La Macchina Fotografica

We used to have this hole in the backyard. It was meant to be a new drainage area for the septic system and was one of the many of dad’s unfinished projects. He’d always get jazzed up about one thing or another and we’d spend a weekend digging holes or re-roofing the house or sawing wood or banging nails into this or that. I always knew he was serious when he’d remove his shirt and put a sweatband around his forehead. Normally a crewcut engineer with a pocket protector and slide rule, it was not a reassuring sight. If you’ve ever seen Michael Douglas in Falling Down, you’ll know what I mean. He was a weekend warrior with a very short expiration date. Once Monday morning came and he put on his name badge and pocket protector the project was over, whether it was finished or not. And it was never finished. That’s why there was a big hole in the yard for about fifteen years.

One day, long after the hole was started—when I was the ugly age of fifteen—I decided to burn all my airplane models. Some years earlier, when I was eleven, those airplanes were my pride and joy. I especially loved the WWII fighters—P-38 Lightnings, P-51 Mustangs, and, of course the glorious Spitfires. I had them hanging from the ceiling of my bedroom. They were all there, in an eternal and frozen dogfight. I’d look up at them in the middle of the night and pretend I was in one of the cockpits, a hero in the midst of an ace maneuver. Anytime a visitor came into my room they looked up in amazement at the expertly-painted and painstakingly-constructed planes. Then one day I grew up, got sick of them all and burned them—in the big hole in the backyard.

At the age of eleven, everything was just about right in life. It was before girlfriends and cars and peer pressure. Fun was playing a board game on Friday night or maybe Pinocle with my grandmother and her friends. There was no booze or lust. Cynicism was rare. I liked to build model planes and hang them from the ceiling. When I’d finished one, the next big goal in life was to start another.

A few months ago at an air show, at the age of 53, I saw my first Spitfire in person. Coming through the gates I saw it right away and ran up to it. “Jeez!” I proclaimed in my eleven-year-old voice. It all came back. I could see my own, miniature Spitfire hanging from black thread and a thumbtack. I recalled how carefully I’d painted the camouflage. My daydream was jolted when the real plane’s propellor began to turn. The aircraft roared down the runway and flew into the sky. “Jeeeeeeeez!” I said again as I photographed every minute of its ascent into heaven. Ten minutes later it was gone except for the smell of its exhaust fumes. It disappeared to the south.

When I could no longer hear the Spitfire, I wondered why I’d burned all those models. I so wanted them back again. Then I remembered the acrid smell of the burning plastic and winced. I’d never want to be fifteen ever again. But eleven, now that was the perfect age. It was right around then that we started digging the hole in the backyard. I suppose, by now, it’s all filled in, at least I hope so.

The camera makes me feel like a skulking voyeur. Pointing the damned thing at people makes them nervous. Therefore, I oftern walk around with my camera as if I were a cat tiptoeing on a sheet of aluminum foil. Cat owners who have actually seen their feline doing this will appreciate what I mean. More times than not, I want to be invisible.

When I feel myself getting shy or paranoid I start photographing my reflection. I’m a willing subject, even when I’m cranky, and I really don’t care what I look like in my images. Sometimes the worse I look the better the image is.

Besides being a convenient method of self-portrait, the reflection deepens the complexity of an image and reveals the elusiveness of reality. Children intuitively grab at reflections like they do soap bubbles. Both are elusive. Children understand the multiple planes of reality.

A reflection is so deep and complex that each viewer sees something different in it. Whether our own reflection is bouncing back at us or not, reflections are mirrors of our soul. We see into them what we must. And so I photograph them as often as I can, especially when I feel that blasted aluminum foil under my feet.

A lot of my early work, especially the reflections, was about what I call the surrealism of everyday life…picking out the strangeness in the world we live in. Those doors are doors that could lead you to other worlds, or what is behind what is in front of you. – Stephanie Torbert

There are times in a photographer’s life when the light is so exquisitely right that it aches. When the right light combines with a compelling subject one can feel an alchemical change occurring. Clicking the shutter becomes an intoxication, something we must do. Endorphins rush into the brain. It’s heady stuff.

Regardless of where we are or what we are doing, it always starts with the light. We photographers are the sentinals of electromagnetic radiation as it dances around the universe. It is wrong to think, however, that photographers are simply observers of light. We know from the study of quantum physics that the observer never merely observes. She changes the nature of the observed. Pull out a camera and it changes everything. I have spent most of my life pondering whether this is a good or bad thing. I suspect it is neither, simply a fact that needs to be recognized.

The very nature of capturing something and freezing it forever is unnatural. It is toying with space and time. Photographers are tricksters. If we’d been alive during the Inquisition we’d have been burned at the stake for heresy. There are so many photographs on the planet now that we’ve become numb to their power. Yet, our unconsciousness is unfortunate. Not only do we alter reality with our camera, the photos we make come back around and alter us. They change our perception of everything.

Standing still at the farmer’s market last weekend I was struck by the light as it passed through the morning fog. I began to feel the rush of the moment. Light and subject were converging. A family walked by. I made an image of a sublime moment that might now last forever.

Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still. – Dorothea Lange

Regular readers of this blog know of the Pyracantha Caper. For some time, someone had been decorating an agave plant along the old rail bed near our home with pyracantha berries. The berries were placed onto the thorny spikes of the agave in a somewhat festive manner. I decided to augment this clandestine activity with a flourish of my own berry decorations. It was a good way to spend that otherwise dull week between Christmas and the new year. I’d hoped others would participate in this secret, suburban art project. Alas, no one did.

I revisited the agave plant a week after my lonely decorating party, my heart bursting with expectation. Not only did no one add berries to the thorny plant, someone or some creature removed all of them that I’d applied. I’m officially blaming the smart-alecky birds that terrorize these parts and I’m accusing them of being the perpetrators. And, it’s not only the crows. One would expect that kind of misbehavior from those bad boys. The truth is that there are lots of birds of all kinds around here that eat the fermenting pyracantha berries and then dive-bomb my truck with their berry-stained poop. I can deal with the red plops on the truck. But, did they have to eat my suburban art project?

See for yourself. I have photographic evidence. Those birds are lucky that all the shooting I do around here is with a camera. Thanks to the drunk birds (some who have flown into our picture window while inebriated) all the berries are gone from the art project and the trees. Therefore, readers take note: there will be no more suburban pyracantha art projects until late fall.

It was raining peacefully on Sunday morning. The streets were washed clean by a storm that had hit the day before. The road shimmered in the weak light, twinkling with each drop from the sky. On a tempestuous Friday before the storm, I’d been hit between the eyes by a hurtful comment from a friend. It left me reeling. Sunday’s gray drizzle seemed appropriate.

Despite the rain and the winter season I went early to the farmer’s market. I was thinking of a baguette. And maybe a wedge of cheese. I wanted to talk to the chili man. And ask the asparagus guy when spring would arrive. I needed the farmers just then. So, I bundled up and went to the market.

This time of year it’s easy to park at the farmer’s market. The fair-weather marketers are long gone, waiting now for their tomatoes and sweet corn and warm summer breezes. Rain doesn’t help bring in the crowd but it does enhance a quiet market day for a man with a bruised soul.

Alone with my baskets I pulled up my collar. I was still grumbling to myself about Friday. But, some Swiss chard caught my eye. Pulling out two dollars for a nice bunch of it, I overheard a conversation at the next stand.

“How is the most lovely jewel of the universe today?” a man with a European accent asked a smiling woman. The woman had been alone at her booth. Before the man with the accent arrived she hadn’t been smiling. I looked at the young woman who had just sold me the chard and we both laughed. One comment brought three smiles—the best market deal of the day. With a spark of renewal I went to see the chili man.

“I want you to know that I sent some of your chili sauce to my friend in Chicago. He said it was the best he’d ever tasted,” I said to him.

“Well, of course!” the chili man replied. He is nothing if not self-assured of his chili-sauce prowess. “I just made some new mash. Try this.”

Down the way, the asparagus man had nothing but potatoes. “The asparagus will be here in about four weeks,” he pronounced. The first day of spring had now been declared. “Are you getting any good pictures today?”

The egg couple saw me coming from their mountain of egg cartons. They had a dozen, extra-large, brown, organic eggs waiting for me. Just the kind I like.

“I had to get my eggs at Safeway last week,” I said. They both groaned. “They were watery. Stale,” I added.

“We have you spoiled,” the man of the couple said, looking up from his stack of a billion eggs. “See you next week.”

The young woman who usually sells me my baguette wasn’t there. I got one anyway from a girl I’d never met. Then I got a small salami from the French charcuterie guy and asked for his advice on sausages. At that point I realized that my basket was overflowing and I needed to stop.

On the way out there was another man with an overflowing basket. Like me, he’d bought his baguette. After making a photo of him I realized that we are all the same. Every one of us can be made just a little happier with a baguette in our basket and a trip to farmer’s market.

“Mark!” my father always bellowed my name. “You could get run over by a car crossing the street. When your number is up, it’s up.” He was one of the few people I’ve ever known who could be a fatalist and optimist at the same time. In this case, despite his lecturing tone, he was mostly trying to be an optimist. That kind of talk, however, never made me feel very hopeful.

They say that your parents’ admonitions play in your head like a magnetic-tape loop. Over and over and over and over. “Do this, don’t do that. This is the way the world works, blah, blah, blah.” I don’t know if that’s true but I do know that I hear my father’s voice whenever I cross the road, especially a busy one.

In California drivers are supposed to stop when a pedestrian is in a crosswalk. Most do. But a few like to go as fast as they can and stop at the very last moment—a game of chicken with the pedestrian. Sometimes I see that happen and just stare. Could this mean that my number is up? So far, the driver has always stopped. But my father said…

Lately I’ve been photographing my experience in the crosswalk. I point the camera at the cars from waist level and click away in rapid-fire mode. I want to capture that moment of vulnerability as a two-ton body of steel confronts a 200-pound body of flesh. I figure it will someday result in a body of work. And if one day, my number really is up, my last photo ever will quite a shot.

It all started last Christmas but I’d long forgotten about it. I’d forgotten that is, until last week when I started walking along the old rail path again. Lost in thought, about a quarter mile from home I saw it again and it made me laugh just like it did upon my first discovery.

All along the path are agave plants. My photographer’s eye is naturally attracted to their form which I find both musical and organic. Therefore I pretty much know where all the agave plants are along the trail. On my walk of a year ago I suddenly noticed that one agave was in a full bloom of the strangest kind. The plant seemed to have sprouted red berries along its spiked leaves. What? I had no idea that the agave bloomed in such way. I immediately started to photograph this rare occurrence. Looking closely at the photos later in the day I realized that someone had decorated the leaves with the berries of a nearby pyracantha bush. They’d stuck the berries onto the barbs of the agave leaves. The holiday joke was on me. Someone had dressed up the agave for Christmas.

I’d forgotten about the agave because I stopped taking my walks along the old rail path. Last week I rediscovered both the walks and the agave. Looking sad with only a few of last years withered berries still clung to it, I decided to redecorate the plant. Rather than add berries in random fashion as had been done before, I added a berry to each and every barb on one leaf. Maybe someone else would come along, feel inspired and then decorate another leaf. It might start an agave, communal experience. Maybe the whole plant would become studded in stunning red.

While applying the berries I heard someone behind me. Damn! I wanting this to be an anonymous caper. So I scurried off, feeling like a old leprechaun. Snickering to myself I wondered if the person would notice what I’d done. Would she add berries to the work of art? What would her dog think?

I walked my walk again today, hurrying along so that I could return to the agave. To my disappointment no one had added anything to it. In fact, it seemed that some clever bird had considered my decorations to be nothing more than a fancy, berry kabob and had eaten most of the ornaments that I’d so carefully added. I replenished the plant and, since no one was behind me on the path, I made some photos of my pyracantha caper.

I’ll visit it tomorrow to see if either a hungry bird or a fellow earth artist has come along.

The neighbor across the street has a plastic santa with a lightbulb inside it. I always know the holidays are here when it suddenly appears by her garage. I’ve never actually seen her put it out—I’ve come to believe that the incandescent santa arrives on its own. It’s a fickle santa. One year it decided not to show up at all and the neighborhood was much the poorer for it. So far, this year, I am still waiting. As I write this I look out the window and into the hazy day. The neighbor’s garage is sans santa.

Missing the jolly fellow, my mind wanders to Italy. The Italians have these big, plastic santas that promote 32 flavors of hot chocolate. Alas, they have no lightbulbs and therefore are not lit from within. But, they do come with Heineken umbrellas and a huge cup of frothing hot chocolate and that is worth something.

Several years ago we spent the holidays in Venice and I would pass the chocolate santa numerous times a day. I recognized him at first pass because he has a cousin santa in Parma that I’d seen earlier in the trip. The Parma chocolate santa was without umbrella but I wasn’t thrown by this variation. Once you meet a Italian chocolate santa you remember him.

32 gusti di Cioccolata. 32 flavors of chocolate! We live in a world of miracles and blessings. The chocolate santa reminded me of that every time I saw him. He was the very symbol of abundance and good flavor. Furthermore, he made me smile—as does the santa across the street who has not yet arrived this year.

I look out my window once more. He’s still not here. What is taking so long?

Sometimes I get sick of the literal images of this or that. As a visual artist I am bombarded with images. Like listening to the lyrics of a ponderous song one more time, my mind gets heavy with content. That is why we have improvisation. That is why we have jazz. That’s why visual artists have abstraction.

All other sentient beings on this planet go about their business without the heady weight of the human mind. And they do just fine. There is a dance to life, a flight of weightlessness. Yet, we humans seem to be getting more and more trapped within the literal. Just look at the faces of those using their cell phones—and everybody these days is using a cell phone. It all seems so serious. “Buy!” “Sell!” “How could he do this to me?” The details of life are killing us.

It makes me want to scribble. I remember, as a small boy, when scribbling was okay. It was permitted. Then, at some point, teachers would get mad when we scribbled. “You’re too old to scribble. Make something nice!” So we all made pretty pictures that were understandable to the grammar school teachers. They needed something concrete, something literal. They were adults and they were serious. Make something nice.

I think all adults should scribble. And doodle. And make a mess. Whatever happened to the notion of carefree play? I’d like to go back to my first-grade teacher in my Way Back Machine and say, “Miss Boney, I think scribbling would be good for you. You haven’t been smiling lately and, quite frankly, the class is being affected by your bad humor. Would you like some crayons?”

One of the best things about cell phones is that I can now talk to myself in public. Not that many years ago it was considered odd to have a conversation with oneself. Now people are talking aloud seemingly no one just about everywhere. True, they usually have some kind of Bluetooth earpiece attached to to them and they are, theoretically, talking to an other human being somewhere. But, who knows for sure?

I don’t wear a Bluetooth device. Nor do I enjoy cell-phone conversations. But, I’ve considered getting a cheap earpiece just so I can talk to myself without being self-conscious. I figure if it’s okay that everyone is jabbering into cyberspace it’s perfectly normal to jabber to oneself. After all, most of us are in our own little world anyway.

It’s easy to spot people in their own little world. I love going into public spaces and finding people who seem alone in thought, daydream or preoccupation. If one is a photographer one needs to be quick. The moments are fleeting. Usually some kind of external stimulus prods our dreamers back into the social universe. Often the click of a camera shutter is all that it takes to jolt them.

I feel connected to those lost in their own universe. It makes me feel that we really are all the same—inextricably linked yet very much alone. Seeing others in this state sends me off into my own little world. I wonder about them; their life, their history, their story. And If they start talking I secretly hope that it’s just a conversation with themselves and that there’s no silly Bluetooth gadget hanging off their ear.