I was four years old and I looked up at the bright array of stars. It was a perfectly clear evening, with a cool breeze coming off the ocean. I was down the shore in Wildwood, NJ, holding my parent hands. My father was on the left, my mother on the right. I thought to myself, "I will remember this moment for the rest of my life." Now, at 52, I find it odd that I would tell myself something so profound and often wonder why I did. More remarkable is the fact that I have kept my promise to myself and remember the moment with perfect vividness to this day!
As a self-conscious young man I never photographed myself. I was so painfully aware of myself and my camera I didn't even want to be <em>seen</em> let alone captured on film. With a camera dangling from my neck I felt more like a clumsy voyeur than an artist. It took me years to feel comfortable with a camera in my hands.
It hit me like a smack in the soft spot of the chest. The human body has those strange, vulnerable places that cause the senses to go haywire. The funny bone is one, the sternum is another. When you get hit in the chest right under the sternum you can't breath. "You got the wind knocked out of you," people will tell you. Indeed. Lack of oxygen gets your attention.
Reflections are elusive. They seem one step removed from reality. Yet, for the quiet observer, they hold many secrets to truth. A reflection always seems fluid, never concrete. Planes of reality merge and disappear. Everything seems real but we cannot grasp at anything. It is all an illusion.
The Red Door Gallery & Collective in Oakland, California is opening its doors on Friday, October 3rd with a new show by Lauren Odell Usher and Heidi Forssel called *Look at Me Looking at You.* The show is brilliant and witty. I'm honored to have hung a couple prints as an adjunct to the show. If you are in the Oakland area on Friday night, please come see the show. It is at The Warehouse, 416 26th Street, Oakland, CA. The opening will be held from 6-9 PM.
Most first-time visitors to Grand Canyon wonder where the river is. It can't be seen from the most visited spots on the South Rim. The park rangers like to tell of a particular group who tried to carry a raft from the rim to the river, figuring it was a short walk. They soon discovered their folly. You can't see the river for a long time on the way down from either of the two main trails. Everyone wants to see the elusive river and for the casual observer it refuses to reveal itself.
Photographing monuments, icons, and landmarks is a trap. The big, familiar images just sit there taunting you to photograph them. You can't resist them, nor should you. It seems that it is human nature to want a photograph of oneself in front of a famous sight. "I was here!" the photo shouts triumphantly. It seems like a tiny moment of fame, a validation for all the hard work we've done in life.
Long, rocky, ankle-twisting. The descent down the Hermit Trail in Grand Canyon feels a bit like torture. It's not the first rock that gets you. Somewhere around boulder #500 the legs start to scream. There are nine rock slides that obscure the now-forgotten trail. The Park Service is quick to tell you that it hasn't maintained the blasted path since 1931. It shows. The trip is slow. The trail disappears often.
*La Macchina Fotografica* is taking a hike. We'll be back with more stories and images in late September. Happy Trails!
Snapshots are worlds within worlds. One could study an image seemingly forever and always find something revealing. Mostly it is the gestalt in which I am interested. I search for an over-arching impression, a feeling that grabs me. Most any snapshot makes me feel something. With all the photos I look at most every day, the gamut of feelings more times than not reside in the zone of melancholy.
