Blog

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.