Listening For Thunder

Lost In The Fog

2012-02-01T07:19:00.001-08:00

I went out for a short drive this morning, nothing to do with photography, and there they were—all the sizes and shapes of tattered cloud you'd ever wish for inside a viewfinder, drifting across the rural landscape and mingling with thick fog. Everything appeared to be in motion, the clouds in a fair hurry while the fog crept doggedly over hillsides and woodlots. Passing a familiar barn, its massive roof resembled a black stone perched atop the mists, while the bulky outline of a farm tractor flashed by in a second through the open door. A bit farther along the sun emerged and for a bright minute burned like a soft yellow bulb through white curtains, before it was swallowed again. Everywhere, oak trees became more stately, and mysterious.

I certainly enjoyed those mental pictures, but I can't include them here because I didn't take my camera along. As we said when I was a kid, No Biggie (that's the predecessor of the fatuous No Problem). I'm able to walk and chew gum simultaneously, but sometimes you want to concentrate on a single thing, and that device can get in the way of inspiration. Besides, in the black hole of online images anything I shot would be appreciated for a nanosecond, then disappear as surely as that tractor.

And this morning, it was inspiration I needed. A double-shot of beautiful light to rouse me from the wintertime blues. A reason to keep looking, sans camera, in a world that's shrinking ever faster, sucking up subjects until there's nothing new, nothing worthy of photographing that hasn't already been seen dozens of times.

Mental landscapes, too, become veiled in fog, without familiar landmarks to suggest the right direction (men aren't supposed to ask for those, so we just continue stumbling along). Lucky are those who do stop to ask for assistance, or simply pause to read a sign. These are more numerous than you might imagine, so I'm leaving you with a quartet to contemplate the next time you're caught in a photographic whiteout. Perhaps they'll lead you to explore new and satisfying locations.

—On The Luminous Landscape, Mark Dubovoy's essay Everything Matters explores the small details in photography;
—on The Online Photographer, photographer Ken Tanaka offers his thoughts on photographic self-assessment in Ah, January, good reading in any month;
—on Strobist, David Hobby serves up different ways to use your photography in Giving Back With Your Camera;
—finally, also on The Luminous Landscape, fine art photographer Alain Briot discusses the subject of finding inspiration, in a series of essays called Reflections on Photography & Art.

In A Quiet Room Just Off Main Street

2012-01-25T21:24:00.000-08:00

Have you ever wondered, where Spring spends its winter time?

Winter Awakens

2012-01-19T14:55:00.000-08:00

Everyone had been talking about how dry our winter was this year, until this week. That's all forgotten now. Like the teenager in the comic strip Zits who oversleeps every day, the Old Man's sound snooze ended this past Monday, when a brief snow storm visited the valley, to be followed by inches of good ol' Oregon rain. It's still falling today, though not as hard. Flood warnings and road closures are numerous.

For the second time this week I went out to shoot the weather shot, and found it right around the corner (speaking rurally), two miles away.

There was no water on this road yesterday.

The Weather Shot

2012-01-18T12:32:00.000-08:00

Newspaper photographers shoot all kinds of subjects, but when a slow news day comes along they often turn to a reliable stand-by: the weather shot. Through the cycle of seasons Mother Nature is quite often a photographer's invaluable assistant.

When I set off down the driveway last Monday morning, after a light overnight snowfall, I was looking for my own weather picture. I've made the same circuit in other years, and in deeper snows—down to the road to check an old apple tree and various grasses, then back uphill, through mixed woods and pasture, oaks and scattered Ponderosa pines, before hiking up the largest hill opposite our house, its flank covered by ferns, more oak and stout firs, and all manner of woody debris.

What I discovered on my short ramble was accents. The snowfall had barely penetrated the densest portions of the woods, and where it had had left subtle traces.

A pine lost its grip on the saturated soil, adding a new feature to a pasture trail.

A hint of snowfall on an evergreen.

Ferns shone against the dull forest floor on a hillside.

A well-traveled deer trail in the lower pasture. By thetime I completed my circuit walk, all the snow had melted.

Dodge & Burn, Without A Coat Hanger

2012-01-15T19:59:00.001-08:00

Snow flurries and sunshine are alternating today as a storm passes through the valley. There's only a slight chance (so far) that a snow day will keep anyone home tomorrow—the temperature is too warm for snow to stick. Still, the light dusting does rekindle memories from past winters, of snow shovels, tire chains, and wood stoves, and an entire week of school lost to an unexpected storm.

As I was reminiscing about the weather my thoughts wandered to photography, to what I was doing during those times, and though there are prominent black holes in that history this is what came to mind.

I've mentioned in other posts that my first rolls of film, taken forty-odd years ago, were black and white. Kodak's Plus-X mostly, finer-grained Panatomic-X later on when I affected some Zone System artiness. It was the cheap way to practice—I didn't give a thought to color those first couple of years.

When Kodachrome became my film-of-choice in the mid-'70s I still shot B&W when I freelanced for a local magazine. The publisher was a quirky guy whose well-to-do mother kept the thin bimonthly (and him) afloat, and I made enough money to buy a new camera body, though pay (like the assignments) was erratic. I enjoyed feeling journalistic, though, and the best part of the deal was, I shot what I wanted—their budget was non-existent tight, stories were loose, the art director was the publisher's girlfriend, she liked my pictures, and it was fun while it lasted.

That has been my only sustained experience working in a wet darkroom. I lived in a townhouse then, where my bedroom featured a spacious closet plus extra space inside that—it was a little room all its own. It was also mildly claustrophobic and exactly the dimensions required for a Beseler 23C enlarger and yours truly. My workflow was simple: I'd expose a dozen sheets of paper, stow them in a light-tight processing drum, and escape through a wall of clothes to the bathroom, where the developer/stop bath/fixer trays waited on the counter. Of necessity I became adept at getting everything right the first time.

Although it's been decades since I've printed from negatives, an important technique from that technology lives on in today's digital darkroom. (There's a term sure to boil a film purist's blood—especially as there's nothing dark about it. Adobe Systems got it right when they introduced Lightroom for digital editing.) I've rediscovered its importance recently—it's still called Burning and Dodging, except now you don't need quick reflexes—or a short piece of wire—to use it. (Back in the day, fast hands and small bits of paper taped to a wire were the tools used to alter light striking the enlarging paper. Sounds almost prehistoric, doesn't it?)

Digital RAW files are often called digital negatives because, like their film counterparts, they require processing to bring out the best attributes of the photo. They need to be manipulated. And though seeming magic can be accomplished within Photoshop, using specialized Actions or third-party plug-ins, there's still (thankfully) a place for simple adjustments like burning and dodging. The control over what's lightened or darkened, however, is beyond anything film photographers dreamt of. Tiny areas of an image can be magnified and worked to perfection with sizable brushes. The amount of dodging or burning can be set in 1% increments (no guessing). The effects can be targeted to the shadows, mid-tones, or highlights. And since it's digital, if you don't like the look—simply go back a step or two and try again. I don't miss a wet garbage can, either.

The shot I've included here, of an old vice in the shop at Thompson's Mills, is nearly monochromatic on its own—I chose to leave it in color because of the subtle blue tones. The early afternoon side lighting comes from a window to the left. The image is a combination of 15 separate shots—the focus point was moved slightly in each before Helicon Focus rendered the final version (a small aperture wouldn't have given the depth-of-field I desired in this instance, especially at a focal length of 116mm). After adjustments during shooting and post-processing in Photoshop, I did one final thing to the picture, dodging the highlights (at a 10% setting) to give it an edge I thought it lacked.

Sparked

2012-01-10T19:46:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was admiring photographs of Oregon's Painted Hills (part of the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument) taken by fellow Eugenean Zeph Van Allen, and posted here on 500px. He visited the Hills last week and returned home with several sunrise keepers.

Viewing others' work is one way of becoming inspired—in this instance, I was moved to scribble plans for a trip to central Oregon on my mental list, then dig through shots I'd taken in 2005 at the Hills (coincidentally another sunrise), which had never (it turned out) been given a decent vetting.

Sometimes, there's too much to see, let alone keep track of, and I'm glad I found this one. Thanks for the spark, Zeph.

Sunday Afternoon

2012-01-08T16:51:00.000-08:00

I catnap now and then, but I think while I nap, soit's not a waste of time. ~Martha Stewart (actress)

Infinity

2012-01-05T20:01:00.000-08:00

I could wander sandstone country with a single lens
and never, not once in a lifetime, point it at the horizon.

Don't Call It A List

2012-01-03T21:42:00.001-08:00

Three days into the new year and it's begging for a List of Resolutions. Dieting, bad habits to overcome (these categories are often seen traveling together), finances, projects, anything. Just sit down and start writing! But I'm not going to oblige. A marginal optimist I am, but 2011 was like quicksand—plans and wishes, and friends, gone much too quickly. So 2012 is on its own.

Yet, since I harbor a slight list-making urge (another bad habit?), I'm going to satisfy it by creating a mental document, which is far easier to rewrite (or discard) later on. And I'm limiting it to photography—those things I do, or should, new ideas (that are old to others)—in other words, the usual work in progress. It's entirely personal, but I'm putting part of it out here for your inspection. If nothing else, it underscores the fact that photography is an evolving process—and, yes, it does check the box next to "list done." From the top:

1. Simplify Your Tools—Software

I recently downloaded a trial of Adobe Lightroom 3 to compare against two programs I own, Aperture 3 (from Apple) and Phase One's Capture One LE. I was also curious how it would feel in use next to Photoshop. The RAW conversions I've made over the last 2-3 years have been through CS4 (I used CS2 before that, going all the way back to Photoshop 4). Lately, I'd dabbled with file conversions in Aperture. But I felt I was doing too much bouncing around, and Lightroom seemed a possible one-and-done solution.

The first difference (my perception) was a noticeable (and pleasant) increase in sharpness, straight out of the box. Samples processed through Lightroom just looked better, and I also preferred its default colors. I went back and forth with several photographs and each time the results favored LR. My finger was momentarily poised above the BUY button.

BUT. There's always a but, isn't there? While I was evaluating the program I watched a tutorial on The Luminous Landscape, Michael Reichmann's comprehensive photography site, and midway through it he commented on how photographers often juggle several programs to do the same things, instead of choosing one and mastering it. DING! That sounded eerily familiar to another photographic truth—carrying less equipment frees one to shoot better photographs. One camera/one lens. OK, two lenses, but that's it. And suddenly his observation solved my software conundrum.

In short order I uninstalled the Lightroom trial (it worked well, but isn't my style), retired both Aperture and Capture One from the iMac's dock, and updated Photoshop CS4 to CS5—the new version does everything (and more) that I need. I'm comfortable with its interface. And for the way I work the combination of Photo Mechanic (IN box) and Photoshop (OUT box) is the most efficient, satisfying work-up I could ask for.

2. Become Familiar With Software Features You Don't Normally Use

When manufacturers stopped including printed manuals with their products it became easier than ever to just jump in and begin working, rightly or wrongly, with hard- and software. When all else failed we could download a PDF version of the instructions, and cherry-pick only the sections we really needed. Auto exposure bracketing? Selectable focus points? When would I ever use those features?

Software works the same way. Among photo-editing programs Photoshop is the ultimate Swiss-army knife—learning how it works can take years of practice—but studying articles and video tutorials, and practicing (including things I probably will never use) has inspired me to delve more deeply into the program's interrelated features, and moved me closer to perfecting my images. I do a little more each day.

3. Don't Believe Everything You Think

This isn't an original thought—I saw it on a bumper sticker recently. But it speaks to most of what I could add here. Opinions, mostly, certainly not gospel. Photographers as a group seem to crave arguments, but are often unwilling or unable to move from long-help positions—they know they're correct, is all. This year I've resolved (there it is!) to listen a bit longer to what everyone's saying—maybe I'll discover something(s) that changes my outlook, perhaps not. But I'll certainly open my eyes a bit wider, and that can't help but improve the view.

Stuffed

2011-12-29T00:29:00.001-08:00

It's The Lost Week, that disjointed period between Christmas Day and January One when this year finally runs aground, when everyone is finishing up vacations or waiting for a bowl game. Or simply for things to return to normal.

In our house the cats' beds are again in their rightful places, the noble little fir sits outside on the burn pile, and all traces of gift wrap and cupcakes have vanished (although there's an ample supply of leftover ham in the fridge).

For Christmas gift-giving to each other my wife and I limited it to stockings-only, but as Kathy noted, because something is in a large decorative sock doesn't mean it's ~~cheap~~ small.

And sure enough, there it was, in the stubby toe of hers—a pink iPod Shuffle.

After three decades of Christmases past I would never guess that item would be on her wish list—she likes pencils and pads, not gizmos! Uh-oh. When hints first surfaced I shot the idea down as too expensive—and immediately began an earnest search for one, only to discover they are immensely popular. Uh-oh #2. My last stop was the local Mac store, where I should have started and where the last Shuffle in town sat on a shelf, waiting, in the color I wanted. Thanks, Santa.

My Shuffle helps me tune out background noise when I'm on a treadmill at the gym, so I expect we'll make a great tandem (she'll cruise along with Sam Cooke, while I'll chase Eric Clapton). I'm amazed at the amount of technology Apple's put into this tiny device, and also by the packaging. Easy to open, stylish, and small. Very small. That's becoming important to me—I want my (our) possessions to be manageable. When you have more than you can keep track of, it's like having a party that's spun out of control.

A couple of times each year I play George Carlin's famous routine on Stuff, to keep that in perspective. You can view a 1986 performance at this YouTube link.
The language is mild by today's standards, but at a time when millions of children live in cars while heated storage units proliferate, his point(s) get stronger by the day.

I'm going to go clean off a shelf now, and wish you the Happiest of New Years.

A Healthier Photographer

2011-12-23T16:34:00.000-08:00

Delicious baked treats—a variety of cookies, chewy brownies, and mini cheesecakes—appear out of thin air in our kitchen during the Christmas holiday. It happened again this week, as my wife moved deftly among ingredients, magic wand measuring spoons in hand. In past years the laws of supply and demand required a quick pace to maintain an equitable balance between the two—the shelf life of chocolate snaps, fruit drops, and snickerdoodles could be measured in minutes, not days.

But not this year.

The brownies, obviously baffled, stared at me from their colorful holiday plate, dwindling in number until only a single crumbling morsel remained. I didn't see it go. The little cheesecakes? Huddled in the refrigerator under wrap, waiting for Christmas Eve. AND ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE, NOT A COOKIE IN SIGHT. What happened here?

I've given myself a gift of better health.

Most of us try, a time or two, to improve our diets, exercise regularly, and avoid foods* we know are bad for our health. But none of that comes easily—it takes time to be healthy, and we're in a hurry. And there's so much information to digest. Over- whelmed, we retreat toward convenience, especially at mealtimes. I've done that, too. But three months ago, after reading a book on nutrition and disease, I decided to try something different—I eliminated wheat from my diet.

Ever wonder why Santa Claus is a jolly round fellow?

Dr. William Davis will tell you—it's because of all those cookies! And bread, bagels, cakes, cereals, pasta—anything (and everything) made from "healthy whole grains." Wheat, in a word. There are other culprits that damage our health, he advises, but wheat is The Big One, genetically modified beyond count and never tested on humans to see how it might affect their health. Oops.

A cardiologist, Davis wrote Wheat Belly, 228 pages chronicling his experiences with wheat, the effects it has on our bodies, and real-life case stories drawn from the thousands of patients he's treated. His bias towards real food is evident (he points out the many healthy foods available that don't include wheat), but his tone isn't evangelical. I'll admit, I bogged down near the middle as he explained some of the body's intricate workings, but by then I was convinced of the truth of his arguments—and ready to experiment. What could I lose?

As it's happened: fifteen pounds. Frequent, insistent cravings. The subtle aching in my knees (after only ten days.) Yawning fits. The list goes on. In the process I've regained a sense of taste—an enjoyment for what I eat. Minus the aches, my gym workouts (moderate weights and cardio) are fresher and more productive. I wasn't significantly overweight when I removed wheat from my personal menu (although I didn't care for the view in my mirror), but the pounds came off quickly. I was, and am, amazed.

If you're looking for a great book for your favorite photographer I heartily recommend Wheat Belly. Here's a link to Amazon (the Kindle version is now out), or patronize your local bookseller or library.

*As a kid I loved the taste of Twinkies and that creamy center—we all did. But there wasn't any cream in it (it's white vegetable shortening). Here's a partial list of the other ingredients—enriched wheat flour, sugar, corn syrup, high fructose corn syrup, vegetable and/or animal shortening (containing one or more of partially hydrogenated soybean, cottonseed or canola oil, and beef fat), dextrose, whole eggs, modified corn starch, salt, cornstarch, wheat gluten, natural and artificial flavors, caramel color, Yellow #5, and Red #40. Mmmm.

Christmas Spirit

2011-12-20T19:56:00.000-08:00

Sunday Slippers

2011-12-18T19:32:00.001-08:00

Wintertime here in the Willamette Valley is characterized by gray skies, gloom, and galoshes, and I'm happy to report we're meeting that standard today. Weather Underground claims we're experiencing "light rain mist," but as any Oregonian could tell them it's DRIZZLE. The dry, cold days that have dogged us this month may finally be giving way to Normal, and I'm ready for it.

It's the kind of day that suggests you slip on warm slippers, prod the fire in the stove, and watch cats sleeping while your wife finishes wrapping the last batch of Christmas gifts. Cradling a warm cup of coffee, I'm meeting that standard, too. Earlier I put out bird seed and grabbed the paper from its box, but I'll hibernate here at the computer for the remainder of the afternoon. I won't need a reminder that the shortest day of the year is approaching, but on the flip side of that thought is this: spring is a day closer.

Yesterday was mostly hidden by a dense coverlet of fog, another seasonal staple in the valley. We drove to my sister's home in Donald, 90 miles north on the interstate, and I was one of perhaps a dozen drivers keeping at or near the posted speed limit of 65. I'd sound like an elderly person reminiscing about how it used to be if I mentioned how stupid my fellow motorists were acting, so I won't. The state police did stop a few to remind them, though.

When we arrived I realized, again, that there are exactly two traditions I look forward to at Christmastime—the lovely way my wife decorates our home, making it special all over again, and the hand-made crafts my sister fashions in her own version of Santa's workshop. (Call it sibling pride, but I believe those other elves would be jealous.)

Their talents are complementary, and nowhere more evident than around the windows in our dining area. Fir boughs gathered from the woods surround them, accented by old Christmas cards, small stuffed animals, and dozens of crafted ornaments. Can you say reindeer? If Santa ever needs a replacement or two on his team, I hope he'll call.

My meager contributions to all this festivity are two-fold—I stay (mostly) out of the way and agree with everyone, and I'm in charge of the coffee brewer. We're not buying gifts for each other this year (we are doing stockings), so I'm even off the hook for wrapping (which I do enjoy). That leaves lots of time for my slippers, in front of the fire.

And anyway, I've already got everything I really need. Every day of the year.

Paraphrased

2011-12-15T19:58:00.000-08:00

I photograph to find out what something will
look like photographed.~Garry Winogrand

And now I photograph to find out what
something will look like Photoshopped.

A Lot Like Life

2011-12-14T21:21:00.000-08:00

At The Playground

2011-12-07T20:09:00.001-08:00

I'm lucky to have a historic place to go to for photography. So when our portion of the Willamette Valley was cloaked in fog yesterday, I decided spur-of-the-moment to beat the blahs and drive to Thompson's Mills to look for pictures.

Morning temperatures were slightly below freezing when I left, but the highway was dry and clear, and uneventful. I stopped at the store in Shedd for a Snickers, and shortly afterwards was extending the legs on my Gitzo.

You already know, if you read this blog, that I've been photographing at Thompson's since this past summer. For me it is a playground, pure and simple. All that clanking machinery once run by hard-working no-nonsense people? Teeter-totters and swings to me. It's a place where recess never ends, because nothing I do there is work (although with the acceptance of my volunteer's hat I did agree to get a bit dirty. Maybe.)

Unlike the stubborn fog, my photographic spirits lifted quickly as I sought out new subjects. I hadn't expected to find an arcade game, although it had been in plain sight all along. I wandered the ground floor for hours that way.

Discoveries, like that candy bar, are sweet treats.

Stocking Stuffers

2011-11-29T12:09:00.000-08:00

When we reach a certain age we no longer expect wrapped gifts and birthday cakes topped by flaming candles—we've matured, and a thoughtful card and dinner out are all that's necessary to remind us that we're special. It's also probably true that we've been buying our own gifts for a while now, because it's difficult for someone else to know exactly what we want.

If you're married (in any fashion) to a photographer you've already agonized a time or two over this problem. You'd like to buy something that shows how much you understand what the other person's doing, but if photography isn't your passion it's nearly impossible to select the right item. Even small, innocuous stocking stuffers like memory cards can trip you up—did you buy one fast enough to match the camera's capabilities? Oops.

If you're in this position, I recommend gifting your favorite photographer with a gift certificate. It puts the choice where it belongs, and will reinforce their belief in your continuing good sense.

My wife has followed this advice for many years now—you won't catch her thumbing through the plump B&H PhotoVideo catalogs that arrive twice a year. She knows better. So yesterday, as we celebrated my birthday (one candle was enough), our mail carrier brought up a small box from Outdoor Photo Gear. Inside were a couple of lightweight accessory bags for my thinkTANK waist belt, my preferred method of carrying camera+lenses+whatever when I'm working. I got them on a close-out and they're exactly what I wanted.

Black & White Friday

2011-11-25T17:59:00.001-08:00

I looked through yesterday's bloated ~~newspaper~~ advertisements but couldn't find anything in today's mega-sales that could get me out of bed at midnight. I already have an old TV, spare vacuum cleaner bags, coffee filters, and wood pellets for the stove. I'm set.

In fact, if I really need something, chances are above-average I'll buy it online, probably from one of the same businesses that ran a print ad in the paper. I simply ~~can't~~ won't join the half of our population that goes bargain-hunting *The Day After.

Plus, my to-buy-for list is much smaller than it used to be—another sign we're aging, I'm afraid. Family and friends, now gone, and children who've outgrown toys. Hey, kids, it happens. Thus, like many of you, when I want something for myself these days I go out and buy it—I don't require a traditional holiday for that.

Freed from seasonal shopping stress (a self-induced delusion that mocks real stress—like not having a home or food to eat, after you've lost your job), I've been going through my photo archives (happy-speak for that mess on the hard drives) with an eye out for images I've ignored. It's true, I think, that we spend considerably more time taking pictures than looking at them afterwards. There's always a special few, The Keepers, that we justifiably print and frame, or publish on-line, but what about the rest of the shots we took alongside those?

When I signed on to 500px recently I decided to place some of my forgotten and overlooked pictures there, ones I hadn't showcased elsewhere (with a few exceptions). My small collection is a hodgepodge at the moment, bits and pieces from here-and-there, but it's great (and sometimes surprising) fun to sort through old visual treasure, and it sure beats a day at the mall.

*Did you know the moniker Black Friday originated in Philadelphia in the late 1960s, coined by their police department to describe the massive traffic jams and mob scenes that tied up the city on the day after Thanksgiving? This is the type of trivia you have time to look up on Google when you aren't actually out shopping.

Time Worn

2011-11-21T20:02:00.001-08:00

A challenge when shooting a subject over time is seeing the familiar in new ways.

This photo, of the worn surface on a canvas pulley belt at Thompson's Mills, is a good example of taking a fresh look. The belt is normally submerged in strong shadows, so I used an old Nikon Speedlight (triggered by a PocketWizard) on my 5DII to bring out the patterns and character lurking there.

I'd start the camera's self-timer, then move around to the back side of the contraption and aim the flash along the axis of the belt (humans make excellent light stands). I needed a few takes to get the image I wanted, but the technique is straightforward and, most importantly, gave me a wonderful rendition of something I pass every time I visit the mill.

A Square Deal

2011-11-19T05:00:00.000-08:00

While I was working up photos into square compositions this week I started a list of things I felt couldn’t have come in any shape except a square.

•    The classic town square
•    Ghirardelli chocolates
•    Record album covers
•    Square dances
•    The Rubik’s Cube
•    Square pegs
•    Times Square
•    Madison Square Garden
•    David Plowden’s black and white photographs
•    Chess boards
•    Bingo cards
•    The Macintosh Cube
•    Tic-tac-toe
•    A square meal
•    And with the colors in the above photo in mind:

A man who is good enough to shed his blood for the country
is good enough to be given a square deal afterwards.
~Theodore Roosevelt

Leaning

2011-11-17T05:00:00.000-08:00

On a side road off Hwy 12, central Montana
If you read Tuesday's post (El Seven) you know I'm being "square" this week. Whether hip or not, I'll put up another this weekend before returning to rectangles.

Lucky Number

2011-11-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

13 W. Broadway Street, Butte, Montana

El Seven

2011-11-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

My twin grandsons are in junior high this year, attending the same school I did in the early 1960s. When one asked if I remembered Mr. So-and-So, a current teacher, I explained that I was born well before most of the school’s staff (math is never an easy subject). On the positive side, the boys evidently don’t think I look that old, not yet.

When I was a student there the Yankees were in the World Series every year (all the games played in the daytime), communism was threatening the free world, and my parents bought their first color TV. Coincidentally, the term square was undergoing a subtle transformation, from strong and clean to a wholly different meaning—one most of us were desperate to avoid.

The slang for this was “L-7” (when you held your thumbs and first fingers just so you didn’t have to say it aloud) and if you fell into that group of losers you didn’t get it or, worse, were totally out of it. When Sam the Sham and The Pharaohs sang “Let’s not be L7, come and learn to dance” we didn’t need a reminder of our social status.

By high school I wasn’t giving squares a second thought, except in geometry class. When my family went on vacation one summer I shot my first real pictures with a box camera, and those colorful squares that came back from the photo lab would have been magical in any shape.

And then, a couple of years after I graduated, rectangles entered my life.

SLRs were increasingly popular in the ‘70s, led by the Pentax Spotmatic and Minolta’s SRT series. The 35mm format, with its 2:3 ratio, became the de facto standard. Here was a completely different space to fill with something interesting. After I purchased one of the SRTs, visualizing anything as a square picture was out of the question.

But I did try. Shortly before Huey Lewis & The News released the song Hip To Be Square I picked up a Mamiya twin-lens camera—I’d fallen for the notion that medium format was somehow better than 35mm. I was back to Square One, literally.

I shot mostly black-and-white with that camera—it was cheap (I did the developing) and somehow seemed more artful. I didn’t take it out often—it was, for me, awkward-handling. When I did, though, my pace slowed (that’s never been fast, as most anyone will tell you), a tripod was mandatory and I thought I spent extra time considering each photo through the viewfinder.

I’d like to remember it that way, but honestly—my eyes were still searching out rectangles. After I sold the Mamiya my next diversions into larger formats came in the shapes of a Pentax 6x7 and, finally, a 4x5 field camera. I abandoned both when I realized I was happiest—and did my best work—inside a 35mm frame.

Today, it’s still my favorite space, but digital photography has caused me to reconsider square images. Resizing with photo editing software takes only seconds, so square is always an option, whether conceived beforehand or cropped later on. I believe there are interesting square compositions hidden inside most of our rectangular framings.

So, the next time you’re agonizing over a rectangle that isn’t working, do what I do—select the crop tool and discover how L7 can transform your work.

Country Music

2011-11-12T11:44:00.001-08:00

The soundtrack of small-town America can be heard in its cafés, where muted voices mingle with laughter while bacon sizzles on the grill. It is the music of everyday conversation.

And as rural life contracts it’s becoming difficult to find. Running a restaurant miles from any large town is a gamble often lost even in prosperous times.

So when you pass through Mitchell, east of Prineville and the Ochoco Mountains in central Oregon, you’ll be slightly amazed to find not one but three cafés.

There is, apparently, an unwritten rule that at least two of these will be Closed when you arrive. The Little Pine and Bridge Creek, rumored to be run entirely at their owners’ whims, were dark on my most recent trip through the area, which left The Sidewalk, now reopened after years of dormancy.

I didn’t expect to see the red plaid hunting hat that hung on a hook inside the front door, unclaimed, for a decade, but I was pleased that the counter stools, vinyl buttons of green and red, were still intact. A classic touch, though hardly anyone sits on them any more. Better to take a table by the window, which we did.

A rancher and his wife? girl friend? daughter? were at the next table talking about the weather. Five degrees that morning. Frozen pipes. Outside, he had a pump motor on the passenger's seat of his pickup, but he said he’d come back for her. Grinning. Unless she wanted to walk the short distance. “You won’t freeze.”

After they’d gone a local couple, elderly, came in, and then another man. Within minutes they were all chatting about someone they knew in common. I joined in when the last arrival said he now lived in Athena, in the northeastern part of the state—I’d been there several times shooting harvest pictures—and wasn’t a bit surprised he knows the same farmer.

Meanwhile, the waitress/cook/owner kept the coffee flowing. My fingers warmed up. And breakfast, right on cue, began playing in the background.

A Second Chance

2011-11-08T23:07:00.001-08:00

The big willow tree stood alone for many years in Mud Lake, twenty miles south of Burns, Oregon, along Route 205, where The Narrows butts up against the western edge of Malheur Lake. Long after it died it was still providing perches for birds (cormorants in the image here) and photos for passing photographers.

Mud Lake only appears during particularly rainy years, when water from Malheur expands across sparsely populated rangeland and crosses the highway, so as I topped a long hill above the lake one evening several years ago I recognized the rare opportunity below. The sun, casting wonderfully colored ribbons of light on the water, would set in less than fifteen minutes—barely enough time to park, set up the tripod, and shoot a few considered frames (I was shooting film at the time). It was close. Another fellow stopped and did the same thing—looking back I believe we both had a touch of buck fever. His "Wow" went for me, too.

When I approached the willow on my recent visit to Frenchglen, I knew immediately that it had fallen—its bleached form was missing from the landscape. I pulled up slowly, sorry to see the old tree lying on its side in the water. When I arrived in Frenchglen I asked John Ross, who runs the hotel, what had happened to the willow. He said a strong wind storm passed through the area in April, one last blast the rotted trunk couldn't withstand.

And that was the end of the willow.

Until I returned two days later on my way home.

While my wife took up her binoculars to check out a number of grebes feeding nearby, I set up the tripod and gave the willow a second chance. If there is such a thing as falling gracefully, it had pulled it off. Before, I'd seen it as a purely vertical scene—now, it suggests horizontal (I shot it as a vertical for comparison).

The next time I travel through The Narrows I hope the sun is again performing its magic on Mud Lake, because I know the willow will be ready.

A Basement Trio

2011-11-07T21:40:00.000-08:00

Following up on the last post, here are three additional photos from the dark basement at Thompson's Mills.

Autumn, Through An Unlikely Window

2011-11-06T05:00:00.000-08:00

I've been volunteering as a photographer since July at Thompson's Mills State Heritage Site, outside of Shedd, Oregon, rendering my interpretations of the long-silent machinery and atmosphere in the old building. On Friday I spent a couple of hours in the basement, where it was really dark (the lights were out, by design). Mindful of the low ceiling beams and uneven flooring, I spent half my time considering what to shoot—and listening. Was that history whispering in the quiet morning? Probably just Bucky, the unofficial Head Ranger and #1 Cat, checking out my tripod.

I've learned not to look too hard when I'm in a new place and surrounded by unfamiliar subjects—it's better for me to move around, stop, and repeat the process until the feel of my surroundings (if there is one) comes to me. I'm certain I'd miss good opportunities if I jumped at the obvious things first.

The basement is such a place. I'd walked around it, identifying machinery I was interested in, while giving no thought (or looks) to the row of windows on the east side of the building. These wear years of accumulated dust, cobwebs, and grime—except for one. It was when I was changing lenses by the door that I noticed this low window covered by—burlap? At least I think that's what it is, a large beige piece hanging from the wall in the darkest portion of the room.

The autumn colors (barely twenty yards away, along the Calapooia River) contrast perfectly with the enveloping blackness, while a complimentary slice of colorful light seeping under a board in the wall adds balance to the frame. By chance (or subconscious planning) my tripod was already in the perfect spot to shoot, and after switching to the 70-200 I captured my favorite photo of the day.

Not Quite

2011-11-03T20:26:00.001-07:00

When I walked down to fetch the newspaper this morning I noticed how bare the trees have become, seemingly overnight, across our small valley. They should be flaunting their fall wardrobes now, mingling with dark evergreens to create colorful designs across the hillsides. But no—a jumble of dull browns and duller greens faced me. Only the visual heat from a lone maple countered the drabness.

The scene was similar in town yesterday. Reds were flashy (if infrequent) while the yellow and orange hues were listless, or already on the ground.

When I was in southeastern Oregon last week only the larches lent any Pop! to the landscape. Over several mountain passes the story was the same—I saw but a single stand of aspens deserving of closer inspection. If I summed up my impression of autumn it would be: Not Quite. (And now: too late.)

Summer was cooler than normal this year (the high temperature topping out at 94F) and tardy. Gardens were late, their gardeners frustrated. Butterflies? Scarce compared to past years. Perhaps the most telling fact for us: we didn't use The Big Fan once. I'm wondering what impact this is having on autumn, if any.

Forecasters predict another cold, wet La Niña winter for the Pacific Northwest, so perhaps we're in a cycle that won't be fully apparent for several years. Like the drought in Texas.

But whether it's aspen leaves or bluebonnet flowers, when the weather changes dramatically we begin to appreciate how it can affect the photography we take for granted.

Autumn, Underfoot

2011-10-31T14:37:00.000-07:00

I spent three refreshing high-desert days in Frenchglen, Oregon, last week, lodged at the historic Hotel. The quiet countryside, the animal and bird life, expansive views towards Steens Mountain, and John's family-style meals—each by itself is a reason to travel there, and they're unbeatable in combination.

I expected autumn's colors to be past their peak, and so they were. Aspen and cottonwood leaves were scarce, and from all accounts didn't attain the striking yellow-and-orange shades of seasons past. Hurried along by freezing nights, many simply acquiesced to their cyclic fate. The cottonwoods next to the hotel provided the colorful carpet pictured here, swirling about at the back door, a reminder that the best photo is oftentimes right at our feet.

Living Furniture

2011-10-28T06:00:00.000-07:00

Everyone that's owned a cat also possesses a story (or two)

about furniture scratched to ruin by them. In our kitchen it's a

beloved grandmother's stuffed chair, on the right-front leg.

Yet this is a small price, and who remembers a chair after

twenty years? Cats and dogs are our living furniture.

I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little,

they become its visible soul. ~ Jean Cocteau

The Feline Rule

2011-10-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

In a cat's eye, all things belong to cats. ~ English proverb

Creature Comfort

2011-10-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

No day is so bad it can't be fixed with a nap.~ Carrie Snow

Why Would Anybody Name a Cat "Angel?"

2011-10-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, cats live up to the names we give them. After six years, Angel has passed that test. When I took this shot she'd just gotten up from a nap, and was watching her new brother, Quincy, who you met in yesterday's post. At this moment he was acting disinterested in her, because he knows there will be ample time for pestering.

Watching her reaction to the intruder reminded me, coincidentally, of 1956, my sixth year. One day my parents told me we were going out to get a new puppy, and that's the first lie I remember. Wouldn't you know it, they stopped at the hospital and brought home a baby. How can you play with that?

As Angel will tell you, smile, act friendly, and always keep your eyes open.

How To Use A Sofa on Saturday Afternoon

2011-10-24T06:00:00.000-07:00

I met Quincy for the first time Saturday, the New Boss at my sis's and brother-in-law's house and a co-operative model for his new uncle's camera. He worked as hard as any fashion model strutting down a runway, so frequent time outs became necessary.

Luckily for me there was a sofa handy, and his day rate was within budget.

Cloud Illusions

2011-10-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

Why Sunlight Slants Through The Window

2011-10-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

Red Rubber Boots

2011-10-17T05:00:00.000-07:00

I awoke at 3:30 this morning thinking about a pair of red rubber boots I owned in the 1970s.

I’d like to believe I bought them for their dazzling appearance, but that’s only speculation. What I know is, they followed me faithfully through a series of moves before disappearing, in 1979, in the midst of another. I’d relocated to Missoula, Montana, that summer, and when I returned to Oregon in the fall the boots—plus a few other items—stayed behind, lost in the disorganized contents of a friend’s basement apartment. There were a lot of boxes down there, and I missed that one.

When the boots popped into mind today they were joined by another of the misplaced articles—a carton containing photos I’d taken since 1971, the year I bought my first camera. Not all of those pictures, fortunately, just enough that I ~~longed~~ looked for them for a couple of years before accepting that they were gone, even as the memories they’d cue faded. Time screws a dirty skylight filter over long-ago events, and without associated pictures those recollections shift as easily as quicksand.

This is an effect that intensifies as you get older.

The reappearance of the boots is well-timed, however, because I’ve set up my light box on a table here in the office and will soon commence work on The Last Edit. Now, I know it won’t be the last—I’m not that naïve—but it has to come close, because the file cabinet is stuffed with plastic slide pages and boxes and something has to give. If I continue to ignore them these images will end up like the photos I lost in ‘79—out of sight, and eventually out of mind.

At least the digital images on my hard drives contain embedded EXIF data; information (if any) on the slide mounts is cursory—maybe, if I’m lucky, the date and subject, but nothing more. And to begin organizing the pictures I must rely on file folder labels, which hopefully are still accurate. “I know they’re here somewhere.“

While I’m doing the analog editing I’m also going to swing my chair around and dabble with the digital side—feeding off the energy of one to provide impetus for the other. Hard drives fill as surely as any file drawer, so here’s a chance to gain breathing room there, too.

Autumn-into-December is a prime time for all of this—the shorter, darker, rainy days will be perfect for sorting, while at night I can listen to raindrops pepper the roof and perhaps dream of something besides red rubber boots.

Blues

2011-10-15T05:00:00.000-07:00

Footbridge Over Town Beck

2011-10-14T10:50:00.000-07:00

Like the etched wooden floor in the preceding post, this English packhorse
bridge, which allowed people and livestock to cross Town Beck (a small tributary
of the River Wharfe) on the original parishioners' route to the Addingham church,
has seen its share of footwork. Its heavy burdens now long forgotten, the stones
relax under the faint steps of passing walkers on the Dales Way.

The Art of Work

2011-10-13T05:00:00.000-07:00

When I realized the last two postings featured work (who plans these things?), I decided to continue the theme with another photo from Thompson's Mills. I'd been after this particular one for a while—other, temporarily immovable objects kept getting in the way—but last Friday I had my chance. What you see is the signature of decades of hard, repetitive work, etched into plywood flooring by the man who stood in that small space for over thirty years bagging products, stitching the fifty-pound sacks, and stacking them for transport. Though not a work of art, it's certainly the art of work.

Beauty Marks

2011-10-12T05:00:00.000-07:00

A scarred wooden dresser in the historicFort Peck Hotel, Fort Peck, Montana.
Fort Peck was built in 1934 to house Army Corps of Engineers employees involved in the construction of the Fort Peck Dam. Over 10,000 workers overwhelmed the new town's capacity, with many spilling into adjacent shanty towns. Today the population of Fort Peck is less than 300. I stayed a night at the famous Hotel in 2009; the following morning sunlight streamed into my room and across these dresser drawers, highlighting the scrapes and scratches left by visitors since the Great Depression.

Imagine the stories we'd hear if furniture could talk.

When Do Photographers Retire?

2011-10-10T12:00:00.000-07:00

Whatever the job—filling prescriptions, slogging through bad weather to deliver mail, answering phones, digging ditches, inputting data, or any of the multitude of tasks we perform for pay—eventually we're ready to retire. The car can now be used for pleasure instead of commuting, strangling neckties are dropped into the Goodwill bin (along with those uncomfortable shoes), and the alarm clock goes silent.

Our retirements arrive after decades of work, careers often spent at the same job and company, and though we say we liked those jobs we wouldn't want to do them until we die.

But what about photographers? When do they retire?

Imogen Cunningham moved adroitly between subjects and projects into her early 90s when, as a son noted, she simply wore out. Retirement was not in her dictionary.

Street photographer Garry Winogrand left behind thousands of rolls of unprocessed film, and hundreds of thousands of unedited images, when he died of cancer in 1984. Only disease makes a photographer like that put down the camera.

For someone like David Plowden, who documented rural, small-town America during the second half of the 20th century, their subjects disappear (Plowden quit field work because his favored places were gone). Through his Web site and lectures, he continues to be active.

These examples are but three among thousands that comprise the continuing history of photography, from glass plates to film to digital, a fascinating story about lives lived and worked to their ends.

In his final regular appearance on 60 Minutes, Andy Rooney said "writers don't retire," and he could have been speaking for photographers, too.

Does Your Spearmint Lose Its Flavor?

2011-10-07T08:29:00.000-07:00

One summer evening in 1983 I was driving through South Dakota when I heard a familiar sound out in the dense, humid darkness. Familiar, but out of place—who would be running weed trimmers at ten o'clock, and why? My wife, who grew up in the Show-me State (Missouri), quickly informed me—that high-pitched droning was made by bugs. Lots of 'em. "You haven't been this far east before, have you?"

The side windows were cracked open a few inches (The Weenie, our beloved Datsun wagon, didn't have AC) and at that moment my left hand gripped the radio antenna—it actually improved the reception, which had begun to fade just as the Top Twenty Countdown reached #1. I drove along the interstate that way until Every Breath You Take had concluded, and am back in the moment whenever it's played.

We have cicadas in Oregon, too, but they're loners. These were a presence, like a boisterous crowd at a concessions stand, impatient for cold beer. I suppose I wouldn't have thought about any of this except, tonight, the slight tinnitus I have is ringing, just like those bugs along the highway to Saint Louis. A remembered sound, a mental image.

And this works both ways. Most of us have various media—slides, prints, movies—as evidence of where we've been, who we've befriended and loved. Yet seldom are there sounds. (Those under 30 years of age won't understand this.) It's difficult to recall a voice: some resonate after many years, most fade surprisingly soon. That's when silent images become the triggers.

The Spearmint advertisement painted across bricks in Butte, Montana, caused my memory to effortlessly cue the song Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor (On The Bedpost Overnight?), originally released by The Happiness Boys in 1924 (spearmint appeared in the title instead of chewing gum). It was still fun when I heard the 1961 version by Lonnie Donegan, and later, for a brief moment, as I hummed the tune while photographing the old wall. I couldn't recall all of the lyrics, but it sure sounded better than bugs.

The Boat Is Gone

2011-10-05T11:04:00.000-07:00

Webcams are fun. With a few keystrokes you can visit favorite locations or discover new ones. Want to check autumn foliage in the Rockies? The weather in a small village in England's Lake District? There's a Webcam for those (as we say, "Google it") and thousands of others stationed around the globe. Among my top picks is the Lake McDonald Webcam in Glacier National Park. The gateway view from Apgar towards the distant peaks always reminds me of the fine times I've spent there. It's also where The Boat appears during summer.

When it's not in use this small pleasure craft is secured to an orange float*, where it turns slowly in the cold waters, an inanimate witness to Glacier's changing moods. Then, in late September, as surely as autumn's golden approach, the boat and its tether disappear. I don't know where it spends the winter—Key West could be nice—but I hope it's moored there again next July. The view wouldn't be the same without it.

* A confirmed landlubber, I presume this is the correct nautical term.

The Picture We Leave Behind

2011-09-28T20:21:00.001-07:00

Tragedies overwhelm everyday life. Major League pennant races, presidential politics, appointments, blogging—anything and everything is forced aside. In their numbing grasp the countless "Why?" questions are unremitting.

So it was this past Monday morning, when a dear friend suddenly lost her husband. We'd begun a four-day vacation earlier that day, which then became unthinkable. We drove to her house and spent the day there, sitting through precarious silences, simply being there to help fill a fathomless void.

Her home is welcoming, cheerfully accented by antiques. Family pictures spanning several generations are lovingly conspicuous—along a wall in the hallway, arranged in groups elsewhere—testaments to good times. I'd glanced at them before, but only peripherally—easy to do when it's not your family behind the glass. On Monday I took a closer look.

Across dozens of snapshots and studio sit-downs I saw a man who loved his family, and having fun. I didn't see a photo where he wasn't smiling—that came easily and honestly, and was usually accompanied by delighted laughter. It was just that simple. He had found his answer to the question I asked myself that afternoon: What kind of picture will you leave behind?

Pause

2011-09-21T19:03:00.000-07:00

Whenever you find yourself on the side of the
majority, it is time to pause and reflect.
~Mark Twain
We've got to pause and ask ourselves:
How much clean air do we need?
~Lee Iacocca

Steps

2011-09-18T21:29:00.000-07:00

This evening I learned that a garden at the end of summer can be a dangerous place.

I sat there for a short while before sunset as a hollow breeze stirred the honeysuckle, but without a rufous or Anna’s hummingbird to perch on one of the slender vines it seemed an awkward, empty gesture. At my feet a row of pale lavender fared no better. Gone are burgundy hues, and honey bees.

As the sun dipped towards twilight its radiance retreated into shadow, soon to be swallowed by the dark forest. In the dimness, in the quiet, all that has disappeared is magnified.

By accident, summer has become a season of loss. Regret. How to find stepping stones into autumn, without losing balance on their uneven surfaces, is the question at hand.

Two For Today

2011-09-15T21:50:00.000-07:00

With hopeful visions of walking in England next year in mind, my wife and I are also being realistic—we've got some work to do between now and then if we're going to be sufficiently fit to complete the Cumbria Way, at 75 miles, and a second, undetermined route afterwards. For starters, we've re-upped at the local gym—neither of us are going to run/walk/jog in the rain—and we're putting in time on a pleasurable three+ mile loop around our rural neighborhood.

We've done this walk many, many times over the years, in every variety of weather, and today featured a tart late-summer morning—pale blue sky, edgy white clouds, deep shadows in the woods. I'd taken our small Canon G10 camera along to see if something new might catch my eye (a plausible excuse for a time out) and was going to be skunked in that effort until I passed The Swing.

It's on the back side of the walk, and I never stride by without a hard, contemplative look. There are houses and a barn in the distance, skinny metal fence posts and at least one power pole, all conspiring to ruin the background. I wanted a clean picture, like Rockwell might have painted. Past shots fell under the Delete key, but today— well, today was my day. The grasses shimmered around the tire while the oak appeared vibrant and subtle all at once, and nothing leapt out in distraction.

After a cool drink back at the house I took a hand saw into the yard and pruned several low-hanging dead branches from the oak trees. I then scattered these in a small area and waited—I knew the blacktail deer wouldn't be able to resist the delicious moss covering those branches, and being a friendly group this year they might ~~ignore me~~ offer the opportunity for a photo. A few minutes after I'd placed their treat they appeared, capping a delightful day during this last week of summer.

The Luxury Torpedo

2011-09-15T07:07:00.000-07:00

My friend and fellow photographer Ulrich Rossmann visited Krakow, Poland, recently, where he took this shot of Lux Torpeda, an Airstream-like trailer that's been converted into a rolling burger stand. While the neon sign glowed misty blue in the twilight, he preferred a monochrome version because it imparted "that feeling of loneliness and late night I like." No argument here—I only wish I could step up to the counter and place an order.

As my eyes took in the details another part of my mind was curious about the words—Lux Torpeda. What I discovered after a quick Google search is an obscure 20th century story to interest train and history buffs alike.

The Austro-Daimler Luxtorpeda at Krakow station, 1930s.

Purple

2011-09-12T06:33:00.000-07:00

I won't eat any cereal that doesn't turn the milk purple.
~Bill Watterson

Green

2011-09-10T21:59:00.000-07:00

Sooner or later, we sit down to a banquet of consequences.
-Robert Louis Stevenson

It isn't pollution that's harming the environment.
It's the impurities in our air and water that are doing it.
-Dan Quayle

Autumn, Closing In

2011-09-06T07:58:00.001-07:00

Tall grasses stand listless in the late summer heat, oblivious to breezes. After hosting broods of house wrens and white-breasted nuthatches the garden has gone silent—a defiant Cardinal flower, flanked by a committee of coreopsis, petunias, zinnias, and gerbera daisies, still lingers there hopefully. American goldfinch are fading away in-step with thistles and their neighbor, the blackberry, which contributed to a recent tasty cobbler. We saw hummingbirds yesterday morning, and a lazuli bunting came to the deck in the evening, but the urge to migrate southward will shortly become irresistible to them. Western tanagers, it appears, have already left. Pointless, perhaps, but I wish them a safe journey.

The hills have been smothered by hazy smoke drifting into the valley from a mountain wildfire, and in this atmosphere I can easily recall Nat King Cole's 1963 version of Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer, and the tantalizing ding-a-ling down the street announcing the approach of Mr. Softee's ice cream truck, and dusty baseball practices, and the carefree feeling of being young without apparent worries. That was also the time when I realized I had no penchant for bean picking, and first considered girls seriously.

As it did then, autumn will soon break up summertime reveries. The canopy of oak leaves above our house will change from shade to chore, although I'll give the rake a rest and mow them to mulch this year. And because everyone believes Oregon is rainy for most of the year, we'll have some of that too. Like their spring counterparts, gentle September showers are a perfect soundtrack for reflecting on things.

Glass Bottles

2011-09-05T17:31:00.000-07:00

Sweeps II

2011-09-03T21:30:00.000-07:00

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and
the book of events is always open halfway through.
~Wislawa Szymborska

Sweeps

2011-09-02T22:47:00.000-07:00

A Trial Run in Bedroom Slippers

2011-08-31T21:15:00.000-07:00

There's Jake Shimabukuro playing Blue Roses Falling on Pandora radio. A couple of espresso shots over cold milk sitting on my desk. Knickknacks, cards, and photos crowding shelves and walls. And I can see them all, because this is the digital darkroom—the lamp's low in one corner of my office. I'll certainly make no apologies for having it easy now—nor, I doubt, would anyone carrying memories of claustrophobic closet darkrooms, cramped bathrooms, and the sloshing of cold, smelly chemicals.

So I'm sitting here tonight in sweats and slippers, and thanks to a teenager on a four-wheeler who lapped a pile of grass seed several times I have this shot to play with—an aged grain truck obscured by the dust of modern technology. Well, that's my interpretation, and I'll stick to it.

Of course, the scene didn't look like this. None of the photos we take actually look like what we saw. While I didn't dislike the original, I decided to alter it. See what it had to say visually. I converted it with a just-released plug-in from Topaz Labs, B&W Effects, set to (what else?) Coffee Dynamic. It comes closest to what I remember of the scene, and I'm satisfied with it.

Lights out until next time.

Free Advice

2011-08-31T13:41:00.001-07:00

I was standing next to my favorite field of sunflowers the other day, deciding whether to get my camera out. Feeding on seeds, several birds had already made up their minds—for them the pickings were good.

Behind me, two women were talking about photography. One gave the appearance of a snapshooter—someone who enjoys taking pictures, but not all the time and not too far from the Auto setting on their point-and-shoot. The second woman, in contrast, toted a DSLR with a long zoom lens and was comfortably giving pointers to her companion on how to shoot...everything.

1. "Set your lens on 5.6."

2. "Use AV (Aperture Value). That controls the quality of light."

3. "For birds, I always put them in the center of the frame. I can
see them better, and then crop later on to get what I want."

As we eventually learn, free advice isn't always worth the cost.

photoTUTR

2011-08-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

A while back I told you about an online photo tutoring site I was creating called photoTUTR. I've been working on it off-and-on and am finally finished—for now. I suspect there's something I've forgotten—perhaps you'll be the one to point it out.

I won't get into the details about photoTUTR here, and instead point you to the linking black-and-white graphic in the sidebar—once you're on the site you can read about what I'm doing.

PhotoTUTR is primarily aimed at beginners and those who've hit a rut or two along the photographic road, so if you know someone who's struggling with their pictures, won't you pass on the link?

Thanks!

Solar Powered

2011-08-26T22:01:00.000-07:00

NIght Lights

2011-08-25T08:01:00.000-07:00

We keep a soft light on overnight in the living room, having discovered years ago that avoiding four cats in the dark is a hit-or-miss proposition. This morning when I arose at 4 a.m. they were sleeping in their favored places, pillows mostly, and I thought of a show I watched last night on the History Channel called 101 Gadgets That Changed The World.

I came in on the program late but just in time for the Top Ten, and there at #10 was—the incandescent light bulb? These gadgets were chosen for their importance by a panel of experts, but seriously, how can air conditioning, computers, and the rotary dial phone possibly rank ahead of Edison's work? Take that away and the night is lost. How many convenient technical concoctions would exist if their inventors had shelved their drawings at sundown? "Don't forget to douse the torch when you come to bed."

Other sources of illumination existed before the light bulb's arrival (kerosene lamps come to mind) but were inherently dangerous (those lamps again), limited in scope, and short-lived. The light bulb was revolutionary—bright, long-lasting, and ultimately democratic. As they were developed and commercialized almost everyone could afford them. Days suddenly became longer, well before 24/7 entered our language.

Two consequences of this are that night owls flourished—if there was ever a reason to go to bed, light bulbs eliminated it—and a new type of photography evolved, its practitioners (see The Nocturnes and Troy Pavia's Lost America for examples) seeking out incandescent landscapes well after dark.

It may be argued that there are too many places where the night never sleeps (Las Vegas is a blatant example), light pollution having become the bane of astronomers and anyone who relishes darkened, star-studded skies. Like another wonderful invention, the telephone, we've taken the light bulb well past its imagined function. But I'll wager that, even on a hot night, people would choose light over air conditioning. You never know where the cats might be.

I'd like to remind you at four in the morning/My world is very still
The air is fresh under diamond skies/Makes me glad to be alive
~Bachman-Turner Overdrive

Reasons To Smile

2011-08-23T18:26:00.000-07:00

In May of this year Mike Brockhurst, aka The Walking Englishman, set out on foot from western Scotland towards Lizard Point, Cornwall, the southernmost point on mainland Great Britain. After a month's meticulous planning he began his epic walk, arriving on schedule nearly three months later. He'd promoted it as a 1,000 mile journey, but as British Miles are a tad longer than elsewhere the total edged closer to 1100. I added a link to his Web site then and thoroughly enjoyed the (near) daily updates of his experiences (mental and physical) along the varied footpaths, and have updated that to the resulting photo galleries that will appear as he gets to them—editing lots of photos isn't a cakewalk.

Mike is now realising a bit of well-earned fame from this exploit—a warm, insightful radio interview with BBC Radio: York aired last week, and one of his regular readers recognized him in a pub at the walk's end. No autograph, though, as the fellow didn't want to disturb celebrity. English manners, like miles, go farther. Although somewhat saddened that the walk had to end, Mike's descriptions of his motivations, how the trip came together, and then played out, revealed an excitement that will endure, close in heart and mind. This past weekend, while resting middle-aged knees and feet, he traded pack and trekking poles for a bag of golf clubs. I suspect even Mark Twain would approve.

Hitting A Home Run

2011-08-18T07:51:00.000-07:00

One of the wheat fields I worked in last week bordered a school, with playground equipment, lots of grassy space, and a well-used ball field. When I walked over for a closer look I noticed the mitts and ball, set out just so for a passing photographer.

Sometimes, when you least expect it, you get a big fat pitch right down the middle of the plate.

Summer's Hues Are Yellows & Blues

2011-08-16T18:45:00.000-07:00

Chasing Combines

2011-08-14T13:03:00.001-07:00

These last posts feature one of my favorite summertime subjects—combines cutting fields of golden wheat. I stumbled onto this in 1994 on a blustery June afternoon in northeastern Oregon. I was traveling with a friend and we'd been chased up from John Day by lightning and vicious rainstorms, all the way to Pilot Rock, where the sun was hanging out. We made a right turn in Pendleton and shortly thereafter, on a spur of the moment (this is Western country, after all), a left at a sign pointing towards Helix.

It's one of several ~~small~~ tiny communities in the area—Athena and Adams are others—where commerce hangs on tentatively (a small grocery store is a luxury) and if you live there you're either a farmer or a retired farmer. The high school on the eastern edge of town, grain elevators on the west, and the cemetery nearby on a gentle hillside, can fairly trace the arc of a man's life here.

On that particular day I met a bartender who'd lived near Eugene for a while, and as conversations inevitably wander we came around to discussing wheat harvesting, and a month later I received a letter from a farmer inviting me to come over and photograph. It was that simple.

I continued chasing combines—a mix of John Deere, Case, New Hollands, and Gleaners—over the next fifteen summers, expanding my reach to the Palouse in eastern Washington, along Montana's Rocky Mountain Front near Choteau, and into the prairie country of southern Saskatchewan. I like all of these landscapes, for different reasons. But one place I hadn't gone to to photograph wheat harvesting was right here in my back yard, up the valley a short twenty miles away.

Why did I ignore my own turf? Until the last few years wheat was (from a photographer's standpoint) an invisible crop—the scattered fields you could see were either inaccessible or too small in scale to merit any effort. And, truthfully, this part of the Willamette Valley is known as grass seed country—wheat is an alternative that allows farmers to rotate crops and add something new (and hopefully profitable) to their business.

The fields I've been shooting at this week, in Linn County near Harrisburg, totaled less than a hundred acres. They'd be lost on the vast wheat tracts in northeastern Oregon, in the Palouse, and most notably in Saskatchewan, and yet…they're every bit the same, evinced by rustling wheat stalks in a breeze, the storms of chaff and dust kicked up by lumbering-but-graceful combines, and the good-natured friendliness of the farmers, who've always welcomed me onto the fields and, for a precious short time, into their lives.

Last Friday evening I stayed in the field after sunset, hoping to photograph the combine as it cut with its lights on. The night closed around me soothingly—geese returned at intervals to nighttime roosts along the Willamette River, the nearly-full moon rose over the Coburg Hills, and only a few mosquitos were about. The air was cool and would soon be too damp for cutting, so my opportunities, if they came, would be brief.

Focusing my camera was the trickiest part. I used a 35mm lens, and after I'd set up the framing I waited for the combine to enter the picture, then tracked it using the Live View function until it was where I desired. CLICK. After two passes around the field they shut down for the day, and I believe we were satisfied with our respective harvests.

Golden Grain

2011-08-13T16:20:00.000-07:00

The Basics

2011-08-11T06:06:00.000-07:00

On a wall inside a grass seed warehouse, near Harrisburg, Oregon.

The Combine Driver

2011-08-10T22:42:00.000-07:00

Making The Rounds

2011-08-10T07:51:00.000-07:00

Wheat harvesting in Linn County, Oregon.

A Timeless Saturday Afternoon

2011-08-07T14:13:00.000-07:00

I visited the nearby Jackson-Frazier wetland for a second time yesterday, and failed to improve on my earlier time of two hours to complete the two-thirds-of-a-mile boardwalk. (I'm sure the tortoise approved, while the hare would have noted my wife's several laps around the loop.)

As I discovered the first time around, there are always interesting details and contrasts there, far too many to capture in mere hours. That's the beauty of Nature.

I've included the new pictures on my Close To Home galleries.

Our last stop of the day was Horse Creek Farms. Kathy bought delicious peaches while I snooped through their small patch of sunflowers, and found one creature working much harder than I was.

In A Summer Field

2011-08-03T20:51:00.000-07:00

What's The Hurry?

2011-08-02T19:49:00.001-07:00

They are the three words kids most hate to hear in the first week of August—BACK TO SCHOOL. Like, who cares about #2 yellow pencils or white lined index cards then? How can you even think about school supplies when last winter's snows are still melting?

But we have to face it—the summer of 2011 is over. Conversations include "Labor Day" now and the irresistible slide into September has begun. Add this: my granddaughter works in a chain department store and she's told me they have Halloween stock crammed into the supply rooms, waiting—as soon as the last 50%-to-75% OFF/FINAL REDUCTION sales clear the shelves of flip-flops and sunglasses, ghosts and goblins will sweep in.

And we know where that leads.

I recall a story, some years ago, about a man who pulled the emergency stop on a high-speed train (this was in Sweden, I believe) and then began handing out flyers to his fellow passengers warning of the inherent dangers of speed—not only in train travel but as it manifested itself across many aspects of modern life. (He couldn't stop the police from quickly arresting him, for example.) The questions remain, without apparent answers: why are we in a hurry so much of the time, and what are the consequences?

I have no remedy for our condition, unfortunately, at least nothing that would seem workable in today's bustling environments, but I will suggest an antidote for photographers who can never quite catch up to their lives—find a project that moves like molasses and claim it as your own.

I've taken this advice lately, volunteering at a state historic site (a water-powered flouring mill) where I have free rein to shoot anything I like—without stipulations, deadlines, nothing except a friendly, open-ended agreement to share what I photograph. The possibilities are endless (I know I can't discover them all) so there's no need to hurry. A tripod on every shot. LiveView to focus and compose. Moving slowly, randomly, from room to room, the only goal being a few keepers on each visit.

Fittingly, an old clock on a first-floor wall no longer keeps time, locked forever a few minutes short of 9:00. Perfect timing?

You don't need an EASY button to figure that out.

Sunshine Feels Gooood!

2011-07-27T11:43:00.000-07:00

The Simple Life

2011-07-26T09:11:00.000-07:00

Bugs for breakfast and a roof over your head—what more could one need?

To sit in the shade on a fine day and look

upon verdure is the most perfect refreshment.

~Jane Austen

Less is more.

~Robert Browning

…Simplify, simplify.

~Henry David Thoreau

Cozy Tin Cans

2011-07-22T09:20:00.000-07:00

Have you ever traveled in a small travel trailer? Maybe, like me, your parents owned one when you were a kid—ours was a mere twelve feet long but happily accommodated five people (I'm generously including my little brother in that category). I can still picture it, a tiny home away from home beneath the tall pines in a Yellowstone Park campground.

Later, grown up, my wife and I had a '68 Kit, fifteen feet of basic space (no bath) that earned its wings during a particularly nasty summer thunderstorm one year. Five adults, two dogs, dinner on the stove, windows hopelessly fogged over, and—no leaks!

After the Kit our next trailer grew to nineteen feet. A lovely, well-made, tandem-axle Nash, it had a shower, microwave, and plenty of leg room but was missing…romance? Nostalgia? For whatever reason it could never measure up to those cozy tin cans we'd experienced before.

We haven't had a trailer since. These days, camping out means, in order of preference: 1) a Bed & Breakfast, 2) motel, or 3) tent. We rarely get to Number 3. (A new option, which I've tried, is the back of our Toyota 4Runner, surprisingly comfortable with a few minor alterations.)

But I haven't given up entirely on trailers—now I collect them with my camera. Projects are good for a photographer—even simple ones—because they force you to look for things, and in places where you least expect to find them. Like the old Fireball here, caught yesterday as it ~~rusted~~ rested in the front yard of a local home.

No more trips, perhaps, but miles of memories.

Must Be Laundry Day

2011-07-21T17:25:00.000-07:00

Perfect

2011-07-15T20:53:00.000-07:00

Summer sunshine spread across a sidewalk
Cool country on the radio, down low
Breezes slipping through a screen door
Rustling curtains with their laughter
While hamburgers sizzle on a grill
Cooked just right, with onions and fries
And a cold drink over crushed ice

Wind rows of ripening grass
Wheat fields waiting their turn
Strawberries gone, raspberries next
Sunflowers if we're lucky
Dragonflies glinting at the water's edge
Hummingbirds at the honeysuckle
And a piece of old, greasy machinery

Perfect.

Laughter

2011-07-12T21:06:00.000-07:00

Earth laughs in flowers. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sometimes, when life has you in a head-lock, the best way to fight back is with flowers.

…Early In The Morning

2011-07-10T05:02:00.001-07:00

I'm no drunken sailor, but what to do with myself at 4 a.m.? How 'bout a bit of self-promotion?

If you've ~~frequented~~ visited here before perhaps you'll notice the recent tweaks—the new header, especially, and the Click link to my photo galleries. Zenfolio has been an excellent photographic host—I'll recommend them heartily—but it isn't Blogger, and vice versa. So a bit of integration was in order, and after only a small amount of hair-pulling I'm satisfied the duo plays well together. Wordiness goes here, the real galleries over there.

All of this fussing is geared to the self-promotion I alluded to. In short, I'm going to try to make some money online, and to do that you (whoever you may be) need to know I'm here. And then have a reason to interact with me.

One of those might be to purchase a print—I've set up the galleries to be as painless as possible (for both of us), using labs to service customers in North America and the rest of the world. The menu of products I'm offering is short but (hopefully) sweet—no mouse-pads or mugs, though. I hope you'll discover an image you enjoy, and then flatter me by putting it on your wall.

I'm also hashing out the details for personal photo critiques. How we learn about photography runs the gamut from The School of Hard Knocks (Trial & Error 101) to the Rochester Institute of Technology, and all manner of books, workshops, seminars, Et cetera, between. My contribution to the mix will be narrowed to engaging you, for a fair price and over several months, in working to help you improve the quality of your work.
I've done critiques before, but always informally. This will be different. The ability to share photos via email and personal galleries makes it easier than ever to comment constructively. That is my goal.

Watch for a ~~cheesy~~ announcement here soon for fotoTooter.

Meanwhile, the sky's lightening and robins have begun singing. Enjoy Sunday, wherever you are.

The Naked Photographer

2011-07-06T16:51:00.000-07:00

UPDATE to the previous post: The honey bee swarm that overnighted in one of our oak trees left Sunday afternoon, as we'd expected. I'd set up my camera again before the morning clouds burned off—the diffused light improved on the shots I'd taken Saturday—and two hours later I heard the sudden tell-tale buzzing. Time to go. Minutes later the swarm had departed, headed north up the ridge, that fascinating sound trailing behind them on the breeze until it, too, was gone.

Have you ever heard someone say "I'd feel naked without a camera?" Perhaps you've had the same thought at one time or another. For no apparent reason the bees got me thinking about what photographers clothe themselves with—about equipment.

If I could choose only one item from the photographic wardrobe closet, it would be pants—a normal lens. That modest 50mm will get you most of the shots, most of the time—add extension tubes or filters for close-ups, crop a bit for a faux short-tele effect.

To minimize sunburn, further laughter, and rough ground, I'd then add a shirt (85-100mm) and footwear (28-35mm). There are many sizes and styles to choose from, but the ability to render subjects differently is greatly improved. Now I'd have a basic kit, warm and comfortable, and no few complaints.

How about a coat and hat? Both come in handy here in Oregon, the coat especially, so a lens in the 200-300mm range makes prudent sense. You can't always get as close to crashing waves, or wildlife, as you'd like. But that's all I'd really need. With such a practical ensemble most of us could meet 99% of our goals, although I am glad I had a sport coat and tie on hand when the bees arrived. You never know when unexpected company might drop by.

A Swarm of Bees & Fresh Roses

2011-07-02T22:19:00.000-07:00

Here's something I hadn't seen during twenty-five years of living in a mixed forest—a swarm of bees. My wife and I had finished lunch out on the deck when I heard them, faint at first but rising in volume as their number grew, swirling in the afternoon sunshine. Watching their flight patterns I thought of whirlwinds crossing a desert, and models of frantic atoms in science books.

The bees settled down on an oak branch as I set up my tripod with a 400mm lens, and have remained there all day (I checked the tree tonight as darkness fell), although a bit of reading on this phenomenon suggests their visit will last only a day or two before they move on.

Another great sight today—the sudden vibrant blooming of the rose bush in my wife's garden. This is surely one of nature's best magic tricks. Our summer days aren't hot yet (and by some standards, won't be), so we'll be enjoying fresh flowers for another week or two.

Bursts

2011-06-29T10:47:00.000-07:00

Summer is characterized by bursts of energy—waving expanses of flowers, the hurried nest-building of birds, melting mountain snows that feed streams and rivers to…bursting. Human nature, for its part, becomes concerned with outdoor barbecues, summer softball leagues, and active relaxations.

When I was younger I took the warmth of summer sunshine for granted, and you'd think, as a photographer and after several decades, I would be attuned to the sun's moods, but I still stumble occasionally in its wake. The best light doesn't wait for anyone.

In The Big Picture gallery for June 22nd titled Here Comes the Sun, boston.com led off with this amazing NASA photograph. I considered different adjectives here but they are all ~~inadequate~~ useless to describe this.

Close To Home

2011-06-28T17:08:00.000-07:00

My wife has a list of places she wants to visit, and yesterday we checked off two of those.

First up was the Jackson-Frazier Wetland, barely forty miles north of our home. As you learn from their Web site, the wooden boardwalk that loops through the 144-acre site is but two-thirds of a mile long, but that shouldn't fool you into believing there's little to see. Quite to the contrary. I moseyed the loop and took two hours to complete it—and that was without a tripod. Kathy could finish a Jane Austen if I brought out the Gitzo.

Because summer hasn't accelerated here in the Willamette Valley the wetland hadn't dried up, leaving photo possibilities countless and green. Other examples from our walk are in a new Zenfolio gallery here.

After a sandwich break there we drove six miles farther north to the area of the old Camp Adair, a US Army division training facility during WWII. Kathy's beloved uncle, Emil, was stationed here during that war, and whenever we visited St. Louis and family gathered you could count on him to relive his experiences here. Walking to the pond that's now part of the E.E. Wilson Wildlife Area we crossed several deteriorating roadways that served those young men as they trained for war seventy years ago, and for a few moments history was neither far away nor impersonal.

Summer Promises

2011-06-19T12:55:00.000-07:00

In June, as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day. No man can heed all of these anniversaries; no man can ignore all of them. ~Aldo Leopold

A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken. ~James Dent

Bramble

2011-06-17T21:13:00.000-07:00

On The Outside Looking In

2011-06-11T20:53:00.000-07:00

Out of The Shadows

2011-06-09T19:49:00.000-07:00

In 2009, driving east out of Havre, Montana on Highway 2 (The Hi-Line), I pulled over at The Sacred Heart Catholic Church, near Fort Belknap Agency. I was attracted by its starkness on the flat, lonesome landscape, and by the thick shadows it cast towards an adjoining cemetery. The latter is still in use, but the church, known locally as The Pink Church, has been closed since the early 1960s. I've seen photos showing it in various pinkish hues, and also an adobe shade that's probably caused by deep evening light. Whatever the color, it was weatherbeaten the afternoon I stopped.

The sparse population there is mostly Native American, and by any material standard the area is poor. There is no town and few dwellings. I can't speak to the spiritual beliefs of those residents, except to note the decline of this symbol of European culture. Like the shadows, its influence is receding into history.

Burlington Northern

2011-06-08T21:45:00.000-07:00

The moment you cheat for the sake of beauty, you know you're an artist. —Max Jacob

Computers are useless. They can only give you answers. —Pablo Picasso

New Tools, Too

2011-06-07T20:29:00.000-07:00

I've shaken up my photographer's tool kit over the past month. Gone and forgotten is the Mac G5 and it's roars-like-a-jet cooling fan, replaced by a new iMac that's as quiet as twilight in June. Another Apple in my wicker basket is Aperture, an able competitor to Adobe's ACR for RAW conversions and definitely more ~~enjoyable~~ fun to work with. From Topaz Labs comes Topaz Adjust, a plug-in that plays nice with Aperture and Photoshop. Sometimes, you just want to screw around with a picture to explore its potential.

But a speedy new computer and imaging software don't guarantee anything—you still have to step outside and look. I often snoop around my wife's flower garden—she has a knack for leaving things in the right spots—and that's where I found this trio of eye-catching watering cans.

Jamie. Or Is It Jane?

2011-06-04T19:32:00.000-07:00

If you take pictures long enough you'll eventually realize how many things pass unnoticed—sometimes right under your nose. The picture here was shot inside the Jersey Lilly Saloon & Eatery in Ingomar, Montana, two years ago, and I can't recall noticing the name etched in the upper left-hand corner then—the scarred wooden floor, the darker panels of the bar, and the warmly-colored trio of stools were the elements that drew my interest.

As I investigated the image more closely today I saw the rough carving for the first time, and what had merely been a photo of wood and metal and history suddenly had intrigue as well. Like lovers' names cut into the bark of aspen trees, except in the Jersey Lilly only Jamie is memorialized. Or is it Jane?

Three Landscapes

2011-06-01T22:25:00.000-07:00

I'm offering three photographs today, at the conclusion of this post, with my kind Thanks to their contributors. Without conscious intent rocks, of one kind or another, dominate each. And though outwardly very different, they demonstrate the limitless possibilities of exploring the landscape.

Yes, LANDSCAPE. I'm feeling argumentative about this, in a bold-faced sort of way. What is it? Where is it? Who has the last word about it?

This began a few weeks ago after I posted a photo to an online gallery—its subjects a simple sweep of overcast Montana sky, bleached prairie grass, and a weathered travel trailer at rest beside an equally failing wooden shed. My interpretation included a bit of vintage processing in Photoshop to accent the bleakness I felt on that wind-shipped day. With its remote rural location I didn't hesitate to place the picture in the Landscape Forum.

This doesn't feel much like a landscape shot actually, not sure what category it would fall under…

That was the forum Moderator's immediate take on my picture. I quickly succumbed to the urge to defend my landscape, though I could have remained silent—my rebuttal reply wasn't answered. I hadn't included a waterfall…field of flowers (in season)…crashing waves (with a 10-stop ND filter)…sunset…colorful desert rocks…or any of the other safe, natural subjects that have become commonplace in landscape venues, so my effort was dismissed.

With no one to argue with I resorted to talking to myself (50/50 odds there). Right off the top, here are three problems I identified that interfere with the appreciation of landscape photographs. There may be more.

First off, we categorize everything, at our peril. Pigeon-hole. Label. Judge without knowledge of anything outside our own comfortableness.

Then we ignore the manipulations common to every style of photography since its invention, as though every picture arrives perfectly processed and ready to hang. No burning or dodging, no toning, and certainly no Photoshop.

Finally, we're loathe to include man-made objects in traditional landscapes because to do so somehow demeans them. Here is our biggest mistake—pretending that we are not part of nature and anything we create (or destroy) should be excluded. Thus are born cityscapes and urban landscapes.

I know a man who's lived (happily and admirably) for nearly eighty years in a small area of our state. He's said on occasion that everything he needed was close by—there was no reason to go elsewhere. And he rarely has. But when you consider photographic landscapes there is every reason to travel, as you will see in the following destinations.

Dale O'Dell's imaginative, colorful creations exist in the back-country of his mind, but you can visit them at any time on his Web site and in selected gallery showings.

Joe Reifer's answering machine is busy in the evening, when this nocturnal photographer is out exploring ghost towns and junk yards for his own brand of buried treasure. Step into a different light at Joe Reifer Photography.

Mike Lewis posted his landscape on the same forum I mentioned at the outset. He received several compliments, including mine. He shares more work on his Zenfolio galleries.

7:10 A.M.

2011-05-28T16:33:00.000-07:00

The morning is wiser than the evening. —Russian proverb

The Grass IS Greener

2011-05-25T08:40:00.000-07:00

Our yard is composed almost entirely of chaos, and that is being charitable. Whatever shows up and holds on, grows. This year's spring edition, aided by days of light rain mist (the forecaster's words), is bountiful. I expect to see the cautioning Mower Ahead sign frequently in the coming weeks, as the county tries to keep pace with its flourishing roadside crops.

When yesterday arrived with clear, promising skies, with light fog dancing across the valley and wide-eyed dew drops hung on every blade and branch, I took my camera when I walked down to the road to fetch the newspaper. Tuesday's news folded neatly into a back pocket (you couldn't do that with Thursday, or Sunday), and then I started looking.

I've long believed that so-called macro photography, as we generally know it (that is, pictures taken at magnifications up to life-size, or 1:1), can improve our view of the Big Picture—it forces a person to see all the countless subjects that are literally underfoot. If you keep at it long enough it may translate into a heightened awareness of all that other, bigger stuff.

That's why it took me an hour to get back to the house.

The soft, diffused light illuminated the smaller scenes, which seemed to call out for my attention with every slight shift of position. Wet grass + cold ground = numb knees, but that is easily, happily ignored at such times.

A neighbor's cow watched for a while as I crawled around in the greenery, no doubt wondering why I wasn't eating it and plotting, in its bovine way, how to get over to our side of the road. I assured him/her that there was plenty to go around, as there usually is, on both sides of the fence, although this probably fell on large deaf ears.

Energized

2011-05-23T22:11:00.000-07:00

Weeks ago, before her latest birthday, my friend Martha asked me if I could please resurrect a slide program that I first put on nearly thirty birthdays ago, and how could I say No?

At about the same time I received an email from Zenfolio, the image hosting service I use, and they also had an offer I couldn't refuse—a free book from Blurb.

Both of these projects, naturally, came with deadlines. Martha's party after-the-fact is this coming Sunday, and I uploaded a 64-page book to Blurb last Friday.

I began the slide show by first deciding that picture is the better word in the now world of 1s and 0s, and then choosing to use only digital images (no film scans)—nothing from my original show (OK, one exception) survived to iMovie. These new pictures came from Yellowstone, which I've visited twice since I started shooting with a DSLR.

Learn by doing is again the apt description of my efforts assembling the show in iMovie. When it seemed, at the outset, to be less than intuitive, I purchased the Home version of Fotomagico at Apple's App Store, but soon realized it wasn't up to the task. So, nose down, I kept at iMovie until we came to a mutual understanding—all that's left is a bit of tweaking, and I'm done.

The book? It was a one-day wonder, from selecting the images to Photoshop to the print shop. A Few Seconds in The Southwest is a spare collection of photographs I've made in the Red Rock country of Arizona and Utah.

Working simultaneously with two sets of pictures from different locations was definitely energizing, but with all efforts devoted to pictures there was no time for words, so the blogging portion of my brain went on holiday, although I suspect subconscious worked overtime. Gratis, of course.

Wonderful

2011-05-14T20:41:00.000-07:00

Words fail to describe the immense beauty of Nick Risinger's astro-photography, so I'll simply direct you to his Web site, PhotopicSkySurvey, and let you discover what all the recent shouting's been about in the newspapers and online.

The subtle depth of this photo makes it a mesmerizing wallpaper on a large computer monitor, too, although that seems somehow laughable, all things considered.

In England, meanwhile, Mike Brockhurst, aka The Walking Englishman, is scarcely a week away from an epic eight-week solo walk from Cape Wrath in Scotland south to The Lizard, covering over 1100 miles. If you've ever considered a walking holiday in Great Britain, Mike's Web site is the place to go for in-depth routes, opinions, and photos of the network of pathways that await you. Look for updates of his progress at 1000 Mile Walk (see the link in the sidebar).

Mike will be accompanied by friends during portions of the long walk, an effort he's described as his personal tribute to the fantastic walking on offer in all of Great Britain, and he's also raising funds for a favored charity, Building Better Futures.

I hope all the pubs are open, and the infamous English Weather permits a bit of star-gazing en route.

The Bare Essentials

2011-05-08T19:34:00.000-07:00

Revealing

2011-05-07T19:57:00.001-07:00

The Beginning of A New Day

2011-05-03T17:41:00.000-07:00

The Trickster

2011-04-29T16:51:00.000-07:00

In Native American cultures the coyote is often a trickster who assumes different forms, and in these guises Canis latrans almost always acts outside the rules of accepted behavior. When I crossed paths with him in Yellowstone's Lamar Valley one morning, however, he seemed more intent on digging mice out of melting snow than playing tricks on a photographer.

The cold waters he crossed quickly are part of Soda Butte Creek, which hugs the highway between Mammoth Hot Springs and Cooke City for a short distance. I've always enjoyed the Lamar Valley for its wide-open stance and (relative) quiet compared to other areas in Yellowstone. Wolves were once common in the valley (there are fewer now), and bison and pronghorn antelope still accent the landscape when you least expect them.

Leaving the park in its northeast corner you're soon in Cooke City, and if you're hungry when you arrive I'll recommend the Soda Butte Lodge. Besides tasty food, they have east/west Web cams pointing out of town, and when I took a look this morning there was winter, the guest who doesn't know when to leave the party, acting like it owns the place.

While La Niña receives credit for our strong, quirky weather this year, I wouldn't be too surprised if another character right in our midst is having the last laugh.

Somewhere Along The Oregon Trail

2011-04-28T20:45:00.001-07:00

You awaken before dawn, before birds take up their songs, and lie for a while under a thin blanket, on the hard bare earth that is your bedroll, wondering what hardships you'll face today.

Last evening's campfire is a cold, gray smudge that will be erased by the morning breeze. There's nothing to do but get up and walk, and as you begin, grateful for a hard biscuit and a piece of salty pork, you pick up a familiar rhythm, a cadence, with the horses pulling your family's covered wagon westward toward your dreams.

Afternoons are like hot branding irons, unrelenting in their harshness, but you've become accustomed to them under a wide-brimmed hat and barely notice. Still, you keep an alert eye for rattlesnakes and remember to drink from the dark water barrel lashed to the wagon. Hours are marked by the arc of the sun, distance by days.

Last week, after a terrible thunderstorm turned the earth to red mud, a couple of families, broken by the weather and loneliness, turned back. You were homesick as you watched their canvas sails retreat across the endless grass sea and disappear below the horizon. And you kept walking.

Now, as shadows lengthen on another day, you've stumbled upon a bountiful campsite. A nearby stream promises clean, fresh water, game is plentiful, and after a quick vote it's decided you'll stay here for two nights. Everyone can use a day of rest, if not a bath.

But as you sit before a warm, crackling fire, surrounded by the voices of loved ones and the hush of the approaching night, a worrisome thought enters your mind. What if this place isn't as perfect as it appears?

What if you can't get Wi-Fi out here?

Nothing Subtle About It

2011-04-24T18:17:00.000-07:00

Between rain showers this afternoon I spied a flower my wife had placed in one of our bird baths. Its colors spoke to me, and so I answered with my camera, amplifying soft whispers into shouts.