a beautiful day

We checked the weather the week leading up to the wedding - hoping the rain would subside and the chill would not bite.

And as the day arrived, so too did the rain. Expectations created by months and weeks of planning had to make an audible quicker than a Tom Brady read.

New location. Time constraints with each drop, drop, drop as the shutter fired on my old Mamiya - hoping my years of experience doing photography caught up with the moment we were in.

Then I realized, I had my best friend by my side. I was photographing our friends on their special day. And they were surrounded by their friends and family showering them with love and support of their union

It was a beautiful day.

*shot w/ Mamiya 645 on Kodak Portra 400

the year of didion

There was a span of a week in January where rain fell on the city to the point where pundits declared the drought over. Whether that was the truth-or-not was another story - the culture of our day lends itself to skepticism on all things news related.

Either way as my son and wife scurried towards our car, we wore the remnants of the storm as it clung to our bodies as ripples appeared on the ground with each step.

Rain doesn’t bother me per se but it can be annoying as it taps, taps, taps, incessantly on my head like a woodpecker on a tree.

Enough is enough, I often think. I get it. It’s raining in a land that more often than not revels in the glow of the California sun - which truthfully is just as petulant as the rain.

I’m a London fog or overcast kinda guy. It makes me happy. One, because I can dress in layers and two layers again - it’s all vanity, really. Malibu mornings is the sine qua non I long for.

On one such glorious overcast day as the rain stopped, I layered up, camera in tow loaded with Tri-X, because Bresson and the light was even, and I walked to the Hammer.

It was the final days of the Joan Didion exhibit and though I had known of her, we were strangers in the night. But as the shutter clicked, I was destined to slouch towards her writings.

In the vein of Hemingway, clear and precise, with selection of word usage and structure, Didion became the conduit to a Los Angeles I have grown nostalgic for over the years - a muse of the written word, and a voice of the things we go through in life and how we deal with them as we age - a truth I am seeking as I am planted in the soils of middle age.

In The Year of Magical Thinking, she writes, “Time is the school in which we learn.” I believe I was only prepared to read her works in the time I was set to - not too early and not too late.

On an overcast day in Los Angeles with my camera in tow, in a season of life that we all succumb to, Joan Didion arrived right on time.

a thing

I did a thing. You know the one where you spontaneously sign up for something you only give two seconds thought about with the reason being, “wth, why not!?!” Only to email a few days later to participate in an event they were hosting that weekend.

It took a lot of chutzpah, as they say.

After a long hiatus, I got back on stage and performed a few pieces to an audience of strangers and a few people with whom I met seconds earlier. To say it plainly, I played okay. Not the way that I had envisioned in my head like the prodigal son coming home after all these years and having a party thrown for him. And to be honest, I am okay with that.

Practicing in the comfort of your own home is fine and dandy. The temperature is a comfortable seventy-three and you can start and stop and no one will know. The audience is another dimension of performing and it needs to be practiced as well. And, that is why I did it.

The road back to performing is narrow but rewarding if you stay the path regardless of triumphs or setbacks. You’re only as good as your last performance. Also, you only get the reward if you try and keep trying no matter how small the victory.

south

I forgot what it felt like to be on the soil of another man’s land where the signs are legible but comprehension just out of reach. A place where my routine is replaced with apprehension. A place where home exists only in my head.

Yet, as I settled in, my anxiety dissipated as a new routine took shape. The land started to feel firm, though I was standing on sand. The off shore wind gave life to my lungs. And my family gave me a home anywhere they were. 

I had all that I needed. 

back again

After I graduated from grad school I was burnt out. Years of recitals, papers, and trying to pass language exams took its toll on me. I needed a break.

Seven years to be exact.

My time off consisted of teaching, photography, videography, and food with the occasional, “oh, I can still play guitar,” moment.

Then the pandemic hit. Like everyone else, I was taking a census on my life and trying to figure out what mattered. The years of not seriously playing the guitar anymore felt like a moral failure - a slap in the face of all who helped me achieve my dream.

I took it for granted. I was trained to play classical guitar, a skill set many try to attain yet quit because it was hard to do.

As it should be.

So I picked it up again, slowly. Bach, Villalobos, and Llobet we’re still under my fingers but not in my current mindset. I wanted a fresh start. Something contemporary that had weight of all that came before.

As I listened to countless hours of music, my ears and heart were drawn to the likes of Dusan Bogdanovic and Gyan Riley. I started to build a recital around the two with a hope, God willing, that I would be able to perform the set.

So, what does this all mean? What will this lead to?

Honestly, probably nothing more than a gut check that I can still play. Maybe that’s just what I need to appreciate what I had and still have.

craft

It would be presumptuous to think that I could add any more to the conversation on what makes a good photographer. Aside from composition, lighting, and gear, learning how to become one these days is as simple as calling yourself one. Which is what I have done. 

I am a trained classical guitarist who spent a majority of my young adult life practicing, performing, and finishing school. The rigors of being taught the correct way made me realize I was not bound for Carnegie—I would be nothing more than a competent guitarist.

translation: it means you weren’t good enough. 

So I graduated, got a job teaching and the rest is history. 

Photography came about as an escape from music. Self taught, I searched out books by the masters of yesteryear, Robert Frank and Cartier-Bresson, and tried to imitate their style. Did I succeed? Not really, but I found the trial and error process invigorating and humbling. It motivated me to pursue the art of photography further without expectation and to appreciate the art as a process. 

Dedicating myself to this craft has been one of the many joys of my life. It has served as an extension of myself and has given me moments of bliss.

corners

I love little corners - nooks if you will. A place where a house plant can sit and finish a room. A place where a Herman Miller chair reclines while you read about a sun rising. Lately, corners are where my son pretends to hide. An escape from a world of giants, if only for a season. 

I tend to look for corners as I photograph. Something that feels familIar yet a little off to most. Gone are the people, the fashionista model, or the Muir inspired landscapes. 

Just a plain corner that evokes the feelings of completeness, comfort, and escape. 

Somehow that’s enough for me. 

el ay

In this day-and-age, an opinion is as common as a penny. And, it’s it hold as much value as you give it. Some days I need an extra penny. Other days it’s just taking up space in my pocket. 

In conversation, many have expressed their displeasure for the city of Los Angeles—knowing full well the love and admiration I have for el ay. I’ll forgo the specifics and just let google be your guide to the op-eds, blogs, and media that cover the sprawling metropolis. 

To keep things simple, it is home.

It took a chance on a kid with a guitar, gave him lessons and gave him his livelihood. It found a guy walking the streets with a camera and a phone and offered him a view inside the culinary world. It allowed this guy to listen from the pew and hear His word. 

The city is a cast of characters that makes me feel that I am not alone. That dreaming is not a youthful activity. That an adventure is a simple walk down Wilshire. 

I understand Los Angeles is not for everyone. 

And, that’s okay with me.

priceless

Value is an arbitrary term. 

What we deem important in our lives determines the overall worth of an idea, object, and/or philosophy.

Though, not all sees the same value as the eye of the beholder.

On the subject of art, how do we continue to cultivate our craft if no one adds the necessary currency that gives it credence?

Validation. 

The expectation one puts on others in order to feel worth or value.

Remove the expectation. Continue to hone one’s craft. And, let the rest take care of itself. 

Priceless. 

19

Time has passed. It’s most present in his fingers and toes. His stance is upright and his eyes dance with life. In my hair, there is gray. Below my eyes, there is wear. 

I cling to this hourglass. Nineteen months and counting.

What a beautiful journey we’re on.