Oncatography: Shadow and Light

Self-Portrait: Another Last Straw for the Nice Guy

We Had The Showers

It's In His Nature...To Be Patient and Careful

Toad on a Log, McKeldin Area of Patapsco Valley State Park, Maryland, May 2016

A scorpion and a frog meet on the bank of a stream and the scorpion asks the frog to carry him across on its back. The frog asks, “How do I know you won’t sting me?”  The scorpion says, “Because if I do, I will die too.”

The frog is satisfied, and they set out.  But in midstream, the scorpion stings the frog. The frog feels the onset of paralysis and starts to sink, knowing they both will drown, but has just enough time to gasp “Why?”

Replies the scorpion: “It’s in my nature…”

Fortunately there are no scorpions in the wild in the area where this image was taken. Woods and a rushing river, complete with small rapids, were some few feet away from this patient little creature and from my daughter and I. We were engaged in an afternoon walkabout in the Patapsco Valley. The toad was perched on a log and amazingly still given the commotion of hikers and picnickers in the area.

I do not often see frogs and toads without that Parable of the Scorpion and the Frog passing through my head. It is inseparable from my psyche. Perhaps it is...in my nature.

The toad offered no counsel. Even as I hovered about clicking away with my camera, it held still, silent, seemingly unperturbed. Perhaps that calmness is in its nature; and I must confess, I wish it were in mine.

Light Reading on the Bookshel(l)f

Study: Bookshel(l)f, 25 February 2017

Recently events have led me to believe that my camera of choice, a Pentax K-3 that has been my workhorse for two years or so, has become a curmudgeon. The shutter curtain has taken to erratic sticking. That it happens more when it is cold only reinforces the notion that the camera is a grump. With a bit of spare time over the weekend I embarked on a testing program to better understand the "stickiness". Testing involved a long slew of rapid fire and bracketed exposures. What I was able to isolate is that the shutter curtain does not stick when the particular lens I typically use, a Tamron 10-24 mm zoom, is disengaged from the body.

Very curious, says I. Additional fiddling determined that gentle nudging on the lens body, particularly with a warmer camera, would temporarily alleviate the shutter stick. Good to now I have a bit of a workaround, but the accountant in me said start saving up for a new lens. Equipment, man, you can never seem to have enough.

So here is a gratuitous shot I took while testing indoors, getting a handle on light and exposure. Enjoy!

Field Trip: Root/Uproot

Frisco Root Tangle - Study #1, July 9th, 2015

Roots. Never will they cease to be objects of fascination and curiosity. In the course of many walks through the woods this photographer has never failed to be transfixed by roots whether hidden, semi-exposed, or out in the air. More times than can be recalled have I stumbled over them, trod on them, and fallen into holes left by their uprooting. This is true of all the places in which I have lived or visited. Colorado was no different. On a hike with friends I found entrancing evidence of that which binds us to family, soil, place. The eyes were overjoyed while the heart sang. Nature itself had wrought violence upon this tree, it is true, but the truth of its existence was a gift for all of us to share.

Field Trip: Found Colors

Retro Cans of Preserved Vegetables, February 1st, 2017

Ordinarily it is black and white that dominates the spillage on the page here at Oncatography. There are exceptions to that rule of thumb, of course. Today the above fascinating examples were spotted during a shopping expedition (culinary research mission) at a local Asian market. There was something wonderful about the 'retro' look of the cans and the vibrancy of the labels that begged for a photo. A tabletop photo session followed upon arriving back at home base. Photography is hungry-making work!

End of an Era: Farewell to Crick

It nears two weeks since my favorite camera shop, Crick, in Kansas City, Missouri had to close its doors for good. Few things I have experienced in all my photographic endeavors over the years have affected me quite like this closing. It seems unfair that I had the privilege of working with them only four plus years, having made the connection upon moving out to Kansas back in 2012. I recognize that change is the only constant, but sometimes change such as this comes across as unnecessary and mean-spirited. I was just getting my legs under myself as a film photographer, and now a major part of the associated support system is gone.

At its root, this is a story about connection and the loss thereof. I do not make connections easily or often. This state of affairs exist at the intersection of introversion, reflexive mistrust of people, and ingrained fear of embarrassment. These traits are not a badge of honor but rather a constant source of anxiety and doubt. Life would proceed much smoother if they could be overcome. That conquering of myself has been a decades long self-improvement project, open ended, and ongoing. As part of that work, it is photography in part that has enabled me to overcome those drawbacks of character to better engage with the world.

Photography has had a grip on my imagination ever since I understood just what it meant to "take pictures". That grip waxed and waned over the years but never truly left me alone. In architecture, in life, the camera and its output served as a touchstone with which to stop time and get a grip on myself. I have said before that the camera for me has become a "filter and shield" by which I can interpret the outside world while keeping it at bay so it does not overwhelm me. It is no stretch to say that peering through the viewfinder provides a centering of the self that cannot be found in most other entertainments of the mind.

Filter and shield the camera may be but it also serves as a connection point. A kingpin in the train of actions and objects that all photography involves. Photography allows for me to pursue a vision of the world in my own way. It does not ultimately allow for a total disconnect because there are things I cannot accomplish on my own in the art of taking pictures. No matter how much I wish it were otherwise there is far more for me to learn about the art and science of photography than I already know. This is where the camera serves as a link to those from whom I can learn.

Arriving in Kansas years ago I had given up the luxury of the local links I had formed in my time back in Maryland. Bags of gear accompanied my ambitions. What I needed was a point of connection in my new home to restart the process of discovery on film and image. Fortune was kind in that Crick Camera Shop turned out to be close to my new home and had a great reputation for service and products. I gave them a go and never looked back. Not only did I get good advice and good service, I formed a friendship with the staff. For someone who is as unsure of his professional self as I am, this arrangement was truly welcome. It is a wonderful thing to have help in what you are doing from people interested in what you are doing even if you yourself are not convinced you know what you are doing!

When Crick announced their closing I felt shock and sadness. As I stated earlier, I do not connect easily. The loss of a connection such as this meant I will have to start over in some capacity. Other sources will have to be found for the hardware and consumables incurred by photography. In this day and age of the Internet of Stuff that probably will not be as big a deal as I imagined. The truly difficult and more important thing, is the reestablishment of human relationships that I came to understand truly benefited my eye and skill as a photographer. Today I stopped by the store to pick up a big roll of background paper, part of the odds and ends of inventory they are seeking to offload as they shut down for good. It was sad to stand in the store space stripped of most everything but fixtures and memories. It is the end of an era, one that will hold a good place in my photographer's heart.

In the Bewilderness

I washed my hands at the sink, looked up, and was startled by this man peering back at me. The winter graylight created an accidental portrait setting, one I felt compelled to document. Bemusement, wonder, unease: all the sensations self-portraits induce in myself. Much time is spent thinking about this man I know intimately and yet not at all. Water dripped from my fingers, his fingers, as we stared at one another over less than a yard of separation. The jaguar in winter freezes at the sight of his reflection in the stream. Technology assured that it would not get away. Not this time.

Cold introspection has driven me to this set of affairs before. A few years ago, trapped inside what felt like a shrinking apartment by the worst snow storm I have ever experienced I did a series of self-portraits for lack of anything better to do. It was a method of entertainment, I suppose, but I always felt a subtle itch in my skin every time I saw the images in my library. This morning was the first time in many months that the compulsion to take another hit hard enough to spur action.

Unshaven. Unshowered. The uniform of the schlub in sweatpants and t-shirt worn out of resignation and circumstance. Perhaps one thing that drew me in was the expression in my eyes (eyes are a particular fascination of mine when it comes to people) which radiated a set of feelings for which there may be no exact word in English. Weariness? Lack of sleep? Low-grade existential anxiety? Or just plain garden-variety anxiety behind those blue-gray windows to the soul?

I seek the word for that state of mind. It must exist, it has to exist. To find such a word we must sometimes step into and outside of ourselves, cease trying to say it, and capture it with something that is worth more than the traditional thousand words. The photograph, filter and shield for this man who knows himself too well and not at all. Someday he may forget himself to meet himself anew. The camera is along as witness for the trip.

Sermon of the Ember

The news was announced last week, January 6th, that Kodak is reviving the Ektachrome line of 35mm film. A cheer could be heard going up, from the throats of those who relished the film in its heyday up until production ceased in 2012. Such an announcement was bound to have excited those who still love film photography and those who are just picking it up, in the same way that many music lovers are rediscovering the delights of vinyl records. The news also prompted a spate of commentary on social media. Reactions ranged from glee at the return of some fine old-school tech to puzzlement and disdain at the idea of bringing back something that clearly appeared to be a tech dinosaur.

 

Reaction here at Oncatography was more to the glee side. Digital photography is the way of the now and the future, but film is fun. Film brings with it a slowness and fuzziness that digital photography does not have (unless you let the filters do the thinking for you). So what if the person next to you has a camera phone, and can keep shooting if you have to stop and reload? So what if they can post to social media instantly, while you have to wait on film to come back? Quantity and speed are nice in this age of high volume demand and low duration attention spans. They have their place. But...

 

Digital and speed are not the only arbiters of success or superiority of image. Having a phone camera or digital camera does not make one a photographer, necessarily, it just means that one can take as many pictures as one likes...just like everyone else. And crap that is shared on Facebook or other platforms is still that: crap. Which most of what gets posted seems to be.

 

Digital does many things well. It revolutionized photography similar to the way that computer-assisted drafting disrupted hand drafting in architecture, engineering and manufacturing. I know because I cut my professional teeth in architecture learning to draw by hand, which taught me so much about learning to build buildings. Film photography functioned in a similar fashion as I learned to "make" photographs. These days, I use digital equipment for most of my professional endeavors; I have to, as it is the nature of the business. But I have noticed that long periods of shooting digitally tend to engender in me a laziness of eye and mind. This is something that generally does not happen when I shoot with film. Not only do the cameras I use require a deeper engagement with process, the inherent unknowns around the output of the film has a "duende", a spirit, that gets flattened by the relentless efficiency of digital.

 

Will film turn around and replace digital? Of course not. The fuzziness and mystery of film does not have broad enough appeal to the cultural appetite for image consumption that surrounds us. Film is worth preserving and nurturing, though, if only for those of us who do not concern ourselves overly much with what and how fast the person next to us is posting on Facebook. A touch Luddite, I suppose, but there you have it.

 

Here endeth my sermon 'against the dying of the light.

 

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Author's note: a shorter version of this first appeared as a 'reply' to a Facebook comment, January 10, 2017.

Taken, Not Shared

The ether is all around us. Ubiquity and ease of use make us humans oh-so-prone to overindulgence and abuse. Who among us is free from the sin of too many selfies and oversharing? My heart may be partially made of glass but my head sometimes encourages the throwing of stones. Or posting a "me" pic. Or arguing with strangers when I am not looking at pictures of cats. Those of us who are fortunate to possess smartphones are frequently too easily shepherded by our digital masters to put too much out there, and lead us to believe that we have not posted enough.

It is a vicious circle shaped like a yoke, one that I am hoping to throw off in pursuit of inner peace. In pictures as with words it is my desire to improve my self-editing. The end result of such an exercise is to present to the world only that which fulfills more than simple affirmation of my presence. I have long felt that the "me" that is me is no more or no less than the "me" that is others. That is, just as boring and interesting as anyone when taken on the basis of their existence. So the energy invested in putting something before the world, to my mind, should be channeled into presenting things that are noteworthy for reasons extending far beyond the simple action of presentation.

Fireworks go BOOM! but most people want light, color and artistry above mere noise.

Photographs operate in a similar fashion. I think this a major reason why most selfies are ultimately boring and unsatisfying, at least to my eyes. A series of "This is me in location A, B, C,..." too quickly becomes an exercise in the same (or almost exactly the same) subject in anonymous locations with slightly different lighting or time of day. Sort of Where's Waldo? pages stripped of the interesting surrounding and colorful context. A similar things starts to happen when one sees too many food-of-the-moment pictures. Instead of a picture that says "I AM A SANDWICH", I want a picture that tells me a story about why that sandwich is good. That means context, occasion, maybe even history. These things make images worth sharing and by no means an exhaustive list.

Let me make it clear that I am not declaring myself an anti-selfie or anti-food pic zealot. I understand and have indulged in the need to share something of the moment, when enthusiasm and energy compel someone to share what they have. Even if technology is the real enabler, it can still be fun to be carried away by the spirit. It is my hope that this spirit will be informed by thoughtfulness and consideration for what will be shared, why it will be shared, and its effects upon with whom it is shared. This can produce conflict between sharing merit and seeking attention.

I was reminded of this recently during an editing and maintenance session on my workstation. I was editing some images and searching my photo library for images to inspire and images to delete. Because I had largely managed to get the events of last summer into a safe mental storage space, I was not expecting to see the images I had taken of my infant granddaughter on the day of her sudden death in July. The air went out of my lungs in one deep whoosh. Tears sprang to my eyes as I clapped a hand over my mouth in shock.

It is a series of five images taken after a request was made of the emergency medical personnel. This was the last chance to get some permanent memory before she was taken by the coroner. My granddaughter lay still in her infant carrier, the stub of the emergency ventilation tube protruding from between her lips. If that tube was not there you would have a hard time believing she was dead and not asleep. The contrast between this industrial plastic and the organic beauty of her cherubic cheeks was heart-rending in its understated brutality. Little pink nubbins of her toes peeked out from under the blanket in which she was swaddled, tiny anemones perched on the seashells of her feet.

I took those pictures as a reporter. Simple chronicle of the facts of the day, one of the worst I and my family have experienced in this life. The poet in me wanted to share one with the world, to seek solace in communal acknowledgement of universal tragedy. The reporter wanted to share to announce the news of the day, letting the viewer decide for themselves what to make of it. The counselor in me urged restraint as knowing of such tragedy is hard enough; witnessing a slice of it, maybe too much. None of those three won a clear victory, but a slight edge went to the counselor.

I closed the folder and moved on to other things. The photographer me knew then that one of the most valuable traits to have when making pictures is that of honed discretion. Knowing what to share and when is vital to sharing the story one wants to tell. For now, the pictorial evidence of this one tragic morning of agonizing heartbreak shall remain in the vaults of my heart, a story not ready to be told.