships moved all around me. This image represents balance to me, the spiritual mixing naturally with the physical, an interplay between the two strongest forces on the Earth. In the physical universe, in a place like this where land and sea meet, the sound of waves washing in over rocks and then retreating is a comforting sound to me, more than a gurgling, less than a roar.

What Shelley said

April 14th, 2017

What Shelley said

One of my favorite memories of Easter is the sweet bread-basket that held a hard boiled egg. My grandmother made these every year. One for each of us, the sometimes colored egg would be nestled on a tiny dough basket with more dough criss-crossed atop the egg for handles. The bread was coated with colored sprinkles and it was a trick to eat all the bread from around the egg without breaking the shell.

As a high schooler I remember going to my then girlfriend's house and watching Godspell on TV with her. Her parents weren't home and I was pretty well behaved. I must have managed to subdue any impure thoughts in the presence of a TV Jesus. That happens to be one of the few musicals I like. Mostly I believe musicals were sent by God to punish me, but I think that one in particular seemed to stick with me because I was a teenage Jesus freak and because a hip, singing, Good-News Jesus suited me more than my Catholic school prescribed tortured-on-the-cross Jesus.

Now I think more about the symbolism. I think of Jesus as the best example of a seed planted in the ground, human with latent divinity, and coming forth, as a seedling from a seed, as divine. How we each suffer and die to these less than divine aspects of ourselves and how we are refined and become the children of God. I think about how we “hide” the eggs which are like a seed (that grows into new life) and then we go about finding them. I think about how the egg is carefully nestled in a basket made of bread and passed from one generation to another and with it sustenance that is both sweet and at the same time sustaining.

And I think that Easter is always and most importantly about hope, hope that we can be better, hope that life is not always a dark, hollow place, hope that there are Plans, hope that there is Love. Easter is a promise. I think of Shelley's words though he may not have intended this meaning:”The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?” Easter is the answer we have to the darkness of dreariness, despair and death.

With hope.,behold, it is WE who are risen!

If you celebrate, Happy Easter!

Virgins and votives

March 20th, 2017

Virgins and votives

Now that the time has changed I spent some time weeding in the yard after dinner. The sun went down behind the hills and a cool breeze came up. It feels good to move, to be outside and not perched at my desk as if something on a screen could save me. And now that it’s dark, it feels good to be here, my body tired and feeling ready to slow down.

Saw my oldest friend last weekend. We have known each other since first grade (that’s 54 years!). Some of our best times were attending Catholic school together. One of our best friends passed away a year ago and I sort of dreaded the anniversary and talking with him about this loss we both have shared. He worries about me not being a proper Catholic anymore. I told him about a life-changing spiritual experience I had once that allowed me to be confident about my salvation without the guidance of Catholicism. His pragmatic suggestion was that perhaps I could be both confident and Catholic.

I know he worries for my soul. But my reality is that the scope of God is so much more than any of man’s religions. That my friend’s understanding of this life and my understanding are as nothing compared to what Is. I feel entirely comfortable knowing that I cannot know everything. I just want to be an amiable traveling companion on this Earthly journey. The mortal and venial sins of my youth were just misunderstandings I had about who I was and who you were.

Mr. Leatherman

February 19th, 2017

Mr. Leatherman

It’s a dull gray morning, droplets fall from the roof, the morning fog having condensed on the roof as it passes by. So, I am going to write about this image, one of my current favorites called Drawin a Bead.

Every part of this image except the man, the gun and his shadow was shot a few years ago at Mt. Ranier National Park in Washington state. Susan and I had been visiting my sister Teresa and niece, Mickey, in Olympia and we made a day-long visit to the Park. It was glorious, the bright sun, high mountain meadows and the snow-capped peaks surrounding were stunning to this flat-footed flatlander.

As with most of my composite images, I go back to the work of the Farm Security Administration (FSA) photographers, whose work is in the public domain. You would certainly recognize the Depression era work of Dorothea Lange, arguably the most famous of these photographers. The FSA photographer who originally shot this rifleman was Russell Lee. The subject is only listed as Mr. Leatherman. His worn blue jeans and less-than-white shirt tell me he works hard. The euphemism to draw a bead on something means to target or take aim at something. Whatever Mr. Leatherman was aiming at is outside our frame.

I like this image because it feels genuine. If you could travel back in time a short while, you might have stumbled upon this mountain scene. Technically, the sun and shade look right, he looks like he belongs here. The greatest difficulty was placing his shadow on the landscape and getting the correct degree of shadiness (sorry for the technical jargon). And Mr. Leatherman isn’t posing, he is in action. In the next second you might see a puff of smoke and a sharp report from his rifle.

I like this image because in those days, I like to romanticize, we lived closer to the Earth, planted, hunted and lived on the earth. As my son has said, I may have been born in the wrong century but knowing myself as I do, I would last about a week before begging for the creature comforts I am now afforded. But I wonder about the life of Mr. Leatherman, if he found comforts of his own, a wife and children, a small bit of land to call his own, if he enjoyed the work and beauty of his day. In that way, we might be much alike, and that, especially, feels good to me.

In black and white

February 8th, 2017

In black and white

This one called Thirsty Boy. It is a composite image. The boy and well are from a public domain image and the abandoned house I shot in Caliente, California recently. The image is very much a metaphor for how I see my life at this stage. I see the house representing my body as I age, it’s been abused and neglected for far too many years. I have not treated it well. But it houses the thirsty boy.

I see the thirsty young boy as my spirit, ever in need of quenching. But filling my desire requires work (pump and handle). I can’t just turn on a tap I must do the work that is required to satisfy my thirst. The boy seems oddly content here. Of course, I find my life in a setting that has seen storms blow through (fallen tree). And my entire life is colored by the past (throwback to black and white days).

I look at this image with detachment, as if it is but one of the many (thousands) of views of me in a lifelong volume of such images. I can’t be defined by just this one image but as I age it preoccupies me for the moment.

People, places and things

November 22nd, 2016

People, places and things

This has been a year of transition. In keeping with the theme of change, we have changed houses, purchasing a modest home in a quiet little canyon where the coastal mountains transition to the Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains. Here, bears and mountain lions still roam (I have yet to see either in person). We are excited to make this new place ours but, as with all change, it's a struggle to stretch ourselves in ways we are unaccustomed. But, we can still learn and adapt and it's probably good for us.

In this process, I have taken a break from art. I look at my work and see I need to transition some things out to make way for something new. I don't know yet what the new is. That is the constant mystery of life, seeing all the potential but not knowing for sure where life will lead. But life always leads somewhere and we get the lessons we need the most, it seems.

Thanksgiving is this week. It will certainly be a time to remember that life brings us people, places and things. Some we deserve, the rest, well that's the mystery isn't it? Maybe it's grace or karma or fate or luck. I wouldn't know, since the move, I still haven't found the shampoo.

The power of words

September 4th, 2016

The power of words

They were in a dusty cardboard box at the back of a dark garage. I didn't come to the garage sale to buy anything. The real estate agent who was emptying the house for the old owners had promised Susan some small wooden tables and here I was poking around while they chatted. The box had been unopened and so I was curious about what was inside. What caught my eye was a bundle of envelopes, they were the old international air mail envelopes, dozens of them. I pulled one out and saw large unusual postage stamps of some important potentate and the return address was from Borneo. Although I didn't read the letter, it was several pages of rough but legible handwriting. The envelopes were all addressed to the couple who had lived on this property. Missives from a loved one perhaps, a relative or dear friend, they were cherished enough not to be thrown out, but stored away.

I thought seriously about buying them for a few seconds but the thought of clutter overcame the curiosity about other people's lives. Still, what remained with me was the power of written words from people far away. When I was in high school, I worked for two summers in a small touristy retail shop in a town in the Rocky Mountains. Back then, there were no cell phones and calling long distance was a costly matter that involved the use of operators. Consequently, letters were of tremendous importance being so far from home and I cherished then, as I do now, the words of my own loved ones set to paper for my benefit.

More than their words, a letter was a physical keepsake that could be read again and again. The handwriting itself, distinctive, and belonging to one and only one person, mirrored the speaking style and individual thoughts of that one person. Unlike emails whose contents are made of electronic ether and come in a variety of prescribed fonts, letters were a physical treasure, carrying the happy and sad travails, the loves, hopes, disappointments and tragedies of the sender, which we held in our own hands.

The power of handwritten words transferred all the emotional energy of the sender across whatever the distance, even from places like Borneo, and placed them in our hands to be relived and felt anew. The letter itself becomes a talisman of the sender, the sender we hold in our hearts, the letter we hold in our hands.

Unlocking the gate

August 27th, 2016

Unlocking the gate

Buying property is such a strange concept. On the one hand, it's nice to think "Oh this particular house is our home, it's ours!" There is usually
a deed which legally confers ownership of a duly measured parcel of land upon which is a structure where it's okay to have our stuff. And a good title company can provide a "chain of title" which shows every owner this plot of land here has ever had going back, presumably, to the days of the Mexican Land Grants (and maybe farther). On the other hand, the land a plot sits upon has been here farther back than humans have recorded history. "Ownership" may have been established by whatever brute claimed it, whether the brute was a cave dweller, an indigenous clan or tribe, an imperial country, a country manifesting destiny and, possibly someday, another post apocalyptic cave dweller.

But today, we think nothing of fencing off our small bit of refuge to demarcate ours from theirs. And the entrance, whether it is the door to a flat in a high rise, a small white wooden gate in front of a cottage, a secured entry in a gated community or a wide red ranch gate usually has a lock and our key unlocks our entryway to our home. But spending time here in the wide open spaces, I wonder about this notion of ownership. In the history of the land our ownership seem meaningless, a millisecond of an eon in which we claim our dominion over all we survey (within the boundaries of our deed, that is). And though the millisecond may be our lifetime, to the land, our paper deed is nothingness, it's not even the dot of the i in the word nothingness.

But we want a place anyway, even if it's for a millisecond, it will be our millisecond.

Bowing to the wow

August 20th, 2016

Bowing to the wow

This figure, clearly a dog, was found on an ancient piece of New World pottery in a Los Angeles museum. For hundreds, if not thousands of years, humans have shared their lives, hearts and homes with canine companions. For a relationship in which there is no common language, we seem to understand each other very well. And a home with a beloved dog seems and feels happier, to me at least.

If you've lived long enough, you will inevitably have to say goodbye to one (or maybe many) of these four-legged friends. And people's grief for their pets is as real and heartfelt as any can be. I've often thought it a shame that our lifespans are not equivalent, or even close. I'm certain there are many scientific reasons why this may be so, but I am convinced that dogs are much better students at learning unconditional love during their Earthly existence and graduate sooner than the rest of us bumbling bipeds.

I have known and loved a line of dogs in my life, their antics and personalities each a quirky marvel of magnificence, their joyfulness and playfulness a constantly moving model of how-to-be in this world and their patience and undying loyalties, quiet and gracious gifts held close to my heart. That we honor them in our heart as well as in our art seems a given.

Old oaks

August 13th, 2016

Old oaks

We leave the two-lane for a single lane paved road that moves from the grassland valley up into the oak-forested hills. Summer has turned the ground cover a golden yellow and the canopy above a sharp, dark green. The deep veined crevices of the oaks make them feel old to me and, I'm told, some of these are hundreds of years old. We are on a trek to look at a hunting cabin for a group event in a remote part of the Tehachapi Mountains. Here, bears and mountain lions outnumber people. This land, a working ranch, is undisturbed except for wayward cows and wild pigs. We turn a bumpy corner to find a golden eagle drinking from a cow trough and it takes startled flight, lighting upon an oaken branch to settle itself.

My companion, a biologist, shows me the telltale sign of trees distressed from drought. I feel an odd sense of heartache at this for reasons I can't explain. He says the trees give up on parts of themselves, allowing those parts to die and eventually fall away. Cells at the periphery of these areas are poised to crank up again should water relief come. Sacrificing some to save the whole seems noble to me, but then everything about oaks seems noble to me. And I feel blessed to be here amidst these old masters.

I captured this image of an oak back in the Spring. The colors behind the tree are the green and wildflowers of the time. This one is called Oaken Dreams.

What you tried to say to me

May 13th, 2016

What you tried to say to me

I was a teen when I heard the Don McLean song Vincent about Vincent Van Gogh and his painting Starry Night. I had seen the Van Gogh work in an art book we had at home and found it hauntingly beautiful. Any teenager could certainly relate to the pain of feeling like an outsider, of wanting to be loved and feeling unlovable and McLean’s song captured the tragedy of it quite well

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul

Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land

Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free

They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now

Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue

Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand

Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free

They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now

For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night

You took your life, as lovers often do
But I could've told you Vincent
This world was never meant for
One as beautiful as you

Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frame-less heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget

Like the strangers that you've met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow

Now I think I know
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free

They would not listen, they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will.

But, somehow, we grow past the loneliness and turmoil of the teen years. We hear new songs that add context to our lives. Still, I never lost my love for Van Gogh’s work and have taken every opportunity to see originals when I could.

So, I found myself one day at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. I knew Starry Night was there among a million other treasures. It became the object of my intentionally slow quest, proceeding from one floor to the next taking in works, one after another, until I turned a corner and there it was.

I was stopped dead in my tracks.

Standing before it I felt overcome, I felt a timeless sense of longing, that burning sensation around the eyes just before they tear up, and at the same time, wonder, wonder at the color, wonder at the texture and reverence, reverence knowing that Vincent had touched, created, handled this work a few feet before me not so long ago. I felt moved.

The power of art is the power to touch us in a deeply moving way. It is as if to say ‘I understand now.’ Even though we may not, as we look at an incredible work, be able to verbalize what that understanding is. We find truth in it.

Starry Path (shown here) is my homage to Vincent Van Gogh.

Call your mom

May 6th, 2016

Call your mom

It is the nature of mothers to feed and care for their young. It can be fraught with peril, regret and guilt like many other human (and maybe even animal) endeavors of any worthwhile consequence. And yet mothers carry on, I like to think, because they love their children in the ways they know how.

Some of my finest traits I got from my mom, my sense of adventure, my notions of right and wrong, my compassion for others and maybe, most importantly, my willingness to be open to new ideas and personal growth.

But motherhood is tricky. It comes with long, long, LONG hours, sometimes ungrateful and unruly children, an intense range of feelings and an endless list of things needing to be done.

How, then, have humans gone more than two or three generations? The only answer I can think of must be love. How strong must a mother's love be to overcome all these? Indeed!

Call your mom!

This lonely place

April 26th, 2016

This lonely place

We took the road through the National Forest. It followed a long valley that drains into a steep and windey canyon with sheer walls that look like those sand-dripped beach sculptures, all deep crevices and spindly buttresses. That canyon opened onto a chaparral plain, except near the creek where alfalfa and other green things were being grown. Here, ringed by mountains, we stumbled on an old compound, a smattering of old adobe buildings (one being repaired or braced, at least, from the ravages of time). They belonged to a ranching family in the 1800s, a people who had obviously prospered in this forgotten place. It had all the elements needed for success, a perpetual creek, good pasture, and the ring of mountains to contain a herd of cattle.

Somehow, time passed this place by. Maybe when paved roads and automobiles became popular this place was just too far away. For reasons I will likely never know, nobody remains here. Maybe they did so well they could move to the city, building finer homes elsewhere, or maybe children or grandchildren had no interest in the ranching life. All I know is that the only sound I heard that day was the sound of the wind in the trees and across the barbed wire fences, the sound of the perpetual creek and the songs of the birds, the sole tenants of this lonely place.

When we get to the Pass

April 10th, 2016

When we get to the Pass

There are a few key places in California where travel is constricted, not necessarily by traffic, but by topography. To go from Southern California to the Central Valley you must overcome the mountains that lie between them. Interstate 5 runs through the Tejon Pass here. But before there was an Interstate there was Highway 99 and before that the "Ridge Route" and before that wagon roads and before that trails the Native Americans used for trading with their neighbors. Most all of these lie on top of one another on the same ground in certain places.

Consequently, I have begun to think of this road differently. I think about the lives of people who traveled the same way I have, people who crossed this same ground in this same place but in completely different eras. Some drove Model Ts, some pulled ox carts and some traversed on foot, all with a purpose. Here in this little town where I now live so close to the Pass, in my mind's eye I see a horizontal axis, that is literally, a road. And I also see a vertical axis that is time itself. Each point on the vertical axis is the same road in a different era. And I wonder about the lives to be found at each point, what their daily concerns were, who they cared about, were they content or restless.

A road is more than a road when it is overlaid with the complexities of time. It becomes a construct that takes us to a far different place than we imagined, where we can surmise the ways we are the same or different than those who have taken similar journeys. I like to think that we are much the same by the time we have gotten to the Pass, we have overcome the hardest part of our journey.

The original image of The Old Road above was captured near the Tejon Pass in California.

Right where we are

April 3rd, 2016

Right where we are

There is a place in Laguna Beach, California where the homes, quite literally, are on the beach. They sit at the bottom of a steep bluff and seem to keep from getting washed away only because they rest on rock formations that make up the base of the bluff. Still, they are battered incessantly and I can't imagine the upkeep that must be required after storms and king tides. The battered foundations are one part of this composite image. The other is the small girl, captured initially by Farm Security Administration photographers back in the 1930s. Her appearance of hopelessness lends itself to the backdrop of sustained abuse.

We classify the unfortunate circumstances that befall families as "a broken home." Divorce, addictions, disorders, mental disabilities and illness, these and more are the causes of "broken homes." Over the years I have wondered if all homes are not broken in one way or another, not necessarily because I have empirical evidence or could site studies to that effect, but because all humans seem to have frailties to one degree or another. And these, we often share knowingly, or unknowingly, with others. Sometimes with little effect and sometimes with long-term, traumatic effect.

But I also wonder, in what ways, overcoming these effects makes us better and stronger people. I know I have met those who have said "I promised myself I would never do to my kids what was done to me." And many have kept that promise to themselves and those that failed, did so with regret and awareness. I wonder how we are shaped by these events, what skills we learn or truths we come to that we might not have.

I intentionally left the colors of this image muted or washed out. From the perspective of a child from a broken home, the world is dulled from despair. Later in life, we come to learn that, despite whatever storm comes our way, we realize we are still built on a solid foundation and with work we realize that we can be strong and beautiful right where we are.

Surging forth

March 20th, 2016

Surging forth

I was oblivious the moment that it happened. I suspect there is a precise moment in time when the Earth's perceived wobble around the sun strikes dead center and the day and night are equally divided and the promise of longer days lies inarguably ahead.

The word equinox has Latin roots, equi meaning equal and nox meaning night...equal night (the implication meaning the night takes up as much time as the daylight). It happens only twice a year in Spring and again in Autumn. I like the implied sense of balance between night and day, especially after a seemingly long winter full of many dark times.

I like that I won't be coming home in the dark after work and that I can walk Max before the sun sets for the day. But one of the truly amazing things about Spring being sprung is that Nature has begun to change her wardrobe, the hills here have been overrun with wildflowers of unimaginable brghtness, especially the poppies. Torrents of orange appear to flow like lava down the hillsides.

Mixed with these are the deep blue hues of lupine and the yellows of fiddlenecks and lavendars and other shades of plants whose botanic and common names I know not, but whose presence I feel and appreciate all the same. And all these painted on a canvas of the bright green grasses fostered by the snows and rains of the prequinox.

I am ready. I am ready for some balance. I am ready for some hope of longer, warmer days ahead. I am ready for the return of color. And I am grateful that the Earth reminds us, as she so brilliantly does, that life surges forth so passionately that we can't help but notice.

Verve and Sparkle

March 3rd, 2016

Verve and Sparkle

Since I last wrote here I lost my younger sister and younger brother to cancer. I still find it hard to believe they are gone. I watched them grow and bloom into incredible people full of life and love. But their blooms faded early and watching the petals slip one by one was nearly unbearable. I must remind myself that below the ground the tulip bulb remains. This is what I believe about them, the true-ness of them lives on, the essence of who they were in this life, their verve and sparkle, that's all still there in the unseen world a few vibrational degrees away from this one we know so well.

Nothing about them is dead, save their poor bedraggled bodies, I still feel them at the ready. As though I might turn and catch sight of them. And I will when my own petals fall. I wasn't thinking of that when I shot the original image of this piece. Only that I might freeze a moment of beauty, who knew there would be a message in it?

Moving through

December 4th, 2015

Moving through

It has been nearly two months since I have posted an entry here. It's not that it's difficult for me to talk about my work, I can muster a thing to say now and then about it. But the truth is, it hasn't been in me to talk about it. You may call it the vagaries of life, or anxiety or even depression if you want to. I find that the circumstances of my life seem overwhelming at present. When people I know are suffering, having to make difficult life decisions, or they are making heroic gestures despite incredible odds, as seems to be happening far too often these past many weeks. Then to write about my work, knowing what I know, seeing what I see, feels trivial by comparison, small words in a hurricane wind.

I know this difficult time will pass because, well, nothing stays the same for long, and my words will come back to me and feel like they mean something. I still continue to work because it helps me keep moving through. And, right now, I feel like that's what I can do, keep moving through life.

Riding the planet

October 6th, 2015

Riding the planet

We were just teens when a friend was accepted to Notre Dame it was agreed that if I would help him move, he would pay for my flight back. As it turned out, when sessions ended I often helped him drive one way or another for a number of years. Criss-crossing the country we saw some incredible things, visited historic places and spent time in National Parks and Monuments. Driving the open road is an incredible experience when you have lived in the same house for most of your life and without the pressures of jobs or school it seems the very definition of freedom.

Now that I am of a certain age, I feel that longing again, to see places far away, places I have heard about and longed to see for myself. As I walked my morning walk this morning it came to me that I want to spend time "riding the planet." That is, specifically, to experience and enjoy the Earth's beautiful places as it spins through space as you might ride a roller coaster or a theme park ride, for the sheer enjoyment of it, not to get somewhere but "to be" somewhere.

That's me, in this image from some number of years ago. We had gone to Alaska to see the Northern Lights. Mushing sled dogs was just an added bonus. I have spent far too many years now with my nose to the grindstone, missing so many important and real things, doing things I thought were important, and maybe they were, but I don't know if it matters now. I want to ride the planet while I can.

The only balance there is

August 22nd, 2015

The only balance there is

I confess that the challenges of my personal life affect my writing here. No life is untouched by adversity in one way or another, in varying degrees. The moment's adversities belong to people I care about and even though the burden may be theirs, still I feel the weight of it. Writing anything of consequence feels superficial to me lately. Still, art transcends in ways that are helpful to me, the busyness of a task, the check-in with my inner direction, the thought of what lies before me superseding all the worry of what may lie ahead. And when I look at an image like this, Crest and Gaps, I am transported back to a dazzlingly beautiful day in which I walked in mountain meadows with some of my favorite people.

Having been raised in a cookie-cutter neighborhood laced by asphalt ribbons and water-less concrete "rivers," choked with traffic and smog, where the only wild things were bugs and birds. I marvel to this day at places like this. God's creation. The bright air, sweet with the smell of summer, seems pristine and never before breathed. What a magnificent grandness there is to these sleeping volcanic mountains with their gleaming glacier garlands and milky cobble-lined rivers with forested sideburns hosting an orchestra of life, from maidenhair to grizzly bear. How can this possibly be real? I am struck with awe and gratitude for it. It is the real work of art here.

And so this is my world. I carry these places in my heart along with my worries. That may be the only balance there is.

In the bed

July 25th, 2015

In the bed

Back then you'd find something soft like a sleeping bag to lean against, arm hanging over the side, fingers feeling the 45 mile-an-hour wind, nothing between you and the towering trees, a warm yellow sun in a big wide sky or a crescent moon hanging in the inky night. Everything in the back of the truck would levitate for a few seconds when you hit a big bump. On long trips you'd lie on your back while the low hum of tires on the road lulled you to sleep until it was your turn to drive. Murphy, the old Irish Setter, would hang his head in your lap until that unhappy moment when he barfed, without fail, every trip. In the cab, brother and sister-in-law talked low, the baby sleeping between them, the radio buzzed with rock 'n' roll until we rolled clear into country music territory. The world seemed free in the bed of the pick up rolling along the two-lane to the places we needed to see or be in.

Later, Susan and I would be towing a water trailer with another old truck, watering beans in the field. When the trailer was empty there was something magic about riding back home on the tailgate. The uneven dirt road made the truck rise and fall like a boat riding ocean swells. Work would be done, the sweat of the day released by the breeze of the truck's motion, the lulling of the soft ups and downs of a dusty dirt road in the late afternoon was a small sensory reward at the end of the day.

When the boys came along, there would be cool evenings eating popcorn, watching movies in the bed of a newer truck at the Sky Drive-In. After a long summer day, the cool breeze would waft across the rows of cars and trucks and you could feel the release of the day's tensions melt away. The buzzing drive-in speakers, people laughing or gasping to the fun or drama on the screen, children playing outside their cars while their parents cuddled inside, friends calling out to one another, our boys, and sometimes their friends, having fun until sleep absolutely overtook them, those were some nights. Then when the movie ended, motors would start, headlights come on and dust would swirl as vehicles, like cows being let out to pasture, would make their way to the exits and then toward home in the quiet night.

The vanishing breed

July 10th, 2015

The vanishing breed

We had just crested a hill and were coming down a steep two-track trail that topped a ridge line, the sides falling away at sharp angles when the jeep driver came to a halt. Before us a dozen bison were grazing around the rutted tracks. The driver inched forward hoping to move them along but they didn't notice. Backing up seemed a dicey proposition and an alternate route meant miles of backtracking, putting us off a planned rendezvous. They may seem bucolic but their man-crushing size, hooking horns and an unbelievable gallop of 35 miles-per-hour makes them an approach-with-caution sort of beast. So we were content for some number of minutes to sit and watch them move along the track for a time.

They seemed to move silently and in slow motion. Their hides looked worn and dusty, their eyes dark and unengaged, our presence entirely uninteresting to them. Beyond them, our trail dropped away so steeply we couldn't see it so we waited even longer. Growing impatient the driver backed up a few feet and then launched forward with a noisy start and then stopped quickly. Nothing. He did it again. Some reconfiguration of the large brown animals occurred. On the third or fourth try they suddenly bolted. With seemingly impossible speed they launched uphill towards the jeep. We barely had time to be afraid before they passed us on both sides in a ground-shaking, dust-clouding blur and vanished from sight. They were gone and we were free to move on.

The days that followed

June 28th, 2015

The days that followed

Tarnish and texture, I add these elements to some of my work. I find that it gives an aged appearance. It makes them seem more realistic, more lived-in, more distressed . It's not a coincidence, that in the moments of my real life when I feel distressed I feel tarnished and textured, the textures seem cumulative in the form of worry lines and ever graying hair. Life has its moments of drama that change me, and it shows. My world is no longer shiny and new. That doesn't mean I have given up, I still find wonder in the most marvelous places (and I am better at finding it now than I ever have been). But I also recognize that life changes despite my feelings about it. Growing accustomed to these changes is what I am learning now. And I'm getting average marks, I'd say.

I ran into an old friend recently. We talked about our shiny and new days and the days that have followed for each of us. He asked me if I was happy and I said that I struggle with balance, with keeping myself right side up when I feel so upside down sometimes. But we both know that life is sometimes spent upside down and that we can still be okay even if we are. My friend Esther would tell me that acknowledging it is sometimes all that is needed. So I tell myself, "Oh, here I am, feeling upside down again." And then I carry on, noting that I will eventually be right side up. And knowing that it doesn't have to stay one way or the other makes it a little easier each time.

In places like this

June 14th, 2015

In places like this

In places like this you feel your heart beating in your chest. In places like this the constant wind burns your face, if the sun doesn't do it first. In places like this the Earth comes in just a few colors, gold, blue, brown. In places like this the silence can be immense. It becomes your secret companion. In places like this the rest of the world melts away, there is only breath, and sky and land and wind. In places like this I feel free, with my two feet on the ground, I am the horizon, breathing the sky and wind.

Reprise from the past

June 7th, 2015

Reprise from the past

Ancient art

Jim had sandy brown hair and a hint of what once was quite a freckly face. His build was slight and he was probably close to six feet tall. He wore blue jeans and a blue chambray work shirt and snake boots. Jeff was more like me, short, roly-poly. He preferred light blue jump suits. His hair was sort of slicked back and he had 1970s shaped side burns. He was a fan of snuff and his cheek was always a little round, his teeth a little stained. Back in those days Jeff worked for me as a typesetter and Jim was a client, the editor of a magazine about treasure hunting.

Jeff had suggested we go on an adventure, he knew a place in the Coachella Valley, an arid region in the southernmost part of California. It was, he said, rich in petroglyphs, abandoned mines and was a good, secluded desert campsite where we could seek whatever treasures interested us. So we loaded up our vehicles and took I10 east and somewhere between Chiriaco Summit and the Arizona border we took a right onto a dirt road and drove caravan style for many miles, trailed by one of those incredibly long and large dust trails. We eventually came to the mouth of a canyon and followed it up quite a ways. The walls became higher and closer together and eventually we came to thickets of dense brush. The campground came within view, large stands of palm trees indicated that water was close to the surface and maybe there was even a cool spring.

Jim had all the latest treasure-hunting gadgets, a special shovel for not disturbing the ground, a number of metal detectors, heavy mine sweeping ones and light over-your-head-use ones, earphones for detecting the subtlest pings. He and Jeff divided these up and headed off to the nearest mine shaft. I took my camera and a sketch pad. I wanted to shoot and draw some of the hundreds of petroglyphs I had seen in the canyon on the drive in. Indian rock art has always been interesting to me. I have often mused about the people who created the petroglyphs, what their lives were like, if they were happy. It made me happy to look at the pictures. I examined each picture in detail and drew the ones I was most captivated with. I scaled the rocky sides of the canyon as high as twenty feet to see some. Some of the figures were clearly animals like deer, others clearly men and women (with obvious protuberances) and others looked, well, like extra terrestrials having a vague human form but an other-worldly appearance. I enjoyed the solitude of the canyon like it was my own private museum and I just meandered at will hoping to take in each and every creation.

Later in the day I met up with Jim and Jeff and we had lunch. They had found nothing of value or interest to them. We wandered about some afterwards, exploring some of the upper areas of the canyon and then we packed up and headed home.

I came back to the canyon again, this time with Susan and the boys and we spent the night. The museum was still there just as I had left it. There are too few places left that are undisturbed by time or man. I remember sitting in the canyon and listening for the sound of children playing or cavorting. Not my children, but the children of the past as they played amongst each other or scratched their own drawings upon the rock as their parents hunted or wove or cooked near the spring. I thought that Indian children must have been as noisy as my own children. Their sound may be gone but their drawings are not. And we are the richer for it.

From Granddad

May 22nd, 2015

From Granddad

I only really know my grandfathers from stories about them, mostly unhappy stories of men with short fuses, penchants for liquor and coping skills that involved the use of fists. I'm sure they must have had some good qualities they passed along to my parents but they have not been enumerated to me. They both died when I was quite young. I only have one possession that came from one of them, the pocket watch pictured here, which was actually a gift from my grandmother long after her husband had passed. But I really like the idea of having a "granddad." Someone who is older, gentle, patient and generous of spirit, someone likely to share small trinkets any boy (or girl, for that matter) might treasure. I assembled these items for the purpose of creating what might be found in my "granddad's valise."

The valise itself came from an old man in Las Vegas, a former business associate when I was in business with my brothers. He cast it off when he moved away. It bears stickers from ocean liners long gone. The skeleton key was found here in our apartment. We have many doors that once held locks requiring such a key. I haven't yet tried it in all. For the moment it remains unreconciled. Susan carved the bird, I LOVE it, she is as much an artist as I am though she doesn't recognize it in herself. The corn cob pipe is mine, I used it once or twice for fun. I like to smoke a pipe around Christmas but have a lovely wooden one Susan got me that I am most fond of for that purpose. I'm not sure where the pocket knife came from, I've had it for a long, long time.

I'm not delusional, my grandfathers faced challenges and reacted the ways they did, but my work here is not about what they did or didn't do. It's more about creating the sense of what a loving grandfather might want to share with a grandchild. Time, hobbies, skills, mysteries, adventure, habits. Any of these might do. If they couldn't give them to me, well, in this image, I can give them to myself. And to you, if you feel you need them too.

Unfolding beauty

May 8th, 2015

Unfolding beauty

The truth is I don't think I am particularly good at doing what a rose does...unfolding, opening to life. Does the rose feel as anxious as I do about what lies ahead? I could certainly learn something from the rose, who musters all its might and bursts slowly into bloom in a glorious, almost moment by moment, exhibition until, at last,the blossom fades, withers and dies. I don't have the confidence of the rose whose absolute beauty is indwelling from the very start. But then I forget that the rose itself is not all its being, it is but one physical aspect of the larger (thornier) plant including its dangerous stems and woody base, its branching roots sipping water and tasting soil.

Maybe I am more like the rose than I suspect, prickly, sometimes hurtful and always eating and drinking, smelling good once in a while and then throwing off the occasional bloom of wonderment just to keep it interesting. Maybe. No matter, the blossom of the rose is undeniably lovely, its folds always seem like a promise to me, each a work of art. It is the unfolding I must master, the patience and grace and letting-it-be-ness. Then I might be beautiful too.

Cast, tug, reel

April 20th, 2015

Cast, tug, reel

The Colorado Lagoon is a wetlands that once drained into Alamitos Bay. It's surrounded on three sides by residential developments but on the north side opens to Recreation Park's golf course. I was driving by yesterday morning and noticed a thick layer of ground fog had settled in over the golf course and had drifted across the Lagoon. So I pulled my car over and walked onto the soft sand still wet from the high tide. I never know what my quarry will be at such times, a rickety old fence that ran down to the water line, a snowy egret across the Lagoon stalking its next meal, the fog itself a white gauzy blanket with tall trees sprouting from it or some young men fishing from the pontoon bridge across the Lagoon.

Of course, I shot it all.

But the young men fishing spoke to me. That is, the subject spoke to me, the young men themselves were quite absorbed in their work. I observed that they were completely silent. They did not exchange words with one another, rarely looked away from their lines, they would cast, tug their lines with short, definitive motions, reel slowly, tug some more, reel slowly and then cast again. Occasionally, one or the other would break from this routine to fetch fresh bait or fiddle with gear. But mostly it was cast, tug reel, cast, tug, reel.

The fog drifting across the small lake made the scene seem surreal between the absolute silence and their earnestness for their work. Had they suddenly unfurled large feathery wings, they might have been angels, afloat on clouds, plucking souls from the darkness below. I watched them work until I became conscious of the time and then headed for home with my own catch of the day

Variations

April 11th, 2015

Variations

We all had access to the same materials, paper, paint, ink, watercolors, etc. For several hours we made art using all these same materials and, as you might imagine, not one of the finished pieces looked alike. Six of us, in a few hours, created dozens of pieces of art (some wonderfully pleasing and others abominable disasters). I don't know why it surprises me that there are infinite variations in creativity. Maybe because we live in a mass-produced-society we can't imagine the many ways expression seeps out. Of course, we really don't need to look further than our own spinning globe where we find infinite variations in life itself, not just between plant and animal life, but even in subsets like mammals which contains bats AND giraffes. Ours is a world of infinite creation.

We dined with another couple recently in their home. In just about every corner there was some large or small art object the woman had created, she also acted on the local stage, hosted a radio program and seemed at-home with any artistic endeavor she set her mind to. She rides a distinctive pink motor scooter around the small town where they live. It suits her in every way. Her husband, a lanky taciturn fellow, engaged sporadically in conversation with us as the evening mellowed. He too had a craft, about which he said little, but his un-shy wife told us her flashy pink scooter was his creation, he brings nearly dead scooters back to life, sometimes re-casting long forgotten parts and then paints them in magnificent shades.

Creativity flows through each of us in so many variations. Maybe it's numbers we wrangle, or accounts we manage, or scooters we bring back to life or watercolors and ink on paper, or children we raise, or gardens we tend. It's a way we change the world, in small and incremental steps or large and showy gestures, as meets our measure. These things are our REAL work in this life.

Sounds of love

March 28th, 2015

Sounds of love

It's mating season. On a wide stretch of beach protected by the breakwater here in Long Beach, terns amass in the hundreds in the evening for, what Wikipedia calls "courtship." The cacophony of shrill squawking that takes place is nearly unnerving and ceaseless from sundown to sunrise and beyond. The first time I heard it I was awakened at 2 a.m. I pulled on some clothes and stumbled down the street to the beach to see what was going on. In the darkness I realized it was like a seen from a Hitchcock movie except that these birds were bent on love, not murder. And their exuberant vocalizations made me think that they were ALL IN. The courtship season is nearly over now, it seems to last a week or two. I still hear their cries but they are fewer and less fervent.

A week or so ago I was walking up a coastal canyon before dawn. I walked as far as I could until I came to a locked gate. Here I found a bench and sat down to let the silence of the hour wash over me. The canyon sides were thick with dark brush and scraggily scrub oaks and above, early morning fog was beginning to block out the fading stars. Even though I could detect no change in the ambient light, a single songbird began to fill the morning air. It was followed almost instantly by another, and then another. Soon the whole canyon seemed to be awash in sounds. I could definitely make out distinct songs, a loud staccato chirping over here, a sing-songy warble over there, dozens of different songs repeating intermittently from one part of the canyon over another. Because I was far removed from the city, the songs of birds were the only sound, a magnificent symphony of sweet sounds. The sounds of love.

The image here is that of a Eucalyptus tree in that same canyon much later in the day.

Upon the Sea

March 15th, 2015

Upon the Sea

Alamitos Bay is protected from the wide Pacific Ocean by a lengthy peninsula and a long jettied outlet. It's perfect for sailing because the water is flat most of the time but the ocean breezes are plentiful and seem to rise in the late afternoon. Consequently, there are a number of rowing and sailing schools that line the bay. Over time one could learn to pilot any number of small craft, paddleboards, kayaks, sabots, keelboats, cruisers and whalers among them. On weekends it's not uncommon to see dragon boats crewed by chanting young people cruising past two dozen tiny sabots with bright white kite-sized sails tacking this way then that as a noisy instructor in a power boat shouts instructions.

Susan and I sometimes ride our bike to the end of the peninsula and there, in good weather, we watch the parade of boats make there way to the open sea. They are mostly whalers and fishing boats or the larger sailboats and power cruisers. Anglers filled with high expectations, seemingly wealthy bikini-clad sun worshipers draped over large decks of power cruisers, intrepid rowing teams, busy two-man sailing crews, adults-and-kids boating flotillas and even sea kayakers make their way between the rocky windswept jetties, each headed to their own destinations.

Eventually, the sailors of the tiny sabots graduate to larger ocean-going sailboats. One stormy day recently, I saw these brave souls out upon the open sea. I could not see the instructor's boat in the choppy waters though I am certain it was there. The weather looked menacing to me but I imagine the high winds made sailing challenging and thrilling for these new sailors. Here, these hearty sailors were testing everything they knew against an angry sea and they mastered it. What a sense of accomplishment they must feel. In our own ways, we each come to that time when we must leave the safety of what we know for the sometimes stormy challenges of the real world. Maybe we just keep from getting swamped until the storm passes. Or, if we are lucky (or smart) we are not engulfed by our circumstances and we find ways to harness the power of the challenge and allow it to propel us to our destination. Either way, I think we are brave for trying. I call this piece 'Upon the Sea.'

To be moved and humbled

March 7th, 2015

To be moved and humbled

One day in July 1993, Los Angeles artist Young-Il Ahn set out in a small boat from the beach at Santa Monica headed for the horizon. He enjoyed ocean fishing but this day would be different. At some point, fog enshrouded him and his boat. It was so thick he said he could barely see his hand in front of his face. Unable to tell which way to go, he had no choice but just to cut the motor and wait. As time passed, the experience of having no visual cues became disconcerting, and then frightening. He said the fear gave way to thoughts that death could be close at hand.

Then, just as quickly as the fog came, it lifted. He said he was struck by the returning light and color with a tremendous sense of joy and wonder, the sea itself became a symphony of color that both moved and humbled him. From that singular experience came a series more than twenty years in the making called simply "Water." I caught the exhibit last week at the museum and found it stunning in it's beauty and depth. Each work is made of tiny even brush strokes in vibrant colors. Close up, the textured strokes are like the blocks of a mighty wall and the space between them a hint of something hidden, an endless labyrinth. From far away, beneath the bold seemingly solid color, the eyes continually move in search of patterns or horizons. In searching the works, we too are both lost and found, moved and humbled.

I am astounded by the information art can convey. To have an emotional reaction to art is, arguably, it's most important quality. But it also teaches us that we can communicate and learn/understand without words, that knowledge or ideas can be passed in ways that don't include schools, books or tests. That if we are open, we will receive. Trusting that notion is to accept that there is more to this world than what meets the eye. And if we can learn from a painting, what more can we learn from a golden sunrise, a Grand Canyon, a lover's smile, the rising and falling chest of a sleeping baby. It's all there. It's all there for us.

Trees

March 1st, 2015

Trees

Trees. At the house of my childhood, there was the liquidambar tree we called a maple because of the shape of its leaves, it's seed pods we called monkey balls. That was in the front yard. In the back, the sweet and fabled peach tree, the avocado tree, the magnolia and the fig. There are stories for each of these trees. The fig used to bleed white milky sap when we trimmed it, the leaves were sticky and the figs delicious for one day only, it seemed, and then turned decidedly ugly. My grandmother rendered these into a delicious jam, however. The magnolia sported beautiful leathery flowers and spread shiny waxy flowers which I spent years, more years than I have actually lived, raking. Before the bus came one day, we tied my brother, Vince, to the maple and then boarded the bus and left him there to be discovered later by my mother. It was the peach tree we hoisted Teresa to the top of in a bushel basket with a rope, I have written about the sudden and unfortunate end of that experiment.

Trees. I got off the freeway to get gas in an unsavory part of the city once. As I filled my car I looked up and down the street and wondered how this neighborhood was so decidedly different than my own. Then it finally dawned on me. There were no trees. The horizon was nothing but graffitied stucco and telephone lines. Not a single natural landmark anywhere to be seen. Suddenly, I felt trapped.

Trees. I have often wondered if, by looking for the tallest thickest trees in a town, you could find the oldest buildings (or the sites of the oldest buildings). We seem to sidle up to the trees to build or camp. In the desert, the places where the earth had ruptured from earthquakes or surprise springs, that is where trees would grow, where the water table was close to the surface. And that is where the pioneers stopped, first to drink, then to hunt, then to settle. That is where they built the school house and the dry goods store and the post office. Perhaps there are people who are paleobotanists or paleoarborists who know the answer.

Trees. I've culled trees in the forest, tagged for cutting because of beetle damage these were forest fire fuel for sure. I burned these in a wood stove on a cold winter's night, the glowing red coals radiating a warmth craved by me from thousands of years of genetic survival instinct. I sit at a desk made of wood. The skeleton of my home is made of wood. I have carved, sawed, sanded and finished all kinds of it. I love the smell and feel of it. We bury our dead beneath trees. In this way, we sustain each other through the millennia.We never think of this symbiosis consciously, but I think it lies just beneath the surface. Trees.

Getting my hands dirty

February 20th, 2015

Getting my hands dirty

Sure, the cemetery cuts the grass and keeps the graves neat but it had been a while since anybody brought flowers. When my sister was here, we bought two bunches, one for Grandma and one to split for Grandpa and our dad. I had trouble even finding the cemetery at first, I'd forgotten that the roads had been reconfigured to accommodate the college and some new housing tracts. And once there, I had trouble finding the graves, having driven past them first, then back tracking.

The vessel that holds the flowers is inverted when not in use and the casing that holds it becomes filled with debris and roots. I fished a hunting knife out of the back of my car and with some other tools, we were able to work each one free. My sister filled each with water and we set about adding the flowers. She walked off to leave a flower with Uncle Louie. We spent a few minutes with our old folks and then moved on, looking at the graves of our parish priests. We talked about classmates buried here, and the relatives of friends.

It's not often that I get my hands dirty, dark moist earth under my fingernails. As a kid this seemed to be a constant case, but now, moving paper around and punching keyboard keys leaves my hands decidedly clean. Before turning on a spigot at the cemetery to wash, I thought of this earth that lies above these who were so much a part of my life and think this may be all that is left of their physical presence, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

But I am happy to report that this was not the first time my hands were dirty this week. One day, we had arranged for a workshop at an art studio to learn more about painting with acrylics. S, my sister and I were presented with three fresh canvases and with the help of our dynamic host, we applied layer upon layer of color in designs that originated in our imaginations. It was interesting to see these ideas morph into dimensional works, all so different, all imbued with a sense of beauty only we could have given them.

In three hours time we each had work that was our own. And even though I washed before we went to lunch, I noticed the colors of my work were still present on my hands as we ate. Over the course of the next day the colors disappeared without my noticing.

One thing's for certain in all of this. It wouldn't be bad to have dirty hands more often. It seems natural for us to work the earth, to keep us rooted and in touch with what is. But we must also engage the inherent messiness of creating to facilitate what might be and even what might be beautiful. Getting my hands dirty then becomes something more.

Love

February 14th, 2015

Love

You choose it every day. It's not like you wake up and your bed is on some gleaming game show stage and you stand up in your pajamas and a slick announcer asks you if you will choose it and beautiful show girls point to yes or no while the studio audience holds its collective breath. It's not like that. You choose it when you take out the trash, when you get up for the crying baby, when you make sure the oil got changed and when you trudge to work every day. You choose it when you turn down the TV to hear what she has to say or bring her the cold drink after she has toted in the giant load of groceries. You choose it when you reach for her hand at the sad parts or make her laugh by being silly. You choose it when it hurts, when you're tired, when you really just want to be left alone.

The glitter of love isn't love. Oh, don't get me wrong, the glitter is sweet and it leads us to the place where we know that what makes love really shine. But the glitter isn't real, glitter is nothing without light. It is we who must shine, if there is to be love. We're not always good at it and it's easy to get it wrong. But we choose it anyway. Anything less isn't real.

Planting something new

February 7th, 2015

Planting something new

We were visiting relatives in Davis, California when I shot the originals of the dilapidated barn on Covell Road. Tucked in among burgeoning suburbs, here the not-so-distant agrarian past still existed and on a quiet morning while the others slept I slipped out with my camera. I parked in the shopping center parking lot across the street and walked a good length of each of the cross roads where the barn is to see where m best shots would be (I'm not big on trespassing). It didn't take long for me to get my quarry and save for a few foxtails and stickers which I brought home, it was an otherwise uneventful outing.

I don't think it was more than a few weeks after I had posted my first renditions that my sister-in-law sent me the newspaper link saying the barn had been torn down to make way for a mixed-use development of residential and retail buildings, open space and an "urban farm." Having grown up in Southern California, I know that the landscape will change, that the old will be replaced with the new (with a few worthy exceptions). I can't really say I am okay with it, but I accept it the same way I accept my ever graying hair (with purposeless muttering mostly). A former boss used to say about land that it should be developed to its "highest and best use." And from a profit-and-loss perspective, I get it.

But I still wince for the loss of something that can never be again. A hundred years from now, long after I am gone, perhaps someone new will be standing at the corner of Covell and Pole Line Road and wince when the mixed-use residential and retail and urban farm are turned under to plant something new.

Of winds and angels

January 24th, 2015

Of winds and angels

The Santa Ana winds are blowing today. At the bay the surface water is agitated and dark blue and the sand swept smooth. Despite the 80 degree temperature, the beach seems quiet save for the palm trees rustling in the gusty wind. The air is clear and dry. The contours, cliffs and canyons of the San Gabriel mountains thirty miles north are easily discernible. I drive to the top of Signal Hill and from here there is a full vista of the broad coastal plain on which the City of the Angels rests.

The skyscrapers of the city gleam in the late afternoon. They remind me of a bar graph where the X axis is Wilshire Boulevard and the Y axis is the level of prestige. Penthouse please. So far from the low flung adobes of Calle Olvera where Mexican families farmed and tended cattle and said prayers in the old plaza church, but easy walking distance to many of these glass and steel monuments today, if Californians actually walked. This warm winter weather is but one of many reasons the city rose, in height, in numbers, in time. It lies before me in its self-glorifying immensity, made small only by the white-capped granite peaks, wrapped in their finest firs and crowned with communications towers and fire lookouts.

The Santa Ana winds make the city look clean and, in this light, it's easy to see why eleven ancient families might find a place by a flowing river for their town and call it El Pueblo de Nuestra Seńora Reina de los Ángeles, The Town of Our Lady Queen of the Angels.

My history with guns

January 18th, 2015

My history with guns

My mom was afraid of it, that much was clear. Long after my father died, she kept his shotgun hidden, wrapped in a blanket on the back of the top shelf of the hall closet. Her fear passed down to me. As a kid, the discovery of this weapon during a typical foray into the normally unreachable areas of my life was a complete shock and made me look differently at my mysterious father who disappeared from my life so early that every thing about him seemed mythical. What had he needed a gun for? He didn't seem like a criminal or even a hunter, nothing about him suggested he had any interest in killing anything. But I couldn't ask my mom, to ask would have been to reveal I knew of the gun's existence. And so it was re-wrapped and tucked back into place. At times when I knew my mom was gone I would occasionally take it out and look at it and wonder about it and my dad.

As a young adult on a trip to our cabin in the desert, a friend brought along a .22 rifle. He showed me how to load it and fire it and we plinked at tin cans. I confess my fear of guns made me feel nervous but being able to hit a can from a distance was, well...fun. I was good at it. I felt like my fear served me well, my cautiousness was directly proportional to my sense of safety. A few years later, when Susan and I were wed, we lived twenty miles out of town at the old cabin. Here, response times for the sheriff would be 45 minutes or longer so my brother-in-law thought it prudent that we should have a firearm. And so, for the first time in my life, I owned a gun. Susan's family had always had guns but this was knew to me. I learned to use it and clean it and it became a possession that I was mindful of, like a pet Anaconda, not otherwise dangerous but it could kill you if you weren't careful.

Now, these many years later, my sons have learned to shoot and we have gone to the range together. They seem to enjoy shooting different kinds of weapons and they seem to have the same fear/respect for guns that I do (for which I am thankful). Still, I confess that my enjoyment is tinged with confusion about the general morality of guns and the recognition of gun violence which seems both so pervasive and destructive. I fully recognize the strong feelings people have both for and against gun ownership. But I do not subscribe to these, I like to think that I could hunt if I needed to and, in a different life, I might have been good at it. I find little harm in knowing that about myself.

I "shot" this image of 30.06 rounds from the last time we went shooting with our sons.

At the end of the earth

January 8th, 2015

At the end of the earth

The Palos Verdes peninsula is a solid chunk of land that juts out into the mighty Pacific Ocean like a rudder to the city of Los Angeles. I parked the car on top of a bluff there and Susan and I took a trail down to Abalone Cove. The hike is short but steep and there are places along the trail where the chaparral is quite tall and forms a cool archway beneath the noon-time sun. At high tide the beach is covered with cantaloupe sized rocks that make the hike slow and deliberate but we walked south towards Portugese Point . There the sandy beach opens up a bit and we put down a blanket and had a picnic lunch.

There was one family already there, a father and two young teen-aged boys were scrambling about the base of the Point with fishing poles. The mother and young daughter were looking at things along the surf line. Seagulls had found a sandwich bag with cookies in it at the edge of the beach and were taking turns trying to get the contents out. Offshore, small fishing boats were plying the waters around the peninsula and a biplane appeared briefly, making a low pass over the water.

While Susan sunned herself I took my camera over to the base of the Point. Just beneath the surface of the water, large flat sheets of gold-colored rock with mosaic like features seemed magnified by the churning water. A solitary tree affixed to a shelf on the Point seemed like a trophy, a verdant award to survival in this rocky place. Indeed, here at this particular edge of the Pacific Ocean it feels as if this is where the Earth itself ends and the unimaginably immense ocean begins. Here, the surf on the rocks creates an incredible sound as the waves pull down on the piles of rocks. A small child walking by with her parents said "It sounds like popcorn!" It sounds like a creek flowing over stones, but deeper and more resonant, and intermittent as the waves ebb and flow. It is the sound of the world breathing.

Later, we pack up our things and leisurely do our walk/balancing act along the stony shore, back to the bluff trail and back to our car. In ten minutes we are back among our own kind on the crowded streets of San Pedro. A few minutes more and we are on the bridges crossing the port flying over oceans of ocean-going containers. In 30 minutes we are on our own street but a whole world away from the end of the Earth.

The work shown here is called the Girl at Abalone Cove.

The farmer from Fresno

January 1st, 2015

The farmer from Fresno

They close off a chunk of downtown for New Year's Eve. Bands play, people dance in the streets with all the hopes that come with the night. A young man with the leather jacket had a shy smile. He was in his late twenties, short-cropped hair, neat, lean. I glanced over at him as we were waiting in line for the "restrooms." The restrooms were just a line of last resort port-o-potties for people who couldn't hold it one minute longer. I caught the young man's eye and said "Happy New Year!" He reciprocated and his drawn out response made me think that he had been drinking some.

"How has your night been?" I asked him. He said it had been disappointing but didn't elaborate. I sensed that he was lonely, that maybe he had hoped to meet someone and hadn't.

"The music is still playin' man, it's not too late."

"How was yours?" he asked painfully.

"It's been alright, I danced a little, drank a little, listened to music."

He leaned towards me, "If I can ask, whatdya do for a living?"

I was surprised by the question but didn't see the harm in answering so I told him.

"What do you do?" I asked.

"I'm a farmer."

"Where do you farm?"

"In Fresno, I tear up land to plant things," he said. I'm not sure he liked being a farmer. I'm not sure he liked being himself.

"Yeah, but you GROW FOOD, right? That's important."

He shook his head in agreement as a port-o-pottie suddenly became available I waved him on and that was the end of our brief conversation.

I was that painful young man for a time in my life, when the world didn't seem to fit my expectations. I felt like everything I had learned about how life should be was a lie, and in the betrayal, the world became a hostile and ugly place. But I made it through that phase somehow. In part, I realized that I built the hostile world from my own thoughts and reactions. It wasn't the world that needed to change, it was me. I found things (and people) I could trust and believe in. I found that I was part of and not separate from all things. And then the world changed.

I've been thinking about the young farmer from Fresno. I hope that he finds his way to a better world. I hope that he has a Happy NEW Year.

On Christmas morning

December 25th, 2014

On Christmas morning

Half way down Bayshore Avenue my mp3 player quit. Batteries. The sky was brightening in the east. I stopped at 1st Street and stood on the corner looking out at the bay. The water had the slightest stippling to it and it was starting to reflect the changing sky. Across the bay, the houses on Naples Island were dark, save for the strands of Christmas lights still on. And beyond the island homes, a layer of fog seemed to cover the marina like a soft white comforter. The Q-tip tops of palm trees and the peaks of the Santa Ana mountains jutted up behind this, the ramparts hiding the newborn sun.

It was quiet. There were no cars moving at this hour, save those few up on 2nd Street crossing the bridge to the Island. Their tires making a clickety-clack sound crossing the center of the bridge. A nearly indetectable breeze rustled the palm fronds and the first few gulls, headed inland from their roosts on the beach, were black against the fading indigo sky. A lonely jet plane, miles higher, made a silent wide arc in the same sky.

A solitary man walking along the shore with a walking stick approaches. "Merry Christmas" we say to each other and remark on the calm and peaceful beauty of the morning before us. Then we each go our separate ways. I go towards my home where the people I love so much are still asleep. There are gifts beneath our tree but I know what real gifts are, to have a home and a family, to love and be loved, and to share this life in this world for a time. That's all I could ever ask for, that's all I could ever really want.

A small gift a reprise from 2012

December 14th, 2014

A small gift a reprise from 2012

Although my mother's father worked in the Cleveland steel mills, there was very little money and as the children got older they got jobs and turned their paychecks over to their parents. Though she never said so, I believe my mom grew up with very few possessions that were her own, everything was hand-me-down. It was not until she married my father and moved away from her family that she came to own things that were hers and no one else's.

I'm not sure how old I was when she bought a pretty ceramic teapot. My parents drank coffee, but I think, for her, this teapot represented something of refinement. It was delicate and finely painted and sitting down to enjoy a cup of tea meant that there was some leisure to life, that it was not all toil from sun up to sun down, there was time for conversation or contemplation.

I do not remember the circumstances but I recollect that it was an accident that sent my mother's delicate teapot to its untimely end, smashed on the floor, so many broken pieces it was beyond any hope of repair. I do not remember her crying about it but I suspect she did. I do remember a prevalent sense of loss. I see now that she, having grown up with so little, may have felt unworthy of fine things.

I do not know if it was that same year or some subsequent year that I came across a teapot that was identical to the beloved one in every way. It was close to Christmas and I bought the teapot and wrapped it and put it under the tree for her on Christmas Eve. The next morning was the usual Christmas morning madness with the rush to open presents. I felt a psychic tug, knowing that her opening that gift would mean something. When she picked it up and began unwrapping it I nearly felt ill. When she saw what it was, I saw the wave of emotion on her face and I knew I had done the right thing. I saw on her face that she knew that someone thought she deserved something nice.

There are very few moments in a boy's life when he has done something he can be truly proud of, my life was full of the ordinary busyness of school and church and chores and just trying to get along. There are not many gifts we can give each other that don't fade, or break, with time. I gave my mother a teapot that Christmas but I think she got something else entirely.

The teapot may be long gone for all I know. What is left is the only gift we really have to offer each other.

Visiting the city

December 7th, 2014

Visiting the city

To walk around the streets of Old Sacramento, the historic portion of town next to the river, is to go back in time more than one hundred years. The buildings are much as they were a century ago but modernized in all the right ways to keep from being fiery death traps. Most weekends the wooden sidewalks are filled with tourists but as an avid photographer, the early mornings belonged mostly to me, a few homeless folks and some of the restaurant prep people getting to work. I like the feel of Old Sac (as I like to call it). Here was the wharf where people came to to start their own gold rush in 1849. Here merchants became wealthy in banking and railroads, their names carrying forward to this century as names of corporations or universities. You might get lost in the past here quite easily save for the modern skyscrapers just above the roof tops of these old brick buildings and the sounds of traffic from Interstate 5 which both hides and protects Old Sac from the rest of the constantly changing city.

I used two of the buildings as backdrop for this image. The cowboy pictured here was garnered from the Farm Security Administration's color photo repository. He seemed the most likely candidate for this image. I liked his hardened look, his clothes tell me that he works hard for little money, his hat chewed up, his shirt soiled. A trip to town would be for business more than pleasure. He seems to me to be more comfortable on the range than in the city. He might come home with a souvenir, a few silver dollars in his pocket until next time and maybe a small bottle of the good stuff to ward of the chill at night. Who knows how many just like him wandered these very streets?

You'll find this image in the Nostalgia Gallery.

In the time we have been waiting

November 29th, 2014

In the time we have been waiting

I am sitting on a bench with my sisters-in-law in front of a touristy restaurant in Old Sacramento. We are waiting for our party to be called, a family dinner before we all go our separate ways. A man with a hospital wristband still on sits a few seats down from us. He asks the many tourists passing by for spare change. Some shake their heads no, others seem not to notice him. In the time we have been waiting he hasn't received anything.

Got any spare change?

In the time we have been waiting small clouds, pink on their bellies and gray on their backs, move away from the setting sun like sheep grazing towards open pasture. Tiny steps, nibbling as they go.

Got any spare change?

In the time we have been waiting a thousand ravens create a floating black ribbon in the sky heading somewhere to roost. The endless ribbon, thick in some spots and thin in others seems to move with a fluid and undulating motion, driven by some force unseen from this bench.

Got any spare change?

The young father on the walkway before us asks his two young children, a boy and a girl, "Do we have any spare change?" They each dig deep into their pockets, one even pulling his pocket linings out, holding them wide with his fingers. The answer shows on their faces as they look at the poor man asking for change. They do not and they feel bad. And they walk away.

Got any spare change?

In the time we have been waiting the man continues to ask as others parade by. Then, counter to the flow, the young boy emerges whose pockets had been empty. He shyly holds out coins for the man and the man takes them.

In one small moment, in the time we have been waiting, the boy is redeemed, the man is redeemed, the world is redeemed.

Hey there Delilah

November 22nd, 2014

Hey there Delilah

I don't see my friend Olivia very often, but when I do see her the first thing she asks is "Do you still have it?" as she turns my head to see if I still have a ponytail. I do. My hair has been "long" for longer than I can remember. I say "long" because the front of my head is nicely landscaped now, cropped close to my head most of the time but I can't seem to let the ponytail go. Maybe it's an homage to my younger days or maybe it's because I know Susan likes it or maybe, based on the oft repeated Samson and Delilah bible story from my youth, I secretly worry I will become weak and powerless without it. It could be any of these but it's probably all of them.

In the 1970s (as seen here) I was at my shaggiest. I remember visiting my little Italian grandmother once after having been to the barber for a trim. I had no sooner put my foot in the door when she said "Timmy!" (She's the only one I didn't mind calling me Timmy) "When are you going to get your hair cut?!?" At one point back then, my brothers and I operated a small manufacturing business together in a small shop. We all three looked like rejects from the Symbionese Liberation Army. "If I didn't know you guys,"Susan told me once when she came to visit me at work, "I wouldn't even go in there!" To her we looked scary...Manson family scary.

Looking back I see that, in part, we just wanted to thumb our nose at "the man." It was definitely counter to the 1950s-crew-cut-church-on-Sundays culture we grew up in. I think we would have said that we wouldn't have wanted to be friends with anybody who would judge us about our looks but in reality I think it may have been more of a coping mechanism, keeping people at a distance. We definitely thought of ourselves as nonconformists back then,everybody wanted to be one!

I love this image of myself not necessarily for the unruly mop I sport, but for the smile too. Migrating through the late teens and early twenties is a perilous and adventuresome time for anyone and when I see this image of myself, I like to think I managed somehow. My ponytail may just be a legacy trait but, like the Bible story, it really does hold power for me.

Ad astra per aspera

November 15th, 2014

Ad astra per aspera

There were few stars in the sky of my childhood home, hidden by the glut of city lights only the brightest ever made it through. Still, in the long summer nights when we stayed outside until quite late, I could pick out the big dipper. I remember spending some summer nights visiting my uncle in Colorado where, at the time, there were fewer city lights. I visited once at the height of the Perseid meteor showers, what a grand night that was, laying in the tall grass and watching the 'stars' fall one after another. Awakening the next morning, covered in a sleeping bag, I realized I had fallen asleep and never dragged myself back inside.

Visiting and later moving to the desert was the best for seeing the stars and planets. No city lights. The milky way splashed across the zodiac. The sky dripping with stars. We had an old telescope in a wooden box and set it up from time to time, gazing at star clusters, seeing the red of Mars and the brightness of Jupiter and mindful of the scar-like craters of the moon and being able to eyeball that dirty snowball, Halley's comet, without the aid of a telescope. The sky is chock full of wonders that have stirred me and grounded me at the same time. What a royal painting is the night sky on a moonless night in the middle of wilderness. My young mind was full of questions about the night sky back then, today I accept it as a gift, this view of fiery worlds spinning farther away than I can even imagine, their light reaching us over inordinate amounts of time, but their absolute beauty absolutely timeless.

I miss my old friends nowadays. I long to go to the desert for a visit and take them in again, one by one as the sun begins to set until the sky is overflowing once again.

The image here is of one of my acrylic pieces not yet ready for sale. I call it Skylights

A few collected moments

November 12th, 2014

A few collected moments

I feel the cool breeze, barely perceptible, on my skin where it is exposed to the air...on the small triangle of my chest below my beard, on the back of my hands, across my cheek and forehead.

The room is crowded with business people in suits, I have worn a jacket but no tie, we hear a state official telling us the worst and best news of his department.

More shorebirds than I have ever seen, a moving mass scouring the sand at low tide. Periodically, one species takes flight and settles farther down the beach.

S is wearing a new gauzy skirt, she is standing in the open doorway, backlit by the kitchen light. I cannot NOT look at her lovely shape in silhouette. My pulse quickens.

I throw the car in park, grab my keys and the letters, throw a quarter at the meter and squeeze into the post office with minutes to spare. I chuck handfuls of letters into the bin.

We sit in complete silence while she tells us she watched the small plane get bigger and bigger and then crash into the World Trade Center. Her office on the 35th floor faced the WTC. When the buildings collapsed, people in her office were crying. They ALL knew someone who worked in the buildings.

A small fire in a little outdoor fireplace paints the courtyard walls a bouncy orange yellow. We sit with our feet out to the fire while R plays a complicated rythmn on the djembe drum.

Hope delivered

November 2nd, 2014

Hope delivered

We have been in a perpetual drought for so long here in California that rain becomes news. TV news weather people fall all over themselves describing this low-pressure system moving south that will bring significant levels of moisture. Our badly needed moisturizing had been forecast for Halloween night and long after the first trick-or-treaters had gone the first telltale drops began to fall. During the night as we slept it rained lightly and by morning it was mostly done. Walking the dog, I stopped to marvel at the armada of clouds sailing away, their tall white sails bright in the early morning light. Everything looks brighter after a good rain, the streets and trees, the yards and flowers, even the air seems brighter.

I have learned recently the many ways plants here have adapted to these dry conditions. Some totally go dormant and appear to be dead, springing back to life at the first sign of rain. Some develop smaller and smaller leaves to decrease surface area (avoiding heat and decreasing evaporation). Some develop elaborate root systems to take advantage of every last drop of moisture while others develop tougher-skinned leaves to hold water in and keep it from evaporating away. Life finds a way to keep going, even under adverse conditions.

I captured this image of a juniper last week in the high desert, a place of little moisture. I have seen plants like this come back to life after a rainfall, new growth sprouting from its former greatness, refusing to lie down and die even with the tiniest glimmer of hope. Hope delivered by the raindropfull.

To breathe the wind

October 25th, 2014

To breathe the wind

Today we travel to the desert. From our home we will traverse the coastal plain east, running parallel with the mountains to the north, winding through river valleys, climbing through a number of low passes. At one key point where the mountain range gives way to untidy folds of desert hills we will turn decidedly north and climb through steep canyons up, up, up until at last we will come to our destination on the north side of Joshua Tree National Park. But in the parlance of the day, one might say we will take the 22 to the 55 to the 91 to the 60 to the 10 to the 62 and eventually the 247 (which seems horribly wrong, if awfully convenient, these use of numbers).

At each leg of the journey, the human populations become less and less dense. And Nature intrudes more and more until at the last only the lonely stretches of roadway with the occasional car are all that remains of the "civilized" world. Here, the Joshua trees hold reign amid their furtive subjects, the sidewinding rattlesnake, wide-eyed jackrabbit, leathery lizard, burrowing owl, desert tortoise and kangaroo rat. Here the wind whispers as it moves among the larrea, juniper and pinon pine and the relentless sun reveals the subtle colors of the ancient and bare skin of the earth in faded pastel hues. Here, at last, we find our invitation to shed our burdens, the silly accoutrement of our human busy-ness, here, we are invited to live plainly without pretext or guile, to breathe the wind and feel the sun and just...be.

Stretching exercises

October 18th, 2014

Stretching exercises

Sometimes I get inspired by the work of others. I will see someone else's work and think "Oh, I like what they did here!" It's a treatment or use of colors or design. And I try those ideas out on my own. An art instructor told me once that each artist has their own color palette, the shades and hues that resonate with them. As I look back at my own work I do see certain colors that emerge. And so I try these different ideas with my own palette, or with my own design and what results is something entirely different for me.

This picture of impatiens for example was the result of this process. I photographed the impatiens in my own yard but placed them in an arrangement like one I had seen elsewhere. I used my own color sense and the result was something unexpected, something new for me. A mixture of digital (yuck, I hate that word) and photograph that seems to mix alright together. If innovation is using old things in new ways then, for me, this is innovation. Of course, beauty is subjective, but I find it pleasing enough. But even more fascinating for me is that the idea of what my work is changes as I try these new things. It stretches me in ways I might not otherwise have considered. That alone makes the process worth it.

Reminder to myself

October 11th, 2014

Reminder to myself

October 2014
This is a week for remembrance in our family, people we love who have left us too soon. Like my photos which are sometimes composites of different photos, today, I offer these small tidbits of writing, more for myself than you. They are my own trail of crumbs by which I am both lost and found.

August 2013
In a singular moment, a heavy wind causes the seed of the larrea to detach from the branch upon which it was created. The seed's fuzzy exterior allows it to be carried along by the wind so that it might land somewhere far away from its parent. There is a good reason for this that has less to do with genetic diversity than you might think. The larrea plant releases a natural herbicide in the ground beneath it to decrease competition from other plants for vital water and nutrients. Seed falling directly beneath the larrea would likely not survive and so floating or wind-borne seeds have a much better chance at survival.

But as a human, I often ascribe human characteristics where they least belong. I find a poignancy in this moment of separation even if it is in the best interest of the parent and the child, er, seed. Even though it is the most natural thing in the world to happen, letting go is one of the hardest things we humans ever learn to do. Whether it is letting go of (misbegotten) ideas, letting go of cherished dreams, letting go of our own seed, er, children or letting go of any of the people we love, it is, in fact, love that demands it (and selfishness that impedes it). Letting go is hard but in the end it must happen and it does happen, despite our foolish humanness.

A sky for a canvas

October 4th, 2014

A sky for a canvas

The sun is still far from peeking over the Santa Ana Mountains when I pull onto the 22 eastbound. The mountains remain black as the sky brightens. The river of red taillights flows silently, steadily east, like lava. I have a 7 a.m. appointment in Orange.It's a 30 minute drive at this early hour.

As I drive the eastern sky becomes a canvas. The clouds, striated and thin, started out as a whitish gray but now the sun (still not seen) begins to paint them a reddish orange. The sky background changes imperceptibly too, the deep blues morph into Cerulean shades. The cars around me begin to proliferate, the density increases as workers stream onto these asphalt ribbons which glide in gentle arcs over the contours of some ancient playa.

I find the canvas beyond my windshield changing still, the colors of the clouds brightening into shades of peach and pink. The rays of the sun reach farther and farther until the entire sky before me is ablaze in seemingly unworldly colors. I look to the left and right at the other drivers as if to send a message "Do you believe this?!?" But the message seems lost, caught by the freeway speed winds that rush by between us. For the remaining minutes of my trip the scene before me changes slowly, the clouds themselves change shape, their color changes across the sky and the background gets lighter and lighter as the sun prepares to breech the wall of mountains before me.

At my exit I wait for the signal to change and then I will be headed in another direction entirely. I am grateful for this last moment with the painted sky. Our friend, Camille, used to call these God shows. "God show, everybody! Come on let's go outside! God show!" she would call out. And I think of it that way, it's changing loveliness like watching a painting being painted in unimaginable hues on a canvas as wide as the sky. Something so big, so beautiful, I think to myself, it could ONLY be God.

Beyond the known

September 28th, 2014

Beyond the known

In a larger sense I think of them as the Mysteries. These are the things that happen for which the everyday rules of life do not apply. The strong sense of a departed loved one being near at hand, the I-was-just-going-to-call-you phone call, the unexpected sense of serenity or surrender in an otherwise ordinary moment, the wordless wonder at seeing some unimaginably beautiful thing (or person). It's as if for a moment we are transported out of our ordinary lives and senses, we gain some bit of divine perspective (for lack of better, truer words). I've never understood why these things happen from time to time and I know I am not the only one who experiences them. I know you have to, in your own way.

I thought of this when I worked on this image of the Dreamers Door. To me it has that otherworldly appearance that represents the Mysteries of this life. I like to think that sometimes the door opens for us and we can step through to some other level of understanding and experience. In our dreams I think the door is always open and we travel through as a matter of course. But in our waking state it seems random and inadvertent because we are often taught not to believe in or trust this in ourselves. And yet, we have our moments, small moments though they may be of experiencing Truth.

I am coming to believe we live in both these worlds simultaneously. Except that, they are really just one world but we are not "at home" enough yet with the idea that there is more to life than what we see, hear, taste, touch and smell. We only have our own Mystery moments and our dreams as proof and there is no scientific way to quantify or qualify these. In the end, for me, I just have to accept that I cannot "know" everything, allowing me to experience some small part of this incredible unknown.

They might be bears

September 18th, 2014

They might be bears

In the childhood bedroom I shared with my brothers, there were two windows on the wall that faced towards Grandma Tobler's house. Her house might have been 6 feet from ours, a wooden fence dividing our three-foot side yards one from another. The side yard itself was a lost world, nothing more than a tangle of knee-high weeds and stickers, and lost and broken things forgotten over time. My parents never ventured back there and, because it was overgrown, it was not an easy through-way to the front yard. Consequently, it was abandoned for any useful purposes. At night, while my parents watched TV at the other end of the house, I would try to get to sleep as scary noises emanated from this forsaken bit of property outside the window. Many times I saw frightening shadows cross the curtains, furtive figures of villains moving like cat burglars, slowly, stealthily, not wanting to be discovered hiding in this no-man's land.

"There's nobody out there! Go back to bed!" was the common response when I would relay my fearful concerns to my parents who were, at that very moment, discovering who the real murderer was thanks to the fine trial lawyering of TV's Perry Mason.So I would slowly walk the half-mile long hallway back to my dark bedroom where my younger brother was sound asleep and my older brother's bed was still empty cuz he was still working, pumping gas at Uncle Louie's gas station. And eventually I would fall asleep.

It was on a night like that when the bears came. I saw their shadows first on the curtains. Three shadows to be exact. I was so scared that I could barely move. I watched them move about in our side yard. They did not seem ferocious or even dangerous. They seemed curious. Something called me to the window. I pushed the curtains aside and there they were. They looked in as I looked out. And they began to talk to me. I have long forgotten what they said, my recollection is that it was nothing more than pleasantries. It was clear, over time, that there wasn't anything the least bit scary or dangerous about them. In fact, I enjoyed their visit. What happened after that is now forgotten. I wasn't afraid so much after that. The scary sounds and shadows might not be anything bad at all, they might be bears.

As I have grown older, I have come to realize that Nature, in reality or dreams, has become a friend to me. In sadness it brings me solace, in fear it brings calm, in longing I find its beauty again and again and again. With this image I pay homage to the spirit of my childhood bears whose welcome words lessened my childhood fears and kindled an enchantment with animals of all kinds.

Tasting time

September 9th, 2014

Tasting time

Not twenty years after American Col. John C. Fremont moved across the San Marcos Pass to accept Mexican General Pico's surrender of California, ending the Mexican American War. The trail he used became a stage route between Santa Barbara and Rancho San Marcos in the Santa Ynez Valley. Very near the crest of the Pass a small building was erected by Chinese laborers and the Cold Spring Tavern was born. Today it is a rustic restaurant offering fare not far removed from its first days as a stagecoach stop, the smell of beef cooked over an open flame wafts through the towering trees and weary travelers find comfort and camaraderie as their spirits and bellies are filled.

Even though the the modern (and gracefully engineered) Highway 154 has bypassed the treacherous Stagecoach Road where the ancient tavern is located, still the place is crowded and parking isn't easy to come by without extensive use of one's own legs. The inside is dark and our table was lit by an oil lamp, exposing hunting trophies and paraphernalia of bygone eras mounted on the walls. The tiny rooms with creaking wooden floors and leaded window panes opening to the mountain laurel might just as well have been a scene from 120 years ago as today.

There are few places in Southern California in which a sense of history is palpable, the California missions, some of the old adobe homes and early forts. But here, like nowhere else I can think of, do we have the experience as it must have been for those who stopped to rest and be refreshed before continuing their journey, as we ourselves did in the same place but in another time.

Cold Spring Tavern can be found in my Buildings, Doors and Windows Gallery.

Meant to be

August 31st, 2014

Meant to be

Back when I shot pictures for the paper, the corporate office arranged for a photography seminar for all the reporters and photographers for all the regional papers they owned. The man who came in to teach was a great photographer, had published some books and later in life had become a Protestant minister. The seminar was great and he helped me become a better photographer.

One of the great things about his visit was that he spent a day with me out doing assignments and in addition to the photography tips we talked about his new career and we shared our philosophies on life and work. I remember we were driving around town. I explained to him that a good deal of the pictures I shot and used were unplanned. I would happen to stumble upon, say, kids building a snowman or a roadrunner sitting on a forklift or a CalTrans worker taking a nap in his truck with his feet sticking out the window. I explained to the instructor that I knew that God would provide shots for me to take AND it never failed. There was always something.

He was indignant at this for reasons I still do not quite comprehend. He said God was no respecter of persons. Now, I know that expression comes from the Bible. But I do not know for sure what it means, but he certainly implied that God probably was not all that interested in doing things for my benefit. I'm not sure then, that we were talking about the same God because I seem always to be surrounded by God revealing Itself. He was certainly not unpleasant in his indignation, he was, I believe, stating his beliefs on the subject and, in whole he was an excellent instructor and companion for the day. I would certainly be happy to spend another day doing exactly the same thing.

The only reason I am telling you about this is because more than once I have encountered some lovely creature seemingly waiting fro me to photograph it. On one occasion, a great egret literally landed a few feet from me and stayed until I had taken as many photos as I had wanted. On another occasion I found a song bird sitting at the top of a bush singing it's little heart out. I didn't give one fig that I was there with my camera, it just kept singing (as I captured it's image). And it's not just birds, bighorn sheep have paused long enough for me to catch them before bounding away. It always feel personal to me when it happens, and I am always grateful for the encounters.

I've missed plenty of good, important shots but these rare occasions when life literally stands still, well, they make me think they were meant to be (for you to see).

Duck hunting

August 25th, 2014

Duck hunting

The sun had not yet broken free of the early morning clouds so it was dark and gray when I got into my car and headed west on Ocean Boulevard. I got to the first bridge, the Gerald Desmond, as the muted colors of morning began to emerge. My quarry for the morning was dubbed "the world's largest rubber duck" a giant inflatable in the image of the bathroom toy which was created by Dutch artist Florentijn Hofman. The oversized waterfowl had been visiting ports around the world and had finally stopped at the Port of Los Angeles, near my home. By the time I got to the Vincent Thomas bridge I caught a glimpse of the tell-tale yellow out of the corner of my eye. It was tied up near the cruise terminal in San Pedro.

In these early hours the cruise terminal was not open so I couldn't get as close as I had hoped. But the parking lot of the Catalina Express next door proved a sufficient vantage point to get the sense of size (and wonder) of the six-story creation and I spent my time wandering from one angle to another getting all the shots I wanted. Other people had come as well to admire the benign giant tied up in the same channel with ocean-going container ships and tugboats pushing barges about.

I shouldn't have been surprised at the sense of wonder people expressed upon seeing it, eyes smiling, awe-struck mouths, flash after flash from all manner of cameras and phones. Thousands were expected to come see it during the duck's visit. "The friendly, floating Rubber Duck has healing properties," the newspaper reported Hofman as saying. "It can relieve the world's tensions as well as define them." I can't say I know anything about that, but the lightheartedness I felt could not have done any harm and that's good enough for me.

Mountain moments

August 15th, 2014

Mountain moments

Esther told me once that she lived for some amount of time in a camp trailer in the San Gabriel mountains. Her husband helped her get the trailer set up and I think she hoped for the Emersonian experience of the sacredness of Nature (and possibly to have a short break from the duties of motherhood and work-a-day life). She enjoyed the time but, my recollection, was that it was not perfect the way she hoped it might be. I think the lesson that was revealed to her was that the place whereupon we stand is holy ground. Going to the mountains can be a delightful retreat but "the connection," in whatever form you might describe it, already exists within us. Maybe we just need to get to the mountains (or the beach, or the desert, or a tropical island) to tune it in a little better sometimes.

The image "Esther's Retreat" was made from three separate images, the forest , the camper and the woman (not the real Esther, btw). I was working on the camper image and then boom, boom, boom I could see this image in my head. And then I remembered Esther's story about her time in the mountains and it came together. I think we can all relate to needing some mountain moments in which we shed our every day worries and luxuriate in the quiet serenity of some idyllic place. The trick is the discovery of unlocking the treasure of the indwelling peace that already resides within us. In that way we live the mountain moments.

A world without words

August 7th, 2014

A world without words

Today on the bus two young women gabbed at each other for many miles. There seemed barely a time for breath, just a constant stream of words. If they heard one another I could not tell. I marveled at their ability to produce such a continuous volume of words. I can't do that. I wouldn't want to.

It's like the feeling of claustrophobia but it's not that. It's a mental pressure that makes me feel cornered or trapped. I've had it since childhood. I've never talked with anyone about it, I just know that if it gets too noisy or too crowded I have to go outside. It's like the noise in my head grows exponentially based on the number of people crowding around and talking a little too closely to me. A certain pitch of voices or the prospect of endless chatter is about the same to me as someone ceaselessly banging pots near my ears, it drives me crazy. I suspect my sister would claim this is a symptom from the autism spectrum and I couldn't refute it. I don't want to be rude but I suffer if I stay.

I find peace in this work...in capturing images and working with them. I love dawn for the same reason, because humans don't like to rise too early and I find myself alone in the world, hearing little, seeing everything. I like meetings of two or three. I can listen and I can talk. More than five and I can only listen, by the time I have the words the moment has passed. I accept that, in conversation, at best I am deliberate, if slow. At worst, I give up and won't even try to get a word in edgewise. I'll just be content to listen and enjoy if I am able.

There is a world without words. I have seen it. I wish others saw it more often.

Piedras Blancas, California Central Coast

July 26th, 2014

Piedras Blancas, California Central Coast

Miles and miles of rolling hills fenced in by coastal mountains on one side and the endless Pacific
on the other. The deep green grasses bow and bob to the music of the pressing wind which has carved and contorted the stunted, sparse Monterey cypresses which make their home in this wide, bolt of spring-time emerald ribbon.

The undulating blue-green sea teeming with so much life glows as if lit from within. It crashes against the dark rocks and bluffs and islands, with willful ferocity as if to keep the crumbling land from invading and stealing its jeweled secrets. Sand dunes and driftwood, the detritus of battles won and lost, won and lost. Each grain of sand, each bit of wood, each blade of grass, each roiling wave, each sea bird and mammal glow with the light of Being.

How can I look away?
How can I leave this world?
How can I re-turn to stone?

Powerful forward motion

July 21st, 2014

Powerful forward motion

It was my older brother who taught me to ride a bike. Perched tenuously atop a bike, he had me start at the curb in front of our house, one foot down on the curb for balance. He suggested I push myself along the length of a few houses to get a feel for the motion of riding a bike. Then, once I became comfortable with pushing fast enough, for a few brief moments, I would be coasting along a few inches from the curb. After a while it became easy to balance the moving bike, each time straying farther and farther from the curb, and allowing my feet to rest on the pedals. Suddenly came the command "Pedal!" and before I knew it I was the source of this powerful forward motion and I was free of the curb, free to ride anywhere, anywhere I chose.

The lesson of learning to ride a bicycle was a valuable one. It taught me that I could gently approach some new task until my own confidence allowed me to proceed with some new thing. In these days when the challenges of life seem to be clumped together a little too closely, I have to remember to be gentle with myself, to move forward in my own time, to check in with myself to see when I am ready for the next step. The command to "Pedal!" is my own now, it comes from deep within me and makes failure impossible, even if the results are not what was expected. But the real result is the same I longed for in my bicycle days. Having given myself the power to proceed where I had never been before I find exhilaration and behind that, freedom.



Savoring the best

July 12th, 2014

Savoring the best

Driving north on Highway 29 in St, Helena there is a ribbon of cars. On each side of the two-lane road vineyards stretch to the foothills which are festooned with clumps of ancient oaks and the tall golden grass of summer. Disney could not have done a better job of creating this pastoral scene.Interspersed among the lush green rows of grapevines are the famed wineries of the Napa Valley. They are the beacons calling to the long chain of automobiles and we, ourselves, are called to one. Vittorio Sattui's great grandson, Dario, has built this winery bearing his ancestor's name. It's a perfect day for a picnic beneath a shade tree on the winery's carpet of cool, damp grass. My oldest son and his girlfriend spread blankets and put out the items they have procured for this mid day feast, a crusty baguette, paper-thin slices of prosciutto, salami, honey mustard, table grapes and a variety of cheeses including two heavenly softball-sized clumps of fresh mozzarella. After sampling, Susan, youngest son and our niece requisition several bottles to accompany this splendid outdoor meal.

There are many who come here to delight in the varieties of wine and the pleasure of trying and buying what they like. In another life I might have been one of these. The thing I most treasure about the day is the relaxed conversation, the new tastes, the faces of these people who grace my life, the simplest joys and easy laughter, the sense of fondness. I look from one to another and feel lucky to know them. I feel a timeless love as if I have known them for a thousand years, a thousand lives. For me, there could not be a more perfect moment than this time, sharing of time together.

Like the finest wines, life reminds us to savor what is best in all its variations. We carry them home to treasure.

The hopes of freedom

June 28th, 2014

The hopes of freedom

In a few days we will celebrate the idea of freedom. The day we celebrate was begun to honor our breaking free from England, which used coercion to relieve us of our resources in taxes. Our Bill of Rights was fashioned to specifically address the boundaries with which government may coerce us. It guarantees us certain specific freedoms. But our notion of celebrating these freedoms has changed over the years, perhaps because we are secure in the notion that they are protected for us. We are free to choose whatever idea freedom has come to mean for us in the present moment, freedom from working that day, freedom to get together with family and friends, drink and eat, freedom to enjoy the out of doors during the warm days of Summer, freedom to buy whatever holiday-sale-items we choose, in short, the freedom to pursue happiness (real or perceived).

Freedom is the grand experiment of America and it is not complete. What we make of it says the most about us. Nations that do not have it envy and fear it. And they should, because it has consequences. And we grapple with these as best we can. But Independence Day seems never to be about the consequences, it's more about the hopes of freedom, the idea that we chart our own course, that we answer to ourselves, that we are governed by our own consent, that tomorrow will be better than today for most and those are all good things to celebrate. And we do.

This is my ode to that day - Independence Day Beach Scene.

The call of trains

June 21st, 2014

The call of trains

There must be a million places across the U.S. where old rail cars are hiding, slowly decomposing on lost sidings, relics of and victims to changing times. I have seen them covered in graffiti along the rail lines that traverse parts of Los Angeles or hidden behind abandoned industrial buildings, or in the tall weeds of a no longer used line. I thought of this when my son and I went to the Orange Empire Railway Museum in Perris, California. Here, many old cars have been collected for safe keeping and restoration. The museum is on a large piece of land and so it's more like a small town with its own personal railway system. Access to the cars is mostly unrestricted, at least the outsides of the cars, and most of the restored cars are open to explore the inside.

Most of the people who run the museum are volunteers and they are proud volunteers and should be. They take their duties seriously and are eager to talk trains. I, myself, am not a train buff but I must admit I am attracted to the elegance and history of this mode of transportation. As my son and I explored the various areas of the museum I was struck by the craftsmanship required not just for the comfort of passengers but for the maintenance of these metal mastodons rolling on thin ribbons of steel with such might. The repair and upkeep must have been an industry all by itself back in the day.

It seems unfortunate to me that an efficient, affordable and viable rail system does not exist here in the U.S. But I must say that the romance of rail travel lives on in places like the Orange Empire and I have seen why.

In the out of doors

June 14th, 2014

In the out of doors

In my early 20s I took a job as a camp counselor near Forest Falls in the San Bernardino Mountains. For a week, city sixth-graders would come up into the mountains and experience a multitude of things like the grandeur of a night sky, the scent of a pine forest, the sound of rushing creek waters on rounded stones, but they also learned they could be away from their families, they could joyfully perform communal camp chores, learn and feel comfortable singing silly camp songs, have fun outdoors and just be themselves (outside the pecking order of family or school).

Camp changed kids. In a short week they did many things they had never done before, the group experience of camp meant not just having these experiences together but sharing them with each other and creating new bonds and friendships. Discovering this different world gave them a sense of greater responsibility to their planet. Some realized, for the first time, that the world was much larger, more complex and maybe more fragile than they realized. Others found a playground that was bigger than any they could possibly have imagined and found a million ways to enjoy nearly every aspect of it. And others found ways to connect with their mates, through shared experiences, that they might never have found on their own back home.

The process of integrating these different worlds (city and nature, home and away, learning and play, structure and freedom) has multiple effects and raises questions. The search for answers often leads to courses of study, career choices, even life choices. The star-studded night sky, the scent of pine and the silly camp song become a touchstone not just of cherished memories of childhood but of pivotal moments in which young lives changed direction, not at the hands of camp counselors like me, but by creation itself at work inside and outside us. The value of that experience for most kids is undeniable.



Because we are human

June 6th, 2014

Because we are human

I normally reserve this blog for subjects related to art, but not this week. This week I want to talk about the experience of love. Of course there are many kinds of love, the love between parent and child, the love siblings share, the love between sweethearts or spouses, the love we have for our friends. As different as they all are they share at least one thing in common, they're all subject to frailties of our own human-ness. In short, our love is imperfect.

Try as we might, even the best of us let impatience, annoyance, anger or worse get the better of us from time to time. It's built into us, none of us are perfect. In the best relationships, feelings get hurt (or maybe even trampled), there are misunderstandings and even if we have mastered speaking and writing, we still can say the wrong thing. No matter how much we love each other, we're bound to screw up because nothing in life is static for long. We change, and if we're lucky, we learn and evolve.

But my message for today is not about forgiving someone else for their mistakes (although that can be healing too), today I am encouraging you to forgive yourself for your mistakes. The sometimes stupid, sometimes selfish acts, the ones that make us cringe when we think about them, those are the ones we most need to forgive ourselves for. To choose to love someone, parent, child, spouse or friend, is an act that makes us vulnerable, it takes strength to choose the needs of another before your own and we are hardly experts. We can have it modeled for us, if we are lucky, by loving parents or caring friends, but there are no classes to take, no trade schools for love and no degrees conferred. We each must find our own way and stumble we will.

So, forgive yourself, if you can, for the ways you got it wrong while you are learning to do it right. Even though we will never be perfect at love, because we are human, we strive, because love demands it.

Going to Sea

May 31st, 2014

Going to Sea

As a child, holidays were spent at my little Italian grandmother's house. Tables were set up in her living room because our family and the families of my father's brothers who lived nearby would sit at one table for dinner. And on the table, a typical holiday feast would include spaghetti, salad, crabs cooked in tomato sauce, calamari, octopus, bread, pizza with anchovies (it wasn't until I was a teenager that I realized pizza didn't necessarily come with anchovies) and many other delights.

The days before the feast meant going with Grandma to San Pedro to buy the crab, squid, octopus, etc. We would pile into our old Plymouth station wagon (the one with the fins) and drive west through Long Beach and over the Vincent Thomas bridge (which alternately frightened me and filled me with a sense of awe because it was like flying, it was SO high). The fish market at Ports O Call in San Pedro was right on the docks and we wandered from case to case looking at every edible sea creature imaginable. The vendors chattering, the smells of fish and sea, these come back to me.

And then, while staring at crabs scrambling over one another in a tub, you would have a sense of vertigo as the entire backdrop would seem to be moving. When you looked up a massive freighter would be moving by in the channel having just arrived from some country across the immeasurable ocean. The ships seemed so big that the men aboard seemed the size of my green plastic army men, only smaller. I marveled at the ropes used to tie these ships to the docks, thicker than a stevedore's arms. This world seemed exotic and mysterious in comparison to my short parochial experience. Here, I began to have a sense that the world was an incredibly large place.

This week, I had a similar experience, arriving in San Pedro by ferry. Just as we were docking, a large, loaded container ship was just crossing beneath the Vincent Thomas. Water still falling from the recently hoisted anchors, the behemoth moved almost silently through the dark green waters, brightly colored containers stacked high on the deck, a small tug in tow looked like a toy by comparison. I'm much taller than my boyhood self, but still felt small watching this massive thing head towards open waters. This image hardly does it justice. I call it "Going to Sea."

Olympian feats of old

May 23rd, 2014

Olympian feats of old

My sister, Teresa, and my niece, Mickey, sat on the steps of the old state building facing Sylvester Park, a town square of sorts with a white gazebo in the center. Teresa's friends joined us there as we waited for the parade to begin. Three sides of the perimeter of the square were lined with people. On our side of the street, the chairs people had set out earlier were filled, and a crowd gathered behind those. A truck drove by and a man in the back threw colored chalk out and children scrambled for it and began drawing on the street filled with people on foot looking for the next best place to watch the parade from. The square began to fill with people, more people than I have ever seen in one place.

In the distance, the low rumblings of drums, lots and lots of drums, sounded like a low rolling thunder. Eventually, from the mouth of the canyon made by the tall buildings on our right the cheering swelled and the Procession of Species, as this parade is called, emerged. Adults and children dressed as animals or managing giant animal appendages like lilliputian puppet masters created a spectacle of colorful and often humorous delight - a hundred foot gray whale complete with spout, a teenage boy with a large red comb and tail feathers strutting like a rooster, a sinuous cat-woman sneering at the crowd, a precision pink flamingo drill team with a great drum corps had everyone wanting to dance (or maybe it was just me), a tree full of monkey-boys eating bananas and grown men and women in bee costumes riding bikes were just part of the spectacle.

The weekend of the procession, the downtown of Olympia opens its doors for artists and art lovers. Businesses from nail salons to coffee houses were converted to impromptu galleries, Hundreds of artists and artisans works were displayed. Teresa and I wandered from place to place looking at paintings and sculptures, listening to sidewalk musicians and watching jugglers mime for the crowd. After the procession, we had a nice dinner with Teresa's friends at a small Thai restaurant, I see why Teresa likes Olympia, the town is congenial in a small-town way, but big enough to provide the cultural and artistic events of a big city.

I captured this image there, of a giant white bear, making its way through the appreciative crowd in 2008.

Searching the roots of meaning

May 15th, 2014

Searching the roots of meaning

Very few of my abstract images come from paintings, some are digital art created solely with the aid of the computer, the rest are mostly from photographs I have taken. A lot of them begin as pictures of trees, plants and other natural things, while a few are based on photos of man-made objects. It's probably easy to distinguish between these. I like how the "abstract" emerges from a photo, how I start in one place and end up someplace entirely different. I never have anything in particular in mind when I start working on one of these that begins, for example, as the roots from a fallen tree (pictured above). Certain things beg me to play with their color or density or texture. In the end I have a creation that is often VERY different from its source.

I'd be lying if I said I knew anything about abstract art. For me, the understanding of it is not based on anything we might visually recognize from our world. Without the visual cues of traditional art, its interpretation becomes unchained from reason, logic, rules and order. In a sense it is quite free. Like all other art, it is maybe more subjective in terms of its appeal or lack of appeal for that reason. Its meaning, aside from whatever meaning the artist may have intended, resides quite individually in the minds of all who see it. The result may be nothing more than a search for meaning, which in itself, is enough.

The gnarled tree roots entwining rocks became my Abstract 71.

Impermanence

May 8th, 2014

Impermanence

On my desk there is a black and white photograph of my sons when they were young, maybe seven and five years old. They are standing on a desert hiking trail, newly fallen snow coating the ground and desert scrub. The older one, smiling happily, holds a leash and Katie, our Shetland sheep dog, looks attentively at the camera as if to say "Come ON! Let's GO!" while younger son squats nearby, close to the snow, as though he is about to make a snowball with his mittened hands. I remember that day, we were excited about the snow that had fallen and decided to have an adventure by climbing up a narrow trail in Joshua Tree National Park. We wanted to spend time with the short-lived snow, to see how it changed the look of the desert, to really feel the wet coldness of it. The moment is captured and frozen for eternity.

The circumstances of my life recently have caused me to reflect on impermanence. The comings and going of life have been poignant and emotionally difficult. How I wish I could stop time, if even briefly, to savor certain moments, or recall them, like old photographs of boys on a special day. My recent reading tells me that I may be thinking erroneously. That there is really only now and that wanting anything beyond what lies before me is to ask to suffer. But I cannot look at this photo and not want to go there, to be the good father I was for a moment when they were young. And suffer I do for the want of it.

And now here is this photo of Max with the flowers I bought Susan for her birthday. I was actually taking pictures of the flowers when Max wandered in. And I knew when I took the picture that the flowers would be gone in a week and Max too in a few years and I felt the weight of it even as the sound of the shutter echoed into nothingness. I am having difficulty adjusting to the notion that the things and people I love will go, some sooner and some later. I don't really know how to live with the knowledge of impermanence, except just to live with it. And it hurts, it hurts to think of a world without them, even though that is the reality of it. And while I know new things and people will come, still, I feel some part of myself carried away with these others who have gone or are leaving. And I am unreconciled.

The animals we deserve

May 2nd, 2014

The animals we deserve

"Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, "In this world, Elwood, you must be" – she always called me Elwood – "In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant." Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me." —James Stewart as Elwood P. Dowd in the movie 'Harvey.'

Our relationship to animals in this world has been a perilous one over time. In our caveman, er, caveperson days it was very likely an eat-or-be-eaten scenario. We gnawed on the bones of small furry creatures as we ran from the big furry creatures looking for a snack. I don't think anyone would dispute the fact that, although a fair number of animals have been domesticated for companionship purposes, we still, as a species, don't seem to mind using these same animals for product testing, often to their detriment and even death. Practicing dominion is hard, but harder on them.

I guess that is why I have always admired the Native Americans and other indigenous peoples who seem to hold other living creatures with greater respect. In that world view we are equals and animals are often seen as teachers. I have known some of these people who claimed to talk to animals. I have no reason to dispute their claim. I think the communication is probably not in English and I'm not sure it is even audible. But anybody who has ever had a dog or cat for a pet knows that communication is possible, when it's time to feed them, they can be VERY vocal and their ability to be understood is quite clear.

Elwood P. Dowd, the main character in the movie 'Harvey' sees and talks to a six-foot rabbit that nobody else can see. Harvey is a pooka, creature of Celtic folklore, often know for mischievousness. Pookas may be observed in a variety of animal forms, not just as rabbits. In a popular online encyclopedia I liked this description best: The pooka has the power of human speech, and has been known to give advice and lead people away from harm. Though the pooka enjoys confusing and often terrifying humans, it is considered to be benevolent.

Talking animals capable of scaring us for a good reason kinda seems like the animals we deserve.

Traveling light

April 24th, 2014

Traveling light

We all have personal struggles. In the parlance of the day we call it "baggage." When I finished this piece I thought about calling it "Child with Baggage" but I didn't want to saddle the image with the weight of people's own personal meaning of baggage. There's a LOT of baggage in this image! So I called it "Moving Day." On Moving Day we accept that we are not stuck in one place with all our baggage (no matter how much of it there might be!). On Moving Day we have a choice about what direction our life will take. On Moving Day we muscle everything we have and are to move from this place and...we move on. We are not denying our baggage, we accept it and say "This is the stuff I come with." The people who love us will make room for us and our baggage. I'm not saying we don't try to cast off the useless or unhelpful pieces, because life helps us do just that. I'm just saying we move forward even as we grapple with our own stuff.

Like the physical attributes of our own bodies, the color of our hair and eyes, the thick or thinness of our shape, we also have this inner inventory of attributes, for better or worse, that our distinctly ours too. I believe in this lifetime we have opportunities to embrace those which help us and discard those that don't. If we are lucky we can recognize the best in ourselves so that by the end of our time on this planet, we are traveling light.

Bloom where you are planted

April 17th, 2014

Bloom where you are planted

On a lonely two-lane road, shimmering in the bright sun, in a remote part of the Mojave Desert somewhere between the outposts of Flamingo Heights and Old Woman Springs Ranch, not far from the fabled UFO landing site called Giant Rock there is an incongruously large white building that seems remarkably out of place amid the low desert scrub, crumbling granite boulders and the gangly Joshua trees. Here, where the natives are a hard-scrabble lot as likely to be cooking meth as going to work, here, they grow, for an international market, many varieties of the lovely and delicate orchid.

It was here in the 1970s that a second-generation Swiss orchid farmer, Hans Gubler and his young family purchased the old ranch and well that had once belonged to the Sheriff's Deputy that chased Willy Boy from his Indian ways into the headlines in the early 1900s. It was the year-round sun, clean, fresh well water and already built hot-house that attracted the veteran orchid grower and here they grow thousands of the multicolored, multiscented, velvety flowers that capture the imagination of so many.

The day I was there and captured this image, a couple had driven some 140 miles from Los Angeles just to buy orchids. It was a good thing they brought their SUV because they bought a lot! While I find orchids pretty, I did not bring any home with me. I marveled more at the ingenious system they had to maintain the humidity and coolness of the building in this arid region. One entire wall of the hot house was nothing more than dripping wet meshed padding (fed by water pipes at the top of the wall and collected in troughs at the bottom for recirculating). On the opposite wall, giant fans forced air OUT of the room. The air forced out of the room was replaced by air sucked in through the wet meshed padding. The effect was a cool moist breeze across the rows and rows of growing orchids.

In the same way that orchids have adapted to different environments, we too find ways to adapt, allowing these fragile plants to live and grow where they never have before. Allowing me to capture this small bright image of orchids that have managed to bloom in the desert where they are planted.

Powerless

April 11th, 2014

Powerless

There was an audible POP a millisecond before the power went out at 4 p.m. I checked with the neighbors and their power was out as well. That was my hint to take Max for a walk. People were coming out of their houses and talking with each other. When I returned home I got candles and flashlights ready. My mother-in-law met me in the courtyard, she was at a loss without TV and radio, she asked me to put batteries in a little portable light for her. She asked me for the Sunday paper because she had run out of things to read. I got her some magazines as well. Before it got dark I steamed some vegetables and fried some fish on the stove top which I shared with her.

As the light faded I went in and lit the candles. It's amazing how our eyes can adjust to the small dancing light. I have to say it was a pleasant experience without the stimulation of television or computer use. The house is always abuzz with noise but I could hear other things without the usual distractions. Some kids were singing down the street, a small plane flew overhead, the noise of the engine lingering a long, long time. I listened to people converse as they walked along the street, the two-year-old who lives next door squealed and laughed and when Susan called the sound of my ringing phone made me jump. It was nice to see the houses in the neighborhood lit by the flickering glow of candles in the evening light, it felt...peaceful.

I fell asleep earlier than my normal early time and woke at midnight to the crackle of the radio I had left on and the ceiling fans beginning to whir. I got up to shut things off and then went back to bed. This morning my distractions are all present, the buzzing radio, the fridge motor coming on and shutting off with it's regular clunking sound, the glow of the computer screen. Makes me think I could live without these for small periods of time and it would probably be good for me, good for all of us I imagine.

Being a part

April 4th, 2014

Being a part

Tomorrow, this piece, Sanderlings at Alamitos Bay, and one other piece will be part of a silent charity auction. Now, I can't be giving away my art left and right, not only would it become a very expensive hobby but it would also be a very short hobby. My inventory of unsold work is not tremendous. But I let these two slip from my grasp because even the jaded, self absorbed person I am can appreciate the dedicated work of others more noble than myself, in this case, the work of the Santa Catalina Island Conservancy. They are the protectors of one of the last and biggest chunks of pristine California coastline left. They've done some tremendous work preserving the endangered Catalina Island fox (population now hovering above 1,800, up from barely 100 a few short years ago). They're bringing back the American bald eagle populations on the Island too and a LOT of other things. Perhaps, most importantly, they are bringing Island visitors back to a wild California long thought to be extinct itself.

I have long believed that Nature can have a healing effect for us stress-addled humans stumbling through this dreary work-a-day world. It reminds us, if nothing else, that there is so much more to wonder about this world than what's on TV tonight or which shoes to buy. It reminds us not only that we occupy an important place in the world but that we are an important part of that same world (with all of God's other creatures, rooted and free). It awakens some part of the human spirit that fell asleep just about the time of the Industrial Revolution, it awakens us from the false dreams of commerce, comeliness and control. We awaken to the bedazzling beauty of unfolding creation in which we, ourselves, individually and collectively, play an important, no, more than that, a sacred part. We each must decide what that part is for us, but at the very least, it must be appreciation and gratefulness for being included. And even that small part is healing.

Colors of Avalon

March 28th, 2014

Colors of Avalon

It was an hour long ferry ride across the channel to Santa Catalina Island. I had early business on the Island so I boarded before dawn and was surprised how many take this trip daily, teachers for the schools on the Island and construction workers bearing tools, gear, hard hats and professionals with messenger bags. The passengers were quiet mostly, listening to music with earphones in and eyes closed or chatting quietly with one another sipping coffee.

Avalon, the city on the Island, is a charming, if crowded, place. I had a few hours after my work and before the next boat back so I had lunch and then wandered the streets a bit to get a feel for the place. It is always much more compact than the vision I have in my head. Because the Island is essentially a mountaintop sticking out of the sea, the elevations change dramatically from sea level to peak. Houses are stacked so closely together and on top of one another in the tiny valley that opens to Avalon Harbor. Building space is not wasted here. So I walked and looked, walked and looked.

In the middle of the harbor there is a pier. Sitting atop the pier are restaurants and small buildings that house tour operators and bait and tackle shops...all painted green. Hence, it is known as Green Pier. It hovers above the emerald waters of the harbor and is surrounded by the pastel colored homes that line the chaparral covered hillsides of Avalon. The town and waterfront seem abuzz with activity on an otherwise quiet, sleepy island that time seems to have forgotten. I will always love the ocean and the places where the sea meets the land but I also love the soft human-picked colors against the gray-green hillsides in this image. Green Pier Avalon may be seen in my Coastal Gallery.

Waiting for a fish

March 21st, 2014

Waiting for a fish

More than once I have trained my camera on my own sons in a quiet moment and when they discover they are becoming my subject give a look of tremendous annoyance. I admit that I forget the camera is NOT a personal extension of my own eyesight and yet, I can't deny that I see something in them that seems timeless and I rush to capture it, whatever it is. All the photos of children that I have included here in this collection are photos I was drawn to for that same reason, because a face or look conveyed something to me. It's difficult to get good candid shots of people.Once they know they are being photographed, they often change, some social or cultural training takes over and they make their say-cheese smile.

In this image a solitary boy from a different era is fishing in a lonely landscape. I doubt he knows the landscape is lonely. His posture is one of boredom or impatience, of waiting for a long, long, long time. That's how much he must love fishing, that he is willing to wait. If you were to call to him across time and ask him to turn around for a photo, the result would not be the same. He might not be self conscious but he would not necessarily be authentic either. He might smile a little too widely or scowl appropriately but neither would capture the sense of waiting for a fish to bite.

Systems and cycles

March 12th, 2014

Systems and cycles

At a place called Black Canyon, where the mighty Colorado River makes the boundary between Nevada and Arizona, that is where they chose to put the hydroelectric dam. It was a marvel of engineering that required more than 3 million cubic yards of concrete. When it was complete, the power it generated lighted homes and powered businesses throughout the region. All with water. I think about the systems and cycles at work here. I think of water evaporating from the mighty Pacific Ocean, forming clouds that bring rain and snow to the mountains. The subsequent runoff from mountain snow packs create streams that gather, one by one, into the Colorado and here in this narrow place where the water passes between towering rock walls, man's creativity goes to work to harness the water and make it work for us. The effect of gravity and the release of water driving massive turbines sending electricity singing through wires for thousands of miles.

The water itself, delayed briefly, pours back into Black Canyon and goes back on its way home to the sea. The cycle is complete, it's always complete, every second of every day it completes itself. It happens despite our presence and, to my way of thinking, is a gift from God..."He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous." When i look at this image of someone looking out to sea, I feel the completeness of the cycle. All the water of the ocean, a very large part of that never ending cycle that brings us water to drink (and power to light our lives). I think that is one small reason people love the beach, it may be a small subconscious reason at that. Here, the source lies before us, in plain view.

Point Vicente is at the edge of the Palos Verdes peninsula in Los Angeles County. Looking south, we see the island of Santa Catalina some 30 miles away.

Over the counter

March 7th, 2014

Over the counter

A few blocks from where I live there is an Italian deli that makes scrumptious torpedo sandwiches. It's called Angelo's. It's not a big place, the tables and chairs are outside on the street. Inside are shelves of things in cans and jars from Italy or Italian food items. There's a deli case and a front counter separating the work area from the rest of the store. The thing I like about it is the same thing that attracts me to images like 'Mercantile' here...it seems more real. We have begun calling places like this "brick and mortar" because they actually exist in three dimensional space (as opposed to the interwebs!). But it's not just that, it's that the space they create is, well, personal, at least compared to the giant stores like Costmart and WalCo.

Angelo's is a neighborhood place with just a few employees. You're not going to find 50 different sandwiches with catchy names advertised on TV with snarky or worse, inane humor. You go there because you are hungry for a particular thing and you know it's going to be good, because it's just down the street, and you can't get that neighborhood experience online. You just can't.

Sure, businesses like these come and go. The big retail stores have done a good job of ruining small neighborhood places. They now, in turn, are being ruined by online enterprises. But I am happy to see these little shops making it when they can. Keeping relationships and often quality itself alive in the world of commerce. And doing a good job of it. Now I'm hungry!

The sky is falling

February 27th, 2014

The sky is falling

A strange noise, a staccato pinging growing louder and faster. My eyes open and the green numbers of the clock radio burn the numbers 1:06 into my retinas. What is that sound? And then I realize...it's rain! The pinging sound are individual drops hitting a vent on the roof above our bedroom. Rain. Here in parched Southern California rain has become a big deal. The headlines have been all about the drought lately, no water for cities, no water for farmers, no water. We hardly know what to do with rain here, we don't own umbrellas, we don't drive safely (it's California, is that REALLY important?!?), our roads flood instantly (all the storm drains are filled with tumbleweeds and fast food packaging) and they are slick with the greasy drippings of our personal motor vehicles because we long ago forgot how to walk (although the Youtube videos make it look pretty easy). And we fear rain! All those hillsides that burned last Fall? Yeah, just add water and they become a gooey moving mess that seeks the lowest point. If your home is in the way, well, you will now have a mobile home. It's a mixed blessing because we like our lawns and bathing and drinking.

But the rain makes Southern California look good. It greens up our hillsides, washes away that gritty grimeyness that coats everything (but especially our cars and buildings). Water moving through the dry concrete channels means and diverted to reservoirs means something might come from tomorrow's tap and those dusty riparian gulches with names like the Santa Ana River, the San Gabriel River and the Los Angeles River actually, for some short period of time, actually have water in them. They still won't be navigable, except for tumbleweeds and fast food packaging, but they will be, um, wet. So, welcome, rain!

But, oh THAT face

February 20th, 2014

But, oh THAT face

The bulldog is not a pretty animal. It seems oddly proportioned to me, it's massive chest and head balanced precariously over two relatively tiny front legs, the backside and back legs thrown in as an afterthought because, well, it is a dog and four legs are generally required. The wrinkles of the bulldog's head make it appear as though the head was once much larger but now, deflated somewhat, and so the folds hang this way and that. The smashed-in nose, obvious under-bite and constant drool-hang remind me of a fighter gone too many rounds, way too many. And the sounds they make, the sound of gasping (as if drowning, but on dry land) makes me wonder if just breathing is a problem for them.

BUT...

I have never met a bulldog owner who didn't LOVE their dog! And I have never met a bulldog that didn't absolutely adore attention, back rubs, belly rubs, head pats, any sort of physical attention. Although they may exist, I have never seen a mean bulldog. They love their people and their people love them. I think bulldogs teach us a lot about appearances, that the qualities we so admire may not always come in a pretty package , in dogs or in humans. Or maybe we could say that beauty is redefined by some inner traits that are not so clearly marked by outer appearances. But I think that bulldogs (and maybe most other dogs) teach us that we too, are lovable, despite our own outer (and sometimes inner) ugliness. A silly Facebook posting I read recently said it well: The loyalty of dogs proves there is human potential. I have to admit, I trust a dog's intuition about as much as I trust my own and bulldogs seem to think we are okay as a species. In that way, bulldogs may not be pretty, but they are beautiful.

Love on the 121

February 16th, 2014

Love on the 121

In the morning, boarding the 121 bus headed downtown, I find a seat near the middle. When you have ridden long enough, you recognize the regular riders. There's a uniformed security guard behind me, the older woman who works at the Chancellor's office usually sits across from me, a young woman with an inquisitive 18-month-old boy sits right near the front. Certain stops, certain riders, always the same. Near Belmont Heights a young man hops on, he always sits way in the back. Another half-mile and young woman boards and she too goes to the back. They are my fellow travelers for some portion of my 30 minute ride. At one stop downtown, where the commuter trains go to Los Angeles, the doors open and many people exit, including these last two, the young man and woman. I see they are holding hands...love has blossomed on the 121.

The same day, on the trip home, a young woman with a service dog is a popular rider. People always ask about her dog, who instinctively lies just beneath her seat, attentive, but still. She seems to love to answer the questions, her eyes sparkle when she talks about him. She explains that he calms her when the panic rises. She can work, now that he is there with her. As we approach her stop, I see there is a young man sitting on the bus bench reading a book. When the bus stops, she steps off with her dog, and the young man stands and opens his arms and she falls into them. They are still embracing as we pull away.

The Little Manila Factor

February 6th, 2014

The Little Manila Factor

The city of Stockton, California, is struggling. Last year a bankruptcy court ruled it could proceed with its Chapter 9 bankruptcy. Crime and gangs are a problem and economic prospects seem to be waning month by month in a Western town that needs more and more. It sits on the edge of the California Delta and boasts its own inland port and yet we saw little activity there, one solitary ship looking out of place amid the taller buildings near downtown.

But we saw a number of things that make us think we shouldn't count Stockton out. The first, and here is the art connection, was the wonderful Haggin Museum. Here we found a wonderful collection of incredible works inspired by Yosemite (not terribly far away from Stockton) painted in the sweepingly grand style of the Hudson School. Among these were works of one of my favorites, Albert Bierstadt, whose lavish landscapes encapsulate the wonder of seeing Yosemite from the valley floor. The museum has so many fine works that it would have been easy to totally overlook the temporary exhibits and the fine historical section devoted to Stockton's early days. Did you know this is where Caterpillar got its start? Me either!

But more importantly than the wonderful treasure the Haggin is, we went to a fundraising event that was staffed by Stockton students to raise money for the Little Manila Foundation, an organization intent on highlighting and preserving the importance of Philipino (Filipino) culture in this part of California. What I observed there were happy, determined young people working hard to keep and enjoy the things in life that ground them and bring them pride. And they were guided in their work by adults who had traveled the same path to success. It seems clear to me that groups like this push back against the seemingly inevitable viciousness of poverty and hopelessness. They give it a black eye.

Stockton suffers the same woes as many American towns. But it has hope, I've seen it, and hope is a powerful thing.

Stepping outside

January 30th, 2014

Stepping outside

In the last months of his life, I spent a great deal of time at my brother's house in the Mojave desert. Much of my time was just spent being with him, bringing groceries from town (how he loved ice cream), watering and doing a few chores, getting him the things he needed, helping him in and out of bed. Round about sunset I would go outside to call Susan and check in, and to breathe in the sweet scented desert air for a few moments. The beauty and silence, save for the wind in the larrea, was a balm for a weary heart like mine.

There is something timeless about the desert horizon. It seems to me it might have looked not entirely different than this when dinosaurs roamed the earth. I don't know why I take such comfort in that, but I do. Perhaps because it is so often inhospitable, the desert seems a little used wilderness and for those who live there, it becomes a chance to live (and die) on your own terms. It is an intentional, if lonely life, a world far removed from the hectic, busy busyness of modern life. It is the place to be unburdened.

I call this one The View from Thom's House and I caught the original image on just one of those occasions when I stepped outside, to breathe.

Playing with pictures

January 24th, 2014

Playing with pictures

An online interchange -

Them: "Nothing speaks to me. Just pictures. What's your purpose besides enlarging your own ego? Just askin! Unfortunately "art" rarely exists. Getting a degree, or knowing the right friends will never make anybody an "artist". Real art transcends. You take pictures and play with them. That's all."

Me: "I admit that I do very much enjoy working with pictures, I also agree that having a degree or friends does not guarantee that one is an artist and I further agree that real art has the effect of transcendence. I submit for your consideration that because you may not feel that effect when looking at someone's work, that does not mean that others do not have the experience of transcendence when looking at the same work (though probably not my work). I will also admit that I enjoy when someone appreciates what I do (and there is definitely some ego gratification there) but not getting that gratification (as in your pointed case) does not keep me from the enjoyment of playing with pictures.

Them: "I guess only time will tell if you are an "artist" and not just a member of a mutual admiration society. Today, it seems artists need that society to survive. Once that society goes away, so does the art. Will your "art" survive the next hundred years? or thousand? That is what transcendence means....everyone agrees. It transcends."

The truth is, I don't care if anyone else thinks I'm an artist. I call myself that because I have the ability to create something that did not exist before and to find meaning in it (even if I am the ONLY one who does)! It would be nice if it stands the "test" of time but, guess what? We won't be around to know, not them, not me. If I take enjoyment in the process and derive pleasure when others like it, that's enough for me. And if someone doesn't like it? They don't have to, I don't mind. I don't like everything I see, so....

As for transcendence (Oxford: existence or experience beyond the normal or physical level), they see it as going beyond the normal range of time, I see it as going beyond the normal range of emotion. Either way, that's not up to me, is it?

Remembering trees

January 17th, 2014

Remembering trees

This week wildfires are raging through the foothills north of the great coastal plain where we live. In the morning there is an inversion layer in the sky, the bottom half is the bright blue sky and the top half is a smokey, rusty red color. It reminded me of some of the smoggiest days of the 1970s when EVERY summer day looked much like this. Some days, there would be no inversion and the air was just a thick soup of putrid red-gray air. My young lungs wheezed at the site of this. Back then, you could still find the occasional incinerator in people's yards where they burned their trash. I can even remember days that were SO bad they told us not to go out at recess to play. When it rained, the fallen drops would actually etch the paint on automobiles. They dubbed it "acid rain" it was so polluted.

This image of trees reminds me how dirty the air once was. I call this one 'Remembering Trees' and think of it as an image from an alternate past in which we didn't take measures to clean the air. Changing the formula of gasoline, putting "scrubbers" on factory emissions and carting trash to landfills instead of incinerating it all seemed to help make our air breathable again. Interestingly, my childhood asthma abated in adulthood, we could begin to see the mountains again and we notice how bad the air looks now when there is a wildfire nearby.

We might be grumpy about the price of (reformulated) gasoline and what we are charged to take our trash away but this has clearly been a change for the better, one we can be proud of and for which we (and our children) can be grateful.

Absent

January 11th, 2014

Absent

Sometimes the events of life wash over you. I'm not a surfer but the word 'wipeout' seems appropriate. We were taken off guard by an unexpected death of a beloved family member. So I totally missed writing here last week. You probably didn't notice. Most of what I write here is about my experiences surrounding a particular image, the place I took the original photo, or the circumstances of the moment or the memories that come to mind about the subject matter. The words flow freely and are, well, innocuous and probably only of interest to me and one or two others, if that. The thing about a sudden death like that is that it wipes away everything else that seems normal or routine. The world looks and becomes different. It is surreal.

Like my other blogs I will say this about the image here, it can never properly represent the many wonderful qualities he possessed or the kind, gentle, thoughtful person he was. I have never known anyone who hungered for knowledge more or pushed endlessly for a better world in a million different ways. The original photo was taken the last time I saw him.

There is an illustration from the 1500s (known as the Flammarion woodcut) that reminds me of the otherworldliness of times like these in which, for a moment, the curtain is drawn back and we are exposed to the rawness of the Universe. To see the illustration just Google "L'atmosphere météorologie populaire" or "Flammarion woodcut" to see the image. All I know is that once you have been here the world can never be the same again.

One ringy-dingy

December 27th, 2013

One ringy-dingy

The wring of the old rotary phone could be jarring, and to have it wake you up from a dead sleep was like an assault on your consciousness. It left you feeling discombobulated. Phone calls at night were rarely good news back then anyway. If you had a proper family, they would all be home by late evening. The wringing phone at night might mean a death in the family, a medical emergency or an unhappy interaction with the law, none of which were good. It seems odd now that calling "long distance" was such a big deal (primarily because of the money the phone company charged for that particular service). Consequently, only extremely good or bad news was conveyed with long distance relatives by phone, the rest could wait for the U.S. mail service.

When Susan and I were first married, the little cabin we lived in was on what must have been one of the last party line systems. One line was shared by several customers in a geographic location. This was a very rural part of San Bernardino County in California and we shared our line with a few families and a couple old cowboys. Making a call meant you had to listen in first to see if someone was already on the line, if not you could just dial the number. But if they were you had to check back periodically until their call was complete. Of course, emergencies took priority and you could demand someone relinquish the line for such a purpose but that circumstance never arose.

Back then, there was an operator who could assist you in making calls of a particular importance. A person-to-person long distance call meant the phone company would only charge you if they were able to connect you with the exact person you wished to speak with. You could call "collect" and the person at the other end would have to accept the toll charges for the phone call (young adults were notorious for using this feature to call their parents while away at school for example).

And having just one phone (and phone number) was common for an entire family. It was often centrally located in the living room or kitchen. Additional phones could be added as extensions of the same phone number, in essence, a party line inside the home. As time went on parents realized there might be value in having separate lines brought into their homes for their teenage children to use (and abuse as we often did). It seems odd now that we carry our phones in our pockets and are just as likely to take pictures with or even read books on our phones. Now the once ubiquitous old rotary phones have become antiquated and have all but disappeared from our homes and consciousnesses, just one evolutionary link in our long history of talking to one another.

I found this particular phone on a desktop in a museum near Hilo, Hawaii.

Driving towards the future

December 12th, 2013

Driving towards the future

My parents never owned a new car in their life, as best I can remember. My father drove a panel truck for his plumbing business back in the day. I've seen photos anyway. The first car I remember was a white Plymouth station wagon, that car seemed a half-block long to my child-size self and could easily hold five families in it. We would scramble into the very back and would bounce around at every dip in the road or slide one way then another at every turn. I know I hit my head at least once on particularly bad streets in our neighborhood. By the time we acquired the Ford Country Squire station wagon with the fake wood paneling on the side, I was able to drive. In those days a 'car seat' for a child consisted of a small seat with a drop over arm rest, sort of like on a roller coaster type ride restraint. The entire contraption was secured by two big metal hooks that hung over the bench seat of the automobile, unsecured by a seat belt, good really only for containing a child that wanted to be contained. Escape meant only lifting the arm rest above your head and stepping into the jaws of oblivion.

In the short life of a child we seemed to spend hour upon hour in the car going to the drive-thru dairy for milk and eggs, to Alpha Beta, our grocery store, to St. Philip's for Sunday Mass, to get gas at Uncle Louie's station and to go to Gramma's house, none of these more than three or four miles from our house. A quarter mile west of Uncle Louie's station was my high school. It was there I learned, among other much more tedious things, that my father and my uncle had once owned a gas station together. On the corner just west of Uncle Louie's station there used to be an old Signal gas station, the Bulone Brothers Signal station. When one of the priests learned my last name he asked me how I was related o the Bulone Brothers of the Bulone Brothers Signal station. I had no idea they had been in business together. There was a Carl's Junior hamburger stand next to Uncle Louie's station, that is where his youngest daughter worked while she was in high school. We were the same age and she told me I should get a job there too, so I did. That was the beginning of my historic two-week stint in the food service industry. I'm ashamed to say I didn't care for it in the least (I never have been all that big on work anyway) being much more the "big picture" person. But, it was there that I met Russell, who said to me, "Whaddya think about that Roseann? Man, I am gonna marry her!"

"Roseann? That's my cousin!"

Funny thing is, he did marry her and they are still married to this day.

My parents also owned an old Lincoln Continental, black, with suicide doors. That was a luxury car they purchased used. It was the first car I had ever seen with electric windows and seat-movers. I was approaching driving age when they had that car and I sooo wanted to drive it, In the end they gave it to my oldest brother, It overheated regularly as I recall and was expensive to repair. By then, my brother had moved to Las Vegas, had an auto repair business of his own, it seemed an obvious fit.

The car I did learn to drive in was what replaced the Lincoln, an old Datsun pick up, a stick. Although the entire vehicle sounded tinny and as though it might fall apart at any moment. I did learn the absolute practicality of the pick up truck, a lesson I have retained to this day. Oh the things to be hauled in a pick up, loads for the dump, furniture and appliances, friends and firewood to the beach. Plus, room only for two (possibly three) which meant simple conversations.

I rarely see cars like these any more on the roadway. Like old-fashioned tools, they were easily discarded for better, more useful implements. Even if I take in the old car shows I rarely see the station wagons or small pick ups. I still see the odd Continental now and then. I still find it a beautiful machine. In Southern California, sadly, our cars help define us. The cars of my childhood said a lot about the socio-economic state of our family. The station wagon was the quintessential family car for the large Catholic family, the Lincoln was my parent's aspiration for a better life but tempered them about their unreasonable expectations and the Datsun maybe a deliberate attempt to break our family into smaller groups and help them move on. And move on they did, into futures still forming to this day.

The Country Squire, for me, was emblematic of long family drives to places we had never been before and of drives to high school happenings with friends, good memories all.

Thank You

November 28th, 2013

Thank You

I sat once on the edge of a cliff on the side of a mountain. Before me, in the late afternoon light, was a forested valley divided by a rushing creek of cold, crystalline water and on the other side of the valley, a chain of ragged granite mountain peaks aglow in the warm yellow light of the sun. It was a moment of peaceful transcendence in which I felt, at once, both separate and a a part of Nature. I am both happy and grateful for quiet moments like these in which the wholeness of the Universe seems evident, at least for some few moments in my awkward, bumbling life. In these moments I feel humbled before the magnificence of the Creation and stunned by its constant beauty.

Today happens to be Thanksgiving Day and we are called to remind ourselves of the good in life, whatever its measure might be. And so I ask you to imagine, if you are able, taking all the things for which you are thankful, the people and things, and place them on a giant microscope, the largest microscope ever imagined. Now, if you can, imagine throwing yourself on top of your Thanksgiving Day pile and, somehow simultaneously, looking into the microscope. As you turn the knob to focus, you will find the molecules of the wonderful-thankful-things and going further, the atom chains that create the molecules, and going further still the glowing subatomic particles of the wonderful-thankful-things whirring about in their tiny orbits. Here in the finest of the fine, mass ceases to be, here, there is only the light of energies, the glow of creation. Here is the God spark, glowing in everything we love and everything we are, everything YOU are.

In this light, I may feel separate but I really am also part of the mountain peaks and the forested valleys. Today I am thankful to be part of this Universe of energetic light. And I am thankful that you are too. We are the light in this Universe. And that is no small thing. No small thing. All that is, in this Universe, you are too. Thank You!

Open arms waiting

November 20th, 2013

Open arms waiting

Two of my grandparents immigrated to this country in the early 1900s, passing through Ellis Island. My little Italian grandmother talked often about her journey across the sea. She was five or six years old and traveling with her mother and siblings to meet her father who left some years before to make way for them. She said at night in their bunks aboard the lumbering ship they talked about what their dad looked like, the children could not remember, he had been gone so long. She said they had their run of the ship because their mom was so seasick, she couldn't keep tabs on them. One highlight for her was when she saw a crowd of people looking over the railing at something. Because she was so small, she couldn't see over the railing to see what everyone was looking at. A man lifted her up, and to her delight and surprise, she saw a whale for the first time.

I visited Ellis Island a few years ago. Was stunned by the sheer numbers who, following a dream, passed through this place. I was unaware of the gauntlet of bureaucratic hurdles and health checks immigrants faced and how difficult it could be for families to get through the system. It's a testament to the American dream, in my opinion, how much people wanted to come here. And I'm glad my grandparents made it. They moved to communities where people spoke their own tongue, eventually they met one another married and had children. It's strange to think that they both passed through this same place, unaware, that the person they would marry would walk the same halls and go through the same lines (though years apart).

After passing through all the immigration hurdles, outside the Registry Room, there is a wooden column called the "kissing post." This is the place where immigrants were met by waiting family to take them home. I can only imagine what tears and laughter must have been shared there. A long journey ends there and there, open arms are waiting.

The Greasy Spoon

November 14th, 2013

The Greasy Spoon

We called it “The Greasy Spoon” and, in my memory, it looked like a shack. It was a wooden building in what once was the middle of nowhere in Orange County. To call it a restaurant would be wrong, I don’t believe dining was actually part of the business plan. I don’t think “business plan” was part of the business plan. Looking back, “juke joint” or “dive” would be more appropriate. How we came to call it the Greasy Spoon is lost, that wasn’t its name. I don’t remember what its actual name was. I was 10, why would I care? The only thing I cared about it was that it was that we were going OUT to eat AND they had pool tables.

On a whim my stepdad would suggest we drive out there, probably on a summer evening and have dinner. We would pile into our Country Squire station wagon and make the long trek out Chapman Avenue into the foothills above the city of Orange. This was the same way we went to the cemetery and to Irvine Park. Back then, the city ended at the bottom of the hill and as the road rose steeply, the hillsides became a dusty green chaparral, the road itself lined here and there by ancient eucalyptus trees.

The wooden shack set on the low rise of a dirt lot, cars parked in no particular order. My parents would tell us to go get a table in the back while they ordered for us. The orders were always the same…chili sizes. A chili size, if I remember correctly, was chili con carne poured over French fries. We would run to a back room where there were pool tables and picnic tables. The room had large windows covered with screens, no glass. If a pool table was not in use we would take turns fumbling with the pool cue, trying to hit ANY ball into a pocket. We may have, at some point, been taught how to play eight ball but the fun for us was just being able to play.

Our food would arrive and we would eat noisily and then go back to “playing pool.” At some point I would realize that the sun had set and outside the large screened windows the world would be dark. A cool breeze would blow in and on the breeze the sound of crickets chirping. In the dwindling hours, we would pile back into the Country Squire and make the long, dark trek home, sleepy.

I found the billiard balls seen here on an ancient, broken down pool table in an old casino in the town of Locke, California.

Fresh, rich and hot

November 6th, 2013

Fresh, rich and hot

I was asked once to write about my "go-to-drink" for a food website. I know my go to drink should be a manly sounding drink featuring an aged whiskey or double scoop scotch brand drink of some sort (can you tell I'm not a drinker?) with a name like Seagram's Slut Banger or Rotchyerkokov Russian Rye (which would also be a GREAT bread name, right?). But that just isn't me. Give me coffee. Now. Please.

Let me tell you why. Growing up, I was one of seven kids. When there are seven kids in a family getting any individualized attention from a parent is statistically unlikely. I did most of the socially approved things to get attention, had good grades, did chores, played as harmoniously as one of seven might be expected. In our house, the oldest kid who hadn't left home yet got what we called "The Going Out Room," the only single bedroom in the house, a tiny closet-sized bedroom next to the kitchen. I was 16 when I got the going out room.

In the early morning, my mother would awaken and begin her day in the kitchen. The distinct sound of dishes being put away, pans clattering on the stove top and the sound of coffee percolating were loud enough to wake a light sleeper like me. I would stumble out there in a daze and grab a seat at the empty dining room table. There was a particular morning, though I wouldn't be able to recall the date specifically, when my mom set down a cup of coffee in front of me. She cautioned me to sip lightly. It was just the two of us at that hour and we, well, talked to each other. For some period of time before I left home, this became a ritual, and I learned things about my mom and I'm sure she learned things about me. Let's face it, like most everybody else at that age, I was awkward and shy with few friends. It was nice to have someone to talk to even if it was my mom.

Later, as I became more and more independent I would spend times out with friends in the evenings. These evenings ultimately culminated drinking coffee at some all night diner talking about the fictitious sex we were having, supreme pranking practices, the exaggerated dramas of our lives and other mostly imaginary events we pretended to live. But the laughter and joy of these moments was real and I could drink cups and cups of the hot (and. looking back, incredibly weak) brown liquid. And then go home and sleep like a baby.

Some years later, married and traveling with my wife, I was introduced to Don Francisco's French Vanilla coffee. For an anniversary, we rode in an old Pullman parlor car attached to the back of the Amtrak's Coast Starlight heading north from L.A. up the coast. We spent hours on that little back deck of the Pullman. She sipped mimosas and I drank that new delicious brew as we watched California's golden coast fly by. A fond memory...coffee included.

And I enjoyed this hot brown water for the many years that followed. Then came the Starbucks Revolution. I was not a fan at first. The coffee was too strong and, in the words of the Simpsons' young Ralph Wiggam "tastes like burning." It wasn't until I spent some time with my sister, Teresa, up in Olympia, Washington. She had a machine. She made these delicious things called lattes. The milk seemed to cut down the strong taste a notch or two. I started to enjoy these doctored coffee drinks. I still drank the brown water on a daily basis and had the occasional latte or mocha as a treat.
Fast forward to these, my middle age years, and at a party the hostess served coffee from a French press. "What is THIS?!?" I asked her sipping the perfect blend of heat and coffee taste. She showed me the simple contraption and gave me an old one she had. Oh my God, now I can make myself the perfect cup of coffee! And I do every morning. I have come to depend upon Don Francisco's French Roast as the perfect blend for me right now, clearing the cobwebs of sleep, making capillaries burst and synapses pop for my lazy, foggy morning brain.

So, coffee has been a good companion. When I think of coffee, I think of pleasant conversations with my mom, of laughter with my young friends, of delightful train rides with my sweetie, of something on this Earth that brings me satisfaction on a daily basis. So, you can have your double breasted, 12-year-old, smooth, fermented, hopped up grain drink. My go to drink is still coffee.

A part of it

October 31st, 2013

A part of it

Flying at 35,000 feet I look out my window and far below make out the snow covered caldera of a volcano. Washington state is part of the "Ring of Fire," the chain of volcanoes both active and dormant that ring the Pacific Ocean. Mid Autumn and snow and glaciers remain on the peaks of these sleeping giants that rise so dramatically from their soft green beds. I spent the better part of a day recently at Mt. Ranier National Park, Mt. Ranier being one of these dormant volcanoes. Here, at tree line, the white of the ancient frozen snow is a bright contrast to the deep forest greens and golds of this season.

Water runoff from this melting snow pack forms great river valleys carving deep pleats in the mountain's skirt. Tumbled rocks, the size of Thanksgiving turkeys are set like cobbles in broad swaths between the forested walls rising high above a sometimes gurgling, sometimes raging river. On Ranier, each of many glaciers feeds its own river. In this image, the Land of the Nisqually, the Nisqually River makes its way peacefully through a color-filled valley. But it begins at a glacier tucked just beneath the peak of the volcano and travels many miles to the Puget Sound where it broadens into a miles-wide estuary. Each mile traversed, the river brings something and takes something: nutrients, minerals, oxygen... life.

Scientists say the human body is about 60% water, water that falls as rain or snow and seeps into the groundwater or sweeps down mountain valleys. It's no surprise that we are drawn to rivers, for sustenance or recreation, for reflection or art. Water flows, through mountains, through us, always bringing something, always taking something. We are not really apart from Nature, we are a part of it.

What good comes our way

October 23rd, 2013

What good comes our way

Each night just before sunset, gondoliers take romantic couples or sometimes whole families out into the bay near our house. They row out to the center of the bay and enjoy the special moment when the waning sunlight makes everything glow in golden hues. As I have strolled along the edge of the bay I hear laughter and the sounds of people having a nice time with each other. Some bring food and drink, others seem to sit quietly just drinking in the moment as the gondola slowly makes its way through the quiet waters. Everything about the gondolas seems joyful, people sharing romantic moments, families celebrating life, celebrating the end of the day, celebrating each other.

It wouldn't be terrible if we had, or maybe took, gondola moments each day. Moments when we stopped the busyness of our lives and relaxed for a few moments to celebrate the things we cherish the most about life, the people we love, the spinning Earth and the golden sun, the moments of laughter and joy. If we are lucky, we might already be doing this naturally. But life never makes this easy and I expect, for most of us, we must consciously choose to have these moments if they are to occur at all. We spend the largest parts of our day struggling to get a leg up, struggling for the legal tender, maybe just struggling to survive. Surely we can take these few moments to celebrate what good comes our way. It is, after all, what makes our life worth living.

Sharing with others

October 17th, 2013

Sharing with others

It was the evening of an eclipse and a group of us had agreed to meet at a campground in Joshua Tree National Park. Susan and the boys and I drove in to find a few of our newspaper cohorts building a fire and setting up chairs. We joined them in the waning light. As the moon rose higher and higher more people turned up to join us until there was a small crowd. The sky was dark and bejeweled with fiery stars muted only by the milky white fullness of the moon. I don't remember what time I began to notice the Earth's shadow casting its reddish hue over the pure white of the silent moon but when I mentioned it the conversation stopped and people began to look. After the appropriate amount of oohs and aahs the conversation commenced once more.

For a good portion of my life it has been this way. I listen to people talk and enjoy what they have to say. I throw in the odd tidbit or the weird remark but always I am seeing things, the changing moon or the fuzzy caterpillar inching along or a hawk soaring off in the distance. I notice that certain plants have gone to seed and the wind is carrying the seed along on a white fuzzy parachute, I notice that a snake had crossed the sandy part of the wash and left the telltale swooshes in the sand. I don't really know how it is for others, I do enjoy human company but find myself drawn time and again to the wild things big and small, to the rhythms of this Earth. There is nothing more dear, in this crazy world in which we find ourselves, than to enjoy the company of others while the stars circle through the sky and the Earth muddies the moon's complexion and the coyotes whoop and howl as we sit by a crackling fire talking about our experience of this world. I'm convinced this is the nature of our humanity, sharing with others even as the Earth shares with us.

The living map

October 9th, 2013

The living map

I'm not sure how I came to love maps the way I do. Growing up, I'm sure I wondered what was beyond the confines of my own neighborhood. Maps told me the names of the cities nearby. Here on the large coastal plain where I reside, the streets are, for the most part hemmed in by mountains or the ocean. Within that defined space are a myriad of geometric lines named after people, places and things, most all with a history behind them. Many of the lines are based on an underlying grid of mile-square sections laid out in the early days of settlement. Major roads are often on these section lines in this part of the country and as a child I came to know the major roads near my home and then the secondary roads within the sections. I'm pretty sure this behavior probably falls somewhere on the autism spectrum but it made me feel good to know this grid for my small world.

But it's not just street maps I love. I especially love historical maps that show what was here before the grid. I came across one recently that showed the old land grants for Southern California when it was under the rule of the Spanish Crown. The king would provide certain subjects with land grants of thousands and thousands of acres to call their own, usually as reward for some extraordinary service. The names of these subjects may be found today as street names or names of cities here in Southern California and reminding us that this was not always a populous, well-manicured environment.

I love globes for the same reason. Like a street map showing where I am in relation to other cities and towns, a globe shows where I am in relation to other countries,it's grid subject to the actual curvature of the Earth. I remember tracing the latitude line I lived closest to around the globe to see what countries it passed through. I remember seeing that my Italian grandparents hometowns were about the same latitude as San Francisco. Did they have the same kind of weather? The same kind of temperatures? The globe made me wonder about places I had heard of and learned to pronounce names I hadn't.

My retention of what I have seen on maps seems keen. More than once flying in or out of Los Angeles, I recognize key places that have been significant in my life. I marvel that I can recognize them from the air. At 30,000 feet, the globe seems more vivid and real and complex than I expect, painted with textures and colors and life. It is a living map.

Garden of Earth

October 3rd, 2013

Garden of Earth

I was raised in the Catholic tradition, attended Catholic schools and religion was part of my daily life, sometimes as an actual class I had to take. I became familiar enough with the Bible to understand common references to it. In the creation story, God creates Adam and from Adam's rib He creates Eve and humans are now part of the world. They live in the beautiful Garden of Eden and God leaves them with just one lousy rule: Don't eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge, that's it, do ANYTHING ELSE you want but don't do THAT!

But the wiley serpent tempts them with knowledge and they succumb. They break the No. 1 (and only) Rule and wreck everything, and get booted from the only Paradise humans would ever know on Earth. I was thinking about the whole separation thing while looking at my piece 'Display Windows' here. That we don't often feel comfortable with Nature, we don't often feel part of it. We don't live in or with it much, at least it feels that way to me sometimes. We recreate it in our homes by bringing in potted plants and friendly four-legged (and other) creatures and yet we don't understand it much.

I think of the Creation story metaphorically, that, somewhere in our past as a species, we stopped being just animals and became self-aware (and pass the fig leaf please!). This added dimension of consciousness put us on a different trajectory than the rest of our animal (and plant) family. The decisions we make have an added dimension to them of a more self-directed variety, less about instinct and more about what-if-we-try-this-ness. I hope we are evolving in a way that is trying to re-integrate our former understanding of what Nature is to us and I would feel happy about that. We share this Garden of Earth with so many odd, interesting and delightful creatures. I'm looking forward to a day when we can reclaim our kinship, when we can remove them from the mental display windows we try to keep them behind and enjoy their, no, OUR freedom.

Desert pals

September 25th, 2013

Desert pals

They were all there waiting for me as I drove up the narrow dirt road. I parked in the dirt turnaround and zipped up my jacket against the wind, gathered up my camera and went to see my old friends. A recent rain brought out some tiny wildflowers, so tiny that they are called belly flowers because you have to lie on your belly to see them properly. Further up the trail are my old friends the juniper with its light blue berries, the main ingredient for the production of gin, beyond her is the scrub oak, dry and brittle, the wind passing through her parched leaves sounds like a great river flowing, two ravens soar over the little canyons and hillocks taking turns caw-ling out, they ride the gusty waves of air up the side of a mountain and disappear over a ridge. I work my way up the steep trail, the ground is a crunchy crust of decomposed granite reduced to pellets the size of bird shot, it has a deep sound as I walk on it, it is the sound of eons of wind and water scouring the skeleton of the Earth, it is the sound of time before time ever existed.

The ancient Joshua tree, too, is there with its arms outstretched as if beseeching God. Its course skin hides a soft, fragile wood that is useless to the human builder, its spiny crown is a menace to human hands and heads and eyes, yet its eternal supplication to the sky and its persevering presence and quiet adaptability makes it the queen of this little kingdom. She is the quiet and all seeing sentry in this part of the Mojave. Her common companions are pines at this elevation (4,400 feet), theirs is a tough life, hoping and praying for just enough rain to last another year, and the rains that feed them are the same that bring the lightning, looking for the tallest tree to strike. The poor pine lives and dies by the storm. This little community is host to others too, the yucca and the parry nolina which are the smaller cousins, looks-wise, to the Joshua tree, adapting with sharp-spined leaves and ruddy complexions, but lower to the ground, but by no means lowly in nature.

All my pals live on the side of the mountain range known as the Little San Bernardinos, farther to the west in this range is the tallest mountain in Southern California, Mount San Gorgonio, and across the Coachella Valley from the little SBs is Mount San Jacinto in whose shade Palm Springs lies. From the stand that holds the trail's log book I see Gorgonio magnificently displaying her white mantle of snow. The fuzziness of her top seems to indicate ferocious winds are kicking up the snow. I love to read the entries of the log book. There seems to be a core of people who visit here on a regular basis, their entries are always brief and to the point. The visitors to the area, whether from San Diego or from some far flung state, leave wordy entries of things they have seen (coyotes or bighorn sheep) or feats they have accomplished (made it all the way without stopping to rest). I leave my entry, acknowledging both the Creator and the creations. This time I sign my name. From here I descend, back to the car, back to the house, back to the unreal world of human construct and supremacy, back to busy busy-ness of it all.

Our stuff

September 19th, 2013

Our stuff

I think about the objects I use daily or often, you know, my stuff. I wonder if it becomes imbued, over time, with a sort of energy that makes it mine. I was thinking about that because of this image. Because most people have a collection of stuff that is theirs, that they like to look at or use. And it's around them for most all their lives and then when they are gone and the stuff is handed down or sold or given away, I wonder if there is any of their residual energy left in the object as it moves on in it's own trajectory of existence. I have a few things that belonged to my grandfather who died when I was quite young, I do not get a feel for him when I hold or use them even though I cherish them as part of family history.

This image makes me feel wistful because the things that were important to the people I loved have mostly dissipated. I hear people say "I wonder whatever happened to that old (fill in the blank)..." because the object held some sentimental attachment for them. The very memory of the item creates a feeling. I don't know if having more of my grandfather's things would help me know him better? Maybe. I guess what makes me wistful is that the stuff is, in some ways, like an art exhibit and looking at it all helps define, or interpret, the person. But at the end of our lives, most of our stuff goes, to the kids or grand kids, to strangers or to the dump. The collection will never be assembled again (and our lives would be unmanageable if we were the custodians of all that stuff) but it's still hard to think of our personal "collection" being broken apart and sent away, the meaning each item had dissipating into nothingness.

In the forest

September 13th, 2013

In the forest

Susan and I were standing at the edge of a meadow in the San Bernardino National Forest, the air smelled, for some reason, like butterscotch to me. The breeze was warm and the ground underfoot was a soft pine needle litter with scattered pine cones. To the northeast, a thunderstorm was moving over the mountain range and bolts of lightning were followed languorously by slow rolling thunder far enough away to be of little concern. To the south, as if to answer the thunder's call, the sound of musket fire from an encampment of "Mountain Men." We had never been to a Rendezvous before, and here in this remote, forested valley we found an encampment of people dressed in clothes from the period before 1840 with all the accoutrements of the historic times. We strolled among their canvas tents where some offered goods for sale, powder horns, ropes, camp cookware. There was a sketch artist working on a charcoal drawing of one of mountain men, his tent lined with various wall decor and landscape art.

I was taken by the many ways items were re-purposed for practical reasons, Old tin cans became coffee mugs, gourds became canteens, violin tuning pegs became powder horn stoppers. The mountain men were friendly and appreciated and answered our curious questions. We had a chance to fire the antique weapons too, very little recoil despite the large caliber "ball." Later, we took time to explore these old forest roads, felt dwarfed by gargantuan Coulter pines whose football sized cones are known lovingly as "widowmakers." Sometimes the undergrowth was nothing but ferns and I expected to see the furry little Star Wars' Ewoks come tumbling out, but they didn't. We didn't see any of the bears or mountain lions they say live here (though some may have seen us) but we did see lizards, ground squirrels and many, many birds including majestic bald eagles soaring high above us.

At one point we came across a trail leading up to what we thought might be a good view of the valley and lake below. We weren't disappointed, a granite ridge jutted up like a castle parapet manned by ancient weathered pines. The forest and lake stretched out below in such a stunning way that we just had to stop and look and look and look. And see what beauty this world still is, wrapped in a pine forest blanket tied by flowing ribbons of rivers and bedecked in shimmering jewels of ancient lakes, glorified by the flight of soaring birds riding on the stirring, scented breath of Spirit.

Composites and the marriage of orphans

September 6th, 2013

Composites and the marriage of orphans

I warehouse photos. That's a confession actually. I can't bear to delete them, even the poor ones. Several years ago, while visiting my son in Sacramento, I shot the tagged and boarded up wall of the Orchard Supply Company. I tried working with the photo but, well, it was just a wall. So I set it aside. Then last weekend I shot an old beat up, orange-red pick up truck. It's setting didn't warrant treatment really. So, my search began. I combed my digital warehouse until I found the sad and lonely Orchard Supply wall just begging for company. I married these two orphans in the image here.

I don't have many composite images on my site but you can probably tell which one they are. They have a slightly disorienting feeling to them (well, it feels that way to me at least). The End of Summer and The Derelict are two examples (both found in my Odds and Ends Gallery). Someone once told me The End of Summer made them think of death! There are probably plenty of schoolkids who know that uncomfortable feeling right about now as they head back to school. I know I did.

There are clues in the image which give away this forced marriage. The shadow of the truck's mirror as it falls upon the door is at a different angle than other shadows in the picture is one such clue. The areas where the two images meet doesn't always bear up to close scrutiny but only technicians care to look. The human eye often overlooks these discrepancies, accepting the unity, even though the brain itself might take notice subconsciously. I suspect that is why some images strike us oddly and we don't know why.

You can see Orchard Supply in my Cars Gallery.

The landscape of dreams

September 5th, 2013

The landscape of dreams

I don't have any great insights into the meaning of dreams. Lately, though, I have been dreaming a lot about information. I wake up with images in my head, like a design on white that looks like it has been painted with a red paintbrush. The design itself seems to represent massive amounts of data and when placed on the white background (which holds yet another massive amount of data) it becomes an intricate and indescribable bit of knowledge that means something I cannot discern (at least in my waking state). In my dream I am somehow involved in making these bits of knowledge. Each red on white image (there are several) represents the amount of information that would be a galactic encyclopedia. No wonder I often wake up feeling tired!

My dreams can often be surreal, giant creatures invading the city, having a quirky task to perform in an unfamiliar city, driving a vehicle that was as large as a three story building, having a crew of firefighters helping me fix a broken piano. Yeah, I know, I need help, right?!? I wake up scratching my head thinking "What in the heck was THAT about?!?" And I have no idea. I write down the ones I can remember, sometimes they are so vivid I feel compelled to write them down, as if doing so might unlock their meaning. But this meager collection of quirkiness is like a book of short stories excerpted from a compelling novel that lies just beyond my grasp. In it, the answers to ALL my questions are there, but in a language I cannot readily understand, but find comforting for reasons I don't understand.

I do believe that valuable information is available in dreams. I believe that if we can get our rational, logical, science-is-god brain to get out of the way for a few moments, our intuitive side will step forward to provide answers in unexpected ways. The giant invading creature just might be the enigma that causes us to question what large things in life we have difficulty believing, even though it's right before our eyes.

Our foolish humanness

August 29th, 2013

Our foolish humanness

In a singular moment, a heavy wind causes the seed of the larrea to detach from the branch upon which it was created. The seed's fuzzy exterior allows it to be carried along by the wind so that it might land somewhere far away from its parent. There is a good reason for this that has less to do with genetic diversity than you might think. The larrea plant releases a natural herbicide in the ground beneath it to decrease competition from other plants for vital water and nutrients. Seed falling directly beneath the larrea would likely not survive and so floating or wind-borne seeds have a much better chance at survival.

But as a human, I often ascribe human characteristics where they least belong. I find a poignancy in this moment of separation even if it is in the best interest of the parent and the child, er, seed. Even though it is the most natural thing in the world to happen, letting go is one of the hardest things we humans ever learn to do. Whether it is letting go of (misbegotten) ideas, letting go of cherished dreams, letting go of our own seed, er, children or letting go of any of the people we love, it is, in fact, love that demands it (and selfishness that impedes it). Letting go is hard but in the end it must happen and it does happen, despite our foolish humanness.

One sixteenth of understanding

August 22nd, 2013

One sixteenth of understanding

There was a thunderstorm over my boyhood home late one night. I cringed at the powerful sound and was frightened by the flashes of light outside my bedroom window so I climbed out of my bed and went to my parents room. I woke my mom to tell her I was afraid. In a calm sleepy voice she told me the storm was important, she told me it brings rain and then she said that the Indians need the rain so they would have water to drink. In my head I saw a tribe of Indians setting out bowls to catch water. I don't know why this comforted me, but it did. Perhaps I saw my mother was unafraid of the storm and that it must not be something to fear and I was able to go back to bed and go back to sleep.

At some point in my young life I discovered that my mother had some Native American blood running through her. Both my father's parents had been born in Sicily but when I asked my mom what she was, she laughed and said "Heinz 57!" (a sauce/marinade from the last century made up of 57 ingredients). I was intrigued by this and, in looking at old family pictures, I swore I could see the patrician nose of great warrior chiefs being passed from one generation to the next. This revelation began a lifelong interest in all things Native American even though, as a percentage, I believe only one-sixteenth of my heritage can be attributed to that particular race.

Nevertheless, I read and read, visited historical places and have wondered endlessly about the lives of my ancestral forebears. I have also wondered endlessly about what America looked like before the coming of the Europeans. I have loved the work of the Hudson school painters, capturing the pristine landscapes of our early wilderness before Manifest Destiny. So it was with great delight that I landed upon the works of photographer Edward Curtis. In 1906, Curtis received a grant from financier J.P. Morgan to photograph and collect ethnographic data about "The Indians of the United States and Alaska." He produced twenty volumes of written material and some 1,500 photographs. He was able to record, for posterity, the last vestiges of a way of life that quickly disappeared in the face of modernity.

Like the FSA photographic work I love, many of Curtis' photographs are now in the public domain and so I re-imagine them with color and digital treatments. My attention to these images comes with a sense of both affection and longing for a way of life that I will never know but still runs through my veins.

Fruit and daredevils

August 15th, 2013

Fruit and daredevils

It is our rational brain that allows us to do many things that our ancestors might have thought of as foolhardy or dangerous. On a daily basis thousands of people cram into metal tubes with wings and launch themselves through the skies at 600 miles per hour. Experts theorized that lift is created when air moves over the slightly bent curve of a fixed wing and countless daredevils paved the way for humans to "fly." Our brains accept this information as trustworthy somehow and so we strap ourselves in for the ride through the sky.

How many people live above two or three floors on all the skyscrapers in all the major cities of the world? Stepping out on top of the Empire State Building in New York City and looking down into the canyons of the city, we feel safe because our feet are planted on something seemingly solid. Our brain somehow trusts the architects, engineers and builders that these tall buildings won't topple in the face of storms or earthquakes (or King Kong!). Most of our ancestors never lived higher than the treetops and yet we feel safe, if not privileged, to live anywhere "with a view."

I was reminded of this trust (or lack of it) when I looked at this picture called Nectarine. Except that it wasn't a nectarine tree in my boyhood back yard, it was a peach tree. And my brother and I (probably 6 and 7 years old at the time) convinced our little sister (probably 4 years old) to sit in a bushel basket and be hoisted up to some of the highest branches by way of a rope slung over one of the tallest branches. The thought that we could power our own "elevator" to the top of the tree seemed very exciting and I think we were all caught up in the idea. In reality, the height we lifted her was perhaps seven feet, eight at most. But to us, and especially to her, it seemed much, much higher.

The hoisting was difficult but we put our mostly boney muscles into it and up she went in jolting surges. If she was afraid, I don't recall her mentioning it. She trusted us. At some point we had lifted her as far as we could, whether we were tired or the friction became greater and required greater effort, the work got the better of us. In either case, I don't think we were adequately prepared for an even and sustained descent. I suspect we also thought this elevator experiment was already a success. The descent may have started slow, but then it got away from us and before we knew it she was plummeting from what seemed like an enormous height. She landed with a thud and tipped over. Of course, there was crying and although I don't remember it, I suspect there was parental rebuking.

My sister still remembers this unfortunate incident, and, as you might imagine, not particularly fondly. I don't remember that it was done maliciously only that it seemed to happen so quickly. Nevertheless, I don't believe she readily volunteered for any of our future adventures. But, I'm pretty sure she has forgiven us after all this time (or perhaps she may still be plotting revenge!).

I mingle that disastrous happenstance with other more pleasant memories of our backyard peach tree, testing the red/yellow fruit for that tell-tale softness of ripeness, plucking and eating the fleshy fruit, juice dribbling down our summer-sun-browned faces. Laughing, climbing and running around are all a part of those memories. Like most things in life, there is both a sweetness and a sadness, and if we are lucky, more of the former and less of the other.

Tapping into the richness

August 8th, 2013

Tapping into the richness

Imagine a desert highway that stretches 140 plus miles between two burgs. the better known Palm Springs, California and the virtually unknown Parker, Arizona, along the Colorado River. Along this mostly forgotten highway there are a smattering of desert towns relatively close to the Palm Springs end but get past the last of these as you head east, Twentynine Palms, and a road sign will tell you "No Services" for at least a hundred miles. I ran a small print shop in one of the small towns for a few years back in the 1980s. The town boasted a population of 3,000 and was named for a pre-white settlement of a Native American tribe that lived in the valley because of ample water and game. Hence the town became known as Morongo Valley.

The little shop was part of a tiny retail center along the highway and at lunch time (I brown bagged it) I would drive down to "The Preserve." I would park in the shade of some towering cottonwoods, listen to some music and eat my lunch. If the weather was nice I would walk one of the Big Morongo Canyon Preserve's riparian trails along the tiny flowing stream surrounded by cattails and immense stands of trees. In the warmer weather I might hike or, more likely, put my seat back and examine the back of my eyelids for 15 or 20 minutes before heading back to work.

Now, Morongo Valley, like so many other desert cities, is somewhat laid back with approach to business and business attire. I probably wore short pants to work as often as not. So I was quite surprised one day at lunch to find another car at the Preserve. In a shiny four-door sedan were four men dressed in suits! Like the occasional rare bird sightings in this desert oasis I knew these men were not from around here. There seemed to be some discussion going on inside the car but their windows were rolled up and I could not hear it. It was an oddity for sure but, to be honest, the desert is full of oddities and as curious as I was, they showed no signs of being interested in venturing out, hiking or nature or anything other than conversation inside their vehicle. I took note of this unusual event but went back to work as usual.

Some weeks later, the mystery of the men in suits in the four door sedan in this tiny desert town was revealed. They were FBI agents! It turns out an interstate oil pipeline that runs parallel to the 140 mile desert highway had been tapped into, oil was being stolen and it was being tapped by someone in Morongo Valley, in fact, within viewing distance of the Preserve! I knew that a man in town had recently started an oil company, I had read the legal notice in the newspaper, I thought he would be selling cans of oil to service stations or something like that. Instead, he (illegally) put a valve on this pipe and siphoned the ill-gotten oil into tanker trucks and sold them to refineries! Because the oil in the pipeline traveled through other states, this interstate theft was under the jurisdiction of the FBI.

The oil man and some accomplices were tried and convicted and went to jail. It was big news in a small town for a while. Eventually, the hubbub died down and I could get some proper lunch-time shut eye. The Preserve was once part of an old cattle ranch and this view is what was once pasture. Beyond it, the desert hills bespeak the more hostile elements of this restful hideaway.

Sources of joy

August 1st, 2013

Sources of joy

I closed my first solo show this week. Times being what they are, I was extremely pleased to be able to sell some of the work to people who were NOT my relatives or friends! I sold about one fourth of the work I exhibited. I have no way of knowing if this is good or bad. I only know that people seemed genuinely interested and I had many fine compliments. I know I would continue to create art even if no one notices, but it's very nice when someone does.

As I was unloading the car yesterday I felt a bit like Henry David Thoreau who quipped about his extensive collection of books: "I now have a library of nearly nine hundred volumes, over seven hundred of which I wrote myself." Evidently, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, published in 1849, the same year as Civil Disobedience, was so unsuccessful that Thoreau was forced to buy back more than 700 unsold copies, out of 1,000 the publisher had printed. But, of course, who knows what those books are worth today, right?

Still, each of my works is like a child to me. They were never meant to stay with me. They are meant to go out in the world and be a source of joy or reflection or peace. The piece shown here - The Gorgonio Pass - was part of my show.

Feeling right

July 25th, 2013

Feeling right

I believe there is more right than wrong about us.

We are barely a few weeks down the road from the not guilty verdict of the George Zimmerman trial, which quickly reheated the discussion of racial inequality in America. It's a discussion that is not over, nor should it be, like any family squabble, everybody should have a turn saying what it feels like for them. It's difficult, but in the end, if we are lucky, there is understanding. We can still feel upset and frustrated but it's important to be heard.

But that's not what I wanted to talk about really. I wanted to talk about starting out in one place and ending up in another. The suburbs of Anaheim where I grew up were mostly white. There was one black family in our neighborhood and a few Hispanic families. My parents did not select our home because the neighborhood was primarily white, they selected it because it was something they could afford. If my parents were racist, I didn't know it, at least I never saw any overt indications. When my oldest sister dated a black man briefly there was only one question, from my youngest sister, maybe 5 years old at the time... "Are you made of chocolate?"

I moved away as a young man, got married and began raising my own family. But when I returned to Orange County some twenty years later. It had changed. The business signs were as likely to be in Korean, Vietnamese, Arabic, Farsi or Indian as English. I worked for a few years in an office with every nationality and race imaginable. It was both fascinating and fun, to hear stories, to have potlucks, to talk about world views, to see things the way others see them. And as much as we were different, we were equally alike, everyone grumbled about work, everybody has a bad day now and then, we ALL like to eat!

In Long Beach, diversity is even more present. It makes me feel happy to walk along the beach on the Fourth of July and see everyone, every race and nationality, enjoying the warm sun and cool sea breezes. Families playing at the water's edge, children screaming with delight, running in and out of the water, splashing and playing, parents relaxing in chairs beneath broad colorful umbrellas or walking arm in arm or playing with their kids. The sounds of laughter and joy seem magnified and rise, like an offering, to a supremely satisfied God. For a day, we lay down our squabbles, and enjoy each others company.

Of course, it's not lost on me that some of our founding father's held slaves and that Independence Day did not free ALL of us from tyranny. But looking at us now, on a sunny Summer day, I like to think there is more right than wrong about us.

Flowers in the cactus garden

July 18th, 2013

Flowers in the cactus garden

There are points of interest in the life of any artist. I suspect most have to do with recognition, when a parent or teacher, for example, notices talent in a youngster and points it out. The drawing taped to the fridge, a student art show, acceptance to a juried group exhibit, a first art sale, each of these become stepping stones on an artist's journey. Most of mine have come later, much later, in life. This month I have taken another step, my first solo art show. It has been both thrilling and exhausting selecting work to show, matting and framing, sending invitations and press releases. The day I put the show up, Susan helped me arrange and hang the work. Making the pieces work together was difficult at first, but then something happened, once some key pieces were hung the rest almost leaped upon the wall themselves in a flow of size and color that was both easy and pleasing to look at and follow.

Better still, the day of the opening came and friends and family joined me to celebrate. I sold more in one day than I had ever done and with prospects of selling even more later. I know I have said this before but it is so satisfying to have others enjoy my work (even though I would probably do it anyway, even if no one ever looked at it). In an artist's journey, creating something is fulfilling and being recognized for it is like icing on the cake. It's like finding cosmos growing in you cactus garden!

Subtleties of sunrise

July 11th, 2013

Subtleties of sunrise

I've spent a number of days recently in the Mojave Desert. In these days so close to the Summer solstice, the sunrises and sunsets are languorous and long and bear contemplation. The relative silence of the desert adds to the primordial effect. Until the sun breaches the horizon, all is still, then as the sun heats the morning air things begin to stir, wind through the larrea, the call of quail or coyote, the buzz of insects, each distinct and solemn in its completeness. The soft hues of early light are pastels filtered by a thickness of atmosphere that disappears in the direct boldness of the ante and post meridian sunlight.

Though the heat can be oppressive this time of year, the lack of clouds means the earth cools quickly at night and dawn can be deliciously and deceptively cool. A desert-lover like myself finds these few precious moments of quiet coolness an oasis of respite. An old timer told me once that no matter what time of year it is, there is at least one time of day when it is REALLY nice outside. This time of year, when the tilt of the swirling blue marble points us more directly towards the sun, I am grateful for all the subtleties of these peaceful, lazy sunrises.

The danger of fireworks

July 4th, 2013

The danger of fireworks

Fireworks, even the safe and sane kind, are illegal here in Long Beach. But in the days leading up to the Fourth, and today on the Fourth, the neighborhood where I live sounds considerably like a shock and awe campaign. Police and fire department officials provide stern warnings in the press for violators but last year I remember seeing a squad car patrolling the neighborhood as illegal fireworks were blasting just above their car. There are a number of ways to look at this situation, there's the scofflaw opinion, obviously, that this is illegal activity and the participants are nothing but criminals. But I like to think that people BELIEVE in the hard-won freedoms of this country and that fireworks, especially the decidedly unsafe and insane fireworks, are a vivid and dramatic demonstration of being free. To me, their use is a reminder that power is derived from the people.

Having said that, I don't believe in the careless destruction of personal or public property or in the maiming of innocents as a result of these inherently dangerous activities. With freedom comes responsibility. But to see so many people appreciating these impromptu displays and others willing to chance arrest by taking part in these illegal proceedings is not a terribly far cry from activities that took place in the years preceding 1776. And knowing that there are Americans today with that spirit of '76 brings me hope that we are a nation not necessarily driven by sheep-like attachment to electronic gadgets or the mesmerism of our glowing televisions. I want to believe, and maybe this is wishful thinking, that we care about America, that the idea of America is something true and real and maybe even dangerous.

Light and Dark

June 27th, 2013

Light and Dark

In a photography course many years ago I learned a lesson that has stuck with me. The instructor said that one of the things that makes an image interesting is the play of light and dark. It was intimated that as the ratio changes, one way or the other, it can create extra tension in an image. Of course, our eyes are always attracted to light, as in the image here, we are drawn to the very lightest area first. But the dark that encapsulates it helps change the balance and the weight of the image.

Rembrandt, who painted more than 300 years ago, understood this well. His portraits use light and dark to bring a rich immediacy to the faces of his subjects. New portrait photographers are often taught to replicate what has been subsequently called "Rembrandt Lighting" in which slightly more than half the face is lit. It is characterized by a triangle of light beneath the eye of the darkened half of the face.

The interplay of light and dark is also part of the human experience. Any TV soap opera mimics the tensions created when light and dark characters interact, or when the light and dark aspects of ourselves move to and from the fore of our personalities. All of this interplay is part of the rich human experience we encounter in this life.

A road not taken

June 21st, 2013

A road not taken

We were going to look at some land near Trementina, New Mexico. We were driving the old Ford F100 pick up, the one with the stencil on it that said Save the Whales. We left Las Vegas, NV and planned to spend the night in Las Vegas, NM. It was a full section of land with a river that ran through it, it had a few old adobe buildings and a well. My oldest brother thought we might have enough money to swing it. So I drove out there with him. I was probably 22 at the time.

We had a great time talking on the ten hour drive and it was the first time I feel like I got to know him well...as an adult. We talked about everything under the sun, politics, drugs, women and I was intrigued because he had always been a much bolder person than me, he never shied away from new experiences and he had many to talk about. It was late in the evening by the time we pulled into the hotel in Las Vegas. We dragged our stuff into our room, beat from the long drive. The people in the adjoining room seemed to be having a party, or at least, there was constant (and rhythmic) noise coming from there. My naively young self said, "What are they doing jumping on the bed in there? I think we should jump on the beds before we leave tomorrow morning." We had planned to leave at dawn to finish our journey.

When we woke the next morning, as soon as we had our stuff together and ready to get out the door, he started jumping up and down on his bed. I started jumping up and down on mine. I laughed despite myself as we jumped high enough to hit the ceilings with our arms and then push away from it to get even more bounce. We both laughed ourselves silly and then dismounted and piled into the truck to roll on down the road.

The land was rugged and beautiful in the morning light and I wonder how our lives might have been different if we had been able to make that deal, but it never came to pass. With another brother we operated our small rubber stamp shop, I fell in love with Susan, he had more kids and on and on it went. It was one of those roads not taken, for whatever cosmic reasons there might be. But I enjoyed his company and conversation, even back then.

I call the image here 'River Valley' and it is reminiscent of those wide open spaces of the American Southwest. It is in such places that we are free to be our bolder, unvarnished selves and where our destinies may or may not unfold as part of the life's plan. Still, they leave their mark on us, these things, these places, these people.

Its just natural

June 13th, 2013

Its just natural

My youngest brother gave me a book recently called Strengthsfinder 2.0 and the premise of this nonfiction tome is that most of us have learned what our weaknesses or limitations are but we don't always know what our strengths are. It questions how our lives and world might change if we, instead of trying to make up for what we don't have, instead, start to play towards our already present inborn talents. It offers an online testing component to help determine what top 5, of the more than 30 listed talents, we might possess.

As I was looking at the image shown here of a swallowtail butterfly, it donned on me how these talents come into play while I am practicing my art. The ability to strategize is one of the talents I purportedly possess. It's less about cat-and-moussing than you might think and more about understanding relationships between things and how they interact. Some component of it is being patient enough to know that a butterfly will eventually land on a stand of flowers it is obviously attracted to and then being prepared (with a camera) for it to happen. Another talent that comes into play is my abiding sense that things share a connectedness. That there aren't any accidents, that an artist waiting patiently will actually find a a swallowtail butterfly when one is needed.

I have always had a sense that these and other talents were at work in my creative endeavors but it had never been spelled out so plainly for me before. Does it change my world to know these things? Yes. In short, it clarifies for me what had been a sort of nebulous feeling that creating art feels right or natural somehow, but not knowing why. And, in a connected kind of way, I am drawn to these activities the same way a butterfly is drawn to flowers, because it's a natural activity for us.

Into the breach

June 6th, 2013

Into the breach

I was too young to go to Vietnam. On my 18th birthday I went to the little post office in Central City, Colorado, where I was working at the time, to fill out my draft registration. The tiny woman behind the counter told me "Oh, we won't be needing that now." The war was winding down and young men were coming home. My friends, a few months older than me, had had to fill them out. "Don't call us,"the tiny lady said,"we'll call you." And that was that. Many of my uncles had gone to fight after Pearl Harbor. My own father. much younger, ended up in the occupation forces in Japan. I was reminded of all of this because of today's date, June 6th. D Day, as it has become known, is actually a generic term for the day of a specific attack. But the most remembered D Day, June 6th, 1944, was the day Allied troops stormed the beaches of Normandy which was the beginning of the end of the war in Europe.

Not far from where I live here in Long Beach. Boeing maintains its operations building aircraft. They have been here since the war effort that helped make D Day possible. With so many young men off to fight the war, women stepped in to keep manufacturing moving. The Farm Securities Administration photographers I like so much recorded a number of these women at work, I include here one such photo, which I have edited in my peculiar way. I am hoping in the future to have a series of these images that will include both the men and the women of that era who stepped into the breach.

War is still with us. And while it is, every day, people act upon their beliefs and step up to do what they think is right.

Of farms and food

May 30th, 2013

Of farms and food

It has been surmised that what has differentiated humans from the other fine creatures of the Earth has been the development of the brain. And that development is attributed, to some degree, on our ability to cultivate food. For most of my childhood, gardening was the equivalent of yard work, a chore to be avoided at all costs. How many (seemingly infinite) hours did I spend pulling weeds is unknowable. As an adult, my feelings about gardening have changed. I successfully experimented with composting and then planting a garden with this rich earth. It felt good to get my hands dirty, to soak and plant seeds, to see the tiny shoots burst forth in an act of sheer confidence and then (after weed pulling, of course) enjoy that exquisite taste of something home-grown.

Much of Southern California's agricultural lands are gone now, infilled with homes and businesses. But a recent trip to Northern California reminded me how much of the state is still under cultivation. I know the small family farms have dwindled, and with them the barns and farmhouses of a bygone era. But I love to see them, anyway, because they remind me of that feeling of getting my hands dirty in the moist, warm earth, of seeing the force of life erupt from the ground in the form of little green shoots, of the mystery of plant life that draws all its needs from roots deep in the ground.

I probably don't have what it takes to be a farmer these days (the money or the worries). But the one thing they have the rest of us do not is that they are one full step closer to the source of their own sustenance. They can pluck it right from the ground while we must wait for it to be processed or packaged or pickled. Their hands grasp it from the moist, warm earth while we gather it from metal shelves and place it in metal grocery carts. I know its difficult work for little pay but I still envy it.

I captured this image of a fading barn on Covell Road in Davis, California. It was surrounded by lush green fields on a calm Spring morning.

Letting go

May 17th, 2013

Letting go

Moments before the fatal crash I was driving along the two-lane state highway singing to the radio. A small car entered the highway from a connecting road, I saw it inching out as I approached the intersection, you know, the way cars come to a stop sign and then roll out a little to get a better view of oncoming traffic. But then it didn't come to a stop, in fact, it accelerated and I slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel to avoid the collision but it was too late, there was no place for me to go. I saw the sudden look of surprise on the other driver's face just before my car hit.

The collision caused my car to spin out of control. It was one of those moments when time slowed to a crawl. I could feel the centrifical forces on my body, outside the windows the air seemed to be filled with dust or smoke and noise and I couldn't get my bearings, I felt my hands desperately trying to control the steering wheel which seemed to be lurching one way and then another.

"LET GO!" a voice said. I heard the voice quite plainly in my head. It was not my voice but another. I understood it to mean that I shouldn't let go of the wheel but that I should let go of trying to make sense of what was happening. My body relaxed as the spinning slowed and then stopped. As the dust or smoke cleared, there was utter silence and miraculously I was able to undo my seat belt and get out of the car. The other driver was not moving and I ran to a nearby house and asked them to call an ambulance.

Within minutes it seems, people appeared from nowhere, fire trucks and an ambulance. A paramedic asked me questions, he said I would be okay just to go to my regular doctor and get checked out. A patrolman asked me what happened and I started to break down, I told him the other driver just didn't stop. "Look at this" I said, pointing to the twisted wreckage of the cars, the debris in the roadway, "look at all of this" as if it was self evident and he would understand what had happened. Susan appeared too and asked me if I was okay, and my older brother who lived just a few miles away stayed with me and drove me to an urgent care.

The other driver died that day. A seat belt saved my life, a deep bluish purple bruise stretched from my left shoulder to the right side of my belly. My fingers were bloodied where they hit the windshield on impact. The emotional scars ran deeper -- the family of the other driver sued me even though the highway patrol said they had been at fault. Lawyers and depositions, insurance companies and legal documents became an unwanted part of my consciousness. My friend, Esther, told me I had to just let it unfold and so I kept my mind staid on that, on the unfolding. In the end, the suit was dismissed and I came to some inner understanding that, somehow, I was meant to be a part of this person's death, I don't know if I will ever understand why in this lifetime.

I pass by that place on the highway occasionally on trips to the desert. I always remember what happened there, though the sting of it has diminished with time. I don't know whether it was an angel who spoke to me that day or not. I do believe we have divine guidance, whether it is some greater unseen part of ourselves or angelic beings protecting us in some way, I do not know. I knew I could trust that voice and I have tried to stay true to that understanding all these many years later.

As for photographic art, I often feel led to an image, whether by a tiny violin playing cherub or an earnest intuitive sense, I know not which, and I'm not certain it really matters in the end as long as I pay it heed.

Orange County

May 9th, 2013

Orange County

In the early 1960s, we lived in the first phase of a new development of tract homes in Anaheim. Our street was incomplete, having just six houses on it, three on each side. The rest of the street and houses were added in a second phase, the street having a decided roughness where the new pavement met the old. The Riverside (91) Freeway was not yet complete but the section near our home was finished and I was often lulled to sleep by the steady sound of wheels on a roadway.

On the weekend, we would pile into our white Plymouth station wagon, the one with fins at the back that were taller than me, and drive to Fullerton to our grandmother's house for dinner. The distance was perhaps five or six miles. Back then, many of those miles were through the orange groves that Orange County was named for. When they were blossoming, the scent was heavenly, it is a smell I can recollect all these many years later even though I can't say when the last time was I smelled a blossoming orange tree.

Over the years, one grove after another would come under the dozer's blade. The dark brown trunks were pushed to the ends of the field and piled high like so many dead bodies. As a child I know I felt an almost subconscious sense of loss at seeing so much destruction. At night, searchlights would light up the sky, their criss-crossing beams attracting attention to some new store or development built where the groves once stood. Eventually all the groves were gone between our house and my grandparents' home. And the groves disappeared from other places too. Most all of the agricultural land I remember from those days now brings a harvest of rent and taxes.

I called this picture Orange County to pay homage to the land of my youth. I was also inspired by some vintage railroad posters I saw recently that depicted rail lines crossing lands like these. They made me remember the many strawberry fields and orange groves of Orange County. There are still fields and groves, just not many. I feel lucky to have seen them when it really was an orange county.

Being here

May 2nd, 2013

Being here

There are remote and hidden places in the Coachella Valley where seeps or springs form small pools around which clusters of fan palms grow. Sometimes the water is quite warm, heated by the shallow thermal activity of this seismically active region. There are a number of these small pools that are part of a cloistered nature preserve near the (aptly named) town of Thousand Palms. Here, the robust palms huddle together around the pools creating a small ecosystem which can be a few degrees cooler than the surrounding clime just from the shade alone. The edge of these ponds can be lined with thick cattails and migrating birds find respite in these small oases.

Susan and I were sitting on a low wooden bench at the edge of one such pond not long ago. We had seen a flock of cinnamon teal ducks circling and eventually one landed near us and floated serenely among the cattails across from us. We sat for a while watching, as we often do, in a bowed silence knowing sound or movement would send the tired bird flying off. He was joined later by a rambunctious coot, very busy, diving with exuberance for slender morsels in the shallow pond. There was just a whisper of a breeze and on it the scent of arroweed, the buzz of insects and chattering of birds.

Three athletic women coming up the path, each with walking poles, approached the pond noisily talking about sale items and skorts at Target. Without hesitation, the cinnamon teal was off in a flash and disappeared beyond the stately palm giants. The women leaned over a wooden railing near us and peered into the pond. "Isn't this where the pupfish are supposed to be?" one asked, not looking at us. "Well, I don't see anything!" Finding nothing of interest, they were off down the dirt path, trailing their clattering conversation behind them.

I came away from that day with this serene image of the cinnamon teal duck and a lasting appreciation for these last few places imbued with wild beauty.





Tools of a master

April 25th, 2013

Tools of a master

I had a couple part time jobs when I first went to college. One of them was working with my step-dad in his shop. He liked to call himself an "industrial designer" but he was really an artist who had found a livelihood knowing how to prepare pieces for mass production. He had two assistants who were both sculptors too. For many years, a trophy company was one of the biggest clients, and on any given day they would be working in clay on different sports figurines: golfers, wrestlers, fishermen, football players.

The clay wold come in cardboard boxes weighing twenty some pounds. Inside the box the clay would be enclosed in a thick plastic bag. One of my jobs would be to make sure the clay stayed wet enough to work. I would add water to the plastic bag, tie it shut and punch and knead it until it was consistently pliant again. I marveled at how they could take a gooey pound of wet clay and transform it into an action figure of a tennis player in full swing and freeze the action at the very moment the racket was hitting the ball. And they made it look easy too, talking and joking around the whole time they did their work.

I was horribly shy then and I didn't realize it until much later how important it was that they included me in their conversations, how they drew me out. But that is not really where I wanted to go with this. What I want to say is that this method of operation, a master sculptor working with his assistants (and me, the go-pher) is very much a trade apprenticeship. And they learned every bit as much from him as I did from them, and not just about art, er, industrial design.

There must still be apprenticeship type situations around but I am not very aware of them. The importance of the nature of that learning environment is not lost on me though. It was easy to see the assistants I worked with gaining skills as time went on, competing with one another for projects that were more challenging and therefore more rewarding. They were done with a sense of pride. Eventually, each of these men went on to bigger, better careers of their own. My step-dad was not an easy person to work for but I learned things despite myself, not the least of which is that confidence comes with mastery and that discipline and practice are necessary steps in refining our work.

All these many years later, I still see their handiwork when I see trophies on TV or in people's homes. I recognize their style. I thought of all this when I worked on the image here of all these hammers, tools belonging to another master of his trade. Perhaps it is shallow that we define ourselves by the work we do, but there are those whose work is masterful. And that is especially true when it comes to art.












The very picture of Patience

April 20th, 2013

The very picture of Patience

I'm not a great reader. I read the occasional book and, sadly, I am not drawn to fiction the way some are. BUT I am drawn to libraries. I was probably in first or second grade when the teacher led the entire class off school grounds. We walked about a half mile to the campus of, what was then called Hunt's Food Corporation. The campus boasted incredible lengths of manicured lawn with wide walkways between the buildings. Small bridges crossed tiny creeks and, at the far end of the campus, a tall modern building with endless tinted glass windows. That was the private Hunt's library but Fullerton schoolchildren were encouraged to visit. That is where I got my very first library card.

The beauty of the Hunt's library, for one thing, is that it is sooo quiet, sitting back on the site far from the traffic noise of the street, the librarians shushing at the slightest infraction. It was easy to want to read there, pulling a book and finding a cozy chair to sit in, or just sitting right on the floor by the stacks of children's books just seemed like a completely natural act. But the other reason to love going there, at least for any youngster, is that it sits right next to the train tracks. So you would be sitting there totally absorbed in Dr. Seuss and you would feel the ground begin to tremble beneath you while a dramatic rumbling sound would rise up terribly as you glanced at the windows from whence it was coming and suddenly a giant monster of mad screaming sound would rush past the windows at what seemed like one hundred miles per hour. And just as quickly it would be gone. A ghost train that dissipates and is replaced once again by complete and utter silence.

Every library since has held an attraction for me. I will always be drawn to silence (probably from growing up in a big family) and libraries have often presented that fortress-of-solitude feeling I love so much. As an adult, I worked for a while in a library and I joined the Friends of the Library and even, if you can believe it, became president of that august organization in my desert-town days. Many years later, on my first trip to New York City I made a pilgrimage to the New York Public Library just to wander its stacks and get a feel for it. I came away with this picture of one of the lions guarding it. The two lions along the stairway leading to the library doors are named Patience and Fortitude. This is a picture of Patience.

Lest we forget

April 11th, 2013

Lest we forget

I am attracted to old (and often) decrepit buildings. Perhaps it is because I grew up in the cookie-cutter suburbs where every house looked the same and they were all built in the boom years after World War II. Old buildings seem to have a character to them, it's like, if you listened hard enough they would tell you a story. I often look at pictures of old vacant buildings and expect to find people inside looking out, ghosts, if you will, from whatever time period the building was at its fullest. I don't know for sure if I believe in ghosts but I guess it wouldn't surprise me to find out that the buildings have some residual energy built up in them from whatever human drama may have occurred within over the years.

The image here did not originally include a young boy. I was attracted to the fine white cobwebs over the dark pane of glass of a basement window. I remember looking at the image and wondering what face might look out from it. I found the public domain image of a young boy shot by FSA photographer John Vachon in 1942. He seemed perfect as the "ghostly inhabitant" for this particular window. I used the title 'Forgotten' for this image because whoever the original inhabitant was is probably long forgotten. I have another image here on my website called 'Fort Worden Barracks II' which is of an old barracks building in Washington state. If you look in the upper left hand window there will be an image of a soldier there, barely visible. The image is of my own father, a young private then, looking back from the past.

Looking up

April 4th, 2013

Looking up

Though I have lived within 30 miles of Los Angeles for most of my life, I haven't spent any appreciable time there. There, being a broad area much larger than its downtown. In fact, I would say I have spent more time in San Pedro, the town that looks over the Port of Los Angeles. The funny thing is San Pedro is part of the City of Los Angeles. It's never become its own city for reasons I have never looked into. Los Angeles is sprawling, which has a descriptive sense but also a pejorative one. It has let its hungry suburbs ooze in every direction until hemmed in by oceans or mountains. Personally, I have never found that particularly attractive though, to be fair, suburbs perform the honorable function of housing the workers of the juggernaut of the industries California is famous for....TV, defense, porn, etc.

Still, the city has a charm and a rough beauty to it. And occasionally, the City of Angels can look pretty, at sunset on an otherwise stormy day, for example. Like millions of other workers, I forget that the coastal plain upon which the city rests is itself an ancient beauty and the California coast, despite its heavy inhabitation is still lovely. I get so caught up in the day-to-day sometimes I have to remember to sit back and look at the bigger (beautiful) picture. Yeah, there is always work but there are other things too, love and life in particular that need attention too. Somewhere, in the greater metropolitan area of Los Angeles, I am learning these things. In this picture, you would look for me on the far right, at the place where the sky meets the land, far south of the city center. I will be the one remembering to look up once in a while.

Water reminiscence

March 28th, 2013

Water reminiscence

It's easy to take water for granted. Here in California, the quote attributed to the famous writer, Mark Twain, "Whiskey is for drinking, water is for fighting!" still holds true. There's not enough water to meet the demand here in thirsty Southern California. Years of living in the Mojave desert taught me to make every drop count. We re-used gray water (laundry water mostly) to water our plants and trees. Until we could afford more water, showers were often truncated with a disjointed procedure that went something like - water on and get wet, water off and lather up, water on and rinse off, water off. Time lapse maybe five minutes, probably less.

For about a decade of our young married life we lived in houses that were not on city water. Water had to be hauled to the house and stored in an underground tank. The most expeditious was to hire a water tender to deliver a load of water because they could haul 2,500 gallons. Sounds like a lot doesn't it? A federal statistic says the average family of four uses 400 gallons per day so one load of water would last them a smidge over six days. Our family of four made it last a month (we were all smaller then of course).

Eventually we got a trailer of our own (though a little more modern than the one pictured here). Getting a load of water could be fun, the nearest fill stand was about two miles away and you had to line the trailer up exactly right or everyone and everything would get soaked which could be exhilarating on a hot Summer day or skin chapping in a cold Winter wind. Hauling a full load wasn't easy, water is heavy and if you weren't careful you could get stuck in the sand down to the axle. Most of the time, it was a welcome break from the routine of the day though.

Now, I live a block from the ocean. And water is as close as the tap in the sink. I am, happily and sadly, not as frugal with the precious liquid as I once was. I still feel guilty taking showers longer than ten minutes, old habits die hard. I am nostalgic for my water hauling days and it was pleasant to find this old water trailer on my last visit to the desert and add it to my collection here. We drink it, bathe in it, baptize each other and swim or float in it. And it sustains us.

Not quite like printing money

March 21st, 2013

Not quite like printing money

I took a seminar once led by the artist (and designer, author, keynote speaker, songwriter, actor and playwright) Synthia Saint James on what it takes to be successful in the art world. Synthia's colorful work has graced museum and gallery walls, book covers, postage stamps, even laptop sleeves among many others! The seminar was full of talented artists in different places in their respective careers. What most of us believed going in was that if we could just get a great art rep to handle us, our careers would be set. When Synthia laid out all the different ways her art was working for her I started to get confused. Finally, one intrepid soul raised her hand and asked "So, what specifically do we need to do to be successful then, get in a gallery? Get published on a book?"

Synthia smiled and said simply "You have to do it ALL!"

And then I understood. The majority of artists, myself included, will never be sought out by fame for their work. I would have to push my work out there for people to see and buy. And, in ways I never thought possible when I first took up the camera. Getting my work in shows and galleries continues. I have made my work available online here as fine art prints and canvas prints. I have licensed images for commercial art in restaurants and other buildings and now some of my images are even available as personal and business checks! Who knew, right?!? And as each of these individual endeavors grows my work gets more and more exposure.

Synthia also said that a successful artist must work as much on the business of art as on the art itself. I know talented, VERY talented artists who do nothing but create but no one knows their work and they sell little. It is a sad fact. The successful ones must overcome their own natural instinct and take up the role of marketeer if they have any hope at all. I can tell you from my own experience that it doesn't come easy to me. BUT there are small moments when people reach out to me and say how much they like my work and that helps SO much.

I haven't mastered it "ALL." I am a journeyman at best and still need a regular job because, well, I like to eat and pay bills. But there is a sense of satisfaction that comes when I see my work out there. Will I ever see it on the walls of the Guggenheim? I don't know. For now, it must be enough to have the resources to create, to feel the joy of creation. It's not quite like printing money, but it's enough for me.

Elements of truth

March 15th, 2013

Elements of truth

This image is called Brother Sister and it is a composite image. It is made from four different photos, three of which I took. The children were taken from an old public domain photo by Arthur Rothstein which was shot in 1942. You can tell by the state of their clothing and footwear (or lack of it) that they were not well to do. It is incongruous that they have some fine toys scattered about and are in a relatively nice room. What I like about this image is the notion that children will always find things to play with, the boy holds a wooden airplane in his hands, it is crude and it looks like he is putting it together or fixing it. The girl looks like she is saying something to him and interested in his enterprise.

The other toys, the small ship and doll with trunk and clothes were period pieces I shot recently on board the Queen Mary, a luxury ocean liner built in 1936, now decommissioned and permanently anchored here in Long Beach. The ship, in its day, had a playroom just for children with toys like these. The room they are all in is part of the living quarters for officers and their families at Fort Tejon, an old army outpost in Kern County, California, that was last active in 1864 (the Civil War was still raging then).

When identified as a composite it becomes easier to see the seams of this illusion. I can most often tell composites by subtle inconsistencies in the image. For example, the shadows of the furniture in the room are soft but the children's shadows are hard (in their original photo they were outside under direct sun). The detail in the toy ship is weak while the doll is sharp. But as an image, it still says something to me, maybe it is the simple single-purposeness of children playing, or the concentration on the simplest toy and not the more refined toys. Maybe it is the engaged focus despite the spare surroundings. Technically, the image is not tremendously strong, yet it's still evocative to me. In this incongruous mix of people, things and even dates there is still some small element of truth. And like art, our lives can be and often are a jumbling together too of people and things and time, while still carrying its own, our own, truth.

An unusual oasis

March 8th, 2013

An unusual oasis

I spent some time with Susan recently in the town of Desert Hot Springs, California. It is located atop the infamous San Andreas Fault and, as a result, it is a place of naturally (volcanically?) heated ground water. One of the very first white settlers in the area, Cabot Yerxa, a merchant by trade, dug his first well and was surprised to find the water hot. In 1941, he began building a home and trading post there in the pueblo style and before long it became a popular stop for travelers and tourists.

Cabot Yerxa was the embodiment of American can-do spirit. Born in 1883 in the Dakota territories he traveled extensively with his parents as a youngster to Mexico and later to Cuba where his family owned mercantile stores. At 16, he ventured to Alaska on his own and opened his own trading post selling goods to gold miners in Nome. While there he learned enough of the Inuit language to sell a compendium of the words to the Smithsonian for a nickel a word.

As an adult, he purchased orange groves in California but lost everything in the freeze of 1913. He fought in World War I,went to Paris studying art, returned to the States and spent time in a number of California towns as a merchant and even postmaster but eventually was drawn to the desert when 160 acre tracts became available under the Homestead Act. This is where he would build his large adobe, welcoming visitors to the desert and encouraging trade and art in this remote but beautiful place. He died in 1965 with portions of the adobe incomplete. Eventually, it would come under the ownership of the city of Desert Hot Springs which converted the adobe to a museum. It's rugged beauty is a testament to the spirit of its builder who created this unusual oasis in the desert.

The world of chocolate cake

March 1st, 2013

The world of chocolate cake

An email: "Nothing you produce is original let alone provocative or "stunning". Like millions of other digital artists your interpretation of what constitutes original work is laughable."

It happens from time to time. Somebody sees my work and doesn't like it. I'm okay with that, I really am. I know that the appreciation of art is subjective, like chocolate cake or rhubarb pie, our individual tastes determine what is "good" or "bad." Some question the use of the computer as a tool for the creation of art. I get that, a computer in adept hands can do in moments what it used to take me hours to do well in the darkroom (a place I am happy to be out of, btw!). Of course the images I work on with the computer didn't just appear magically. I shot them. Using another machine, the camera. Does the use of tools somehow remove some (or all) the artistic value of the work? Because a chisel and paintbrush are tools too, but nobody is throwing out their Picasso or Michelangelo pieces. Not that my feeble attempts at art should be confused with these other masterpieces.

But these emails serve as an opportunity for discussion. What IS art, after all? What constitutes art? We have cultural conditioning at play in which we readily accept certain kinds of art, Michelangelo, okay, Picasso, sure, but we might balk at other kinds. I have had discussions in which the subject of tattoos came up. Art? Many said yes, a few said no. I take a very broad definition myself but, guess what? It's not up to me to define it for you. The beauty is that we know what it is when we see it. The gentleman who sent me the email did not see it when he looked at my work. He has his definition and it doesn't include my version of digital art or maybe any digital art. I'm glad he has fashioned a definition for himself even if I do not live up to it.

No matter how much I like chocolate cake (and I REALLY do!) I wouldn't want you to eat it if you didn't like it. The world of chocolate cake will not end. The world of art will not end either, not with my art or with yours.

The face of beauty

February 22nd, 2013

It was the early 1990s and I was in my my pick up truck driving south. She was a young woman, in her early 20s, long brunette hair with that mysterious hint of auburn. She climbed into the passenger seat of my truck, she seemed the perfect physical specimen, slight of form, lithe but seemingly strong. There was a lightness about her, as if she did not have the same pull of gravity on her. We talked of light-hearted things on our half-hour drive back to the high desert; our children (she had one small boy), our spouses, our jobs. I mostly recollect the feelings more than the details. But I do remember that we did not talk about IT.

Every year, the Soroptimist group in our town put together a program for teenage girls. Its primary function was to raise self esteem as well as to educate. My wife, Susan, a Soroptimist then, asked me if I would help her by picking up one of the speakers in Palm Springs. And that year, one speaker, this young woman, the one who sat beside me for a few brief moments of my long life, was to educate these girls about the effects of AIDS, not the statistical facts, but the personal ones, the deeply personal facts. The facts that change things forever, the facts that etch not just the face and body, but the mind and heart and soul. Back then, AIDS was, for the most part a long, agonizing death sentence and this young woman was there to lay out her story, plain as day, for these teens to see.

I wasn't invited to the speech, but Susan said there wasn't a dry eye to be found. The young woman laid her life bare for them. And they gathered it up and held it to their hearts. The desire, the action, the consequences, the price she would pay, she laid it all out. Her cautionary tale was her gift to them. To see the inevitable conclusion to this earthly existence, to know one will leave behind all that is loved, and still spend precious moments teaching others seemed such a courageous thing to me. Selflessness is a measure of beauty that lies well beyond the physical form, this is the immeasurable beauty of the Godspark that is our soul. Art seems pale by comparison. I don't have an image worthy to post with this blog. The image that belongs here is hers, a beautiful young woman. But if not hers than maybe a mirror, because, in our best moments here on the swirling blue marble, we can and sometimes do reflect this immeasurable beauty.

Rich hues

February 17th, 2013

Rich hues

I had an opportunity this week to show some of my work during an evening event at the Aquarium of the Pacific here in Long Beach. As part of the curating process I submitted three images that represented "Evolution" including my Abstract 46B (shown here). A synchronistically funny thing happened as a result. I met the curator the day of the show and she took me to the location in the aquarium where I was to set up my work. "I picked this spot for you," she told me, "because I thought the colors in your work matched the colors of the fish!"

It was unbelievable, but true! The pinks, purples, greens, yellows and blues were all represented in this tank of vibrantly colored FISH! The tank itself was located in a grotto of rock with a glass wall fifteen feet long and eight feet tall. Inside, hundreds of these almost-neon-colored fish in varying sizes were swimming placidly in and out of the choral or frenetically chasing one another in some aquatic version of tag. I lined up three easels to the left of the glass wall in a wide arc and placed my smallest work on the easel farthest from the window, then the next largest on the middle easel and then the largest next to the window.

During the course of the evening, one person after another remarked either about the matching colors or about how "perfect" this location was for my art. And I couldn't have been more pleased with the interest in my work (and the compliments too, of course!). People asked me about my process, about my other work, about the prints themselves and one or two asked me where the bathroom was (though I don't believe that had any connection with my art)!

The thing that gets me in all of this is that I chose to submit three (of more than 40) abstracts for this show, that I was one of 25 selected to show (I might not have been selected at all) and of all the possible locations within the aquarium, the curator selected that one for me. It's humbling. And the magic of it is not lost on me. I recognize that a bigger part of the magic is that the handiwork of God/Nature/Evolution had already created a magnificent world in which these brightly colored fish exist, that the rich hues of life are a gift from the light in which we all share, that there is an inner connectedness that lies beneath the surface, the surface of the water, the surface of our ordinary world, the surface of our normal everyday selves. It brings color to our lives.

In this place

February 8th, 2013

In this place

My favorite trail isn't particularly long, maybe a mile and a half. It does have some dramatic topographic changes, enough to get my heart racing. It runs along the border of Joshua Tree National Park just south of the town of Yucca Valley in San Bernardino County. It begins at the end of a bumpy dirt road. The trail head starts out in a quiet desert valley and climbs in zigs and zags up the side of a steepish ridge that is part of the chain of mountains called the Little San Bernardinos.

Close to the top there is a podium with a hinged lid. Marked on the top of the lid is a crude drawing showing the major peaks including two of the "three saints" - San Jacinto (tallest peak in Riverside County) and San Gorgonio (tallest peak in San Bernardino County). The third saint is San Antonio (the tallest peak in Los Angeles County). Raise the lid of the podium and you find a notebook and pens or pencils. In this notebook people have left messages or notes about their hike, what they observed in the way of wildlife (ground squirrels, snakes, bobcats, bighorn sheep, coyotes) or weather conditions..."It's HOT!" Some leave drawings. Some talk about their comrades "I LOVE Joey!" I always enjoyed thumbing through the notebook and leaving entries of my own, incredibly bad poetry or wild claims "Saw a sasquatch eating a bighorn sheep today!"

In this place on the earth it is possible to smell pine drifting on the ever present desert wind. It's possible to see these same winds blowing clouds of snow from the top of San Gorgonio. It's possible to see leathery lizards doing push ups in the warm sands of a desert wash. It's possible to see a lazily soaring hawk flying in wide circles among the craggy peaks of these desert mountains. It's possible to catch a furtive cottontail resting in the shade of the juniper. It's possible to feel your beating heart and feed your hungry soul with the quiet and solitude of this mysterious wilderness.

This is where I found these glorious blooms of the parry nolina.

What comes next

February 2nd, 2013

What comes next

Renovations were being made in the building across the courtyard from us. The small apartment there is identical to ours in every way. Upgrading the bath meant removing the existing bathtub which was built-in with a nice tile manufactured most likely around 1900. When they began the demolition they found that an old claw-footed tub was at the center of it all. I snapped this picture before the old tub was hauled off. The renovation, as always, was noisy and messy and took way longer than expected but the end result was something beautiful.

Art can be like this too, of course. For me, it is a process of winnowing, discarding the things that won't work in a photo and then building up (refurbishing) the strong elements that are already there. And, of course, life can be like this too. The writer, Ann Lamott, said “when everything is awful it’s because something beautiful is about to be born.” In my half a century (plus 10%) I know that there are dark times in which the hours seem endless and we hang on by the slightest thread. It is our nature to hang on, it's really born of our evolutionary and spiritual journey because we know, if only subconsciously, that "something beautiful is about to be born." And because things change, no matter what, nothing stays the same. If we are lucky (and we truly are) we grow into the changes, we learn, we adapt, we evolve.

The part nobody likes is that it can be painful, we feel off balance, disturbed, frustrated, alone, sad while we grapple with change. And humans have found a dizzying array of ways to alleviate this suffering but, in the end, we just live through it, we hang on a little longer. This part of our lives is, as always, noisy and messy and takes way longer than expected but the end the result will, most likely, be something beautiful.





Hornswagglers

January 18th, 2013

Hornswagglers

I don't know a darned thing about birds. I'm not a birder and don't know the difference between a coot and a grebe (a discussion that comes up more often than you might think, living near water as we do). I have been out birding with bird enthusiasts and am astounded at their keen knowledge and appreciation of the differentiation of species. They seem to be able to identify birds by markings that are mostly invisible to me. Identification is so critical that they are willing to tote ten pounds of coffee-table books in their backpacks with full color plates, not to mention the binoculars and monoculars (and cameras, and sunscreen and hats and notebooks and pencils for taking notes).

Living in an urban area, birds are as close as we come to "wildlife." We don't see packs of rhinos, herds of elephants, grazing elk or prides of lions, but we do see birds, lots of birds. They happily, if shyly, share this space with us. It's not uncommon to see hawks and turkey vultures soaring overhead (with the more ordinary crows and gulls). Closer to the ocean, pelicans, egrets, herons and endless numbers of roving shorebirds are plentiful. We see the occasional coyote but have no trouble finding pigeons and mourning doves in the neighborhood. We get the odd skunk or possum now and then, but they are no match for the "lgbs," as I call them, (little gray birds) which poke in and out of the trees and shrubbery. I think they are sparrows, thousands of them.

And what's up with bird names?!? I kid my birder friends and relatives that the names are entirely made up. They roll their collective eyes when I tell them I saw a Wilson's softheaded hornswaggler but expect me to believe it when they say they saw birds like the magellanic flightles steamer duck, dark chanting goshawk and the fire-tufted barbet, not to mention the naughty sounding blue-footed booby, berrypecker, woodswallow or helmetshrike! People who name birds must have a lot of time on their hands (or have been experimenting a little with controlled substances). Our closest animal companions (known to most as "pets") are d-o-g and c-a-t with names like Max or Fluffy, so, what is up with bird names! Seriously!

The birds pictured here are unidentified by me. I handily titled this work "Shorebirds" because nobody would believe me if I called them Wilson's softheaded hornswagglers.

Desert reminissence

January 12th, 2013

Desert reminissence

We moved back to the city more than twelve years ago but there are times when I still miss the desert. Especially the quiet. The free-roaming wind passes by abruptly but the spiny, low-growing vegetation pays it no heed. A furtive lizard stops in the wash, does ten push-ups and then scurries off. The red tail hawk and the turkey buzzard ride the thermals always with a watchful eye for the inattentive ground squirrel or the flattened jack-rabbit on Old Woman Springs Road.

I miss the bluey blueness of the sky at day and the starry expanse at night, the Milky Way threading its silky white light across the zodiac. I miss the call of the Gambel's quail, especially the all clear the old male gives from a high branch as the young peck and scratch the ground below. I miss the smell of chia on my fingertips having rubbed the seeds free from their stubbly husks, I miss the red buckwheat and the Mojave aster and the Indian paintbrush.

I miss that long instant when the twilight becomes the night and the majestic San Gorgonio becomes the blackest black silhouette against the deepening sky. I miss the coyotes, even though they dined frequently on my animals. I miss their midnight whoops up and down the valley, their reluctant skulking through the deserted downtown in the wee hours as if to say, this was our downtown first. I miss that wilderness was a ten minute walk out the back door. I miss looking out the window and seeing forever to the horizon. I know it's all there waiting for me and that thought keeps me (somewhat) sane. I miss the daily interaction with the natural, unasphalted, sun and moon drenched, free as the wind, bare to the bones land.

The piece shown here - River Valley - is an homage to the desert.

Little Jewel

January 5th, 2013

Little Jewel

Flowing water is not that easy to come by in Orange County. There are few places where there are natural riparian systems, most have been converted to concrete channels to prevent the great floods that occasionally decimated the coastal plains when this area was more agrarian. This earthen dam was built in the 1800s and has long since filled with silt leaving this little waterfall and pool as reminder that water will always find a way to keep moving homeward. The pond is home to turtles, fish and cattails and quenches the thirst of many a tree on its journey to the Pacific some fifteen miles away. Above this forgotten little dam, upstream a mile or more is a place that was once called the Picnic Grounds. It is lovely open meadows with stands of ancient oak trees and sycamores.

Around the time this dam was built, an enclave of German immigrants who built a tiny town called Anaheim, ventured to the Picnic Grounds for recreation and hunting. Later a man named Irvine would come to own the Picnic Grounds and a good deal more round about it. He loved to hunt there as well and it was the jewel of all his holdings. It was set aside for posterity and is now called Irvine Park. It's still a lovely place to picnic and ride bicycles. Much of Orange County is already converted to the paved, stuccoed and tiled landscape. I love to find these little places still looking as they did a hundred or more years ago.

Being connected

December 29th, 2012

Being connected

Maybe it is because I grew up in the suburbs at the edge of Los Angeles that I find a certain peacefulness in rural areas. Just having completed a trip in California through the hills and mountains between the coast and the Central Valley I was taken by the rural winter landscapes. The soggy greens of level farmland were set off by the ever changing yellow greens of rolling hills and the blue greens of the formidable and expansive mountains. Small towns sidle along seasonal stream beds where cottonwood and sycamores grow. Narrow two lane highways are met by dirt roads which are lined with barbed wire fences from the last century. We passed the occasional corral and cattle chute while off in the distance a herd chews contentedly on a silent plain.

These pastoral places make my heart ache, ache for peace and quiet, for wide open spaces and the colors of creation, for the sound the wind makes and the way they make my own heart sing. I can't put my finger on it exactly, this yearning to see and be in these places, it just feels important to me. I have always felt an outsider to city ways, too many people, too much noise and fuss. My at-homeness when traveling like this just confirms for me the absolute necessity of being closer to the Earth (and trees, and hills, and coyotes and mountains and soaring hawks). It just makes me feel more connected to life.

A small gift

December 22nd, 2012

A small gift

Although my mother's father worked in the Cleveland steel mills, there was very little money and as the children got older they got jobs and turned their paychecks over to their parents. Though she never said so, I believe my mom grew up with very few possessions that were her own, everything was hand-me-down. It was not until she married my father and moved away from her family that she came to own things that were hers and no one else's.

I'm not sure how old I was when she bought a pretty ceramic teapot. My parents drank coffee, but I think, for her, this teapot represented something of refinement. It was delicate and finely painted and sitting down to enjoy a cup of tea meant that there was some leisure to life, that it was not all toil from sun up to sun down, there was time for conversation or contemplation.

I do not remember the circumstances but I recollect that it was an accident that sent my mother's delicate teapot to its untimely end, smashed on the floor, so many broken pieces it was beyond any hope of repair. I do not remember her crying about it but I suspect she did. I do remember a prevalent sense of loss. I see now that she, having grown up with so little, may have felt unworthy of fine things.

I do not know if it was that same year or some subsequent year that I came across a teapot that was identical to the beloved one in every way. It was close to Christmas and I bought the teapot and wrapped it and put it under the tree for her on Christmas Eve. The next morning was the usual Christmas morning madness with the rush to open presents. I felt a psychic tug, knowing that her opening that gift would mean something. When she picked it up and began unwrapping it I nearly felt ill. When she saw what it was, I saw the wave of emotion on her face and I knew I had done the right thing. I saw on her face that she knew that someone thought she deserved something nice.

There are very few moments in a boy's life when he has done something he can be truly proud of, my life was full of the ordinary busyness of school and church and chores and just trying to get along. There are not many gifts we can give each other that don't fade, or break, with time. I gave my mother a teapot that Christmas but I think she got something else entirely.

The teapot may be long gone for all I know. What is left is the only gift we really have to offer each other.

Act and Product

December 14th, 2012

Act and Product

I have been attracted to the notion of layers lately (along with my perpetual interest in geometric patterns) in my abstract work. I think in part because I have been looking at some Native American art and Native-inspired art lately. I can't believe how intricate it can be. I ascribe meaning to my own art, the notion of channels of communication or overlapping layers of meaning intermixed with the comfort of my personal color palette. But I also wonder what meaning might have been ascribed by the makers of some of the Indian art I have seen, both old and new. I wait for a sense of the mystical in it, the wordless truth of it, to make itself known to me.

Sometimes I don't know the meaning of even my own work until the creation is finished. It just flows from me without any reservation. Later when I step back I begin to see how things have fit together in ways I never might have anticipated. The meaning floats forth, or maybe bubbles up, and I vocalize an inner yes that was already there and working.

Abstract 42 is, in some very small way, homage to not just the creators of Native work but homage to the act of creation itself, about letting it flow forth without my own mental judgement of the act or its product. You can see Abstract 42 in my Abstract Gallery.



Service with a smile

December 13th, 2012

Service with a smile

My Uncle Louie was a quiet one among his fractious, wise-cracking brothers, it seemed to me. For as long as I could remember he ran a service station about a mile from our house. Back in those days, the steel behemoths that my folks drove gulped down the gas and I bet we didn't go more than a week before swinging into Uncle Lou's station for a fill up. We would hop out of the car and try jumping on the chord that crossed the lanes between the gas pumps to see if we could make the bell ring. Then we would beg and plead to get a soda from the machine. Uncle Lou would just unlock it and let us take what we wanted. Other times, my folks would roll the car into the service bay and he would hoist all us kids (in the car, of course) up towards the top of the ceiling. What an adventure that was for us.

They didn't call them service stations for nothing either. As soon as your car rolled up to the pumps, the (oft uniformed) service station attendant would come to your window to ask how much gas you needed. He would begin pumping and then while the gas was flowing he would check your oil (and top it off off needed), check the water in the radiator and wash your windows! He'd stop the gas pump and then take your money and make change if needed. You didn't tip for this, it was all included. You never had to leave your car.

When I was looking through the old FSA photographs I came across Marjory Collins image of a service station attendant and it brought back all those memories of Uncle Louie and his gas station. I had an orphaned image of the inside of an old Bakersfield gas station and so I married Collins' image with my own for this particular image which can be seen in the Farm Security Administration Gallery here.

Reborn in the city

December 1st, 2012

Reborn in the city

I grew up in the Orange County suburbs, in Anaheim, California, to be specific. Back then, downtown Anaheim was rundown, storefronts in the old brick buildings perpetually sported "For Lease" signs, graffiti was common and the people on the street seemed less well-to-do than our suburban neighbors. I think that scenario played out in many Southern California cities. The commercial function of these old downtowns was usurped by glitzy malls and big box stores. All that remained were government and post offices, pawn shops, liquor stores and bars and, of course, the Greyhound bus depot.

But in the last decade or so, many of these downtowns have come back to life. They seem to offer new suburbanites a taste of the glory days. Buildings are being refurbished and restored, they are being occupied by trendy restaurants and cozy lofts. Santa Ana, California has been breathing new life into their downtown with monthly art walks. Artists and galleries have taken up residence in these turn-of-the-century buildings and they share them with Starbucks and start-ups staffed with twenty-somethings. The cities become walkable again, property values and rents increase and vacancies and vandalism decrease.

A wonderful byproduct is that art becomes a destination in places like Santa Ana and artists work holds an important place in this new social fabric. I regret I do not know the name of this building which sits on the corner of Fourth and Broadway in Santa Ana, but the auto and foot traffic shows that this area lives again.

Will you need change?

November 23rd, 2012

Will you need change?

I am missing the steadiness of life right now because of change. I will be the first to admit that I'm not always the biggest fan of change. Intellectually I know that change can bring the good too, not just bad, but I am rarely prepared for it, good or bad. Today, I am mindful of change, I like the slowness of some change, like the change of seasons, which are months in the making. And the seasonal changes happen every year and so we prepare for them with appropriate clothing and decoration. It's the changes human endure that I have more difficulty with, the transitory nature of life and death, or fame, or fortune. These always take me by surprise and often with widening spirals of emotion for which I am also equally unprepared.

I never think to examine the possibility that change can also bear gifts. The transition from Summer to Fall brings beautiful changes. The difficult human changes often bring growth or wisdom or even vision. I rarely think of these gifts as the result of what has probably been some painful personal change, and yet they seem to be. I want to believe that I can be more accepting of change. That I might learn not to try and deflect or defend against it but to accept it and maybe, someday, a long time from now, learn to embrace it. Because, let's face it, it's not going away anytime soon.

1812 Overture

November 16th, 2012

1812 Overture

We make the trip up Interstate 5 from Los Angeles to Sacramento a couple times a year to see family there. It's a fast drive for a major state thoroughfare. The ribbon of asphalt is surrounded by the vast farmlands of the great San Joaquin Valley and you are likely to see almond orchards, vineyards and cotton fields between the occasional gas-and-grub exits. The sinuous California Aqueduct, carrying much of the state's drinking and agricultural water, intertwines with the interstate for many miles, a marvel for which this thirsty state could not survive.

Crop dusters can sometimes be seen buzzing the fields near the highway, small, bright yellow planes that seem a throwback to some previous time. Dust devils, hundreds of feet high, dot the countryside too, dancing their way from field to field. Above them, clouds that look like jellyfish, arching puffy white tops with dark blue tendrils of rain trailing beneath migrate slowly across a serene sky. The agri-cultural setting seems an antidote to the bustling, stressed-out, auto-choked city life we know on any other day. It's, well, refreshing and peaceful and joyful to behold.

I captured this quiet scene on our last trip. A watering hole, absent cattle or horses, with shade trees and a wagon...it's 2012 but could be 1912 or 1812 for all we really know.

New again

November 8th, 2012

New again

There is an old derelict locomotive a mile or so from the train station in old Sacramento, California. I know I have talked about it in this blog before. That derelict is the base of this abstract piece. Part of the giant cylindrical boiler and a portion of one of the great wheels (lower left) make up the "physical" portion of the image. My geometric and color tinkerings overlay the rusting carcass of this once great behemoth. In the end, what it once was dissolves away and becomes an object distinct and apart.

The underlying tones might provide a hint of its former existence and we might consider this transmutation as indicative of the very real changes we have experienced moving from an industrial society to an information society. We each judge for ourselves what value such a change carries for us individually and collectively. This sort of change casts off those things which are no longer needed (in the way they once were). Here, one item, is reconfigured in a new way and part of it becomes new again.

Mysterious tree of the desert

November 2nd, 2012

Mysterious tree of the desert

The leaves are spiny and sharp and can make you bleed, the bark is course and fibrous, the wood itself is weak, useless for building anything of consequence and for that I am grateful. The spindly Joshua tree, native of the Mojave desert in the American Southwest, would surely be extinct now if it had any useful qualities to modern man. Instead it stands an ancient relic in an ancient and unforgiving land of little and mostly bad water. It's named for the Joshua of the Bible, Moses' attendant and leader of the Israelites into Canaan. When the Mormons first encountered the Joshua tree in their desert travels they named it for the biblical Joshua because the trees branches seemed like Joshua's arms raised to the sky in supplication.

In Joshua Tree National Park there are desert woodlands with the enigmatic trees stretched out for miles in every direction. They do in fact bloom with a cream colored flower. The trees are pollinated by the yucca moth which is attracted to the blooms where it lays its eggs. The trees do not necessarily bloom every year but are dependent upon rainfall. Still, the trees have managed to survive at least 13,000 years because Joshua tree seeds have been discovered in the dung of the giant Shasta ground sloth which went extinct that long ago.

That trees should grow at all in such an inhospitable place seems like a miracle. But these odd fellows have made the desert their home and bring a willowy element of grace to what might otherwise be a too-open landscape. I captured a number of them for my Desert Gallery which is where you will find this particular image.

The lingering effect of alpenglow

October 26th, 2012

The lingering effect of alpenglow

The summer I turned 17 I got a job in a little tourist town in the Rocky Mountains running a little shop that sold dulcimers. It was the first time I had ever been on my own without my parents or my siblings and far, far away from home. The shop was in a large granite building that had stores on the bottom floor and apartments on top. But I lived in the shop, actually in a little loft above a small part of the shop with a mattress on the floor, a chair and small table with a hot plate and little else in the way of creature comforts.

After the shop would close for the day or on my day off I would wander around town or go for a hike into the forests around the town. Wilderness was at most twenty minutes away in just about every direction. There were creeks everywhere, and in the summer, plenty of wildflowers, there were the ever-present pines and blue spruce but also plenty of the lithe quaking aspen. Looking up the sides of the mountains there would be the treeline beyond which no trees would grow (my own lungs told me there wasn't always enough air to breathe) and beyond the trees there was snow.

In the evenings, after the sun had dipped beneath the horizon of the great granite backbone of America, light from the sun would shine up between the mighty peaks and the air would glow a golden-rose color. I attributed this "alpenglow" (as it was described to me) as the reflection of sunlight on millions of airborne particles in the evening atmosphere. Regardless, it was beautiful and those moments remain etched in my memory.

The image here reminds me of those moments. It is called Abstract 34a and can be seen in my Abstracts Gallery.

Because of colors

October 19th, 2012

Because of colors

"Uh-oh" I said to myself at the corner of Roycroft and 2nd Street. Shattered glass was all over the sidewalk, it had come from the door of the pizza place. It was 4:30 a.m. and I could clearly see the inside of the business was dark. I crossed the street and stopped on the opposite corner, from there I could see the length of the business and directly into the windows while I called the police. I gave them a description of what I had seen and they asked me to wait for them, which took about ten minutes. The officer who arrived looked like he might be 23, short black hair slicked back. "Did you see anyone inside?" "No, but I didn't go inside. I just saw it while I was walking by. I walk by here nearly every morning." "Stay back here," he tells me, turning on his flashlight, unholstering his weapon. And he disappears into the dark building.

Another cop arrives, tall and lean and without much hair. "Are you the one that called it in?" "Yes." "Are you the owner?" "No." And he disappears inside. A man walks by with a dog on a leash. I look in the window of the building next door, a used clothing store. they always have the best dressed mannequins on the whole street. After about five minutes the two men both emerge from the dark store. The dark haired young man, with the least friendly face ever, says "You can finish your walk now." And I head for home. Another cop, driving the wrong way on the mostly deserted predawn street, roars by me on the way to this obvious non emergency.

Later that day I drive my mother-in-law to the hospital for an x-ray. She points out the church where she and her husband were married. The house where her friend Mary Lou lived when she came out from Chicago. The streets are full of memories for her. The x-ray department is where my father-in-law worked as a radiologist. A few people there still remember him. It's nice that they treat my mother-in-law so kindly there. While I waited for her I remembered being here when Susan was pregnant with our oldest son, Nick. My father-in-law took us back to an examining room and had Susan lie down on the table. He squeezed out the gel and smeared in onto her bare abdomen and began moving the little scanner around. "There!" he said with a smile and wide eyes, "There!" And there Nick was.

Like my mother-in-law's streets, my own memories paint landscapes, physical, emotional and spiritual. Shattered glass, quixotic circumstances and healing, joyful memories are the many colors of my life's palette, this is how I know I am alive, because of these many colors.

Where we are

October 10th, 2012

Where we are

The way isn't always going to be clear. Sometimes you will come to an intersection and the roads won't be marked and fog will obscure what lies ahead. Things look bleak. You might just have to wait for things to change, for the sun to burn the fog off or for a fellow traveler to give you directions. The thing is, nothing stays the same way for long. You might not know right now where to go or what to do but it won't always be that way, the answers you seek will come to you, they are already on the way. Waiting has its purpose, it allows us a chance to catch up with ourselves, to discover that the place where we stand is holy ground.

This image: Angel on the Road to Guadalupe is part of my Odds and Ends Gallery.

We bought records

September 28th, 2012

We bought records

We must have 200 vinyl albums in storage. I don't think we even own a phonograph (how old does that word sound?) anymore. I keep thinking I should find a record player and drag the records home. Dance to the now "oldies" in our stocking feet. Certain songs are like time machines, right? They transport us back in time to high school, college, old girlfriends, old jobs.

I can see my thirty-something mom and her girlfriend dancing to Aretha Franklin in our living room. Incense Peppermints by Strawberry Alarm Clock and I am driving in my grown-up older brother's Peugot with him to his apartment. Evergreen by Babs Streisand makes me think of my old girlfriend, she must have dragged me to that movie (A Star is Born) three times or more. We May Never Pass This Way Again by Seals and Crofts and I am walking to get my high school diploma. Lionel Richie's Endless Love has been an invitation to slow dance with Susan since we were wed (it's our song). When my older son was just in his high chair he rocked back and forth to Huey Lewis and the News. When I hear George Winston I am driving with Susan in Yosemite. The list goes on and on.

This music is like a touchstone . Certain songs make me feel certain ways. Sometimes it is not a memory but an emotion. Some make me happy (High in the Middle by Honk), some sad (Dreaming Road - Mary Chapin Carpenter), some get me hot (I Feel Love - Donna Summer), some make me feel relaxed (anything by Earl Klugh). And it's not just me; for a chunk of our marriage I knew Susan was mad at me if she played Carly Simon's Coming Around Again!

I have enjoyed picking out some of my favorites on iTunes and re-living some of the exuberance these songs generate. Still, you can't find everything there. Some obscure music on some obscure label from the last century may not be represented. It's nice to know I still have the album though for safekeeping.

My younger son was with me in the car once recently, we were listening to an old music cassette and he commented that albums and even cassettes have a "rich" sound compared to MP3s. Sure you get the hisses, pops and scratches in vinyl but what he heard was something else, something deeper. I couldn't tell the difference but because he works a lot with sound he "hears" it. One thing is certain, the music in our lives registers and resonates somewhere much deeper than our ears.

Going from the small to the large

September 21st, 2012

Going from the small to the large

I confess, I am enamored of geometric shapes in my abstracts. This image is actually a distant relative of one of my very first abstracts, originally done in acrylics (as you can tell by the unwieldy gobs of paint I tend to create). The original I call Las Ventanas del Pueblo (The Windows of the Town). I saw this image in my head of squares on top of rectangles. It wasn't until I was finished that I realized it looked like small windows set in big colorful walls. But in some way, my geometric abstracts I see too as Venn diagrams, the way we organize our information by including and excluding certain kinds of data or beliefs. It can be a statement about ourselves, what we choose to accept as true or false.

The overlapping geometries in my other abstract works describes (to me, at least) the depths and complexity of all that is known and unknown to us. We each, at first, are handed what is known to us by those who teach us (parents, first, then educators, but also friends and religious and other authorities). We begin to define our world based on the beliefs we are given and sometimes they remain with us for the rest of our lives or they change as we are influenced by other sources or even from sources within ourselves. We might have grown up with beliefs that could all fit in one tiny square of the fabric of the Universe but if we pull back we might find that the small square is part of a broader field of rectangles and colors of which our beliefs are a part. Just as a small window might open from our tiny room into a larger (and often more astounding) Universe.

You can see Abstract 29C in my Abstracts Gallery.

Reading faces

September 16th, 2012

Reading faces

You've heard the question before. If your house is on fire and you can only take whatever you can scoop up, what will you take? What are the things that mean the most to you? More than once, I have heard people say they would take their collection of photos. Of course, it's much easier now in the digital age, they may all fit on a small thumb drive but, more than likely, reside in your computer. But this isn't really a discussion about the wonders of technology, it's really about the importance of personal history. Many photos, especially the old black and whites are irreplaceable. Who knows where the negatives are and labs to print the old sizes are few and far between. I have photos of my great and even great-great-grandparents. I know very little about them, not sure where they were laid to rest even. But I know what they looked like, at least on one or two important occasions in their lives, their wedding day, for example, or a baptism.

I worry after some of my pictures, the ones I took for the newspaper, in particular, I wonder if they are decomposing in a landfill somewhere or moldering in some damp storage space. As for my own personal pictures, I feel comforted knowing where they are if I need them. Looking at the old pictures, I see how clothing and hair styles change but how people's eyes do not. The impish eyes of my father sparkle from the past, my grandmother's wide cow eyes always seem to be encountering something magnificent. I'm not the only one who looks at people's eyes and faces. My old editor told me he wanted a "big face" for every issue, because we read faces the way we read books, searching for knowledge about people. I liked this image by FSA photographer Russell Lee because it's full of faces and we jump from one to another. But it's also about community and the joy we take in gathering together around food. The smiles, especially in these Depression era photos, mean something.

You can see this image in my Farm Security Administration Gallery.

Becoming

September 8th, 2012

Becoming

This week I am mindful of change. Our courtyard is being invaded by fuzzy, long, thin orangey-black caterpillars. They seem to have a fondness for our scotch broom plants and in a few days time ate nearly everything green from at least one of the plants. As they inch along the concrete sidewalk they seem to have unyielding purpose and intent. Temporary obstacles I placed in their way deterred them not in the slightest. They know where they have to go, they know what they have to do. While I do not admire their appetite for our personal flora, I admire their drive to get it done, whatever it is exactly.

In their own time they will spin cocoons and transform, becoming what they were always meant to be. I see how we, ourselves, are moved to change, how circumstances drive us towards our future, towards who we are meant to be. Sometimes the circumstances are uncomfortable, accompanied by loss or tragedy, sometimes they are fortuitous or happenstance, sometimes they are planned for, hard-won and earned. In the course of our lives, they are all these and more. Some of us move through change gracefully and gratefully, others kicking and screaming the entire way. Either way, we get there, somehow.

It seems a miracle that these tiny fuzzy multi-legged creatures should become wonderfully elegant flying wonders. And looking at them, I wonder how we ever find room to doubt ourselves and who we will become. You can find out more about this image in my Abstract Gallery.

The call of the sea

August 27th, 2012

The call of the sea

From the time our boys were young, my wife's family would meet at a little hotel in Laguna Beach for a week of swimming and lounging on the sand, strolling through town and falling asleep to the sound of surf. We lived in the desert then so going to the coast was like walking out of hell into paradise. Laguna Beach was an artist's colony one hundred years ago and it's attraction to artists and to art lovers have not waned. Galleries are intermixed with kitschy souvenir shops and bistros and bars and at the height of summer the sidewalks and beaches are quite crowded with happy, vacationing tourists.

But the reason artists have been attracted to Laguna has not changed in a hundred years, the wide arching main beach beneath bluffs of swaying palms invites contemplation even now. Tiny coves beyond the main beach provide hideaways from the crowds and a stillness metered only by the rhythmic surf. The winding Pacific Coast Highway which bisects the town is the antidote to bumper-to-bumper freeway traffic, especially with all the windows down and a refreshing sea breeze on your face.

I shot the original image for Laguna Sunset while I walked with Susan on Laguna's Main Beach. Even at this hour, people were still at the water's edge, saying goodbye to a perfect summer day. You can see this image in my Coastal Gallery.

The lesson of Asteroid Boy

August 17th, 2012

The lesson of Asteroid Boy

I was at the Riverside Museum of Art recently and there was an exhibit of different figures created by children. They were crafted from simple materials, straw, buttons, tinfoil, cloth. Human in form, each of the figures had a name, most appeared to have super hero type names like Asteroid Boy, Spike Speedy, etc. How easily, I thought, we are drawn to create things in our own image. Perhaps because we know our own shapes so well, two arms, two legs, torso and head. The parts are simple really.

This also made me think how prevalent dolls are, not just in our culture, but in many others. In art class I remember learning that some of the very first known art objects were statues of small people. I wonder if, for children, having someone smaller than yourself is a comfort, someone to care for, someone you can be in charge of, someone who does whatever YOU like. As a boy I know I commanded an army of green plastic army men who I alternately killed or saved as I saw fit.

It must be in our nature to not just create what we know but then to expand on that in directions we can only imagine or dream. Just as the small ancient statues evolved into works like the David or the Thinker. In the same way, the artistic children in Riverside added super human characteristics to their figures expanding not just the human form but what it means to be human.

The color of change

August 10th, 2012

The color of change

In 1873, the Department of Agriculture sent two little Valencia orange trees to Riverside, California resident Eliza Tibbets and Southern California changed forever. I drove through Riverside today. I got off the freeway at Van Buren Avenue and drove some of the back roads named for U.S. presidents. There is an odd mixture of development there, close to the freeway the buildings are crowded in, not well kept, rough-looking neighborhoods, but farther back, back where there are still orange groves, the houses are large and handsome, reminiscent of the areas agricultural past greatness and fortune. I stopped at a roadside stand, mostly because I wanted to grab some pictures but bought a few items too.

The home I grew up in was developed from orange groves and the groves were plentiful in my youth. Driving from our house in Anaheim to my grandparent's home in Fullerton we used to drive through orange groves. The scent of the blooming trees was incredible and was etched in my memory. Years later, the same scent became almost intoxicating as we drove through flowering groves in another time and another place. My grandmother had three trees in her yard and we picked the oranges regularly, taking them home for eating or juicing (or throwing at each other!!!). Then navel oranges came, and seedless oranges, and the old Valencia trees became useless relics. How often I has seen the oranges rotting on the ground because no one wanted them.

In the 1960s and 70s as Riverside, Orange and other counties developed it became common to see the groves change from bright green trees to sad old stumps, later earth moving equipment would excavate the stumps piling them in tall rows for burning or removal, making way for model homes and shopping centers for people flooding into the state.

Now, these many years later, I am happy to find the occasional grove. I love oranges still, a bowl full of them on the table here were I am writing. Their feel, their scent, their taste as good as I remember. Maybe better.

Would a woodcut cut it today?

August 2nd, 2012

Would a woodcut cut it today?

There is a site I like to peruse from time to time. It has illustrations and pages from books from the last few centuries. Until the age of photography most images for books were created with woodcuts, essentially pen and ink drawings that were mass-producible with a printing press. When I first started working in the newspaper business the little blurb beneath a photo describing what the photo was about was called a cut-line, literally a line of text about the woodcut. Nowadays, they are called captions. Of course, photography changed the very nature of reading material, think, for example, of the impact of magazines like Life and Look. And newspapers often carry one large photo on the front page above the fold to capture the imagination of people passing by news racks. The only newspaper that I know of that still uses pen and ink drawings is, oddly, the Wall Street Journal. It is charming and unusual.

I borrowed the image you see here from a now extinct volume. I played with it some to heighten the tension and saturate the colors. The artist's last name was Pilsbury, I couldn't make out the first name. The copyright long ago expired and so the image is in the public domain for people like me to take liberties with. I can't say why I am fascinated by these old works. I think of the craftsmanship in the original work, and then the work to create a woodcut. Painstaking work it must have been. All this to give readers a sense of place to accompany words in a book. Photographs are so commonplace for us, we capture them with a phone and send them to outer space and back in fractions of a second to share with everyone. But not so incredibly long ago, in a time our great or great-great-grandparents would remember, there were no photos and artists had to capture the places we would never visit or see.

Looking back

July 26th, 2012

Looking back

My photography mentor, the late Phil Dunham, counseled me while I was out shooting to remember to look behind me now and then to see what I might be missing. I was reminded of this last week while strolling at the Nisqually National Wildlife Reserve near Seattle, Washington with my sister and niece. Of course, we were busy chatting, strolling along the edge of the tidelands where the Nisqually River broadens into a wide tidal estuary. We had set a point on the horizon ahead of us we were walking towards, an overlook structure.

About the time we arrived there, my niece, checking the sky and expecting rain, thought we should return soon. When I turned around I was amazed to find striated rows of tall grass in various shades of green and gold undulating in the breeze. And In the distance, two large white barns. I had missed this entirely on our march forward. On the way back I took shot after shot as the perspective of the barns changed in the background and the width of the rows changed in the foreground. In the end, I selected this shot to work with, which I call 'The Brown Farm.' I'm glad we came back the same way or I might have missed this shot entirely because I didn't look back.

You can see The Brown Farm in my Buildings Gallery.

Just a coffee shop?

July 20th, 2012

Just a coffee shop?

You know what I'm talking about right? "Soooo," said in a lingering way, "should we go out for breakfast?" The question embodied more than one complete thought, it meant that it was a leisurely Saturday or Sunday, no one really wanted to cook or clean up first thing and wouldn't it be nice if we could each have what we really wanted (oatmeal be damned!) and, best of all, have somebody serve it to like we were king (or queen) of the day?!?

When we lived in the desert, the place we always went was C & S Coffee Shop. At C & S, Carolyn the waitress, would waive us in with a hand full of menus in one hand and an armload of full plates in another "Sit wherever you want!" The room would be crowded with townsfolk and we would exchange hellos or nods with the people we knew. The mayor would be there with his missus gabbing with friends. Carolyn would make her way over and sit down at the table with us and ask about us while she was taking our order. She would talk about the funny things her dogs did and tease and be teased by our boys.

After Carolyn left, we would talk about things that had happened during the week at school or work. Or we would make plans for the rest of the day or even next week. Because Susan and I both worked at the newspaper, it was not uncommon to hear snippets of conversation about newsworthy items and I think Susan got more than one or two ideas for editorials based on what had people riled up or confounded at C & S.

In the end, anyplace like C & S, or Russell's for that matter, reminds us that "community" exists. Maybe the community is small-town gabby neighbors cackling over coffee or maybe it's where fellow workers meet to shoot the shinola or maybe its where we meet our friends to witness their tales of woe or joy or for them to witness ours . In the end, it's where we want to be and where we want to be-long.

Russell's can be seen in my Pasadena Gallery.

Hidden gems

July 12th, 2012

Hidden gems

I think it was contrarian and activist Edward Abbey who said that man NEEDS wilderness. I believe he meant that wilderness was the antidote to the ills of being civilized for so long. It's not so much that we need to go there, we just need to know that we can got here if we need to. "Getting away from it all" is the expression we like to use when we need a break. In the quiet lonely places, at last, we can hear ourselves think.

Peters Canyon is just such a place to get away from it all. Outside the canyon, the suburbs of Southern California have grown close. But the trail down in the canyon seems a world away from traffic, asphalt and shopping malls. Finding this little bridge, crossing a tiny stream, surrounded by green trees is like entering a world where clocks and phones have no power over us. We only need to open ourselves up to the goodness of the elements, here a bit of earth, there a bit of water, swaying trees under a blue sky. It's a poem we hear with our eyes and touch with our feet.

Here where the city is so crowded and full of noise and frenetic angst, we do NEED wilderness for the sake of our own sanity. You can see Peters Canyon Bridge in my Bridges Gallery.

At the end of the earth

July 5th, 2012

At the end of the earth

This is a place called Punalu'u on the big island, Hawaii. It is a place where the lava once flowed right into the sea. At the water's edge, the solid black rock stands against the perpetual assault of the endless sea. Over time this endless interaction has created black sand beaches nearby. On one of these I found a camp of young men lounging about their tents, fishing and camping gear strewn here and there.

A few of their comrades stood watch here where the earth ends and the sea begins. A stalwart pole, line taut, awaits the fish whose time has come. And the boys will march back triumphantly to their band, here at the end of the earth, with pride.

Not so citified

June 14th, 2012

Not so citified

It's hard to think of Southern California without thinking of pavement encrusted urban sprawl spewing condos and strip malls like fireballs from a volcano, planned communities and their commuter-mobiles spreading like molten lava fanning ever outward towards the mountains and the ocean and the borders of Arizona and Mexico.

But that's a cherished misconception. There are still places of quiet, natural beauty. I LIVE for them. My wife spent part of her childhood in Modjesska Canyon, playing in the creek, catching poliwogs, riding horses. Not much has changed there in the intervening years. We spent a few hours there not long ago, watching humming birds flit from blossom to blossom, reading a book in the shade of the sycamores and live oak, trying to decide which of the half dozen bushes we saw was actually poison oak and watching for (conspicuously absent) rattlesnakes among the smooth pebbles of the creek.

Southern Californian still has its native beauty and it's not terribly far from where we live. You can see Modjeska Canyon Sycamores in my Gardens and Parks Gallery.

The end of the Earth

June 8th, 2012

The end of the Earth

It may not be until long after I have taken the original photo that an idea about the image pops into my head. I call this one 'Three Trees' and I took the original photo a few years ago. The trees themselves sit atop the bluff near the Point Fermin lighthouse on the Palos Verdes Peninsula near San Pedro. I had tried working on the image several times since then but never felt "right" about the results.

I took up with it again recently because I knew there was something there. At the same time, I was thinking about my childhood, particularly about my next youngest brother and sister. Because we were separated by 5 years from our older siblings and before the birth (by five years) of our yet-to-be-born youngest brother and sister, we were known collectively as "the little guys."

Somehow I linked these three trees with the three of us "little guys," shaped and buffeted by the winds of time, perched precariously on the precipice of Earth which seems both frightening and majestic in proportion. How firmly we have been rooted here in this wild place at the end of the Earth overlooking a wide mysterious sea. I feel the entwined roots of these, my beloved comrades in time, especially now that we are growing old together.

Open and shut

May 30th, 2012

Open and shut

Okay, it’s wish list time! Say you have won a brand new home to be built on the prettiest spot in town. The builder asks you what features you might like in your new home. He asks you to make a list of ten things you would love, things that would make your life easier. Already you are thinking dishwasher, trash compactor, how about a retractable awning or even a bidet! You fill the list pretty easily but, um, did you happen to ask for…doors?!?

For something we use every day, many times a day, we take the door for granted. It is, arguably, the most indispensable part of our homes and workplaces. Yet, without it we would be left out in the cold or, maybe worse, trapped inside. There is no questioning the absolute utilitarian value of the door in our world. We have, knock on wood, forever graduated from our tree-swinging, cave-dwelling days and can proudly set foot in our own cozy shelters by way of, yes, the door.
 
Though we take the doors in our lives for granted, what a door represents is not far from our consciousness. Among other things, a door can symbolize safety, access to resources, barriers to accomplishment, invitations to adventure, partitions that close off things we don’t want to see, opportunities to change and grow, and others. We hear:
 
“Beware the wolf outside the door.”
“I am closing the door on that part of my life.”
“No one knows what goes on behind closed doors.”
“Behold, I stand at the door and knock…”
“We have an open door policy.”
“He’s at death’s door.”
“Invent something great and people will beat a path to your door.”
“She’s the girl-next-door type.”
“Never darken our door again.”
“Get a foot in the door.”
“Lay (blame) at someone’s doorstep.”
“Show them the door.”
“Katie, bar the door!”
 
Each of these expresses an idea big enough to be common to us all. At some point you may have uttered some version of these expressions yourself.
 
Doors also have a place in our memory. It might be the (good or bad) feeling you had when you heard the sound of your mother or father coming home. The distinct sound the door made in your childhood home when it opened to welcome friends and family, slammed in fits of anger or gingerly creaked when sneaking out without permission. Maybe it was the sound of the mail slot opening in the door (if you didn’t have a mailbox) and the mail being pushed through it.
 
We undoubtedly overlook the convenience of the door though it stands steadfast between the places of our lives and, because of its ubiquitousness, its very commonness becomes its charm in our world. Whether doors are used for getting in or going out of places or as metaphors for what we are keeping from or letting into our lives, their usefulness is unequivocal or, please forgive me here, open and shut.

The image shown here is the entrance to the Gamble House, a Pasadena landmark. It's currently on exhibit but will be added here in July.

On the wings of Spring

May 24th, 2012

On the wings of Spring

I have seen the great blue herons flying low over the roadway carrying twigs in their beaks. They like the tall trees near the marina to nest in. I hear them squawking in the early mornings, as if they are antagonized by the thought of starting the day. In the wetlands, the vegetation is lush and green, buds and blooms are beginning to form and an aromatic breeze brings the scent of something comforting and attractive. Among us humans, the warm clothing has given way finally to lighter, shorter clothes exposing the limbs and curves. Windows and doors remain open during the day and the sounds of life pour into the street and vice versa.

It's no wonder that Easter ushers in Spring, that what has been buried rises forth in glory. In the Spring we lust for color and light and fresh air, we enjoy the lengthening and ever warmer days. We welcome the warmth of sunlight on our skin and find daylight enough for fun at the end of our workday. Life is for reveling in the Spring, and joy its revelation.

You can find the Wings of Spring in my Animals Gallery.

Bloom where you are planted

May 18th, 2012

Bloom where you are planted

I remember hiking once in a very rocky and remote part of Joshua Tree National Park. I was on a massive granite bench and atop the bench sat a solitary boulder that was perhaps four feet high. It looked as if a giant had just gently set it down there. On the top of the boulder was a small crevice which, over time, had filled with dirt and growing from the dirt in the crevice was a flowering desert plant!

At the time I remember thinking what boldness it must take to grow in the cleft of a boulder on top of so much rock in the middle of the desert. How tenacious must life be, really? I felt the same way when I saw these ferns growing in a lava field. How little it takes to live and even thrive, it seems, even when there is little to hold onto. Every life has its challenges. It's no different for humans than ferns I imagine. And some of us embrace our smal clefts and bloom where we are planted and some complain and wither away despite ALL we have.

I probably lie within the spectrum somewhere, knowing my imperfections but recognizing how lucky I am at the same time, to live and draw breath, to recognize beauty and enjoy relationships, to feel part of the world, rooted in it, but knowing its transitory nature. What boldness it takes to bloom.

Ferns in Lava Bed is in my Gardens and Parks Gallery.

A mothers love

May 12th, 2012

A mothers love

It may just be instinct that a parent, and a mother in particular, does everything possible to assure the survival of her offspring. But I like to believe that it's love. A blogger I know described choking on a piece of candy once while his mom was talking to a friend, because he could not breathe or talk he got her attention and pointed to his throat. She reached around him from behind, gave several Heimlich style squeezes and the lodged candy came flying out. She then, as he described it, resumed her conversation as if nothing had happened!

To put it simply, moms are our heroes. It must be more than instinct that pushes them to do ALL they do for their children, often with little sleep and no pay, not to mention the loads of worry and sacrifice. It MUST be love!

You can see The Hatchling in my Animals Gallery.

The evening

May 2nd, 2012

The evening

My wife and I have talked about what retirement might look like for us. We have not amassed a great deal of wealth, don't own any country estates and our IRAs more resemble the little heard from Irish Republican Army than Individual Retiement Accounts. I think we both know we could never just do NOTHING. But the thought that stirs the greatest passion in us is seeing parts of the Earth we have never seen. We would love to see the places around the Mediterranean associated with the past great civilizations, Egypt, Israel, Greece, Rome, etc. But we would also be happy to roam closer to home. Neither of has spent any appreciable time east of the Mississippi. She has family in the South and I have family in the North (in case we need to bunk somewhere).

Our ideal would be to vagabond about in a motor home for a few years. We are backwater people and would be content to camp out near a small burg somewhere and see all the local things for a few weeks. Then, move onto the next hamlet and the next, until we have got a feeling for what regions are like. The beauty of this plan, as we envision it, is that tecchnology means we could still do the things we love, shoot and write mostly, and tramp about the countryside at the same time. It remains to be seen how practical that might actually be but I think we would be willing to give it a try.

I hope that in the "golden years" ahead you will not find us lunching at the club or playing bingo in the church hall. I hope you will see our tub off of some lonesome byway, camp chairs lashed to the roof and bicycles perched on the back bumper and a jolly old couple setting up for the evening. The evening of life.

When the not so good is great

April 26th, 2012

When the not so good is great

I am inclined to think of myself as an artist, an artist working in photography. But I enjoy experimenting with other mediums, or is it media? When I am inspired I pick up the paintbrush and paint with acrylics. I'm a total gobber, trowelling on paint with heavy strokes. I admit my experience is not great and tend to make up in texture what I definitely lack in finesse. I am also drawn to pastels. I like the easiness of mixing colors together with pastels. I like that I can take a small box of pastels and a pad and have all I need with me. And, while pastels tend to be messy (or maybe I tend to be messy), they are easily cleaned up. I like to sketch in a small notebook where the pages protect the works one from another until I can coat them to keep them from smearing.

I decided long ago that it doesn't matter if I am "good" at it or not. The crude sketch shown here is agreat example. It is of Richardson's Beach near Hilo, Hawaii. When I sketched it, it was a warm cloudy day. I had already been in the water, attempting to snorkel and gulp seawater at the same time. Susan had gone back out and while I was drying I picked up my little book and started sketching. It fixed the day, in pastel in my tiny book, but it also fixed the day in my memory...the green, blue water, the roar of crashing surf, the tiny beach shaded by trees, whales spouting in the bay and the ever present island's emerald and lava edge sliding into the sea.

Though it is crude, I have still included it in my Coastal Gallery. Not because it bears any merit but because of my cherished memory of the day.

The Face of a God

April 18th, 2012

The Face of a God

In the New World more than 2,000 years ago, the peoples of MesoAmerica (modern day Mexico) had a thriving culture that included active trade, religious and spiritual practices, war-making capabilities and pyramid building (among many, many others). They were not a homogenous group, made up of different groups, but many recognized a higher deity that had a number of names. The name most often used today is Quetzalcoatl which literally means "feathered serpent."

There are many, many depictions of Quetzalcoatl from that era, both as pictures and as sculptures.Much of the art that can be seen today has been weathered by two millennium but the vestige of the colors indicates vibrant and rich hues that commanded attention from the overpowering jungle green and overarching blue sky. This original of this image is of a faded sculpture, more the color of the earth from which it was made. There was enough color left though to hint at its former glory, which I have done my best to enhance. You can see Rostro de Dios (Face of the God) in my Odds and Ends Gallery.

Rising to the Occasion

April 11th, 2012

Rising to the Occasion

I am not going to compare the present times with the Great Depression, except to say that misfortune, economic and otherwise, seems much closer now than in the last few decades. I keep informal tabs on which of my images get looked at more often than others, one of the many wonders of modern technology, and am surprised to find that my Farm Security Administration images are looked at very heavily. These are images that were taken by a number of photographers at the height of the Great Depression and the years up to and including World War II. I have taken them and edited and stylized them in my own fashion. The originals are all available through the Library of Congress and are part of the public domain.

I don't really know what to make of the fact that people are interested in them. Granted, they may be looking for comparisons to the present day but in some ways, they are interesting because they are like looking into the past. The faces seem honest, the settings uncontrived. Perhaps the most important thing art (and photography) can convey to us is simple truth. maybe the attraction is that these images convey not just the truth of the times, but the truth of the human spirit, the human condition. Many of us are being asked to look more deeply into our own truths in the present time, about our choices and our values. The people in the FSA photographs lived through some pretty tough times. I don't know for certain if we will be made to do the same (or maybe already are). It's comforting to know others have done it before us. That sprits can rise to nearly every occasion.

You can see 'Juke Joint' and a few other FSA images in my FSA gallery.

Places to rest and recreate

April 10th, 2012

Places to rest and recreate

I had heard of black sand beaches but could not imagine them having grown up on the tan-colored sands of Southern California. They are beautiful, as a foreground to hula-dancing palm trees, searing blue skies and the lovely green waters of the Hawaiian Pacific. And their warmth, a clear draw, especially to sleepy green sea turtles. The black sand is pulverized lava, ground down by erosion and wave action.

It was wonderful to see these ancient creatures fast asleep, not a care in the world, surrounded by gawking tourists. It must be weary work plying the trades of the Pacific. This same species also enjoys Southern California waters. Susan and I joined a group of turtle lovers on a hike to see them near the outlet of the San Gabriel river between Seal Beach and Long Beach.

Susan recollected that, in her teenage surfing years, she had been paddling out near the mouth of the river and suddenly a green, bald, reptile head popped out of the water a few feet from her. They stared at each other in apparent disbelief for some little while and then each went on their way. It's not incredibly surprising that sea turtles might like Southern California and Hawaii as places for rest and recreation and it pleases me greatly to share these places with them.

Landmarks

April 4th, 2012

Landmarks

In its simplest form, a landmark is an object, like a tree or a fence that marks a boundary of land. From a given landmark we can tell where we are in relationship to the land. But a landmark can mean other things as well. It can be a specific place of some distinction like a famous cathedral or an important battlefield. These are places we might have learned about in school or are part of our cultural heritage. A landmark can also be an event in time that has some distinction by which the time before and the time after are separated. We call things like 9/11 a landmark event because things changed so significantly after the event.

When we live someplace long enough, we recognize other landmarks, personal landmarks. For me, there is a small hill in the Mojave Desert halfway between Yucca Valley and Lucerne Valley that holds some significance for me. I was married to Susan there. Or the hospital where my sons were born. Sometimes it is a location we shared with others for a time, Sixth-Grade Camp or maybe the Principal’s Office! A city or town comes to have its own landmarks as well, favorite places most everyone likes, the drive-in theater, a favorite swimming hole or a favorite sports bar. You know what they are in your own town.

I had a chance to ponder landmarks when I decided to submit some of my work for the exhibit “Pasadena – Its Aura” which features artistic works of that city’s landmarks. Three of my pieces were selected. I am not overly familiar with Pasadena so it was fun seeing it like a tourist might, hitting the high points, of course, but then being led astray by secret alleyways and old town haunts. If you are in Pasadena, you can see my works at the Women’s City Club which is in the historic (landmark!) Blinn House at 160 N. Oakland Avenue.

Where we commune

March 28th, 2012

Where we commune

I confess that old buildings fascinate me. Maybe it is because I grew up in the cookie cutter world of the suburbs or because, especially here in Southern California, we are quick to pave over the old buildings to build something ever newer. It might also be that, because I live in the New World, our historical buildings only date back maybe 300 years at most. No matter, old buildings have character, the same way that character shows in the faces of older people. You can bet that each have stories to tell, some drama no doubt, some comedy too probably.

Churches are especially attractive subjects. For those who spend time there, they are the places where the rites of life occur, the baptisms, the sharing of communion, the marriages and funerals. These important moments, it is my belief, imbue the building with a sense of emotion and spirit. I often think that if I were quiet enough I might hear these important moments still happening just on the periphery of my senses. And maybe they still are in some way I cannot understand. There are few buildings in our lives, with the exception of our own homes, where so many important things happen.

A few hours from this old church sits the ruins of a stone temple of an unrelated faith. Each, in their own way, are at once a physical and historical reminder of a peoples’ religious activities and at the same time, a hallowed and sanctified place where the memories of the joys and sorrows of so many souls are bound together in time. You can see this image of the Old Church on the Hamakua Coast in my Coastal Gallery.

Where the Earth bleeds red

March 17th, 2012

Where the Earth bleeds red

On the lonely dark road we drove south. We passed the last house miles ago, there are no lights visible anywhere, save for the cars ahead of us. My brother in law parks the car just off the roadway, where the man with the flashlight points. There are dozens of people parking and getting out of their cars, so many, that parking is coordinated by these men in safety vests with heavy duty flash lights. The hum of a generator motor sounds like a helicopter getting readt to take off. The generators power large heavy-duty light stands that flood this roadway turned parking lot with industrial light. We get our stuff out of the trunk, camping chairs, water, snacks, rain gear. We follow the other people in one direction on the road, into the darkness. The sky is dark but for a few stars not obscured by clouds. The four of us walk steadily by flashlight until we reach a point where lava, hardened by time, covers the roadway completely. We mount the lava and continue south until barricades and crowds impede any further movement. We set up our chairs facing west, toward the mountain. We are at the Kalapana viewing area.

On the mountain, lava is flowing. The week before we arrived the lava destroyed the last home in an inconvenient subdivision. The man who lived there left just in time. I heard he locked the door as he left. But lava doesn't need a key to enter apparently. The lava, seen from our vantage point, looked more like bright tail lights on a curvy, traffic- jammed mountain road. I could not detect actual movement form that distance. I cannot even guess what the distance was or how wide the lava flow actually was. I could only detect the red hot glow of the liquid rock, which bleeds from an open vent and scabs in hardened black chunks as gravity draws it towards the open ocean, building up the island foot by foot.

I didn't bother to take photos. It wouldn't look like anything but blackness and a few red dots. But many people did take photos. Some just stared at the lava, some hummed (sounded almost like chanting to me), many gabbed (about everything imagineable). Mostly, we just watched in silence, ate some cookies, swigged some beer. The crowd waxed and waned continuously until the rain came. We had rain gear but not the staying power, so we headed back to the car.

Earlier in the week we had been to the rim of Halem'uma'u Crater where steam and ash created a giant plume that, in the evening, reflects the orange-red light of boiling magma. Here, in this spot on the planet, the liquid basalt that floats the continents gushes forth with tremendous force and with absolutely no mercy. The Hawaiians call the volcano goddess Pele and describe her as being both passionate and vengeful. Seeing the earth bleed this red liquid rock, I am convinced once again that the Earth is alive and gives expression in her own way, just as we are alive and give expression in our own way.

Colorado Street Bridge crossing the Arroyo Seco

March 15th, 2012

Colorado Street Bridge crossing the Arroyo Seco

I think about bridges a lot, about the difficulty of spanning physical distances across uncomfortable or even dangerous places. I think about the feeling of human victory in conquering such spaces with ingenuity, perseverance and brawn. I think about the connections that are made when we become free to explore places we have never been and meet people we have never seen. I think about bridges as symbols too, not just about the act of connecting, but about the joy of connecting and the joy of connectedness. A bridge symbolizes not just reaching-out but also acceptance, the embrace of those who have been separated. It can mean not just going someplace new, but leaving something old and familiar behind. At its very essence, a bridge is an act of courage. In that way, all bridges are beautiful.

This image is not yet available.

Where the fault lies

February 29th, 2012

Where the fault lies

There was an alarming study done once about the proximity of school buildings to earthquake faults here in California. The study revealed that the a good percentage of school buildings were built on or near fault lines. On the surface, it seemed almost intentional and why would anybody build a school near a fault line? As it turns out, there IS a reasonable explanation.

In the early days, before there were cities, water was the key to survival. Springs, those places where water seeps (or sometimes gushes) from the ground, can occur along fault lines. Native Americans knew the locations of these springs and trails led between them. Settlers travelling through the region depended upon them and as California became more and more populated, towns were built near these water sources. Towns with schools.

I thought about this while I was visiting Old Pasadena recently, wandering the back alleyways, looking at shops it seems time had forgotten. I didn't realize how close Old Pasadena is from the Arroyo Seco, a wooded cleft in the landscape with its own waterway. I shot the original of this image from the side of the Arroyo looking off to the place where Pasadena's famed Colorado Street bridge crosses it.

The Elephant Seal Rookery

February 22nd, 2012

The Elephant Seal Rookery

It was believed in the early part of the last century that the elephant seal had gone extinct. The oil extracted from the large sea mammal was second only to the sperm whale and so in the late 1800s whalers made quick work of the species and by the early 1900s they were believed to be all gone. A tiny colony of the seals on Guadalupe Island, protected by Mexico, evaded the fate of the rest of the species and began to thrive and grow. Finally, with additional protection from the United States, the species has begun to make a comeback and rookeries have begun to spread farther and farther north.

This image was captured at the rookery at Piedras Blancas north of San Simeon, California. There, the pups are born and nursed for a number of weeks and then left to fend for themselves as the adults begin migration north toward Alaskan waters to fatten themselves for the next season. Piedras Blancas is unique in that the beaches are protected by rocky tidal pools where the pups learn to swim on their own and forage for food after they have been weaned. When they are big enough and strong enough, they follow their parents, and their instincts, into the sea to begin their own migratory journeys.

But until they are ready, they sleep, scrap, squeak and squeal en masse on the warm protected beach at Piedras Blancas. You can see this image in my Animals Gallery.

Machines

February 15th, 2012

Machines

When I attended the artists reception for the "Red" Exhibition, one of the artists was doing a book signing at the same time, guests were lined up around the table where she would sign her name and write a personal message. Then the guest would hand over a credit card and she would swipe the card on one of those little card readers that attaches to a smart phone and the person's credit card account would be billed, lickety-split, as they say.

I marvel at the changes in machines and technology. I am barely a half-century old and what a smart phone does now would have seemed like magic to even a teenage version of myself. As a teenager, I worked in a shop with an old-fashioned, completely mechanical, push-button cash register. You would press the dollar amount of the item, then the cents amount, then the tax amount and finally the Total key and a bell would ring and the drawer would pop open to accept the money. At the top of the register, the total amount would appear, digit by digit, on playing-card sized display panels in white with black lettering.

We still hear the expression "Ring it up!" a reference to making the old cash register's bell ring. The cash register I used in that small shop was a beautiful looking machine, it had a gold finish and an ornate look to it with cast iron parts and sturdy keys. It was heavy, too, a bandit would hurt his back trying to carry that thing away. As pretty as it was, it was no match for the electronic calculator not to mention the barcode-scanning registers of today that instantly update inventory lists and send real-time accounting reports to the home office in Des Moines. But even so, it had a style and beauty and a presence that is obsolete today.

You can find "Put in on My Tab" in my Odds and Ends Gallery.

Follow your own path

February 8th, 2012

Follow your own path

It was a simple black and white photograph of someone's feet, sparing and unadorned....it was on display at the San Diego Museum of Photographic Art. I was struck by the plainness of it, struck by its unassuming force and was surprised to learn it had been created by a fifth-grader named Justin. This is what he wrote about the photograph...

"I took this photograph because it reminds us that in life we don't need fashion, glamor, or anything man-made to have a great time. Don't let your life revolve around other people and things, let it flow freely. You are what you are and nothing will change that. Follow your own path and do what you want to do."

I thought of these words today because I am part of a group show and tomorrow is the artist's reception. I always feel nervous about such things, about being among so many other people/artists, for starters, but also because my art path has not been traditional, I have been "following my own path" all this time. I admire Justin's sense of personal integrity and would like to feel more at ease about just being who I am, doing what I want to do and letting it flow freely.

'Broad Leaf' can be seen until March 30th at the 'Red' Exhibition at the Women's City Club in Pasadena, California or everyday in my Floral Gallery.

Dry and Wet Seasons

February 2nd, 2012

Dry and Wet Seasons

A friend, who is an artist herself, asked me recently how my art life was going. I told her about my 'Red' Exhibition coming up (it actually opens today, check it out in my Events tab!). She said she had hit a dry spell. I know for myself there are times when I just don't feel creative. The juices aren't flowing. Or, and this is much more likely, I am just needing down time, time to attend to the ordinary and sometimes grimy things in life. An artist has to get a haircut, go grocery shopping, walk the dog and negotiate the ordinary with the people in his or her life, right? The main thing is, I know that when I am ready to rev it up again, the possibilities will re-appear. I will see something that suddenly fascinates me or I will just have happen to have my camera with me when a subject appears and screams for attention.

I was on a walk a few weeks ago and threw my camera in my backpack, this wasn't intended to be a photo safari, I actually had a specific destination in mind and it wasn't related to art. In fact, it had been a while since I had been out with my camera. I was walking across the Davies Bridge, it was early morning and high clouds gave the morning light a diffused but golden hue. I noticed a young woman rowing in the bay below me, she had just disappeared beneath the bridge and I knew she would emerge shortly on my side of the bridge. She would be rowing directly across the place where the lightly filtered sun was reflecting in the water. So, I stopped and got the camera out and waited, just to see how it might look.

This is what came of that moment. The sets of expanding concentric circles demonstrates motion, interspersed with the gliding of the oars through the air. Moving through life seems to be like that too, moments of sometimes intense effort that push or pull us along, interspersed with moments of effortless gliding. There is no momentum in life otherwise.

See Rowing at Dawn in my Coastal Gallery.

Almost home

January 26th, 2012

Almost home

I don't own a train set and I can't spout any definitive facts about railroading except maybe that the railroads of the east and west met in Promontory, Utah sometime in the 1800s. But I do find the notion of traveling by rail romantic somehow. First off, who among us hasn't envisioned the perfect Christmas tree ringed by a cute little train set, either in the movies or maybe even in reality? One of the very first movies in wide circulation was The Great Train Robbery and even today what good action movie doesn't have a chase or fight scene on the rooftop of some speeding train? Until World War II, most Americans made lengthy journeys by train. Even today a huge percentage of consumer goods are carried in containers riding piggy-back on quarter-mile long freight trains moving from seaports to warehouses all over this great land.

As a child I remember standing near the railroad tracks as speeding passenger trains sped by. The ground would shake and the roar of the engines would cause me to put my hands over my ears. The seemingly solid rails would move up and down beneath the heavy metal wheels and the rhythmic sound was comforting somehow. That same rhythm, as a passenger on a train, automatically makes me feel sleepy. Still, some of my favorite trips have been on trains, riding on the back of an old parlor car up the California Coast or chugging through the Rockies on the Silverton train. It is a quintessential American experience.

Sadly, the great era of railroad travel is over and once mighty locomotives sit rusting on sidings. I captured this image of one derelict locomotive in Sacramento, California, just a mile south of the western terminus of the Transcontinental Railroad. Like it almost made it home. I call it 'Derelict at Dawn' and you can see it in my Odds and Ends Gallery.

Cave of Remembered Dreams

January 18th, 2012

Cave of Remembered Dreams

Werner Herzog’s film “Cave of Forgotten Dreams” is an in depth look at the ancient art and artists of the Chauvet cave in Southern France. The works on the walls of the cave are believed to be some of the oldest in the world. The cave itself remained undiscovered until 1994 and its exploration has been highly restricted. Werner Herzog's film gives us access to the incredible images of animals and life as they existed for the Ice-Age inhabitants of some 30,000 years ago.

Works like these remind me that studying art can be important, but studying the world around us may be more important in the life of an artist. The evocative images in the cave are both rich and powerful. It seems mind boggling that these incredible works were done by people with no CVs or artist's statements, no funding or benefactors, no special lighting, technology or even tools. In that way, they are the very essence of creation.

I was thinking of the movie and the powerful images when I created this image of a bison, done in pastels on craft paper. I can see that I have much more world-studying to do!

A Family Tree

January 11th, 2012

A Family Tree

It was a tradition to go to my Italian grandparents house at the holidays. My father's siblings that lived nearby would bring their families as well and my grandparent's small home would be filled with people. The adults would noisily gab and argue and laugh inside while we kids would run around the large backyard, playing with our cousins until it was time for dinner. And then, oh my God, the food that came from my Grandmother's kitchen! Pizza and pasta, salad, and these incredible sesame covered rolls, and crab and octopus and calamari, and for dessert - cannoli! Every part of it was an absolute spectical to me, the boisterous, loud, dramatic Italians, the not-quite-but-almost-like-us cousins taking turns trying to make each other laugh, the spell-binding smells of food cooking, the intensity and heat of so many people in such small quarters, the feeling of being SO full you thought you might burst open, the knowing that you belong.

In many ways the tradition has carried on. It is my brothers and sisters, and our children, who meet each year. Now, in Santa Barbara where my mother lives. We are too many for her tiny apartment so we meet in a certain hotel and make it our own. I am certain my nieces and nephews look at us the same way we observed our aunts and uncles, as spectacle. One year In Santa Barbara, we all met for a round of picture taking beneath the country's largest Moreton Bay Fig tree. It is a giant of a tree and where its roots meet the trunk they are several feet tall. It is a tree big enough to shade ALL of us.

I cannot think about a Moreton Bay Fig now without thinking of my family. Both have such a tremendous presence and strength for me. And like my family, its roots are wide and deep and hold the world together in ways I can't even imagine. They bring vitality to the whole. And like my family, the canopy provides a certain and true shelter. I rest in its shade and find respite. And though both roots and branches separate and go off in different directions, still the same sap runs through all. It is a constant reminder of feeling full, of knowing that, no matter where you are, you belong.

You can see this image of a Moreton Bay Fig in my Black and White Gallery.

I Sell the Shadow...

January 4th, 2012

I Sell the Shadow...

Prior to the commencement of the Civil War, abolitionists like Frederick Douglas and Sojourner Truth were utilizing the new medium of photography to further their anti-slavery message. I saw small photographs of them in a museum, their images burned onto a small card with a few words beneath. These were sold at their rallies and speaking engagements, their followers carrying them back and sharing the images and their words with others. On the bottom of Truth's card were these words..."I sell the Shadow to Support the Substance." Selling her shadow, or image, was her way of taking control of her own body and using it to further her cause, her substance. As a slave she had no such control. This moved me, this claiming of herself.

Photography can be a powerful tool, coupled with truth, it is exponentially so.

My Trust Fund

December 29th, 2011

My Trust Fund

There are these moments, I don't understand them, when I step into a place and a photograph is just waiting for me. Such was the case this week when I walked along a trail at the local Nature Center. I looked to the left and saw this cormorant sitting atop a floating log. Other waterbirds were floating off in the distance. Honestly, the bird seemed to be waiting for me to take the photo. And I did oblige.

I know I have written about this before. I have always blamed it on my grandmother's devotion to Saint Francis, patron saint of creatures both wild and tame. A sort of animal-fortune-trust-fund. It reminds me of the book "The Color Purple" by Alice Hoffman. The title refers to finding the color purple in flowers and elsewhere as God's way of demanding attention. This cormorant was just asking for its due. Cormorants are coastal seabirds that dive from a floating position. Unlike other seabirds in this region, they are often seen extending their wings out to dry them, looking very bat-like.

You can see "The Cormorant" in my Animals Gallery

Point Vicente and the Whale Highway

December 29th, 2011

Point Vicente and the Whale Highway

Susan and I spent a few luxurious hours at Point Vicente Interpretive Center on the Palos Verdes Peninsula south of Los Angeles. The remarkable thing about the center is not the educational displays on the sea-life and geologic history of the peninsula although they are quite excellent. It's not the collections of shells or antiquities or the exhibits of paraphernalia and photos of the former tourist attraction Marineland which was once located a few miles away. It's not the pleasing architecture of the building or the surrounding well kept picnic areas.

The remarkable thing about the center is that it sits on a bluff overlooking the gray whale highway. Gray whales migrating south to Mexico to birth their calves must pass right by this place where Southern California juts out into the mighty Pacific Ocean. And after giving birth they return by the same route only going north. A visitor at the right time of year can easily spot the spouting giants as they surface to catch a breath, without the aid of binoculars or boats.

Adjacent to the center is the Point Vicente Lighthouse. I captured this image and have it on display in my Beach Gallery.

Crystal Cove

December 21st, 2011

Crystal Cove

A few miles north of Laguna Beach, California is a small state park called Crystal Cove. In the last century Japanese farmers worked this land, selling their produce from roadside stands on Pacific Coast Highway and to the burgeoning city of Los Angeles to the north. The land was owned by the Irvine Ranch outfit and leased to the Japanese, at least until World War Two when the Japanese were carted off to concentration camps, er, relocation camps. They never returned. The community of Crystal Cove became an artist's haven and summer beach resort for middle class families in Orange County in the subsequent years until the state purchased the property and stopped leasing the many beach cottages in the cove.

Susan and I stopped there once and strolled along the shore and among the cottages, which the state is slowly restoring. Susan remembered she had come and stayed at one of the cottages when she was in junior high, a guest of a schoolmate's family. Only about one third of the cottages have been restored, some are used to rent out, some are used for education and shops. The rest remain in a debilitated state, awaiting restoration as Mother Nature tries tirelessly to reclaim reclaim them. Time is on her side.

I captured "Beach Shacks" at Crystal Cove. You can see it in my Beach Gallery.

Letting ourselves shine

December 21st, 2011

Letting ourselves shine

The Christmas countdown clock is in the hardware store window again. It counts not just the days but the hours and minutes until Christmas Day. It hangs above their annual window display of a miniature town in winter, complete with a downtown full of shops, a train that evidently never lets anyone on or off, a frozen lake with tiny ice skaters, an aerial tram with moving little gondolas for the tiny townsfolk to take in the same sights we see and a winter carnival with moving rides. In the evening, parents walking down Second Street are surprised to find out their own urchins have been led astray by this tiny town and its goings on and must patiently wait until every nook and cranny have been ogled and accounted for.

Down the street. in the post office, the line of would-be gift-shippers may extend out the door. But there don't seem to be any angry mutterings or harrumphings. People recognize that "it's the season" and patiently wait or talk amiably with their fellow queue-lings. I'm old enough to know its not just my imagination that people seem friendlier as the countdown clock ticks away. People seem to be letting down their guard, acquiescing a bit, smiling more. It is as if there is an unspoken agreement that while the clock ticks it is okay to be nice to strangers and to let them be nice to you.

And of course there are the lights and decorations too. The houses seem more inviting, the neighborhoods magically transformed, safer, somehow. In these, the coldest, darkest days of the year it's like we get a pass. A chance to, not deny the angst of our confounding world, but to set it aside for a time and live with the world as a child might see it, full of, if not goodness, than maybe a sort of mysterious hopefulness. No matter what beliefs you may hold about the holidays, I think its okay to let these better versions of ourselves shine a bit.

The Point Fermin Lighthouse, in my Beach Gallery, is spruced up a bit for the holidays.

In the company of horses

December 7th, 2011

In the company of horses

For a few years when I was a child my aunt/godmother would take me to Knotts Berry Farm on my birthday. She never had any children and I think she enjoyed spending time with a kid. "We can ride the dunkeys," she would say, not don-keys but dun-keys. That was my first riding experience. The first time I ever road a horse was as a teen with my uncle in the mountains of Colorado. It was an hour long ride in the town of Cripple Creek and I mostly felt like the horse had places to go and I just happened to be the witless fool on his back.

I didn't really become acquainted with horses until we lived in the desert. Susan had grown up with horses (well, mostly with people, but I think you get that). We had purchased a property with horse paddocks and before long we each had a horse. Hers was a feisty Arab mare named Tammy and mine a broken-down old Arab gelding called Prince. We each had a horse perfect for our riding skills. It took me a while but I finally got used to riding on an animals back. I wouldn't claim I was comfortable there but managed to stay on more than I would fall off.

Nevertheless, you can't be that close to horses without marveling at their elegant and powerful nature. I learned to admire how smart they are and how they can demand your attention (and punish you for NOT paying attention!). Mostly I appreciate how willingly they interact with us for a little food and water (and possibly because they can't open gates on their own). But I have no doubt, if they really wanted to leave, they could.

Our horses now live in the greener pastures of the hereafter. We live in the city now but I created this image in homage. It can be seen in my Animals Gallery.

The Little Picture

November 30th, 2011

The Little Picture

I don't recall if I was taught this or just did it automatically, when I would jump out of my truck at a breaking news scene, I would shoot as I walked toward the action. I believe my reckoning was that a) it was better to have something in case the action ended before I actually got there and b) I could always crop down to where the action was but if the action was bigger than I had expected, I might not be able to get it all. Looking back it was almost always that I would crop down to the action.

Now that I shoot for myself, I still take the wide shots and narrow as I go. In a class I took, the instructor said "Look for the picture inside the picture." So I often go back to things I have already shot and look for those singular things that stand out and will find a gem hidden here or there. Sometimes it is impossible to get the shot we want because we don't have a jet pack or we encounter physical barriers that prevent us from getting the angle or the close up we want. Then we must work with what we have, cropping to bring the subject as close as will be allowed.

Of course, when you can get close, just do it! I can think of at least one family photo in which maybe a half dozen people were included. The picture was almost all faces. It was delightful and didn't include people's protruding bellies, or telephone poles sticking out of their heads, or much of the funky fashion of the day. It was mostly eyes and smiles. The lesson was not lost on me.

The advantage of finding the picture in the picture is that it adds power to the subject. A tiny boat on a wide beach says one thing, but cropping out all the busy-ness in the photo brings a certain magnificence to the simple boat. You can see what I mean by checking out "Rowboat at Mother's Beach" in my Beach Gallery.

The Madonna

November 22nd, 2011

The Madonna

My grandmother's house seemed like it was full of them, ornate Madonnas with children, Mary, the mother of Jesus, and Jesus too, and of course her favorite, Saint Francis. And there were more at church, in the alcoves with little padded kneelers for proper veneration and supplication. Some stood before rows of candles waiting to be lit, inviting a saint-directed prayer for someone or something lost. Religious statues were the stock-in-trade at the Catholic store, the Holy Family queued up, row after row looking like a sacred line dance freeze-framed.

I know these statues creep some people out but, perhaps because I loved my grandmother, I find these plaster symbols a warm reminder of her gentle faith. They seemed like her silent friends, ones she would prayerfully turn to in time of need, I know she found great comfort in them. My Protestant friends liked to tease me about idol worship, pointing to these statues as proof that we might as well be worshiping a golden calf. I paid them no heed. I knew the statues were symbols. They were the symbols of the very heroes of my Bible stories. A pantheon of humans who served as models of holy living. I could only aspire to be like them.

My uncles were artists of one sort or another. They each took turns, it seemed to me, creating religious art, including religious statues. I think it was their way of paying homage to their mother and the faith. I offer this "Madonna" (in my Odds and Ends Gallery) in my own humble way, in remembrance.

Luck with a side of truth please

November 16th, 2011

Luck with a side of truth please

"When I worked for the newspaper we occasionally had these special advertising supplements with wacky names like "Meet Your Merchant." In a very short amount of time I would have to schedule and shoot photos for dozens of local companies to go with their ad copy. It would usually be a picture of the owner of the company flanked by the employees because, they, like me, were very busy and there may be only ten minutes they could spare in their busy work day.

I can tell you that, for the vast majority of people I came in contact with, nobody really LIKED to have their picture taken, especially in a group. In part, I believe, because it was for the newspaper so all their friends would see it. But also, many people have a sense of privacy, modesty, humility or some combination of these that makes the picture taking uncomfortable. I would do my best to make people feel at ease and more often than not they would relax enough to look pleasant, if not happy, in the pictures.

You really have to know someone well enough to put them at ease in order to get a great photo, a photo that "looks like them." It is these honest photos that are the gems, they are usually moments when the person's self-consciousness has subsided. That might be because they are engaged doing something, or lost in thought, or overcome by an honest moment of emotion or feelings. For me it has always seemed a matter of luck that I should have taken a shot at the moment their true nature was showing. Nevertheless, the result is that people who know the person immediately recognize a depth to the image. The character of the person is imbued within the image.

This came to mind after a day in which my son and his friends were visiting the beach near our home. They were tossing a ball around and I captured this picture of Wafeek jumping to catch a ball. Wafeek is an artist who, without getting incredibly personal, finds himself between two worlds. One world seeks to draw him up and the other to bind him down. His outstretched arm, an absolute yearning for that which seems nearly unobtainable. Yet, beneath him that which is solid and 'real.' I got many comments about this image from his friends. Something about it spoke to them.

A mentor of mine said once that a photojournalist really needs to know his/her subject to make a great photo but I still just feel lucky to have been there.

An historic invitation

November 9th, 2011

An historic invitation

No. 127 is the mansion of Pio Pico, the last Mexican Governor of California. No. 144 is the Church of our Lady Queen of the Angels, the little church around which the pueblo now known as Los Angeles was built. No. 170 is the La Brea Tar Pits, the gooey final resting place for thousands of dinosaur bones. All of these and many more are California Historical Landmarks. Each one is the place an important event happened in the history of the state.

For one or two summers when I was a kid, my mom made it a mission to stuff us all in the car and see as many landmarks as we could that were within easy driving distance. We may not have had enough money to take a real road trip but these little trips were every bit as fun and, despite our best efforts, we learned things. We learned practical stuff like reading maps and navigating freeways but we also learned about cultures, past and present, that were very different than those outside our white-bread, stuccoed, suburban neighborhood.

The California Historical Landmark signs have become an open invitation to some new thing or place we have not yet discovered. And I am happy to say that I carried on the tradition of investigating landmarks with my own children. Even now that my kids are grown, Susan and I still go out of our way to visit these hideaway places, for love of history, for love of tradition, for love of adventure. And I get some great photos from time to time too!


The original image for Mission Bench was taken at No. 200, Mission San Juan Capistrano. It can be seen in my Missions Gallery.

A time to reap

November 2nd, 2011

A time to reap

I was traveling through California's San Joaquin Valley this week, visiting relations to the north. Along Interstate 5 it's not uncommon to see thousands of acres of almond trees, cotton, pumpkins, grapes, alfalfa, artichokes, and so many other growing things. This is the time of year when farmers are preparing to harvest the fruits of their labors. I saw truckload after truckload of various vegetables being hauled to parts hither and yon. Despite California's economic woes, it has never stopped being a veritable bread basket for so many well beyond its own borders.

At my sister-in-law's house, we sat out on the patio in the California sun chatting and sampled Asian pairs and grapes (and cantaloupe and strawberries and blackberries). But not before I captured this image of the delectable fruit, beautifully laid out in a simple bowl, the very image of bountiful lusciousness. That is the way to eat food in these last of the warm days, with your fingers, gingerly, feeling each flavorful kick in your mouth, juice trying its hardest to escape the swooning tongue in the throes of ecstatic flavor.

And you can't help but feel thankful for these moments, surrounded by the people you belong to, filling yourself with God's grown goodness, feeling the warmth of a slowing sun on your skin. You can't help but feel thankful for knowing, right now, in this very moment, life is good.


You can see Still Life 1 in the Odds and Ends Gallery.

Ancient art

October 26th, 2011

Ancient art

Jim had sandy brown hair and a hint of what once was quite a freckly face. His build was slight and he was probably close to six feet tall. He wore blue jeans and a blue chambray work shirt and snake boots. Jeff was more like me, short, roly-poly. He preferred light blue jump suits. His hair was sort of slicked back and he had 1970s shaped side burns. He was a fan of snuff and his cheek was always a little round, his teeth a little stained. Back in those days Jeff worked for me as a typesetter and Jim was a client, the editor of a magazine about treasure hunting.

Jeff had suggested we go on an adventure, he knew a place in the Coachella Valley, an arid region in the southernmost part of California. It was, he said, rich in petroglyphs, abandoned mines and was a good, secluded desert campsite where we could seek whatever treasures interested us. So we loaded up our vehicles and took I10 east and somewhere between Chiriaco Summit and the Arizona border we took a right onto a dirt road and drove caravan style for many miles, trailed by one of those incredibly long and large dust trails. We eventually came to the mouth of a canyon and followed it up quite a ways. The walls became higher and closer together and eventually we came to thickets of dense brush. The campground came within view, large stands of palm trees indicated that water was close to the surface and maybe there was even a cool spring.

Jim had all the latest treasure-hunting gadgets, a special shovel for not disturbing the ground, a number of metal detectors, heavy mine sweeping ones and light over-your-head-use ones, earphones for detecting the subtlest pings. He and Jeff divided these up and headed off to the nearest mine shaft. I took my camera and a sketch pad. I wanted to shoot and draw some of the hundreds of petroglyphs I had seen in the canyon on the drive in. Indian rock art has always been interesting to me. I have often mused about the people who created the petroglyphs, what their lives were like, if they were happy. It made me happy to look at the pictures. I examined each picture in detail and drew the ones I was most captivated with. I scaled the rocky sides of the canyon as high as twenty feet to see some. Some of the figures were clearly animals like deer, others clearly men and women (with obvious protuberances) and others looked, well, like extra terrestrials having a vague human form but an other-worldly appearance. I enjoyed the solitude of the canyon like it was my own private museum and I just meandered at will hoping to take in each and every creation.

Later in the day I met up with Jim and Jeff and we had lunch. They had found nothing of value or interest to them. We wandered about some afterwards, exploring some of the upper areas of the canyon and then we packed up and headed home.

I came back to the canyon again, this time with Susan and the boys and we spent the night. The museum was still there just as I had left it. There are too few places left that are undisturbed by time or man. I remember sitting in the canyon and listening for the sound of children playing or cavorting. Not my children, but the children of the past as they played amongst each other or scratched their own drawings upon the rock as their parents hunted or wove or cooked near the spring. I thought that Indian children must have been as noisy as my own children. Their sound may be gone but their drawings are not. And we are the richer for it.

"The Giant" can be seen in my Odds and Ends Gallery

This uncommon Earth

October 19th, 2011

This uncommon Earth

The yurt is a round tent-like structure, perhaps 20 feet in diameter. It is lit by two soft lights attached to the wall on opposite sides from one another. Beneath each light on the floor are propane fireplaces with medium sized licks of blue and yellow flames. In an arc around each fireplace, people huddle together to keep warm. One group of huddlers is dressed all in red parkas with white fur brims, they speak softly in Japanese. The other group is dressed in mismatched parkas, they are loud and laughing. In the center of the room, a circular table holds two pots of boiling water. Susan and I hold our un-gloved hands out to the propane burners that keep the water boiling. It is twenty below and we are on a mountaintop in Alaska. It is 1:00 in the morning.

I have to turn sideways to get out the tiny wooden door. Outside the yurt, straight up in the black sky, the Big Dipper’s guide stars point north to Polaris. It is on that northern horizon and up about 45 degrees, that I see the band of soft greenish, bluish light in the dark but starry sky. The band stretches across one third of the horizon, dropping at each end like a frowning parenthesis. In a few moments, the center of the band disappears and the ends grow tall and multi-layered. I think of the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz but the Aurora continues to morph on its own, the colors never wavering beyond the faint greenish blue. Out here, I cannot distinguish the colored parkas of the observers, with one exception, my wife’s white parka makes her stand out from the others. It also makes her disappear against the white snow. I love that we watch together, side by side. We all watch in wonder.

I try to use my camera to catch the illusive light but the batteries are affected by the cold. I try new batteries and they too cease to function. I am not disappointed. I long ago learned that it is enough just to SEE things, camera images are just a bonus. Others, better prepared than I, have what appear to be warmers around their lenses. No matter, I won’t ever forget this night and what I saw. I cannot stand the cold for more than ten minutes at a time and come in frequently to warm up. After I am comfortable again I head back out even though Susan stays near the comfort of the loud-group fire. I hear her laughing inside and it makes me feel happy.

After a while, even I am too cold to want to stay any longer. Our driver is willing to take any who want to return back to the hotel, we decide to go. We are loaded into the back of a snow cat, a truck and trailer assembly on treads instead of wheels. Our trailer has a glass top so we can continue to watch the starry Alaskan sky on the bumpy ride home. We are all quiet now. I see a falling star dropping straight down to the Earth but it fades before hitting the ground.

We are all borne of the Earth and so easily swayed and cowed by the mundane and grimy ordinary-ness of our daily lives. I feel lucky to, now and then, see some of the extraordinarily beautiful aspects that this uncommon Earth possesses. It is this extra-ordinary that makes the ordinary seem less so to me.

(The image above was shot not far from that mountaintop, some 60 miles out of Fairbanks, AK. You can see it in my Cars Gallery).

A quiet place

October 14th, 2011

A quiet place

Maybe it was growing up in a large family, maybe it was because my folks were from Cleveland, maybe it was because I NEVER or rarely had a few moments to myself growing up that I have gravitated to the quiet and lonely places. Most every day I walk. I walk in the early hours of the morning, often before the sun has come up. At that hour, the souls of my city slumber. I firmly believe their own psychic chatter is quietly disengaged and that the air is somehow free-er or maybe cleaner of the cosmic struggles of life on this planet. At least, it seems that way to me.

I am blessed that my wife emjoys these quiet interludes as well. More than once, we sat quietly together in some quiet spot, like silent observers of a wordless world. I distinctly remember once sitting with her atop boulders in a natural rock amphitheater inside Joshua Tree National Park. We had been sitting quietly for 30 or 40 minutes, taking in the the sweet desert smell, the feisty birds skittering among the low brambles, the fleet-footed lizards stoppping to do push-ups and the floating hawks circling lazily overhead. She stealthily grabbed my arm as if to say "Look!" and across our rocky stage a ring-tailed cat (a racoon relative) made its trepidatious way. Had we been gabbing, I doubt he would have come forth.

Here, in the city, I am most able to find my quiet places at or near the beach, especially in winter when inhospitable temperatures keep the tourists and sunbathers away. It is in these quiet moments I am best able to follow my creative instincts. It was on one such day I captured this lifeguard tower, a stoic sentry to winter's wind, which can be seen in my beach gallery.

Awesome things

October 5th, 2011

Awesome things

I'm old enough now that I don't really know if kids still make out in cars. My sons are both adults now and I would be too embarrassed to ask them anyway. But when I was in high school I was enticed more than once to go "watch the submarine races" as my girlfriend at time called it. And we parked on a bluff overlooking the ocean but I got too involved in kissing her to notice any submarines at all. In fact, when I came up for air I neglected to notice the policeman parked behind us too, which led to a somewhat embarrassing and awkward first interaction with the law. I got off with a stiff warning!!!

A few weeks ago I rambled around a classic car show with some of my buddies. We came across this old (but beautiful) T-bird. It's "modern" cockpit inspired me to create the background I would have liked to see if I were going to conjure the perfect make out place. You know, some place where the intergalactic cops wouldn't hassle you for kissing a pretty girl. Making out with a pretty girl is still awesome (you've seen her picture here before) but making out in space would be awesome squared.

The faces of the past

September 29th, 2011

The faces of the past

In the middle of the Great Depression the Farm Security Administration was initially created to help the rural poor in a variety of ways including purchasing poor farmland from desperate farmers and resettling them in better locations. Photographers were hired to document the people and projects administered by the FSA and later the move towards mobilization for war. Many have seen the stunning black and white photography of FSA photographer Dorothea Lange whose iconic images have best come to represent the faces of the Depression's poor.

Few know that FSA photographers also shot color slide film and that these photographs are available for viewing and downloading on the internet through the Library of Congress. These color works bring an immediacy to the images in a way black and white cannot. The nature of color slide film allows for rich, saturated color. I find them compelling in the way a family photo album can be, most of the pictures do not appear to be staged (except for the highly propagandized military photos) and so it is a glimpse into the daily lives of people like our grandparents and maybe great grandparents.

I have taken the liberty of editing and stylizing these for my own enjoyment (and personal profit). I encourage you to look at the site. It's like going back in time to a place we only heard about. This is the URL: http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/fsahtml/fahome.html

You can see the image on the left in my FSA gallery.

Autumn Wind

September 22nd, 2011

Autumn Wind

Autumn. The light changes. It seems creamier, softer, in the late afternoon. There are fewer sunbathers at the bay. After high tide cleans the slate, the footprints in the sand are distinguishable, one from the other, people are walking along instead of stopping now. Spiders have grown bolder. In the morning their webs cross the sidewalk in our courtyard but they are still unable to capture me going out to get the newspaper.

Southern California is not the place to experience Autumn. The maple-like trees we have always called Liquid Ambers are the most prominent for fall color but they are such a small percentage of the tree population and can't compete number-wise with the unchanging palms or pines. I'm not certain they even compete with the faux-cell-tower-trees which seem to be growing at a faster and faster rate. There is no real 'change of seasons' here.

But there is a change in the air. It's not the temperature necessarily, at least not yet. It might just be the more relaxed pace now that the rush of summer is over. The streets seem much less crowded, more families in at night, children doing homework, parents cooking dinner, the old folks venturing out less now that it gets darker a bit earlier. Maybe it is anticipation that some of our best holidays are not far off, excited kids in costumes, the smell of a roasting turkey, the sudden friendliness of people during Christmas-Kwanzaa-Hannukah.

This week we reach the equinox, literally, the nox (night) is equi (equal) to the day in terms of hours. Beyond this point (in the northern hemisphere) the nights grow longer and the days cooler. I believe we experience, probably what is the result of our own evolution, a social wistfulness as we say goodbye to the easiness of summer and anticipate the hardships of winter. It wouldn't surprise me that we placed great holidays in the midst of this season to help buoy our lonesome spirits against the cold, contracting light of winter. That's when we need good company.

I had wonderful company the day I shot the original for this image. My sister and I walked along the Deschutes River near Tumwater, Washington. You can see Autumn Wind in my Gardens and Parks Gallery.

The heart of Manhattan

September 15th, 2011

The heart of Manhattan

It's a mysterious land to me, Manhattan. I have lived most of my life in two kinds of places...the suburbs of the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area and the incredibly rural and practically desolate Mojave desert, in mostly equal amounts. I remember the first time I drove among skyscrapers I felt nervous. It really bothered me that I couldn't see the sky. The first time I visited the city it was winter and walking down the blustery avenues reminded me of walking in canyons, the way the wind is channeled through them and the sun seen only a certain number of hours from one rim to the next.

Manhattan has been nothing like the TV version of itself I grew up with. I have only occasionally seen the "Hey! I'm walkin' here!" kind of attitude on the street. The streets themselves seemed reasonably clean and not as noisy as I reckoned they might be. Granted, I have spent a grand total of maybe ten days total in the city. I visited the high points, mostly cultural, like museums and historical places and then eateries cuz, well, a guy needs to eat. So my experience is admittedly lacking in the day-to-day Manhattan lifestyle.

Having said that, my wife and I did purchase hot dogs from a cart one day. We ate them in the park while mothers with strollers came and went and young people laughed and talked about the events of their lives. We were waiting for the Morgan Library to open, wanting to see a collection of Degas sketches. It was a sunny October day, we weren't in a hurry. The Morgan was lovely and neither Degas nor the hot dogs disappointed us.

This image can be found in my Odds and Ends Gallery.

Aya Kaich

September 7th, 2011

Aya Kaich

For so many years our home was in the southern ranges of the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree National Park in California. When we would go "home" to visit our folks, we would take the Twentynine Palms Highway (State Route 62) west and then south and be disgorged (literally) onto the broad plain that sweeps down from the Little San Bernardino Mountains and out towards the Coachella Valley. As you drive south on the highway you cannot help but notice the giant that is San Jacinto Peak, rising nearly 11,000 feet from the dusty desert floor nearly straight up into the clouds. It's broad smooth escarpments reflecting the dizzying desert sunlight.

The aboriginal Cahuilla people named it Aya Kaich which literally means smooth cliffs, it's "English" name is actually the Hispanic name for Saint Hyacinth, whose most famous miracle (arguably) was single-handedly carrying an immense stone statue of Mary to safety from the destruction of a marauding army. The Cahuilla believed Aya Kaich was the home of Dakush, a meteor and the legendary founder of the Cahuilla people. Aya Kaich is a suitable name for a meteor loving fortress standing tall and proud over it's desert people and Jacinto-Hyacinth a suitable name for any mountain carrying so much stone!

Because the desert is so sparse and its vistas so wide, we are drawn into the drama of geology. Driving south on the 62 my eyes naturally wander up the brown desert slopes to the stony crags and cliffs and higher to the treed ridgelines and finally to the glorious peak itself surrounded by nothing but sky and space and find it stunning and glorious.

You can see Mt. San Jacinto in my Desert Gallery.

A man about a dog

September 1st, 2011

A man about a dog

We need not go far for the subject of our art. If we are true, the nature and personality of the subject will come through the work. This is Max. He is afraid of sprinklers and water hoses. If my wife is walking him and a man approaches he sometimes will growl and snap. He wants to take down every moving motorcycle within sight, even if they are half a block away. His ears perk up when he hears children laughing and playing. He will jump three feet straight up if he thinks you are hiding a treat in your hand.

The woman who we got Max from said she found him walking down a busy street in the rain, a rope trailing behind him tied tightly at his neck. I wonder what his life must have been like, tied up by a rope. Did he have to suffer getting wet when the sprinklers came on, unable to escape, or did someone spray him with a hose as a punishment? When I walk him, he seems always on alert to every moving thing. But especially cats and squirrels.

At night n bed, no matter where we put him, he always ends up wedged tightly between us. I used to think it was because he was so small and thin, that he needed the warmth, but in the summer months he remains. I think we are his "pack." He only voluntarily leaves the bed when we are feeling, um, amorous. Don't know how he knows exactly but he does.

Max has been a good teacher for me (I am always needing lessens about patience). We are a lot alike, we cringe at rebuke, if you present a danger we snap or snarl, if you love us we want to stay by your side, we are attracted to joyfulness and set off by loud noises and would do just about anything for food. I realize, from Max, that I must learn patience with myself. Whatever issues we have from the past will be dealt with over time, melting away as love and trust grow between us and the world. Whether Max ran away from his old home or was abandoned we will never know, what we do know is that he has found a home here, creating a new past from which we can grow into the creatures we were meant to be.

The experience, the value

August 24th, 2011

The experience, the value

I know it happens because it has happened to me, walking through an art gallery or co-op, I see some piece that just stops me dead in my tracks. I literally feel myself stop breathing. It is some fantastic work...maybe it is the color or the composition or the subject or all of them combined. Thomas Hoving, former director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, said; “…you’ll meet individual works that you’ll need for the rest of your life, works that thrill you, energize you, lift your soul, soothe you, make you smile, make you think about the fate of mankind and the universe, make you have to see them again and again for the good of your psyche, state of mind, and strength of heart..”

I'm convinced that there is a whole level of wordless truth that exists and that art is just one way it can be accessed. I believe the best works communicate something to us and the very experience of being frozen in place is the way we know that art has something to say to us. This may be the foremost of many reasons why we both create and buy art. It also captures something true about life here on the swirling blue marble. It might remind us of an important event in the past or maybe it just harkens back to a simpler time. Perhaps it links us to a lost or cherished feeling or person. Maybe it moves us because it reflects values that we hold dear. Sometimes art can be cerebral or intellectually provocative or maybe it just plain makes us feel good.

I watch the Antiques Road Show on TV every once in a while and people will bring in the paintings that once hung in their parents or even grandparents' home and even after they find out that it is worth $40,000 they always decide to keep it. Art is a reminder of our connection to that wordless truth. That is its real value.

Abstract 4B pictured here is available in my Abstract Gallery.

The End of Summer

August 20th, 2011

The End of Summer

The end of the Summer...would come with the mailman. Our screen door would open and a stack of mail would land with a thud on our living room floor. Among the letters and bills would be advertisements heralding 'Back to School' specials. How I dreaded those words...back to school. It was not just the end of the Summer, it was the end to playing outside until well after dark, it was the end of eating watermelon, juice dribbling down the chin, seeing who could spit seeds the farthest. It was an end to half-day bike rides to neighborhoods we had never seen before. It was the end to days playing at the pool, splashing and swimming. It was the end to week-long family vacations to places that didn't look anything like home. For a kid, it wasn't the end of Summer, it was the end of fun, the end of freedom.

I thought a lot about that this week, having taken a week-long vacation. School has been replaced by work. And now, a few days away from 'back to work,' I still have that dull ache of losing something, of having something taken away. My rational grown up self recognizes the absolute need for a paying livelihood but that small part of me that remains a curious-about-life street urchin doesn't want it to end.

"End of Summer" can be seen in my Odds and Ends Gallery.

In the beginning

August 10th, 2011

In the beginning

I attended a workshop recently by Synthia Saint James, a brilliant and successful artist, illustrator and speaker, known for her vibrant and colorful paintings. The workshop was on "the business" of art. One of the students asked her how much time she spends working on her art as opposed to working on "the business" of her art. She said it was about 50/50. The ratio did not surprise me, the longer I work at my art, the more I see that selling it seems to be a career unto itself. This is the lament of every artist I know, trading precious creative time for the slightly-less-than-idyllic marketing time. And that is really what it is...marketing. For someone like me (reasonably shy but mostly affable) it is fish-out-of-water time. Nevertheless, I make the attempt because, someday, I wish to retire to my art and I enjoy eating too much to consider a future as a starving artist.

In my marketing strategy I have sent samples of my work to art publishers. These are the folks who help turn art into useful, even sought after, home decorations (among many other things). They might range from designer shower curtains to iPad sleeves. It's one of the ways artists can support their 'creative time.' It is interesting, and not the least bit surprising, that the market prefers some kinds of art and not others. In fact, artists are encouraged to look at consumer goods like sheets and towels to see the market's palette preferences. Consequently, the art produced may be changed to accommodate the current tastes of the day. I make no value judgment here, it is purely a case of supply and demand.

Nevertheless, it is a far cry from where we started. I think of it now as I see the ads for school supplies and how the small box of crayons may not be enough. But there was a time when it was. When art was created for its own sake. When our personal and even global economies were not a factor in our color choices or design. My art was born here. And the best part of it still lives here, close to my heart and hands. Nothing can change that because there is no end to creativity, I can make art that sells and I can make art for me, it's just that they may not always be the same thing.

Summer

August 3rd, 2011

Summer

My childhood summers were often spent at the beach. We lived seventeen miles inland and the summer temperature difference might be fifteen degrees between inland cities and the seaside. Childhood beach visits included sand castle construction, searching for pretty and unusual shells, and playing in and out of the surf. I can remember lying in bed at night after a long day at the beach and still feeling the rocking of the waves. The sound of surf is always a comfort, for some reason, its hypnotic rhythm a steady metronome for the soul.

In my teen years, hours were spent at the beach around bonfires in the evening. Friends with guitars played popular songs and we sang freely and with abandon the songs of youth. We walked the darkened shore with our sweethearts and learned a lot about (and succumbed occasionally) to the yearning desires of those years.

Now, in my middle-age, we live quite close to the beach. I marvel at the striking beauty of the young people visiting the beach and bay near our home. But the love of the beach is not limited to any one age group. I am as likely to see young families, kids in tow, setting up in the mid morning for their day at the beach. I see shirtless old men, tan, shocks of white hair, strolling along the bay with their companions, or with their kite-surfing gear headed to the tame waters of the harbor. It is a place of re-creation, of relaxation in these warmest of days.

My father drove a woody for some portion of my early life. But I never learned to surf despite my roly-poly low center of gravity. But I completely understand the attraction of riding the waves. I'm convinced it is in our genetic make-up to play, play at the beach, play in the water, play on the waves.

'Summer' can be found in my Beach Gallery. Here is the url:

http://timothy-bulone.artistwebsites.com/featured/summer-timothy-bulone.html

Correspondence and correspondents

July 28th, 2011

Correspondence and correspondents

It was a heavy black cast-iron thing, the typewriter. The outside texture of it was rough on the skin. The keys, tiny metal saucers perched on thin metal legs, wiggled back and forth under the pressure of the finger before being forcefully plunged down to create a character on the paper in "the return" as the rolling pin type device was called. The mark left on the paper was not just the ink impression of the metal letter against the ribbon, but often an indentation of the letter itself. The period key gave the paper the appearance of having been poked by a dull sewing needle. Held up to the light, a microscopic hole could be seen at the end of every sentence. And the ribbons! What an unholy mess they created on the fingertips (and from the fingertips to the paper itself!)! We would rewind the ribbon way too many times rather than replace it. Eventually the type would become unreadable but for the indentations left by the hard metal keys, more like miniature hieroglyphics, and just as understandable. And mistakes! Mistakes could mean starting all over if it was an important document. Imagine making a mistake in the last sentence of a page-long treatise!

Eventually, electric typewriters came along. They had the tiniest little hum and you could feel the power vibrating the machine. You didn't need to bang on the keys of an electric model, the slightest touch would set them off. Consequently, the type on the page seemed smoother and no tiny pinhole-periods. We never had an electric model at home, but at the office the ribbons were never part of my particular job description. They eventually even had a correcting ribbon that put white ink over the mistaken letters. It was practically a miracle, as was "white-out" the thick white fluid used to cover up mistakes. Dispensed with the tiniest brush ever, I felt like an artist touching up the canvas of my literary masterpieces.

Still, when I was younger, it was more common to correspond with family and friends with hand written letters. My cursive was much neater then. It was always a delight to receive a letter in the mail and I admit that I kept many of the letters I have received over the years. In the summers of my 16th and 17th year I took a job in Colorado. I would receive mail from my mom and grandma and a few friends. They were treasures from home. My mom always ended her letters, "Love, Mom" and then she would draw a quick star inside a circle (okay, a pentagram, weird, I know, but I don't think it was intended as such) which was like her personal logo.

My grandmother, a short little Italian woman, loved to talk about what was happening in her garden. She once wrote "I picked a zucchini today, it was THIS big!" She didn't say how big it was in the letter itself but in my mind's eye I saw her holding out her hands and I knew exactly how big it was! And I wrote letters back. They were short but newsy things, what I had seen, what I had done, they started in the typical how-are-you-I-am-fine kind of way.

I think part of the value of getting a letter and letter-writing was that it took a week or more to send a letter and get one back between California and Colorado. Calling on the telephone was much too costly back then. Calling "long distance" was about the equivalent of calling the moon, it would be reserved for emergencies only. All other news, happy, sad or indifferent, could be written down and be served up by the U.S. Postal Service, all in good time. Consequently, news from home came ONLY in letter form and so each was relished for what it was, a small, scribbled, slice of home.

Even though I miss the intimacy of the handwritten letter, I don't mind one bit the technological changes that allow us to communicate more directly and at lightning fast speeds. When my oldest son was in China, it was comforting to know that we could communicate instantly by texting or instant messaging. And I have saved his descriptive emails as though they were handwritten letters. I am as much in touch with him now that he lives only 400 miles away as I am with my youngest son who lives just 10 miles away. But one drawback to these electronically charged communications is that we no longer see the distinctive scrawl of our loved ones. I can't (yet) electronically sketch a pentagram-type personal logo like my mom once did (each one different yet each one the same) on any email I send out. The emails may seem hand written, just, minus the hand. But whether they were hand written, or banged out on an old cast iron typewriter, tapped out on a plastic keyboard or deftly touched on a hand-held screen I really think it is the words we crave from the people we love and miss and would sit and talk with, if they were right in front of us.

The image shown here can be found in my Odds and Ends Gallery or go here: http://timothy-bulone.artistwebsites.com/featured/corona-timothy-bulone.html

Attachment to places

July 20th, 2011

Attachment to places

There are many lines of demarcation in our lives, most of them intangible, the line between being a reasonably decent individual and a psychopathic killer for example. Recently I was thinking of a less-than-obvious physical line around which a good portion of my life has centered. It is, in fact, a river. The Santa Ana River to be exact. I crossed it early one morning on a dark stretch of California State Highway 1, known to locals as PCH for Pacific Coast Highway. In the place where the Santa Ana meets the sea I have walked along the shell encrusted shore, that particular stretch of beach a favorite of surfers. It is a little used beach, the nearest public parking a little farther away than many of the state beaches for, among other reasons, a plot of land set aside as a nesting site for terns. It doesn't help that the Orange County Department of Sanitation has their wastewater treatment plant abutting the river just north of the beach, discharging noxious and unpleasant smells that waft towards the beach occasionally.The mouth of the river is not wide there, nor deep. Much of the river upstream is partitioned to slow the flow of the river, ostensibly to allow water to return to the underground aquifer and, as a side benefit, to create habitat for water birds.

I have been to "headwaters" of the river as well, the streams and creeks of the San Bernardino mountains. The waterfall pictured here, near Forest Falls, flows into Mill Creek. I 'taught' the riparian component of outdoor school to distracted sixth graders on the banks of Mill Creek east of the city of San Bernardino. In that place the water is fast and cold and seems sparkling clean. The creek is wide and full of boulders and stones washed down from the higher elevations. The creek meanders in the wide channel, opening new rivulets when the snow melt increases the volume. Trunks of trees are snagged here and there in the rocks that seem mostly white in the bright sun but are really many varied colors on close inspection, with glints of mica reflecting like tiny shards of glass.

I have ridden my bike on some of the in-between portions where the river is one long serpentine concrete channel, the water of the river confined within a small groove in the middle, undoubtedly a thing of beauty in the mind of some long-forgotten engineer. The water bent to the will of man, man tired of losing homes and possessions to the rage of long-forgotten floods.

I have no sentimental attachment to the river, it is merely a landmark in the physical geography of my wanderings. No great commerce is conducted on this river, I know of no great Huckleberry Finn-type characters who have made it their home or created larger-than-life stories about it. It's just there...flowing.

The Chemehuevi (kem-uh-wev-ee) tribe of Eastern California had songs for their travels. Their songs described the places they would travel to during different seasons. It was a way of keeping the history of their attachment to these places and their importance in mind. I have no doubt they had songs for the mighty Colorado River. I have no song for the Santa Ana, just these few words. But if I did have a song, it would say that the river was mightier than man for for most all of enduring time and that it might be again someday. It would say that it is the life giving source for uncountable plants and animals. It would say that it is part of the amazing cycle in which molecules of water move from sea to mountain and back to sea again and holds a spirit which no concrete could ever imprison. A river, at its essence, is always free.

This image 'Forest Falls' can be seen in my Gardens and Parks Gallery.

The cake of my experience

July 15th, 2011

The cake of my experience

I'm certain I have the same lament that every artist has...I don't sell enough to support myself in the style to which I would like to become accustomed. And truly, it has never been about the money, this urge to create. I feel it being pushed, from the inside to the outside. I honestly feel like I am setting something free when I am shooting photos or working on photos. Time has no meaning for me during these activities and I often find that I have pushed myself beyond exhaustion just taking that next step, whatever that step happens to be. Money is just icing on the already delicious cake of my experience.

Because I am a fairly shy person, I don't accept compliments easily (I'm too easily embarrassed I guess). So when a work of mine gets picked for a show, I feel a sense of validation, a sense that my artistic capabilities have value beyond those which I might ascribe. That is why I have been tickled all week, because the work shown here, Mission Fields, is showing for the next ten days or so in New York at the PaulaBarr Chelsea Gallery on 26th Street. I know hundreds or maybe thousands of artists show their work in the city every year, but for me, a "new" artist (in an old man's body), it is a line of demarcation, a rite of passage. It is another layer to be added to "the cake."

Art sales and the money they bring are wonderful, having others recognize your work means A LOT, I won't lie about that. But even if none of that could happen, for whatever reason, I would still create. It's just who I am.

Observations of an observer

July 7th, 2011

Observations of an observer

They were never terribly grisly scenes, traffic accidents mostly. I usually arrived after emergency people. I would hear the call on the police scanner and grab my camera bag and go. That's what a newspaper photographer does. There were car accidents, crime scenes, courthouse dramas, natural disasters, burning buildings and dead children. I was much younger then, I got caught up in the immediacy of it sometimes, and the drama. Fortunately, I rarely had to interact with the players, except with law enforcement or public safety folks. Once when a boy had been badly injured down in a flood control channel, firefighters needed help getting his gurney up the steep slope. I put my camera bag down and helped carry the boy up. Those circumstances were rare though. Most of the time I was just an observer.

I'm glad I had that experience, it helped ground me, it helped me learn empathy and compassion, it taught me lessons about what was right with the world (a lot by recognizing what was wrong with the world). It also made me a bolder person, stepping into a tense scene to get something more real, and it made me a better decision maker, choosing images that better tell the story. It made me realize that the police officers and firefighters, members of Congress and County Supervisors, crime victims and criminals, moms, dads and families are all just people, subject to the entire range of human behavior and emotions and on any given day, for any and all reasons, they might be in the news and I might get their picture.

Those days are past me now. Though I was glad to have the experience, the drama is not part of my consciousness now. I see the world needing something else from me. And so I have set my sights on something different. The drama will always be there, on TV, in your morning paper or on the large or small screen of your choice. But I won't be serving it up. I'm dealing my own version of Truth now, for better or worse. But I like to think for the better.

Knowing time is short

June 30th, 2011

Knowing time is short

I shot this image last weekend. I was at the 100th birthday party for the Port of Long Beach. They had a photo exhibit that included pictures of the very first ship. It carried redwood lumber which was carted away by mule drawn wagons. But it wasn't those old photos that made me think that time is short. It was this image of the Gerald Desmond bridge. The bridge will soon be demolished and replaced. This view (oddly, from a Ferris wheel, it was birthday party after all) will never look this way again. I knew it the moment I took the shot. Time is short.

A bit of charm

June 29th, 2011

A bit of charm

Sacramento is the state capitol of California and, as such, holds a place of historical significance in addiion to the regular political and comercial activities that occur there Any city with "history" has a downtown section it has outgrown. I have driven through a number of cities where the downtowns have fallen into disfavor. They are often blighted, grafittied, run-down and, well, kinda scary. They are not the sort of place you would want to be caught after dark and maybe not even in broad daylight if it could be helped.

But Sacramento has done a marvelous job of making"Old Sacramento" not just friendly, but interesting and I would even say fun. Most of the old buildings have have been restored. The streets are lined with wooden boardwalks and the businesses cater to the tourist trade with curio shops, eating establishments and saloons reminiscent of the day and excellent museums too. In its heydey, it was a railroad center and it still is. Passengers arriving on Amtrak are steps away from the old downtown and decent hotels, no need for the horseless carriage.

I captured the image above on a quiet morning. The older business buildings, in fine fettle, serve as forebears and foreground to the shiny new business building of the present era, but they also serve as a reminder that older does not necessarily have to mean useless or ugly. Old Sacramento has charm.

What the night brings - from June 2011

June 29th, 2011

What the night brings - from June 2011

I like shots of nighttime. The muted colors and the bluish hues create a surreal, dreamlike quality. Newer digital cameras seem much more sensitive to these low light situations. But this isn't really about equipment. It's about appreciating what the nighttime offers. Without the sun's glaring brilliance the sky turns into a starry work of art. A look at the the Milky Way splashed across the sky and it's easy to see how our ancestors couldn't help but make up stories about the animal and other shapes marching through the sky.

But nighttime also brings relief from the crazy hectic busy-ness of the day. Maybe it's my imagination but I believe the "psychic noise" is also muted as busy brains switch off in favor of dreamy slumber. As a teenager I remember lying on my back on a Summer's night watching the Perseid meteorites hurl themselves into the Earth's atmosphere. I marveled that I could witness objects from space interacting with our planet. Nighttime is when we remember that we ride the swirling blue marble through the inky darkness of space...something we too easily forget in the sun blurred memory of daylight.

In the past getting decent night shots meant incredibly long exposure times with the aperture wide open. Now it is we who must open ourselves up for longer times to enjoy what the night brings.

True north - from May 2011

June 29th, 2011

True north - from May 2011

If you have never seen it, rent the movie Into the Wild. It was based upon a true story about a young man who, after graduating from college, lives the life of, well, a hobo. He only works when absolutely necessary and spends most of his time traveling on foot or by hopping freight trains. He is enamored of the West and his dream is to go to Alaska. He does eventually make it there and treks into the wild. I loved the movie, in part, because I felt the same wanderlust in my twenties. I looked for any opportunity to travel. I spent a good deal of time in the mountains and deserts. I drove across great expanses of the west. One of my high school buddies was a regular traveling companion and we explored many interesting places together by car and on foot.

To this day I have a hard time verbalizing what that urge or need is to get "out there" (pointing way off). The pull is not as strong as it was back then. I mostly wanted to immerse myself in places where people did not go. I wanted to "feel alone," or at least as alone as I could possibly be. I remember pushing my body to go farther, farther up a trail, to see where it went, to see what might be beyond the next turn. I found myself in some incredibly beautiful places. Back then, I read and re-read Edward Abbey's essays on the West. I read historical novels about life in the West, about places I had been to and what they were like before cars and roads and noise. I wanted to know places like that, to feel the sacredness of wilderness, to feel sanctuary from the madness of modern life. Just breathing the free air was a sacrament.

I remember once hiking the Alger Creek trail high in the San Bernardino Mountains of Southern California. It was a path along a granite ledge thousands of feet above a forested valley. It was evening and across the valley the ridgelines on the mountains were progressively darker shades of gray-blue against the evening sky. I sat down on the edge of the ledge and dangled my feet over as the sky and land changed colors before me. I literally felt on top of the world. I can still see it in my mind's eye. I watch my fair share of television, but you just can't feel this way in front of the TV. There is no substitute (although I think certain art is arguably an admirable contender).

I firmly believe a body needs those places, needs to walk them and breath them and be in them. It is a way of realigning the self, for me. It's like getting our own internal compass to recognize true north.

Using the big glob - from May 2011

June 29th, 2011

Using the big glob - from May 2011

By and large, my art has had a photographic lineage, that is, it has been born as a photograph and goes on from there. I have deviated a bit with my version of abstract art. Oddly, this image did begin as a photograph (of colored balloons) but I have also been working with geometric shapes too which did not begin as photos. This is an odd marriage of both. The concept for this image and of all my abstract work so far is the trifling matter of human understanding, or, human consciousness.

This notion that everything we understand and know fits a very specific criteria, it's verified by science or sanctioned by leaders. The knowledge or information that doesn't fit the criteria is discarded or discredited. Intuition, as any parent might recognize, is a perfectly valid form of information when dealing with the safety of one's children, for example. If our gut tells us something is NOT right when little 'Ashley' or 'Jake' want to spend the night with a friend, we won't let them go, we can't say why, but we don't let them.

I submit that there may be other, maybe many other, forms of understanding and knowledge which we have access to but don't knowingly use because we have been trained to ignore them. Like our intuition, they are a naturally occurring, but we have difficulty verbalizing why they might be significant. I believe artists and writers may, more intuitively, tap into this flow of knowledge. Often, significant social changes begin with written works that gain momentum as larger and larger groups accept premises formerly unacknowledged.

This image represents what I think of as the broad, dynamic panorama of information and knowledge and the geometric concentrations as specific channels of understanding. We maybe use one or two channels. But, given our big glob of brain guts, we might be able to use more???

The places I haunt - from May 2011

June 29th, 2011

The places I haunt  - from May 2011

It's really not a ghoulish interest of mine, these old cemeteries, it's more of an historical interest. I will search for the oldest date I can find. Unlike the rest of the world it seems, we here in the New World can only take our history back a few hundred years at most. Aside from Anasazi cliff dwellings and mysterious Midwestern mounds, we are lucky to see things much older than Revolutionary War era buildings. Out here in the West, we have even fewer historical old things except maybe the California missions. A cemetery can tell you lots about history, family history especially. And waves of epidemics and the rates of infant mortality and why do some die so young and how do some last so long? I wonder especially about the people who lived in the space I occupy now.

In case you were wondering, there is an art connection here. I think this wondering is what made me a huge fan of the Hudson school painters. These were the adventuresome landscape artists who painted the great American vistas (like the Hudson River Valley and Yosemite) before there were cars or even trains to take you there. Looking at their work is to see America before it was parceled up and served to legions of land-hungry settlers, before it was criss-crossed with pavement and electric lines, before it was gridlocked by the automobile or surveiled by Google Earth. Before there was a "there" there.

I guess I would have liked to see those places for myself and so I am thankful for those fearless painters who tread into the wilderness and helped us remember what lies beneath our very feet. And I am curious about the lives who walked the land before me, these few brave souls remembered, as they are, by these small concrete or even wooden markers in the forgotten, hide-a-way cemeteries of this land.

When the hiker is ready - from April 2011

June 29th, 2011

When the hiker is ready - from April 2011

Even getting into the canyon is difficult. The state park will only issue a certain number of day passes. We hadn't known when we planned this trip that it would be the height of wildflower season, we had only wanted to get away someplace quiet and surrounded by Nature. The town of Borrego Springs, California, is just that. If you look at it on a map the town is literally surrounded by the Anza-Borrego State Park. The non-tourists number not even 3,000 according to the sign and the tourists are mostly campers and bikers but there were few of these when I started up the rocky trail into the canyon.

My unspoken hope was, of course, to see the illusive Peninsular Bighorn Sheep. Experts will tell you that you are more likely to see signs that they have been there than to see them themselves. Their coloring camouflages them, they tend to shy away from the broad open spaces where they are easy prey for the mountain lion, tending to stick to the craggy vertical ridges and slopes of the desert mountains. I knew it would be enough just to spend a few hours in the heart of It, the flowers were spectacular, the brittlebrush casting bright yellow flowers skyward, the red chuparosa attracting swarms of hummingbirds, low growing creamy desert primrose, so delicate and soft looking, the spiny, if stately, dark green occotillo with blooms ready to burst and scores of almost imperceptible belly flowers. All of these were spread evenly amid the large and small rust-colored rocks of the canyon, the whitish sand making a melodious contrast to the vivid colors of the rocks, flowers and deep blue sky.

I had been on the trail about one hour, constantly sweeping the hillsides for movement when I found myself with an odd sense of disorientation. The trail was not clearly marked and I had the odd sense it was time to turn around despite my nearness to the terminus of the trail, a palm oasis which I could not yet see. So I turned back and decided to stop at a place where I thought I would be likely to see sheep, across a small stream, a place where the canyon wall raised gently up to a long ridge. From my stone seat I could observe the entire wall while listening to the sound of the cool water tripping over the stones of the stream. I watched and waited, imagined what the sheep might look like against the stark hillside...but to no avail, I could not conjure them. After fifteen minutes or so I continued downward. The trail made a sharp left around a wall of boulders and there I discovered Joe, a volunteer naturalist for the park. "Would you like to see a bighorn?" he asked me. He points to the ridge I had had my back to and near the top a large ram sitting atop a rock, sunning himself. A few moments later, another ram made an appearance on the ridge somewhat closer to us. It stood still in a remarkably gallant pose, as if for a portrait. I watched for some time, feeling light and happy. When the hiker is ready, the bighorn appears.

Not finished with my lessons yet

June 29th, 2011

Not finished with my lessons yet

We are always learning. Sometimes the lessons are a surprise and sting a little. Sometimes we must learn them again and again and again, and even then they might not stick. Sometimes I think that's what Earth is all about, learning what is best about us (and worst too), but striving for best, or maybe just not worst. I see how hard some people try and i think that there must be points for effort, even if they fail. When I was a good Catholic, I never worried too much about sin, I guess I figured God loved me no matter what. I was a kid, how bad could I be? I may have shed most of my Catholic ways but i still believe there is more good about me than bad, if good and bad are really real that is. And if Earth is a school of sorts, then someday we'll all graduate. Remember how good that felt, to feel like you accomplished something? I'd be okay if death were like that, a ceremony for (finally) learning the really important stuff, the stuff you will always use, because it becomes part of who you are.

Until the day I graduate I guess I will be asking myself what today's lesson is. Is it being patient with myself and others? Is it remembering to listen more than talk? Is it allowing someone, even if they are seemingly rude, to get there ahead of me? Is it responding with love even when I am cranky and tired and in a bad mood? Is it taking care of the thousand and one things that need doing before they fall apart, explode, go to warrant, expire, relapse, disintegrate, peel, rot, or maybe just slip away? Is it saying yes when inside you are saying NO? I don't know for certain, but I'm certain I will find out.

Knowing where to stand - from March 2010

June 29th, 2011

Knowing where to stand - from March 2010

Because we are accustomed to seeing things "at eye level," we never really think to try shooting from different perspectives. The thick serrated edges of cactus leaves become an almost alien landscape from the altitude of about one foot from the ground. I know photographers who get incredible wildflower shots while lying on their bellies. Moving the camera to unexpected places can yield interesting and sometimes dramatic images. It takes a bit of re-thinking to begin to imagine what a shot would look like if taken from a slightly different place (or height or angle). My mentor, Phil Dunham, used to counsel me to just turn around to see what might be going on behind me, a direction I was not used to thinking about. Now I do it out of habit, continually looking around, imagining what if...what if I shot from over there, up there, under there?

I think it was Ansel Adams who said a good photographer knows where to stand! Simple and profound. We already know something about this process, if we made fun of someone as a kid, maybe our parents taught us to imagine what it might be like to walk in their shoes. The process of learning empathy is all about changing perspectives, emotionally speaking. If we can do it emotionally, we can do it physically. What would the shot look like from the standpoint of a child? A bug? A hawk? How would it look upside down? From a tree? From behind the crowd? From in front of the crowd? Through the crowd's feet? From that third floor window?

Part of getting those shots is having the courage to climb the tree, stand in front of the crowd, ask the third floor owner to let you use the window. It can be exhilarating to try these new places AND get shots that are different from everything you've done before. I believe it is in our nature to seek new and creative ways of doing things. It can feel good to stretch a bit in ways that are fun. It will be your own growth that will change your work.

Keys to my memory - from March 2011

June 29th, 2011

Keys to my memory - from March 2011

I think one of the reasons I love photography is for stopping a moment in time. At the moment when I am taking a photograph I am convinced that I WILL ALWAYS remember what was going on just then but the truth if that I do forget. Very often, it is the photo that brings me back there. One son's curly blonde hair as a toddler, the way the other used to shuffle his feet in the desert sand (a la Pig Pen from Charlie Brown) as a small boy, our pets now in the happy hunting grounds, the Christmases and summer vacations and school programs. I thought I would remember them all.

But, I don't.

Still, I see a photograph and say, yes, that was the Christmas when everyone came out to the desert! Instead of cooking. we ordered food from the Italian deli, I can still taste the bread. There were two Freds that year, Vince's friend from Las Vegas and Dot's boyfriend. It was one of the first of many Christmases that my mom and stepdad both came to after their unhappy divorce.

The photograph becomes a trigger to the memory. Still, I have thrown away the photos of dead acquaintances, when there were no heirs, no one to share the details, no one to divine their significance. It always makes me sad. The unknown woman in the long skirt leaning against the big-fendered sedan, who she was, what she meant, that will never be remembered again. I can't bear to part with photos I have taken, even the blurry no-good pictures. I know this will sound strange but I even worry after the boxes of black and white photos I shot for the newspaper moldering away in a box on some pallet in a damp, dark warehouse, each print and negative one sixtieth of a second of my f16 life.

I know that in the broad spectrum of my life there is a current of love and life flowing, but each of these small squares of silver and paper are keys to a chest, and heart, full of memories.

My secret family - from March 2011

June 29th, 2011

My secret family - from March 2011

I shot the original image of this tea garden at Descanso Gardens near Los Angeles just this week. Even as the tragedies of earthquake, tsunami and radiation continued to unfold in Japan, the loss is beyond my comprehension. A poorly guarded secret, let slip in the passage of time, reveals that I am related to people there, though I don't know them or where they might be. I wonder after them, nevertheless...my secret family.

But the truth is, we are brothers and sisters anyway. It is our own humanity which compels us to reach out in all the ways we can, with our pocketbook and grieving heart, with our wish to comfort and our worry over those still lost or missing. As surely as tsunami waves crossed the Pacific and reached us here on the West Coast, so too, do the emotional waves we all know come to rock our own souls, because we are human, because we know what it means to lose.

I am reminded that this life is shorter than I had imagined. I am reminded that I need to be grateful for the all the moments of this life, and for all the people I share it with, near and far. I am reminded that there is nothing certain about life but that I can love. And in that I find both grace and joy.

The secret room - from March 2011

June 29th, 2011

The secret room - from March 2011

As a child I had a recurring dream in which I found a secret room in my grandmother's house. The secret room contained antique furniture, chests full of unusual and valuable items and a wealth of other treasures. I would wander through the room examining everything, feeling happy that we were secretly rich (which was quite far from the truth at the time). I always had a warm, happy feeling following that dream but forgot the dream as I grew older.

It wasn't until I was married that the memory of the dream came back to me. My wife's parents had run a private elementary school many years ago and, although the school had eventually closed, they kept the building. The first time I went there with my wife, it was like walking through my dream. They had stored many years of furniture there, old toys, gilded books, and various oddities of one sort or another.

But the dream had another, deeper meaning. My grandmother had a secret deep, spiritual faith. She did not teach it to me as much as model it for me. I was always aware that everything she did was a prayer, from cooking to tending her garden. Her eyes were always bright with the joy of love for God. I can see now that the secret room my grandmother had was the joy and love she kept in her heart. We might not practice it quite the same way and I still have a ways to go but I know the joy and love she felt. I am building my own secret room.

Trust me on this - from March 2011

June 29th, 2011

Trust me on this - from March 2011

If there is one single inspiration for me, it would be my wife. She is a constant subject, usually unawares, for many of my photos. I keep waiting to capture the perfect shot of her but I should know better. You might be able to catch a look (boy, have I!) but you can rarely catch the perfect photo, the one that says it all. So many are trained to hide themselves in front of the camera..."Smile!" we photographers command. I have waited for long periods of time to get candid photos, not just of her, but of others as well. There has to be trust between a photographer and a subject before a subject's real face will appear.

I love this image of her, taken when our boys were young, in a quiet moment probably just after breakfast on a summer morning in the old desert house we used to own. I can't not look at this and see everything I love about her, not the least of which is her lack of self consciousness and her love for her family. I believe that trust can bring you hard won treasures, with or without a camera, and for that I am most grateful. This image may well be the closest I will ever get to truth.

Be lovely

June 29th, 2011

Be lovely

I am fascinated by the limitless variation in life-forms here on the swirling blue marble. There are creatures that live on top of and under the earth, in the water, in the air, inside other things that live on top of and under the earth, sea and sky! Big as a whale, small as a cell, older than man's words and very likely thousands that have not even yet been discovered. The dragonfly is one of the older species on the Earth. It lived with the dinosaurs. The lifespan of a dragonfly is not tremendously long, depending upon the variety it may be as short as one month. This specimen made it through last week. I record it here for history.So exotic, so delicate, so exquisite, so lovely. Life seems suddenly much too short, be exotic, be delicate, be exquisite, be lovely.

Living in the past - from January 2011

June 29th, 2011

Living in the past - from January 2011

My son believes I was born in the wrong century. He asked me once if I might not be happier as a mountain man, living a rugged life in the wilderness. What he saw in me, I believe, is a love of history. But not the date-spouting kind of history that is more concerned with broad sweeping movements or issues. I am much more fascinated by the individual lives of people who lived long ago. I often wonder how their lives might have been different than mine, or maybe the same. I am always drawn to old buildings, I can almost feel the people who once lived there calling out to me. I yearn to hear their stories, to know what made their lives worth living, to know who they loved and what they worried over.

I took the photo above at an old ranch in what is now Joshua Tree National Park. I honestly expected to see a face in the window when I developed the film. Inside the house, the furniture sat dusty and unused, a mismatched collection of old bureaus, windsor chairs, a hulking leaden dinner table, and all painted in various peeling, fading colors, each a testament to making do. Later, I heard some of the stories of life here from an old man who lived here as a boy. It was a hard life of subsistence living for his parents, but growing up here, he didn't really know anything different and so it wasn't as hard for him. I am convinced we are each presented with all the challenges of being a decent human being in this life and we are separated only by the time in which we live, the circumstances of privilege and, perhaps most importantly, by the choices we make.

Because the surf is up - from November 2010

June 29th, 2011

Because the surf is up - from November 2010

Inspiration can come at any moment. I'm no surfer but I do know that behind the wave you just rode in is another wave right behind it. Just knowing that, letting that sink in, allows me to relax enough to be open to capturing the next image. Because I know it will be there. I don't have to have the newest equipment, I don't have to have the most knowledge, I don't have to be perfect. I just have to be there to get the shot.

Before the camera - from November 2010

June 29th, 2011

Before the camera - from November 2010

If you are a photographer, and I know this from my own experience, then you may be missing from a lot of the important family photos. People will just assume that you will man the camera at all the special events. the weddings and baptisms, the holiday parties and the vacation photos. When things are happening, it is second nature for me to grab the camera and start shooting. As an artist I continually look for that dramatic image, that exquisite candid shot of a family member (when they are not mugging with their 'plastic' smiles), the I-can't-believe-that-really-happened moment that will NEVER come again. I regret to say that I often hide behind the camera, out of shyness more than anything, when I am behind the camera there is no need for me to interact with the drama of the moment.

I recognize that I need to get out from behind the camera from time to time. That I must experience the life I constantly seek to capture. It's not as easy as you might expect, at least that's how it is for me. I have had to learn that it is okay to take part in life too, to enjoy just seeing things, experiencing them for myself. I was thinking about this because we recently took a trip to the desert, back to our old stomping grounds. I was overwhelmed by the quiet majesty of Joshua Tree National Park, its ancient monolithic cliffs, its undulating plains dotted by its stoic namesake, the spiny Joshua tree, the ominous rolling thunderheads bringing the threat and promise of rain. I had to check myself. I had to be content to take it in and resist the temptation to just shoot, shoot and shoot more. I would have missed so much hidden behind the lens, the cold, moist air on my skin, the scent of larrea when a storm approaches, the sound the wind makes blowing low through the scrub. There is a time for work but there is also a time to feel alive.

Hidden treasure - from October 2010

June 29th, 2011

Hidden treasure - from October 2010

It was a small path that had escaped my attention before. I had noticed the animal tracks in what appeared to be a run. It meant getting a bit muddy but I followed the opening in the brush and came out onto the bank across from this old brewery building. In one of those fortuitous moments, I had the camera up and ready as a flock of geese flew above. It was a perfect moment on a great day.

I was reminded of a camping trip I took once. I met a man on the side of a river panning for the black sand in which gold is found. He kept throwing the sand in a barrel so I asked him what he was up to. He said he spent all summer collecting the black sand and then would hole up in his little house all winter and pan out whatever gold he could get from the sand. He had a nice rig and seemed content with his endeavor.

I feel like taking these photos is collecting the black sand for me, I know something good will come from it. Selecting images, editing and interpreting them, that's when I find my gold. Both parts are necessary, the muddy part and the refining part, and i relish both.

What is going on - October 2010

June 29th, 2011

What is going on - October 2010

The very first time I visited New York City there was one thing I absolutely had to see. I waited in a long line at the Museum of Modern Art with thousands of tourists and art pilgrims from around the globe. We were each there for our own have-to-see work and I remember climbing stairs and roaming galleries until I finally beheld with my own eyes 'Starry Night' by Vincent Van Gogh. To see the lush colors, the thick textures, the vibrant swirls of light, for myself, was overpowering. I wondered what energies must have been set in motion to create such a dynamic work of art. I had seen it a hundred times in books and posters but to know this piece, a few feet before me, is thee one the artist created, the artist touched, slaved over, well, the energy is palpable and embraces you. It was hard to move on.

I was in New York again recently and spent time at the Guggenheim (left) and felt that same tug. It fascinates me - the endless spirit of creation. I'm convinced that each of us is an absolute universe of creativity. It may come out as paintings or music or words, but I also see it in parenting and business and love. To see all these marvelous collections of creativity in the great museums of New York could be a dream come true for me...but I needn't really look any farther than my own humdrum life to really see what's going on. That every human is born with such great possibilities of expression and that those expressions are realized in the most fantastic (and sometimes mundane) ways is a marvel of living life on this incredible Earth.

What good art does - from September 2010

June 29th, 2011

What good art does - from September 2010

In the simplest terms, what makes art "good" is how it makes us feel. A pretty picture can be just pretty. But if it causes a visceral reaction, if it causes us to pause and look longer, or maybe look deeper, that is the key. Of course, good is a very subjective term. And as it relates to art it is exponentially so. But I think it is safe to say that any art that stirs us (for better or worse) can be said to be good.

I used this image as an example, not because I find it inherently good, but because the theme of parenthood, of caring for and protecting our young, carries energy with it. For those of us who are parents, we realize the fragility, helplessness and tenuousness of our young. Perhaps it is instinct, but I like to think that parents tap into some higher level of love when they protect and rear their young. It is that fierce sense of protection, that something so small is looked after by something so big that speaks to me about this image.

The baggage we carry

June 29th, 2011

The baggage we carry

My grandmother, Domenica, came to this country from Italy in 1905 as a six-year-old. She would tell the story of her transatlantic crossing many, many times. Her father, a green grocer, had come to America years before and earned enough money for his wife and children to make the journey. On the voyage, her mother and one brother became seasick and so my grandmother and her other brother had their run of the ship for nearly the entire voyage. She always talked about seeing whales for the first time and night-time discussions about what their father actually looked like (he had left so long ago. they could not remember!).

I wasn't necessarily thinking of my grandmother when I painted the canvas above, but a visit to Ellis Island and a cartload of baggage there certainly was the inspiration. That is where I shot the photograph from which this painting would grow. The center square is black and white, like an old photo it is fixed in time and place. It is rigid and will never change. The middle square represents the present, vibrant and alive, in motion. For me it carries all of the emotion of the moment. The outer square is the future, it is unformed but carrying all the elements needed for what is coming. The mysterious floating keyholes represent all the things that might be unlocked (or perhaps locked) as things form in the present. As for what will become, we, ourselves ARE the key.

Giving YES its zing - from July 2010

June 29th, 2011

Giving YES its zing - from July 2010

The moments just before and after sunrise (or sunset) are splendid times for photographers, well, for anyone really. They are moments of transition. The subtle and muted colors and the deep and changing shadows, the wide sky and brooding sea reflecting the subdued light, the hushed talk and deliberate sauntering are signs of transition, of one thing ending and another beginning.

Transitions are often thought of as painful or difficult, we automatically think of jobs or relationships or even death. But there are other, far less dramatic transitions, the change of seasons, the style of clothes, the newest electronic gadgets. The daily transitions, night and day of course, but also transitioning from work to home, from so serious to light-hearted, from thoughts of deadlines to thoughts of dinner! It is out of these many transitions that we fine tune our likes and dislikes in the world, saying “No!” to telemarketers and “Yes!” to a walk on the pier with our sweetheart. It is transition which gives the ‘Yes!’ its zing.

A little jewel - from June 2010

June 29th, 2011

A little jewel - from June 2010

I find it easy to photograph in more natural settings. Due, in part, I think to my introverted nature. I grew up in Anaheim, California and "nature" was something far away. Finding pastoral settings is not easy anywhere in Orange County. Rivers and streams are not that easy to come by. There are few places where there are natural riparian systems, most have been converted to concrete channels to prevent the great floods that occasionally decimated the coastal plains when this area was more agrarian.

This earthen dam was built in the 1800s and has long since filled with silt, leaving this little waterfall and pool as reminder that water will always find a way to keep moving homeward. The pond is home to turtles, fish and cattails and quenches the thirst of many a tree as the water wends its way to the Pacific some fifteen miles away. Above this forgotten little dam, upstream a mile or more, is a place that was once called the Picnic Grounds. It is lovely open meadows with stands of ancient oak trees and sycamores. Around the time this dam was built, an enclave of German immigrants who built the tiny town of Anaheim, ventured to the Picnic Grounds for recreation and hunting.

Later a man named Irvine would come to own the Picnic Grounds and a good deal more round about it. He loved to hunt there as well and it was the jewel of all his holdings. It was set aside for posterity and is now called Irvine Park. It's still a lovely place to picnic and ride bicycles. Much of Orange County is already converted to the paved, stuccoed and tiled landscape. I love to find these little places still looking as they did a hundred or more years ago.

The secrets of snow - May 2010

June 29th, 2011

The secrets of snow - May 2010

As a native Californian I have to admit to one tremendous flaw in my experience: seasons. With the exception of my time in the Mojave desert, I have always had to travel far from home to experience snow. There are no great forests blazing in Autumn colors in my neighborhood (or city or county or region for that matter). Spring can be very verdant here but it is only a dozen or two degrees warmer than the winter it replaces. So when I come across a snowy place I appreciate how it changes an image, how it brightens the shadowed areas of a subject, how it cleans up the fore and backgrounds, how it creates contrast and adds to tension in a piece, how it can give a pristine quality to a scene and lend a sense of quiet calmness.

These subtleties are not lost on me. How different this picture would be if the trees were leafed and partially obscuring the tractor, if the ground were covered with mud, or with grass or fallen leaves. While there still might be a compelling picture there, it would be difficult to visually separate the tractor from the decidedly darker and less-contrasty background. The tractor would certainly be less solitary, less stoic. And the tractor reminds me that, properly garbed in its snowy mantle, even the old and seemingly useless can be beautiful. It seems each season brings with it different ways of seeing the world, something I should like to know much more about.

The enterprise of life - April 2010

June 29th, 2011

The enterprise of life - April 2010

I can't really say if it is because I grew up in the 1960s that I am attracted to the automobiles of the day. Like them or not, they do have a certain style not seen in the cars of today. All that steel, it's probably better for the planet they don't make them this way anymore. I was just lucky to find this relic in front of a barbecue joint one day, windows rolled down, like a visitor from another time, making a guest appearance in this century.

I have noticed the fortuitousness of providence often in my career as a newspaper photographer and a photographic artist. In my newspaper days, I would know that I needed a certain number of what we called "enterprise" photos. These are slice-of-life type photos for the paper and I would stumble upon scenes, one after another, until I had enough. I just had to be open to finding them.

Hee-hee! For those of you who don't live in California, Cal-Trans is the name of the state department that repairs the state's roads and highways. Once, on a back road, I came across a Cal-Trans pick-up truck parked on the side of the road with a pair of feet sticking out the driver's window. It was clear that the person inside was napping. How could I NOT take that picture, the Cal-Trans logo on the door just above the booted feet?!? To be fair though, it was lunch time and I said as much in the caption.

Life presents opportunities to those who are looking.

A life apart - April 2010

June 29th, 2011

A life apart - April 2010

My wife and I spent twenty years in the desert near Joshua Tree National Park. We raised our children there. In all the world it holds a special place in my heart. Life in the desert is not easy. It is a place of extremes. It is a place that strips its inhabitants down to their tough, sinewy, bare selves. The landscape is stripped of all but the heartiest trees and the animals are lean and swift. Twenty years in the desert helped leach away some of my own weaker aspects as well. It is a place of raw and honest beauty. There is nothing hidden from view, the cobalt sky, the formidable mountains, the bony protrusions of rock and lava, the course and spiny plant life and the clever and low-living animals.

In such a place, as the sun burns through the sky, light and shadow change the living landscape minute by minute. In such a place, the quiet is immense, perfect for solace and contemplation, perfect for hearing the sounds of life...the covey of quail pecking in the undergrowth, the wind moving across the Earth, the chillingly lonely cries of the coyote. In such a place, time stands still, the geologic record stands unchanged in the granite slabs and monoliths in the desert hills, the rock drawings etched into them by people who lived thousands of years ago appear to have just been done. In such a place, it is easy to live close to Creation and close to the Creator.

The missions - April 2010

June 29th, 2011

The missions - April 2010

Every California schoolkid studies the period of California history when the missions were built. This is often accompanied by a field trip to the nearest California mission. I was no different and I remember the incredible excitement of boarding buses and riding with my school chums down to San Juan Capistrano. The attraction of the missions has lasted my whole life, in part, because of my interest in history (the missions represent some of the oldest state history) and also because I am fascinated with the fact that there was a time when California was unsettled and wide open territory. I would love to have been able to see it then.

I would be lying if I said I didn't love the California impressionist movement and the plein aire artists of the state for that very reason. They capture the very images that have brought people from all over the country (and even the world) to settle here. "Civilization" has claimed some of these majestic places, but not all of them. The state still does have some incredibly beautiful spots and I would love nothing more than to spend my days seeking them out. The shot above was taken at San Luis Rey in San Diego County. If you close your eyes, the sound of modern life will fade and be replaced by the songs of birds and the wind in the trees. Some people who know me think I was born in the wrong century...maybe that is so...this world does move too fast for me at times.

Sacred moments - March 2010

June 29th, 2011

Sacred moments - March 2010

You probably know those moments, when the world is hushed and you are keenly aware of everything around you. I think of them as sacred moments...when you can practically hear the creation at work. I search for these moments in my life, I find, more and more, that I crave those silent moments. I feel like that is the time I am closest to my most real self and, not surprisingly, closest to God. Maybe you have a different way of describing it. I have heard it called the "flow state" or maybe self actualization. Are they the same? You can decide for yourself, it won't bother me one bit. All I know is that I feel the most alive at such times.

I know I can often find this same reverie when I am out with my camera, especially in Nature. It is as if time ceases to be and hours are as minutes and curiosity and joy take over where my crusty old thoughts and mindless mental babble used to be. I see the world anew and in it the absolute glory of wonder. More than once I have asked myself how I could ever go back to my same old life, but each experience changes me for the better in some intangible way. And in that way I know I will never really be my old self again.

The attraction of photography - March 2010

June 29th, 2011

The attraction of photography - March 2010

I have heard it said that, generally speaking, people are often more attracted to photography than many other art forms, but not for the reasons you might think. Photographs don't necessarily command higher prices than other fine art. The number of world-famous photographers does not come close to the number of famous painters and sculptors so what is it about photography that is so appealing? Quite simply, nearly every one of us has held and used a camera. Too few of us pick up paintbrushes or chisels. From the very first moments of our lives, in the delivery room and baptismal font, through ALL our school plays and dances and on the greatest days of our lives, the camera is present to fix us in space and time. For those of us who have worked with our cameras they become an extension of our very selves. My wife rolls her eyes at the tender way I carry my own camera, like a baby, I never leave it in a hot car or out for strangers to touch. I value it the way any tradesman values the best tools.

I don't always keep my camera with me. Sometimes it has to be enough just to be witness to something with my own eyes. But having a camera around does allow you to record special moments, like the occasional sunset. For about a year I made it a habit to be on the beach at sunset. Another photographer often joined me, his camera at the ready as he said "for the money shot." He was a fanatic about it. For me it was more a time for reflection at the end of the day. We both enjoyed the time of day and the company. Like the paintbrush and chisel, the camera can be used for the purpose of creation and beauty but it is also a ready companion in the journey of life.

Masks - from February 2010

June 29th, 2011

Masks - from February 2010

Anyone who has studied art knows that there can be layers of meaning in a work. I am surprised how often I discover new layers long after I have finished something. Meaning was hidden, it seems, until I was ready to find it. Masks themselves have a long history of hiding and revealing meaning. But what I really mean to write about is the personal meaning each work has for me. Whatever meaning others might subscribe to my work, I cannot look at it and not remember the day and place where I captured the original image, how I came to be there, what was happening in my life at that time. Each work, for me, becomes a touchstone of my personal history.

Over the years, my wife Susan and I have always tried to get away on our anniversary. On the occasion of our 25th anniversary we decided to go to Alaska to see the Northern Lights. It was there I captured this image of masks. When I see this image I am transported back to that trip. I see Susan in a parka surrounded by sled dogs, I see the star studded sky and the aurora morphing from colored clouds into castles into icebergs, I wince at the arctic cold that I, as a Southern Californian, cannot quite handle. All these things and more are permanently etched in my memory, triggered by a simple image of masks. All art is meant to transport us with meaning, and the various layers are there for deciphering, but my own personal meaning is the base upon which the others rest.

The mystery of black and white - February 2010

June 29th, 2011

The mystery of black and white - February 2010

As a photographer, the allure of black and white is ever present. The absence of color creates a sense of mystery in a photograph, it's not that our mind works to fill in the colors necessarily, it is more that we work to ascribe some meaning to the overall image without the distraction of color. In the image above, it would add nothing to show (or even know) that the building was painted white with green trim (the paint long ago worn away by the elements and neglect). The black and white image spells that out without the addition of color. It allows us to ask other questions about the image, to winnow out the less significant information, to better understand the significant information.

Does it make a difference, looking at this picture, to know this is an old barracks building at Fort Worden on the Puget Sound in Washington? That it is now part of a large beautiful state park? Does it change how you look at it to know that many men who lived here are gone now, maybe they gave their lives for their country or maybe they died peacefully at home surrounded by those they loved? I wasn't necessarily thinking of those things when I shot this, but those steps leading from the upstairs towards the beckoning sea and sky seem indicative of that. Steps to glory, perhaps. Black and white images afford us the chance to ask broader questions having more to do with context than detail.

Portrait from the womb - from January 2010

June 29th, 2011

Portrait from the womb - from January 2010

Technology allows us to see images of our children before they are born. When friends of ours shared the 3D ultrasound photos of their soon-to-be-born son, Alex, I couldn't resist creating a portrait of Alex from the image as a gift. How incredible is it that we have this window in which to see our newest family members in the weeks and months before they join us in this outside world? I look at this image and wonder what will Alex's life be like, surrounded by the love of his family, how will the world seem to him, what will he make of it? And with that curiosity, a wish that he may find the world to be a pleasing, safe, happy place.

Before the image was mounted and framed, while the mattes were still out I took a pencil and scribbled the words "Alex Sleeping" as the unofficial title. Alex is awake now and lives with his parents and older brother in the bright shiny outside world. Time will tell if he finds the world pleasing but I hope he does.

Knowing a place - from January 2010

June 29th, 2011

Knowing a place - from January 2010

After years of living in the desert, our family returned to Orange County to be closer to our parents. After making the move back to the city, I really needed a place where I could take long walks close to Nature. The most obvious choice was along the beach of the mighty Pacific Ocean down towards Newport. I told my wife I was going to "church" on Sunday mornings and would walk for about an hour as close to sunrise as possible.

After months of doing this I began to see the same people out walking regularly. I also noticed the dory fishing boats coming in to unload their catch near the pier. There is a fish market just alongside the pier and people congregate there as the boats come in to buy the freshest fish imaginable. The dory boats pick up speed just before they make landfall so the fisherman can back their trailers right up to their boats to tow them home. When you come to know a place, you learn where to go to find your own "catch."

Ideas about creating - from January 2010

June 29th, 2011

I managed to finish a canvas over the holidays. The title means, literally, the windows of the village. As usual, it went somewhere unexpected, but pleasing (to me anyway). I cannot think of creating without feeling connected to Creation and the Creator, however they may be addressed. I am fascinated by the idea of creation, I have known artists and even just regular folks talk about how ideas come to them, ideas that allowed them to do something different then anything they had ever done before. Where do those ideas come from? I know for myself that, when thinking about that blank canvas, I saw assorted rectangles of different colors in my head. I can't say I know for sure how those rectangles got there (but I have an idea!). I believe it has to do with an inner connectedness we have, on a surface level, with each other and the world but on deeper layers with Spirit or God.

The Universe recognized my readiness to create and was standing by with something I interpreted as colored rectangles. Because I am part of the system which is both Creator and Creation I both gave and was given the idea. That's having your cake AND eating it! Because it is my interpretation of the idea (filtered, as it were, by the Tim filter) it is something unique in the world. Art, as paint, as dance, as works of literature, as mountain ranges, as flowers, as rainstorms has that most singular quality of being one-of-a-kind. We can all draw a picture of the same flower and no two will be alike...ev-er.

So if you were thinking there is nothing special about you I would have to disagree. For you are the Creator and the Creation too and there will never be another like you ev-er!

What Phil taught me - from January 2010

June 29th, 2011

What Phil taught me - from January 2010

Phil Dunham was a retired cop. He was a great photographer too. I can't think of him without seeing him with his large format camera balanced over his shoulder as he would wend his way down some lonely desert trail or stooped over, his head beneath the dark cloth, as he composed a shot as if time didn't matter to him. He would wait until the shadows moved to just the right place and then he would press the plunger. He loved the desert and it showed in his photographs.

I had been a news photographer but Phil helped me truly "see" things. We spent hours in the backcountry looking at landscapes, tracing intersections of shadows and stones and sky. He helped me find balances in my photos, balances of light and dark, of peace and tension, of ordinary and mysterious. I was used to just "getting the shot" in the news business but Phil made me stop and look at the world. And in stopping to look, I began to understand appreciation...and then it's like the world opened up for me. What had been hidden became clear.

Phil finished his Earthly assignment a few years ago but I think of him most when I get out of the city. He might have liked this scene of the log bridge. He would like that the path is narrow and then opens up to brightness. He would say, "I want to know what is beyond that point of light up ahead." I suspect he knows now.

Color on Claremont Avenue - reprised from December 2009

June 29th, 2011

One hundred and thirty four eighteen inch squares of concrete, side by side, poured in the last century, make up one block of the Claremont Avenue sidewalk. On one side of the walk, white picket fences, cinder block or stuccoed walls, the odd un-fenced lawn sequester the tightly packed bungalows and duplexes from the other side...the curb and automobile after automobile wedged in as tightly as possible.

For an entire length of one block one young artist (or artists) have made this stretch of sidewalk their canvas. With brightly colored chalk they have sketched the objects of their imagination, square by square. Near each gate I find chalked flowers, various sorts of birds, fanciful automobiles, airplanes, houses, trees and yards and yards of colored lines weaving down stretches of sidewalk. I think, this must have taken days for small hands to create. And it is beautiful, too, in the way the art of children speaks so plainly. As the days go by, I watch the images fade...from foot traffic and wayward watering and endless sun and weather.

In us each, there is this drive to create and express, so often sidetracked by the stresses of life. So evident in children though, who cannot help but express themselves with every means imaginable. For the lucky residents of Claremont Avenue, a resident artist (or artists) who created joy and expressed it in chalk.