Snappers descend on an anti-abortion doll, San Diego political convention, late 1990’s.
This photo says a lot about a lot of things, but I’m going to narrow it down to just a few. Perhaps one or two are relevant.
I used to love covering events. Big news events, political conventions(which is where this image was made)football games, protests, etc. I loved the thrill of the action, the packs of roving photographers, the idea of covering something considered news.
But today I’m a different person, and a different photographer. Now, I search out other kinds of work.
Working around a pack is a strange experience, especially now when the pack is so much larger than it has ever been. The switch, for me, was flipped when I covered the political convention in downtown Los Angeles a few years back(Upcoming Post!). Johnny Law was out in FULL FORCE, out of control in many ways, clubbing civilians, gassing and shooting rubber bullets for no particular reason. It was exciting in some ways but there were so many other photographers, camera people, etc, that in some ways the most difficult part was cropping out all the other snappers. I realized I was losing interest in working around other photographers.
At one point the LAPD was arresting a young woman who was carrying a pocket sized video camera who screamed, “I’m a filmmaker.” Her protest did nothing, but it did make we wonder what level of filmmaker she was, why she didn’t have a credential and why she was getting arrested? Again, the police were way overboard on how they responded to the crowd, but her plea made me realize the days of really earning a credential, really learning the craft were probably in transition. This is magnified ten-fold today, when it seems EVERYONE with a DSLR is a director of photography or cinematographer or filmmaker or producer overnight, and the internet as final destination-no quality bar- has also added to this mess.
As the years went on this reality became more and more evident. At the Super Bowl it seemed there were as many people on the field as there were in the stands(And this was the Super Bowl I covered years ago). If you have ever covered the Super Bowl then you will know the guy with Pentax K1000, 50mm and monopod that has a credential and prime spot. Seemingly everywhere I went everyone had a camera and was a “journalist” or “filmmaker” of some sort. In theory, doesn’t this democratize the process? Isn’t that supposed to be a good thing? Then why isn’t it?
I found myself looking for quiet, space, solitude and my own stories. When I would encounter even a single other photographer I would head in another direction.
There were exceptions. I worked in Sicily, five times, and each time with at least one other photographer, sometimes two or three, but we were doing it because we were friends and because we were sharing cars, sharing gas money, etc. And, what we were covering was large enough we all had our own working space.
Sometimes when you work in a pack the people you are photographing will do things they would never do simply because they are getting so much attention. This can even happen when you are working solo, but in that case it is easy to just stop shooting. Getting a pack to stop is nearly impossible. When it comes to a big news event, these packs can really create a whirlwind of their own news.(Check the articles about Lebanon from a few years ago.)
The only downside to not working these events is that I have several friends in this picture, and I do miss being around them in the field. But, I see them “off the field” so it works out.
All I know for sure is that I’m a “quiet” photographer. I think there is an upside and a downside to this. The upside is peace of mind, and quiet reflective moments on MY negatives, moments that ONLY exist for me and no one else in the world. Think about this. When I work on stories, I’m the only one there, and nobody else on the entire planet has what I have. The downside, depending on your point of view, is the lack of interest in quiet moments. Loud places tend to get more attention, but even so, when I look at my future, I see more quiet, less noise.
I think the real signature photographers don’t work in a pack, never have, never will. And I’m not referring to myself here, just others of more important historical significance. Their work requires more time and a different concentration applied in a different direction than the news photographer. Think AM vs FM radio waves. Great news photography is a fantastic thing, but again, I think a very small percentage of those in the pack are doing great news work. Maybe it comes down to motive?
I keep waiting to see signature work from Haiti that shows me a relationship between photographer and community but I have yet to see it….and I’ve been searching. Granted, it’s early days and it’s difficult to do, and perhaps I should not expect this from pack made imagery. I’ve seen work that is clearly “better” than others, but still superficial, probably due to the need to get things out as fast as humanly possible. I keep waiting for the portrait level of intimacy, and not portraits of maimed or bloodied people. I keep waiting for relationship and story telling that comes with speaking the language-even with translator-and a simplification that relays the entire picture in one image, but again, this isn’t typically what the pack provides. I’m sure it will come. The good news is that Haiti is at saturation level in the news, which has led to some great things.
What I’ve seen FAR too much of is the dead, burning rubble, heavily manipulated images of smoke and mangled bodies and tilted overly complex imagery that seems to puzzle readers but seems to be the favored snap of the modern journalism world, especially young photographers and younger photo-editors. And I see reportage from photographers who are there for a few days, fill up their drives, and have already moved on to other stories. I’m not sure what the point is other than to say, “I was in Haiti” at gatherings where a statement like that holds water. And granted, there are plenty of places where it does.(It is precisely these places that I pronounce myself a wedding photographer and watch people scatter. Just a little game I play to satisfy my juvenile tendencies.)
Or contest time, when we all know that Haiti will dominate the winning portfolios. Again, motive comes into my mind. Pack areas tend to provide contest winning material. The suburbs don’t.
I’m sure at some point in my life, I’ll be around a pack once again. I’ll say hello to my friends and then go the other way, searching for my cherished solitude.
Slot Machine
slot machine life
all those days gone by
stacked like stairsteps
stored on slot machine like film
running through the annals
of a 72 year old mind
like watching a movie
with no beginning
and no ending
starting and stopping at random
unorganized pictures
holding on to each other
to keep the present coagulated
laughing and crying
until the pictures stop
and I drop another coin
into the slot
My comment on the BBC this morning. Question was about sports bringing out the best and worst in human nature.
smogranch
February 8, 2010 at 16:50
In short, both, which is what makes sport so important.
The same could be said of politics, religion, etc. It is the emotion that brings out more of a truthful representation of the picture that human nature paints.
We all know, at times, it isn’t pretty. But this is something we must confront not deny.
I also think to really know sport, you have to follow it, and not just when a story exists that captivates the country, but also during those down times when nobody is paying attention.
Believe me, I’ve been a Saints fan for 25 years, and many of those years were spent living in Texas where life is all about the Cowboys and pledging allegiance to another team is like taking your life in your own hands. The majority of those years, there was NOTHING written about New Orleans other than articles by local media. They were one of the league’s forgotten teams. A media black hole. “The Most Disfunctional Team in the NFL,” according to one of the few stories crafted during these years.
Last night a journalist friend stopped by, a non-football watcher, and after sitting with me for five minutes said, “How do you know all this stuff, I thought it was just a bunch of big guys running around.”
I knew it because, at least in my mind, I’m a real fan. Who Dat!
DATELINE AUSTIN TEXAS
I was “working” at The Daily Texan, serving my time as a staff photographer. I think they had a staff. There were so many people rotating in and out it was hard to tell.
There were two ways of working at The Texan. First, one of the PJ classes required you work there, and the second was to just head into the underground hovel that held the offices and say you wanted to work there. I did both.
As part of the class assignment, I won “Photographer of the Semester,” which I think I won solely because I was standing there when the photo editor realized he needed to, once again, hand out this meaningless award.
What I remember most of this particular day was the fact I ended up having to shoot an assignment near the section of campus that was covered with birds. Birds by the tens of thousands would camp out at this place and crap all over. I was wearing a black shirt, got crapped on, but didn’t realize it.
So my camera strap spread the white bird crap all over my back, shoulder, neck, etc, Some guy pointed it out with a look of disgust, “Dude, you got nuked.”
So anyway, back to these images.
Ann Richards(She might have already been in town) and Jesse Jackson came to town and I got the assignment.
Now at this point in my “career” I had little idea what I was doing. Some would argue the same is true today, but I say I at least THINK I know what I’m doing now.
I had my trusty Nikon FM2, wide angle and Vivitar 283 in hand, ready to bust this assignment in the gut. Only problem was, I had to get there first.
The Texan had a car. Kinda. I think it was a white Chevy Chevette. OLD. VERY OLD. In short, this car was a total deathtrap. Nothing worked, especially the air conditioning.
This car sounded bad, looked bad, drove bad and was a rolling black eye for the General Motors Corporation. I drew the short straw and fired up the beast.
It was Austin. It was summer. You could say it was a little hot. I baked in the Chevette.
Getting close to folks like these took a little time, so by the time I got close, things were ramping up and the power couple was doing their thing, moving around, shaking hands, holding kids, etc..
“Don’t screw this up,” was my typical mentality going into an assignment during those days. I emerged from the Chevette dripping sweat and covered in bird dung.
“Coming through,” I yelled trying to cut through the horde of onlookers. “Big shot, coming through, photographer, got an assignment people, deadline, very important, clear out.”
You have to remember I’m using manual cameras, manual focus lenses and a manual flash. I’m shooting a woman wearing white and an African American man, and I’m going from bright, direct sunlight to indoor conditions. This wasn’t easy. You had to know your system(I had a vague idea). Today you could do this in your sleep, and I’m convinced most people do.
So I start outside, blasting away, then the duo moves inside. With lightning reflexes I dart in front of them, but not TOO fast to make the guards think I’m a threat. Now I’m really sweating, and I’m sure the bird dung doesn’t help my status with the crowd.
Backpedaling I create my mental map. “Okay, if I’m roughly 8 feet away, and I’m at 1/15th of a second, then that puts me at f/8, so I should use the green mode on the flash.” “Or is it the white mode?” “Or yellow?”
“Ah, sir, you have bird crap all over you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about lady.”
“The white mode or the yellow mode?”
“Ah screw it.”
BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM.
Like monsoon lightning strikes my flash vaporizes the entire room. Each blast followed by the high-pitch whine of a battery trying to recycle. A full pop each time. A sound I would learn to fear.
As the couple hit the end of the hallway the crowd faced a bottleneck and I had to turn my back on my subjects. I had nowhere to go.
Suddenly, I felt a hand on my back. It stuck like it was covered in glue.
I slowly turned and found myself facing Ann Richards. This Ann Richards had a look of alarm on her face as she slowly unstuck her hand from my back. There we were, toe to toe, both of us with looks of alarm.
“I think I just sweaty bird crapped Gov. Ann Richards,” I thought to myself. And she had the look of “Dude, I think you just sweaty bird crapped my hand.”
But Ann was a trooper. Ann wasn’t afraid of getting dirty. Ann was a hunting, fishing, Texas gal, and although there was a moment of dread in those eyes, it quickly disappeared and she shook it off, literally, like a pro, and moved on.
I actually shot the second image AFTER the sweaty bird crap moment. Jesse wisely avoided me.
I knew I had what I needed, so I raced back to the mighty Chevette and in a cloud of oil smoke and whining fan belts I careened back toward the office.
Into the darkroom.
Rolling film.
Processing film.
Drying film.
Editing film.
A full pop on the flash. Uh oh.
My negatives were like dominoes. Black and white. Nuked again.
Negative in the enlarger. Lens wide open. I began my complicated prayer method of salvaging film.
The first print. Garbage. Way too light.
I suddenly realize, “I’m hosed.” So I just turned the enlarger on and left it on. Ann’s hair became my enemy. “That hair, that hair, that hair.” I can’t burn it down. Nothing worked. I took off the filter. I poured straight dektol on the paper. I tried hot dektol. I painted it on.
The darkness became my tomb.
Through a series of magic potions, scalding hot chemical baths, luck, anger and many loud shouts, I got a “workable” print.
I dried the print.
I typed my caption.
I casually strolled over to the editors desk and tossed the print in the “ready” basket. “Piece of cake,” I uttered, smiling sheepishly while slowing backing away.
I manage to move toward the exit then sprint off toward my dingy apartment. This is pre-cellphone people. Once you left that office you might as well have been in Afghanistan. There was NO WAY to communicate.
I probably should have read the flash manual, but I don’t think I did. The next morning the paper came out, and the image looked okay. It was newsprint people. Think toilet paper.
I went back to the paper, picked up my assignments and headed off, all the while looking up, trying to avoid those damn birds.
I love to fish. Always have. Mom taught me to flyfish when I was really young. Like a lot of other things these days, I don’t get a lot of time to do it, so I gotta make time. But every now and then I get to at least photograph other people who are fishing.
But these guys are not fishing for fun, they are fishing for a living, and as you can imagine, there is a huge difference.
These guys live and work near Bahia Kino on the Sea of Cortez. I was initially drawn there to see if I could photograph the abalone divers who work off of Isla Tiburon(Shark Island), and hopefully one day I will be able to return and do this. But on this trip we just didn’t have the time required so I ended up spending what time I had with the guys who fished for fish.
These guys were great, allowed me to do whatever I wanted. I got up early, before sunrise and made my way down to the water. They were making their way in and I took a few moments to snap a few images. I like these images, these rounded corner, Kodachrome images, simply because they represent a lifestyle I admire and they remind me of the fragile nature of our world, our sea and our future. For me there isn’t anything better than getting up with the sun and making pictures. The noise of the day hasn’t begun and the light has direction and color and there seems to be a permission to enjoy this time, and to make pictures.
These were done many years ago and I wonder where these guys are now. I wonder how the catch is today. I wonder what their future holds.
Maybe one day I’ll drive back down and bring these images, see who is around and how their life has changed.
A few months ago I did an interview with Central California based photographer Matt Black. Besides having perhaps the best photographer name of all time, “Matt Black” he is a damn good photographer.
I like Matt’s work for several reasons. One, when I see his work, I can feel his name and know he was the one behind the pictures. In other words, he has a recognizable style. Second, he shoots close to home. I’m sure he has traveled, in fact I remember a picture of his from Bolivia, but he does a lot of work in his own backyard, something a lot of photographers neglect to do or don’t think about. I’m guilty. I dream of foreign lands not Orange County. So when I see something like this, I have a great appreciation.
This is a HUGE story in these parts, but seems to be nearly forgotten by those of us living “downstream” of the Central Valley. Crisis only begins to describe what is happening. I come from a farming/ranching family, at least in part, so when I hear of water shortage, unplanted land, etc, I know the snowball effects.
Imagine skyrocketing unemployment, far higher than most places in the United States, farmers leaving land unplanted and water being withheld or not being there in the first place. Much of our current news is centered on Haiti, our dual wars in the Middle East and the health care debate, but all the while stories like this churn like category five storms in the background.
I thought you might like to take a look. If you have thoughts, please leave a comment and let us know you are all alive.
Cemetery somewhere south of Nogales
I don’t remember where this is exactly, but I remember the trip. Circa 1993 or 1994
Somewhere in Mexico, south of Nogales. Another photographer and I made a voyage. She was a staffer at the paper, I was an intern.
No real plan, just drive south and see what we find. Those were the good old days. White, Toyota Corolla, a few bucks, a few rolls of Kodachrome. My Canon. My Leica.
We started near the water, then drove to Hermosillo. Rumor had it the Chupacabra was in the area. We never found it but we did drink illegal moonshine from a tiny cap. It was beyond powerful and made the back of your skull go numb.
Then we drove into the desert.
We found a cemetery where something was going on. Maybe it was Dia de los Muertos.
I think this guy was stunned by the hippie gringo, or confused. There was probably a few “Who are you?” And, “What are you doing here?” But they were cool and we made a few pictures.
That camera in my hand was the game changer. EOS 1, and 20-35mm 2.8, the first of two zooms that took the photography world by storm, as well as the first real autofocus camera to land in full force. I used that camera and that lens for YEARS. That was a Leica M4-P with a 28mm, which I sold. HUGE mistake.
I just scanned this last night and was blown away by how good these old chromes look. I think this image was Fujichrome, but I was shooting Kodachrome on that trip. I’ll post a few of those later. These chrome had great skintone, and also handled the highlights with ease. Plus, there is a depth and texture to them that I have to try to add in when I shoot digital. It never works quite the same. Not sure why it would.
Four days of Southern California rain.
Haiti is in big trouble. It was in trouble before the quake and now it is in critical trouble.
We all know this now, and we knew it very soon after the deadly quake hit this small Caribbean island.
But after visiting one of the global news sites, and seeing that they had 33 different stories and 23 different films, all about Haiti, all located on the homepage, I was confronted with a question I couldn’t answer.
Is this too much coverage? Is this beneficial, or like my tiny piece of California soil, has it reached the saturation point?
We now have the ability to cover world events in real time, which initially, and in most cases, is still viewed as a great thing. I agree, in some ways.
One part of me says, “The more the better.” “Haiti is in big trouble the the more attention we give this story the more benefit, the more aid will pour in, and it will be impossible for the world to ignore the situation.”
But I’m not sure this system is working.
When I hit the news site that had all these stories, you know what link I clicked on? Guess. Come on, guess.
I clicked on the Golden Globe winners. I did. And frankly, I’m not interested in the Golden Globes, the Oscars, any of that stuff. Nothing wrong with it, but I just don’t follow it. So I was really surprised when I found myself staring at a complete list of winners.
What happened to me was total overload of the Haitian news story. And I AM interested in Haiti. I AM interested in the region. I AM interested in following the story. I AM interested in the photography emerging from the story.
But it was too much. It was short attention span news.
I turned on the television, the first night the networks landed, en mass. Here were lines of reporters on the ground with very little to say. They would pass the mic back and forth and basically explain what they saw, but in most cases they really had little to nothing to add. I just wondered why all of them were there, and how much of the annual news budget were they spending on this one story.(And then two days later some of these same people are hosting cooking segments on the morning shows.)
Wouldn’t it be better to slow down, get the story, secure a few facts, do some EDITING and then present what you know in ONE clear, concise report?
Instead I got a Twitter-feed-like shotgun pattern of reporting. It had little to no effect. Again, I KNOW this situation is horrific, so I don’t need the play by play. I need the facts.
Day One: 100,000 dead
Day Two: 50,000 dead
Day Three: 200,000 dead
All over the map. But I wonder why report this in the first place. We know there are many dead, so why throw around numbers when you have no real idea what you are talking about, and these numbers are impossible to verify.
Look, I don’t have an answer here, I’m just wondering if I’m alone in this. I keep thinking to myself, “No, this coverage brings attention.” But again, I’m not sure it is working like we think it works. Do other people turn off to this?
And as for the photography, the same applies.
Day one, we were flooded with cell phone imagery. Its horrible quality, but at that point it’s not about quality, it’s simply information.
A day later, the “real” photographers arrive, and the imagery looks much the same but the quality level of the imagery, the resolution, the sharpness, etc, gets better.
Day three and on, the photographers land in platoon strength and now all bets are off. Every single day we are blanketed by hundreds, thousands, if not tens of thousands of images from every possible angle. Again, much of this imagery looks alike.
And here is where the pendulum shifts.
By now there are people on the scene with the ability to give us more in depth reportage. Perhaps they are photographers, journalists, with a history in Haiti, and IF GIVEN THE TIME, MIGHT have the ability to tell us what is really going on. But based on the modern news cycle, they too are rushed, and contribute little more than similar photos, stories, that we have already seen.
For me, I would love to say to this small group of people, “Please, take your time, get the story, get what you need, take the time to edit, find the best way to present it and then bring it to me(as in publish it).” “I will stop what I’m doing and give you one hundred percent of my attention.”
But again, this doesn’t happen. What does happen is dozens, if not hundreds of more carbon copy news stories land in the multitude of information channels.
It’s a very strange situation because in some ways what I’m asking for is more thoughtful, perhaps more beautiful work to be created from a horrible situation, but in the end, I think this is what will deliver the most impact, far more impact that the current style of heavy rain.
I’ll give you an example, and I’m pulling this out of my butt, so hang with me.
Back in the early 1980’s, part of the Sahel, or perhaps all of the Sahel was in the grips of a major famine. A photographer named Sebastiao Salgado decided to go and see for himself what was happening. He went on his own, at least I think he did, bulk rolling his own film, living a tough existence.
Now I’m guessing here, but I would imagine he was on the scene for at least a month, perhaps more, shooting, traveling, compiling images. And if I had to guess, when he returned to Paris or New York or wherever he was living, it took another few weeks, months, to collect the work and then…..release it.
Now this photographer is not a spot-news photographer, a front line war photographer, but that is partly what I’m getting at.
Maybe there were other photographers on the scene, wire service people putting out images in rapid fire, but the work that had the REAL IMPACT was the black and white work of Salgado. It is the ONLY work I can remember from that story. I remember seeing it for the first time and freezing because it was so powerful I could not look away. It was thoughtful and presented well.
I would imagine he didn’t send, transmit or publish anything during the time he was there, so you could say, “Well, if he had then perhaps the world would have known about the situation earlier and perhaps fewer people would have died.” That’s a good angle, but I would imagine there WERE photographers doing this….so where was the impact?
There is another layer to this.
So now Haiti is flooded with media personal, and I mean flooded. I would imagine a HUGE percentage of annual budgets are being spent on this story, and maybe that is a good thing. I asked another photographer who had been there why this was happening, why this story was being attacked in such mass and the answer was, “Because they think they can win a Pulitzer.” I’m not gonna touch that one, but it is something you have to consider.
But the real problem with this is when people blow their stack and attack a story like this, it typically doesn’t last long. You hear tales of “image fatigue,” and Haiti is about to experience this.
Then, when the time comes to really solve the situation the world is completely burned out on the story, and the media outlets don’t have the budget remaining to keep covering the story at the depth it needs to be covered.
So you have the NGO organizations suddenly becoming the only way for journalists, photographers, etc to gain access and make work. Most of these folks are working for free, or working for wages that are below poverty level, which contributes to the limitations placed on them. And you see the cycle we have created.
The photographer Sara Terry created her Aftermath Project based on this concept. Just because the bullets stop flying or the Earth stops shaking doesn’t mean the story is over.
I think it is completely unrealistic to think this is going to change anytime soon, but I for one am really growing tired of the superficial, super fast bombardment of information that seems to increase on a daily basis.
When is enough enough?
Fingers crossed for Haiti.
So I had this idea.
But I need to experiment to get it where it needs to be.
It’s about Orange County. Living here. Just something that dawned on me the other day.
So I went out and I began the great hunt, only I didn’t know what I was hunting for exactly.
So I go out, walk around, shoot, come home, process and then study what I have. Then I go back out, tweak what I’m doing and try it all over again.
I’m getting closer. I’m not there yet, but I’m feeling something. I’ll figure out where I’m going and then go there.
Here is the first image.
It involves a high speed film, a filter, a hot developer, constant agitation, a bit of flashing(not that kind!), and some luck…….
It’s not there yet, but I’ll get it eventually.
Can anyone spot the knee brace?
Hiking. Orange County. My buddy shoots. I shoot my buddy.
The background is fake. Orange County is all pavement, but my buddy mocked this thing up from historical photos from other parts of the world………
Two looks. Two photographers.
I’ve always found it funny when people talk about being reincarnated. I’m not sure I want to do this whole life thing again, but when I think about being reincarnated, I don’t think about coming back as someone famous, or some great world leader.
In fact, I don’t want any part of that. Too much work. Jesus, you think I want photographers following me around, famous person, or having the responsibility of saving the world? No frickin way.
It is very clear there is only ONE destination for me, if in fact I do, at some point, get reincarnated.
I’m coming back as my mom’s dog.
This mutt has totally got it made.
I swear to God this dog sleeps at least 18 hours a day. At least. And if you try to move her during that period she will growl at you.
Oh, and when she isn’t sleeping she is probably eating or trying to kill a lesser animal in the yard.
She is a hunting dog, which by tradition means she would spend her life hunting. But our hunting trips are few and far between these days, so her hunting prowess has to be channeled on animals not used to being hunted. Frogs, turtles, cats, large birds, other dogs or the occasional lizard, snake or beetle, are all possible targets.
And speaking of eating, she gets all kinds of great food. Dog food, sure, but she also gets tons of stuff that mom gives her. Gravy on her food, organic produce, organic, free-range meat. Far better food than I get to eat.
Oh, and this dog controls the house. When mom is on the phone, the dog sits next to her and barks until she hangs up. The dog is insanely jealous and needs to be the center of attention. It’s pathetic. She will walk up in front of you, look at you, start to lose it and then start banging on you with her paw until you do something, anything, let her out, let her in, pet her, stop petting her, get her something, feed her, pay more attention to her, pay less attention to her, etc. It never ends.
Eat, sleep, bark, hunt, etc.
Did I mention she sleeps on a red, leather chair? Did I? Ya, it’s true. A chair bought SPECIFICALLY for her. I don’t have a red leather chair.
Due to some short circuiting of her internal, hunting wires, she will now go on point inside the house. She used to wait until she hit the porch before locking on a point, frozen, with only the tip of her nose searching for the target. But now, as she oozes her pudgy body off the leather chair, she locks on a feeble point, just for the sake of pointing. Her quality bar has fallen and can’t get up. This is my goal in life.
So for those of you looking for me in another life, I’ll be the fat little pooch controlling your house.
I’ve been a photographer for a long while now. I try not to live with regrets but I have a restless soul, and with this plague comes regret by the tenfold. Lucky me!
One of my primary regrets is not turning the camera on the people closest to me. I should have begun photographing family members from the beginning, but for some reason I never did.
I look back to that day I got my first real camera, Nikon FM2, and 35mm lens, and what I could have done. I had an entire family of subject matter at arms length, but instead I chose to venture into the world after other more exotic subjects, many of which were totally unattainable.
I moved thousands of miles away from the rest of the clan, and still live this far away, but even so, I could have done a lot more over the years. So now, whenever I get the chance, I try to add to my archive of all things Milnor.
I have a photo of my dad in my kitchen here in California, which I’ll include, and many people have commented on this image. Pentax 6×7, Trix, great light, great location, and a rare moment when padre was okay with being photographed. It’s also a beautifully printed, warmtone, silver print. I wish I could say I printed it, but I didn’t. This was made during my 15 year, unexplainable lapse from darkroom printing. But, alas, I have it. And I actually have a second version of it, printed neutral. When I look at this image, it is a reminder of the importance of this work. This image is a reminder that the best, and most important images, for the most part, come from personal work. Padre is no longer with us, so there aren’t any new images and never will be. When you think of my dad you have to think of Burt Reynolds from the 1970’s. The mustache, the machismo, etc. I wouldn’t say he was easy to photograph, not by any stretch, but occasionally I could snap a picture or two.
Truly horrific iphone reproduction of a print that was made by hand.
My timing of trying to built a family archive could not have been better. Two days before pops died I managed to talk the parental units into driving with me into the Everglades in Florida, so that I could add to the archive. Those images are posed, somewhat forced, but are also the last images I have of him. And when I look at those images now I can see a few characteristics of my current style that might have come from that shoot.
So recently I was in Texas and lined up the family members, or those willing, and made some new snaps. The young Milnor members are easy. I can still push them around and make them do what I want, which is simply awesome. The older Milnors are hit and miss, so I get what I can.
Mom is far more relaxed about being photographed than padre ever was, so it’s easier to get pictures. She is the enigma who one minute is waxing poetic about the benefits of organic food and exercise, and then the next minute is eating a three pound block of fudge and wondering why she doesn’t feel so well. This kind of violent manhandling of basic logic makes for great pictures.
On this day, I think I shot one roll of 6×6, one roll of 6×9 and one roll of 35mm, and all three gave me completely different looks and feels.
I chose this one because of what a potential client said to me the other day, a client who turned out to be one of the most interesting potential clients I’ve ever met. “I’ve never seen a photographer put totally out of focus pictures on their site but somehow make it work.”
I have many in focus pictures of my mom, some of which I’ll post later, but I like this out of focus image a lot.
It’s like an inside joke. All the ingredients are like a secret language that only our family can read.
It’s starts with the hat, which is the same hat she has had, and worn, from the time I was a kid, so it’s at least 40 years old. It was the hat that everyone else wanted, but she kept it and kept us from getting our grubby hands on it. I think the hat emerged from Wyoming when they first began making trips to this wild land, back in the early 1970’s.
And the jacket she is wearing is actually a Native American poncho of some sort, that has also been around for a long while. It’s been draped over a railing or hanging from a wall in all the home bases we have seen over the years.
But perhaps the most important chapter of this little photo story is the red oak in the background. I think land has always been a key to our story, first Indiana, then Wyoming then Texas. Indiana was swampland, which is as AWESOME as it sounds, and the most memorable image I can think of, of our family from that time, was made near the swamp during a Christmas tree hunt. We are all bundled in layers, ski masks on, standing with mom and our prized tree as dad snapped the picture. I think later that day, in the truck on the way home, my brother got a piece of corn stuck in his nose. I remember my mom saying, “Your gonna get it stuck, your gonna get it stuck,” and my brother kept jamming it up his nose and then blowing it out. Suddenly, it wouldn’t come out. There was panic, screaming and lots of nose blowing. It eventually came out.
In Wyoming we lived nestled into the edge of the great pines, miles and miles of them, and at that time, the ONLY sound in that entire area was wind through these trees and other weather associated noises. I can remember sitting outside in the black of night, waiting for meteors to streak across the sky as the coyotes howled and laughed around us. I also remember almost burning down the entire area after setting off a “butterfly” some illegal firework we picked up from some creepy guy in a trailer just outside of Laramie. I think the following year that same trailer exploded, leaving a rusted out, blackened hulk for our viewing enjoyment. Being Wyoming, nobody bothered to have it removed or cleaned up. It might still be there.
And now, deep in the heart, we have these red oaks swaying.
So for me, this picture is really three pictures in one, and even though her face isn’t in focus, it doesn’t matter. I did shoot a second frame of this, it’s just a little wider, but I like this one better.
Someday down the road I’ll make a book of our history, our family and maybe this image will be a part of it.
And whenever I get a chance to go home, I’ll make sure to take the time, badger the right people, and try to continue to add to the archive. Next up are the brother and sister units who are more “difficult.”
But I know I must persevere because in many ways, this is the most important work I do.
This photo sums up my entire life.
It does. It really does.
I don’t think I’ve ever fit in, and if this isn’t proof enough, I’m not sure what is.
First, this “peacock” hairstyle. I don’t recommend it. Sure, it might seem fun and dashing, but the reality is this style is a “red” haircut, meaning it takes more energy to produce than what you get from the actual thrill of wearing it.
Second, the outfit. Clearly my fashion sense never left the Indiana swampland. And to add insult to injury, I still have those same clothes, and still wear them from time to time.
Also, the fanny pack, bum bag, whatever you want to call it. No sane photographer would be caught dead in one of these, and yet I found a way to wear it in high-noon light, on the beach, in public, amid thousands of people who are mostly doing nothing other than “people watching” and making fun of people wearing stupid outfits. And for the slam dunk, I use the shoulder sling bag as well, just to emphasize my suspect attire choices.
I can’t remember what I was carrying in those bags, perhaps a roll of film or two, yo-yo, maybe a coloring book, but combined together, they complete my stunning get up. I dare you to follow me.
And the tripod…yes, I admit, I do use them from time to time, but it is RARE. This photo might be worth something. Probably not.
But perhaps most importantly, for those of you out there with a penchant for pushing the button, there is a lesson to be learned here. If you find yourself surrounded by a sea of conformity, it doesn’t mean you have to join the ranks. It’s okay to feel around in the dark, or the blazing sun, and find your OWN path. I’ve never quite understood this photographic lifestyle. I mean I do and I don’t. If you and I have the same camera, same lens, same vantage point, and same editorial choices, then what value does the image have. Jesus, did I just create a word problem? I detested those in school, and don’t think I ever got a single one correct.
“If Billy and Jane both left Anaheim on the 7:15 train, and Jane hadn’t slept the night before, but Billy blacked out at 3am from blunt head trauma, which traveler will arrive more refreshed?”Please show your work.
I could never wrap my head around these things, and my answer of “Ah, I wouldn’t know, I prefer air travel,” was never on the multiple choice options.
I remember when this was now, it was 2006, and I had dedicated my time there to making a very specific style of image, one that had no real home in the world in which the material was made. Does that make sense? What I mean is, I had a vision for what that place meant to me, and that vision had next to nothing to do with what was “popular photography,” regarding an event like that. The images I made were strictly made to satisfy some inner need I had to record this place in a certain way, with no real idea of where these images would live.
But, to end this post on a nice upbeat jingle, I’ll leave you with another image, an image of two of the photographs I made during that time, which are now framed and hanging in the house I am sitting in at this exact moment. The images went on to live in many shapes and forms, but long after the event was over. They were in a book. They were exhibited. They are being considered for another book as we speak. Did these things have to do with who I knew. Yes. In part. Did they have to do with luck. Yes, in part. But I think the most important thing was taking a chance and making the pictures I knew I needed to make and not what the industry might want me to make. And to also not get swayed by the “right now” mentally that is pervasive today, to slow down and look at what the life of an image might be, or could be, if it were different, unique or recognizable.
I just realized something. Well, I think I already knew it, but I think I just realized it again, and for all I know I’ve written this post before.
I hear a lot of commotion about the “future of photography,” but I’m pretty darn sure NOBODY really knows what the future will be. Looking back at the last twenty years, I heard this proclamation many times, “The future of photography is…(insert outlandish tale here.) Much of what was predicted was done for marketing purposes more than anything else, but in the end, photography has survived in it’s multiple shapes, forms and formats, just as it always has. The marketing folks sells their elixir and move to figure out what elixir to sell next, and the really serious photographers look up from their desk, purvey the landscape and get back to work.
Today I’m being told, once again, what my future is. Today I’m being told my future is primarily electronic and will need continual upgrades.
But after much pondering and consideration, I think I know why.
It was not that long ago that the Vietnam War raged and television “came of age,” surpassing the still image, the written word, as the primary means of communication. Suddenly the battlefield, as well as every other human endeavor came flowing into the household. People around the world suddenly found themselves spending copious amounts of time in front of the glowing box.
Today, we spend more time in front of the glowing box than every before. We have hundreds if not thousands of channels, options, flowing every second of every day. In my mind Hollywood has become the single most influential societal force in America today, perhaps the world. I think there are more Hollywood driven news stories than any other topic. Any celebrity focused project is a near slam dunk. If I was a serious writer I would research this and give you the actual facts, but that might take real effort.
Hollywood and television dominate the headlines, the magazine world, the social media world and most dinner party conversations.
It typically goes like this.
“Hey, did you see the latest episode of (enter show here)?”
“No.”
“Well do you remember when (enter character name here) crashed his car?”
“No.”
“You know it was right after (enter character name here) got back from her leg amputation.”
“No.”
“I’ve never seen the show.”
Mega-pause and confused look.
“Your kidding right?”
“No.”
This has happened to me countless times.
But here is my little secret. I don’t have cable television. Yes, I’m that guy.
So when I hear that my future is motion, sound, multimedia, tablets, pods, moving photography, magazines that vibrate in my hand, 3D sleeping helmets, plug-in brain modifiers for series subscriptions, food in pill form, etc, I have to laugh and say, “Sorry peeps, that ain’t my future.” It isn’t even my present. And it was never my past.
I was lucky, my parents were not TV people either, and we lived far out in the sticks, where the rabbit ears picked up little more than horrifying local access people talking about and showing their scars from recent surgery, or the local news channel that would go to commercial and forget the camera was on, allowing us to enjoy the anchor picking his nose or yelling at his assistant.
I did have a BRIEF moment of wanting to be Sonny Crockett, but come on, Miami Vice was clearly the pinnacle of television accomplishment. I also remember, as a kid, watching Wild Kingdom each week, right after bath time as mom would plop us down with popcorn and orange juice. I was fascinated by the guy with the wooden pointer, pointing at exotic lands, as Jim, his muscle, got his ass handed to him by some African beast.
Look, you put me in front of a television and my mind just stops. It’s like a drug, even for me, the guy weaned of this potentially evil device at a young age. Turn on the TV and gone is my journal. My book is tossed aside, my phone turned off, and suddenly I’m watching Breakin 2: Electric Bugaloo at 4am.
I can’t help myself and I’m not alone.
This machine, in many ways, has taken over our lives and our culture, so I know why the modern technology snake oil salesmen are telling us all that THIS is our future.
Look. I like still imagery. I’m glad TV is here, and it is a unique thing, but I simply don’t, and probably never will, relate to it like I relate to the still image.
I don’t want my magazine to move around or have sound and motion. Just like my books. I don’t want that. What I love about a book is I can feel it, and it is static and QUIET, same with my magazines.
When I go to a gallery, I’m not typically looking for video installations, or the movie that accompanies the work. I’m looking at the quiet, still pieces, hanging formidably from the white walls.
If a piece is really good, and I mean really good, something that only comes along once in a while, the piece doesn’t need ANYTHING else. Most of what we see in the still photography world isn’t great, so perhaps adding sound and motion are crutches used to salvage average work. Look around, you’ll see what I’m talking about.
When a still image is great, and again I mean great, when you look at it you can smell it, hear it, as well as see it. All of these senses are triggered by the magic image, but more importantly by your MIND. Your senses are engaged because your mind is activated.
I think the multimedia push, in some ways, is a tad lazy, not just in the way most pieces are edited or run too long, but in the sense you might not really be that engaged by the imagery because you are simultaneously being bombarded by sound and motion in addition to the photograph. . Your brain is multitasking, and is trying to deal with at least three things at once. I my mind, that equates directly to one third of the attention going to the image.
A still image requires something on the part of the viewer. A still image is confrontational and solitary. You either engage or you don’t. But I think we have all had that moment when you looked across a space and first set eyes upon an image that nearly stopped your heart. THAT is what I love about still photography.
Let’s go back to Vietnam. When I think of this war, what comes to mind? In my case, still images, not television.
So where are we?
We are just here, today, in 2010, and we have much on our plates. I’m not sure how much I’ll contemplate the future anymore because to do my best work, I really need to concentrate on the now.
Will I watch TV this year, you bet your ass, starting with tonight’s BCS game. But when it ends, I’ll turn it off and go back to my life, and my pursuit of making still images.
My aunt and I share the same birthday, so I always try to call her on the day.
She recently had a book of poetry published. The poems came to her in a “moment of clarity” and suddenly began to flow through her. She wrote them down, thought of self-publishing, but decided to try one mainstream publisher who quickly gobbled her up. I am thrilled for her.
But something from our conversation really hit home. It was that “moment of clarity.”
You see her moment happened when she was holding her granddaughter, and watching her grandson as he roamed and ran. It wasn’t as if she was sitting alone in a darkened room, meditating with flute music. She was in the midst of things, which is what made me stop and think.
They say we all have a “powerspot,” or a place that we subconsciously relate to. “They” being educated people like the college professor that explained the “powerspot” to me.
I agree with this. I have several. One happens to be the drivers seat of my car. Another is the seat of my bicycle. And my other “powerspots,” they vary, move around.
But when I land on one, my best work emerges. Always.
It is during those moments of pristine clarity when, I think, our true creative being emerges. We find the focus we need, we find the second layer of the project, or the third, fourth or fifth. And suddenly, your vision becomes as clear as your moment.
Currently, one of my “powerspots” is where my mom lives. I only get there once, maybe twice a year, but each time I’m there I always manage to find a moment of clarity. And when I do, I make pictures. I make these pictures for no reason other than to make them. I have to.
And what these particular pictures seem to do is give me a sense of place, of being, without really showing where I am. They are like fingerprints, inspired by nature, perhaps a return to my youth. I make them each and every time I go, and I’ve found them more and more interesting over time.
I feel an energy in these images, a respect. I’m not sure anyone else would feel it, or should feel it, but I’m curious about that.
I actually printed one of these, large, roughly 30×30 and it sits framed on my mom’s mantle, above the fireplace. It’s odd to see it, then look out the window and see the real object. There had to be something that alerted me to photographing this object, and then print and frame this object, and then have my mother hang it. There had to be an unknown force. At least it feels that way.
I think the key to these moments is not necessarily the work that is made directly from the experience, but rather the realization of what happened, that you had this moment, you could feel it, and in some ways experienced a creative breakthrough.
At first I thought these images were not really “mine,”, but now I think, perhaps they are “my” work. Maybe they are leaving tracks for me to follow. A warning? A suggestion?
The infamous Kman, not happy at having to stand still for this picture.
I did what I thought I was supposed to do. Yes, after all these years, I still do this.
My nephew, the infamous Kman, races BMX. In fact, he is a total badass with a room full of trophies to show off his 65-pound prowess.
So I go to visit the family and find out I’ve landed on race night.
I have options.
I think to myself, “This is racing action, I’ve got to get that peak moment, I need a motor drive, long lens, etc,” so I grab the digital body and long lens and toss it in the truck.
And then, more out of reflex than anything else, I toss in the Blad.
The track is easy. A small place, and being Texas people are relaxed.
“Hey, my nephew is racing, can I stand in the middle of the track?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
And with a smoking gun the races begin.
I’m hammering away, motor drive humming, mirror clanging up and down. But I’m distracted. Not by something around me, but by something inside me.
“What am I going to do with these images?” I begin to ask.
“Do I really want to sit down and edit through all these motor sequences.”
“Ugh.”
“Why am I doing this?”
“Do I really want to archive these, label these, tag these, etc,etc?”
“Ugh.”
Don’t laugh, this is how my troubled mind works.
I began scrolling through the images on the camera, something I HATE doing. I know hate is a strong word, but it fits here. I DETEST looking at images right after. I think it completely KILLS the idea of being a photographer, BUT I CAN’T STOP MYSELF.
I’m like a total crack monkey with the preview window. I can’t stop. If I turn it off, I just turn it right back on. Hopeless.
I suddenly realized, with slight sadness, I had no interest in even looking at the images I was making. The images didnt’ feel like they were mine.
There were a dozen parents in the same area, all with similar gear, banging away. They probably had the exact same stuff, only of their mini-warriors. And I think there was even the dude that shoots every kid and uploads every single image online so that the one parent without their camera can buy a print.
“Well, I know my brother will like these, or my mom,” I said to myself, making excuses for the images, while I took a quick peak at the refreshment stand wondering what delicious treats they had hidden behind the counter.
I packed up the gear and headed for the car.
Right before burning dust in the parking lot I saw the Blad.
I loaded the relic and grabbed my dreaded tripod. Yes, my tripod, and headed out into the world I had just retreated from.
At least 10% of my mind was still thinking of the refreshment stand. I have to be honest.
Suddenly there were whispers around me.
“Honey, look at that guy with the old camera.” “What is he doing?” “Is he allowed in there?”
“Hey, dude, what the f%$# is that thing.” “Holy S%@#, haven’t seen one of those in a while.”
And suddenly I was in my own world. I could see again. I grunted and shuffled around the pit area like a deranged ape.
Things were clear. I dissected with my eyes, and then framed the pieces. A story began to build.
The kids in the pits were like ants invading an empire, merging in lines and shadow, with harsh artificial light painting their movements with razor sharp shadow. The sky was glowing.
Insects pierced the night. Colors were bright. The wind picked up. Darkness and light. Passion.
I don’t remember much of what was around me. I was “involved” let’s say. I was involved in a 6×6 space that started in my medulla oblongata and ended at the tip of an 80mm.
Clunk.
Minutes later.
Clunk.
This was MY work. My mind. My vision. My moment. This was the work I need to be doing ALL THE TIME. All supplied by following the Kman.
I thought about history. I thought about family. I thought about the light. I thought about what these pictures would mean. I thought about who would have them in 100 years. I thought about Kman and what must be going through his mind.
I was away in that place that photographers go when they are working.
And then. Clunk. It was over.
The White House with it’s fence that LOOKS formidable from close up, but not so bad when you step back. I like this perspective.
So I’m in Washington for a shoot, a good shoot, a rambling, flowing shoot that wanders for several days from the inside of the district to the edges of the Virginia countryside.
I’m staying in a hotel in Georgetown, close enough to the heart and soul, walkable. Just where I want to be.
I love this town.
“You’ve never lived here,” my friends say. True enough. And I always visit when it’s warm, so it’s hard for me to imagine the gripping cold on my thin hands as they try to reload the Leica, or in this case the Blad.
I love this town because it feels like something is going on. Always. I’m an outsider, a complete outsider and because of this I have a special skill. Naivety. Everything is new. Everywhere is new.
Visitors mass in front of The White House. When I first started shooting here I think this street was still open.
Standing on the street corner in the early morning light. A guy next to me in a tan trench coat, dark sunglasses and the butt of a cigar wedged in his teeth. If I’ve ever seen anyone who looks more like a spy I can’t recall. He must be playing a role? Or perhaps he is a spy, just not worried about looking like one?
I always stay longer when I come to this place. If the assignment lasts three days, I’ll stay four or five, just so that I get some time alone.
And when I say alone, sometimes I am alone, walking solitary, but other times I’m surrounded by tourists, by visitors, hundreds if not thousands of them, but I still feel alone because I’m in work mode. I’m walking yes, but I’m LOOKING. And when I look I can simply disappear.
I can stand in front of them and it is as if they can’t see me. With the Blad I’m looking down and holding it low, so I don’t exist in some ways.
There is much going on. There are many unhappy people, some display their wrath with fire and others with quiet.
One of the many protesters near The White House.
I have the Blad and the 80mm, which is what I’ve done 99% of my square work with. Very inexpensive. Very standard. Vanilla. Black and white.
Framing with square is different from any other method. I sometimes have difficulty switching from the square to the rectangle and then back. In some ways, like any other technique outside the standard 35mm rectangle, the square is a gimmick. It really is. It looks different, so there is a tendency to try to get away with things when using it. I’ve done it. I try not to.
A lone, quiet protester who emitted the most peaceful vibe.
The air is thick, hot and very humid. The temperature hovers near 100 degrees. The cameras are hot in my hands and the light has totally gone. Totally. I seek shade and dark places, not because I can’t take the heat but because those are really the only places I can make a picture in this light.
I walk for hours.
My pants are wet with sweat, my shoes are squishing around a little bit. I love the heat, but I walk with the cameras under my arm to try and keep them as cool as possible.
The monuments are a big part of the city, and yes, they have been photographed millions of times. But not by me. And even if I had photographed them before, I would still go back to them every time I visit the city. Not just for images, but for the reason they were placed there in the first place.
The Washington Monument with Delta 3200 and luckily a bit of cloud cover.
Languages. Voices from all over the world are around me, here to see the same thing I came to see. This place means a lot to a lot of different people. In some ways I think this city is nearly forgotten by many Americans. My family never went when I was growing up. Politics cover this place in a residue that is hard to penetrate if you are bothered by that kind of thing. I’m not.
Inside The Lincoln.
I shoot a roll of color in 35mm and keep framing and snapping with the Blad. I walk the entire day, shooting about three rolls of 120. I can see the images in my head. They are not particularly great “”moment” images, although a few are, but they are a recording of my time in this place at this exact moment, something the spy could use to retrace my steps.
The light is still bad and it limits me, but this is nearly always the case. I look for the strange places where I can work with the splintered light. And then I wait for the sun to sink, for the light to get direction and then I pounce once again.
A message left by a wishful individual.
As the day comes to a close I angle back toward the hotel and dry clothes. I empty my pockets out on the bed and count my take, something I always find exciting. What did I get? The not knowing is what I love the most. The trip home begins in the morning.
