Repairing Fences

Art / PotD

Repairing Fences

October 30, 2015

Autumn Illusion – Repairing Fences

There are three kinds of men. The one that learns by reading. The few who learn by observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence for themselves.—Will Rogers

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]A lot can be said for good fences: they make good neighbors, they keep cattle from roaming into someone’s corn field, they keep out the bad guys if they’re built correctly. Funny thing, fences; some people think we need more of them, like that giant wall built across China so many centuries ago. Yet, as J. R. R. Tolkien wrote:

The wide world is all about you: you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence it out.

Two of our neighbors have fences. One is a simple chain link that boxes in the back yard, making it perfect for pets, which they don’t have, or children, which are only there every other weekend. The other neighbor has been more definitive about his property, though. He has a tall, eight-foot privacy fence around his backyard. This is because he has a pool around which he enjoys throwing parties throughout the summer. We’re thankful that fence is there not just because it keeps Kat’s little ones from playing in the water but also because we really have no desire to see our neighbor in a Speedo. You just can’t unsee that.

Beyond the privacy fence, though, the neighbor also has a stretch of chain link that stretches to the end of his driveway, establishing a firm boundary. Then, presumably so we wouldn’t have to look at the side of his garage, he has a very tall and full shrubbery. This isn’t the evergreen kind like we have, but is more tree-like with a thick covering of leaves from the ground to the sky; it is very good cover and would likely grow quite tall if he’d let it.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]The shrubbery is thick and there’s not much room between it and the side of the neighbor’s garage. What we’ve liked is that it would also arch over our yard, creating a shaded path alongside our carport, something quite welcome during the summer. We’ve had to prune our side a couple of times, with the neighbor’s permission, to keep the shrub from growing into our carport, but overall it’s a nice, welcome addition to the landscape.

Not everyone in our neighborhood likes the shrubbery, though. We have one neighbor, a fussy little old woman who claims to be close friends with the chief of police, despite the rotating nature of that position. She doesn’t exactly like the privacy fence, either, but there’s nothing she can do about that thanks to the pool. This fall, just as summer was coming to a close, the top-most leaves of the shrubbery began peaking above the gutters of the garage. Our fussy neighbor delighted in calling the city, citing a piece of arcane legislation, and demanded the shrubbery be cut back.

As Tolkien said, fences don’t keep out the world, or even nosey neighbors. We now have a much more boring view along that fenceline. Pruning the shrub caused the leaves to drop sooner than they normally would; they didn’t change color, they just fled the scene. Fences are an illusion, you see. We think we’re protected, that we can create a barrier against the people who bother us. No, while fences protect small children and dogs, all they do for some people is provide a place to pee, figuratively if not literally. Perhaps we should talk about electrifying that fence.[/one_half_last]

Art / PotD

Falling Leaves

October 29, 2015

Autumn Illusion – Falling Leaves

The falling leaves drift by my window. The falling leaves of red and gold. I see your lips, the summer kisses. The sunburned hands I used to hold.—Johnny Mercer

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]Autumn doesn’t mess around once it finally decides to do its thing. Only a week ago, I was able to take pictures of brightly colored trees in the neighborhood, their leaves golden and resplendent in the sunlight. I looked at the giant oak across the street yesterday afternoon and its branches now are nearly bare; a yellow blanket covers the ground around it’s dark trunk.

There are still several hours before sunrise as I write this, so I can only imagine even more leaves are down this morning. Wind howled by my bedroom window all night. Some gusts were strong enough to shake the entire house. Any leaves still on trees this morning are brave souls hanging on to futility; they, too, will fall. A horizon of dark, grey, nothingness is all nature has left us. Those not already prepared for winter had best hurry.

We keep saying we’re going to cover our windows with plastic to help keep out the encroaching cold. We’ve said that the past two winters as well; it hasn’t happened, yet. Like those leaves that still cling desperately to tree branches, we never really want to give in to the fact that winter is coming. We use the excuse of needing to wait for “Indian Summer,” and then find some other reason after that. We really don’t want to cover the windows; we want to be able to see.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]Falling leaves are nature’s definitive statement on change. There’s no fudging the line as to whether the season is here or not. Summer’s out the window, winter is knocking at the door, and Autumn is doing its best to give us some kind of buffer so that we’re not still running around half-naked trying to find a way to heat the swimming pool when snow starts flying.

Neither is there any compromise on the plants in our garden. Harvest is done, even if there is one little orange-colored tomato still hanging on for dear life. We’ll leave that for the birds, or perhaps the neighborhood raccoon.

Relationships change, too. We instinctively recognize the need to gather close, to have someone with which to huddle and keep us warm through the winter. Even where there are no drunken Halloween parties to help, couples still manage to find each other lest they freeze alone in their beds. Besides, we need someone to help us rake all those damn leaves in the yard, going from yellow to brown.

There is no putting the leaves back on the trees once they’ve fallen. Brace for impact. Winter is coming.[/one_half_last]

Art / PotD

Thistles, Thorns, and Broken Glass

October 28, 2015

charles i. letbetter - thorns, thistles, and broken glass

charles i. letbetter - thistles, thorns, and broken glass

Autumn Illusion – Thistles, Thorns and Broken Glass

Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us.—Voltaire

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]There are thorns around the periphery of our yard. We talk each autumn about cutting them out, cleaning up the edges that we largely ignore the rest of the year, but this autumn we have to actually go ahead and clear them out, along with the thistles and broken glass. Autumn can be as much about cleaning and clearing as is spring; sometimes, it’s even more important to do those chores now.

We don’t employ any yard workers other than ourselves. Our lawn is not one of the trim and neat, well-manicured pieces of property. We do well to keep the lawn mowed and probably wouldn’t do that quite as often if we didn’t have a neighbor who religiously reports us, and everyone else in the neighborhood, to the city should our lawns begin to look a touch unsightly. We wouldn’t give a fuck except for the $200 fine. In the places we can’t mow, there are thorns.

Most the thorns are behind, around, or under shrubbery. Thistles grow along our side of a neighbor’s privacy fence. He has a pool. We’re glad he has a fence. Broken glass can be found alongside the house, where panes from the storm windows didn’t quite get put up on time. None of those things actually bother anyone because we seldom venture into those areas, so they don’t get addressed. Thorns and thistles grow, the broken glass just lies there, a thin layer of roughness.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]This autumn, we may have to address some of that growth. There is an area in one corner where a previous owner attempted to cultivate flowers and decorative shrubbery. We don’t pay much mind to it because we’re not sure exactly what is and isn’t supposed to be growing there, except for the thorns. The thorns grew quite well there this year, to the point they’re no longer hidden. Were it safe to play outside, they might pose a danger.

Playing outside isn’t’ safe, though. There are more human thorns than those of a botanical nature. They run the stop signs, plowing through the neighborhood streets at speeds that would be illegal even on highways. Gunfire peppers the otherwise quiet sounds of the neighborhood, though I find it interesting that no one ever seems to get hit. The human thorns here apparently have really bad aim, for which we are thankful.

Throughout life, thorns are going to happen, whether botanical or otherwise. Some, like those that grow with certain flowers, we can do nothing about. Others, though, need to be cleaned out every once in a while, even if they don’t seem particularly bothersome. Looking across our lawn, or the neighborhood, the thorns aren’t really visible, but we know they’re present, a danger lying in wait. They are yet another of autumn’s illusions and the only remedy is to pull them out by the roots.[/one_half_last]

Art / PotD

A Different Spice

October 27, 2015

Autumn Illusion – A Different Spice

Once you get a spice in your home, you have it forever. Women never throw out spices. The Egyptians were buried with their spices. I know which one I’m taking with me when I go.—Erma Bombeck

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]There’s not much left to our garden. Long vines and huge leaves from winter squash plants have all withered and died, leaving behind a strange, other-worldly array of expired tentacles grasping at the dirt. Beans just disappeared. Cucumber plants shriveled to nothing. Zucchini plants that were once four feet in diameter are now reduced to tiny mounds of memory. The color is gone. A huge square of gray dirt dominates our lawn, looking more like a disappointment rather than the glorious success it was a couple of months ago.

Kat has taken most the spice clippings inside. We’ll have more than enough oregano, thyme, and basil to get us through the winter. All that remains are a few tomatoes that refuse to give up, and one very stubborn habanero plant. Habanero isn’t really a spice, though that’s the side of the garden on which it was planted; it’s one of the hottest peppers in the world, several times more than jalapeno. Kat wanted to try it. To my knowledge, she attempted to eat one.

Spice did well in the garden this year, for the most part. I’m not sure what happened to the lavender, but everything else on that side of the garden grew exceptionally well. Bell peppers and sweet peppers came in a little late for some reason, but once they started they were abundant. That one habanero plant, though, started early and there are still three small ones on the vine. We won’t pick them; there’s no reason to bother. They’re just too hot.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]Spice and peppers are a lot different when they’re fresh versus what one buys in the store. By the time anything makes it to the local grocery, it has had time to mellow a bit, having been picked early so it wouldn’t spoil too soon. Organic spice has a slightly more pungent flavor as well, and we definitely went the organic route with everything. Spice packets in my freezer are pungent and it doesn’t take much to flavor a sauce or a soup to the point the entire house is full of the fragrance.

Those habaneros were just too much, though, which is saying something. Kat enjoys a lot of spice and heat in her food, much more than my old intestinal digestive system can tolerate. She’s one of those people who put hot sauce on hot sauce, leaving everyone else to wonder how she’s not breathing fire. These peppers were too much. Just cutting one open made my throat hurt.

I know that saying about variety and spice and having plenty of spice in one’s life is definitely a good thing. Life is full of choices and to the extent one is curious there is no reason to not to experiment, try different blends, see what works and what doesn’t. Life is not meant to be bland, but full of flavor. When autumn comes, however, some things are best left to die on the vine; another illusion allowed to pass.[/one_half_last]

Art / Photography / PotD

A Shadow of Former Glory

October 21, 2015

The Smallest Light (2008)

That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.—William Wordsworth

The November 1972 issue of Playboy® sold over seven million copies. This month, they will be lucky to see 500,000 copies leave store shelves. What made that 1972 issue so popular? Was there a special interview? Were the articles particularly on point? Where the editorial cartoons especially biting? No, it was the gatefold of Lena Söderberg, shot by Dwight Hooker, that made the issue leap off shelves. In fact, it remains one of the most sought after collectors’ editions to this day. For years, a cropped version of that picture of Lena has been used as the ultimate test for dithering in color computer imaging. The gatefold is also a topic of conversation in the 1973 Woody Allen film Sleeper. Ah, the glory days.

Much of the glory, however, is gone and the reasons have nothing to do with the magazine’s iconic nudes. There isn’t a printed periodical in the country that hasn’t been severely challenged by the Internet, for starters, and more than a few great titles have completely folded as a result. Online “magazines”, not unlike online shopping, took traditional publishers completely by surprise and even those who attempted to adapt early often did so in ways that were not sustainable. Only a few titles, such as the New York Times and Condé Nast’s Vogue have recently figured out how to make their print and online presence work symbiotically. For Playboy’s circulation numbers to have fallen dramatically isn’t surprising for that reason alone.

Playboy’s circulation problems didn’t begin with the Internet, though. Numbers had been declining long before online publishing was even a thing. Circulation in the 80s was lower than the 70s, and the 90s numbers were dramatically lower than the 80s. Blaming the Internet for the magazine’s decline ignores the fact that the glory that was once Playboy was long gone before live streaming and pervasive free porn ever became a factor. Playboy was already standing on the edge of a publishing cliff. All the Internet did was push it over.

If the Internet isn’t the cause of Playboy’s troubles, though, what is? Where is the luster and glory that made the name so well known? The list of reasons could be long, but overall they can be summarized into two primary categories: 1. Hugh Hefner left the magazine, and 2. the emphasis changed. One of the most seismic declines in circulation came when Hef turned control of the magazine over to his daughter, Christie. There were already some challenges even before than happened, but, inevitably, Christie’s vision for the magazine wasn’t the same as her father’s and it had been Hef’s view of how life should be lived that had driven the magazine since its inception. Sure, his name has always been on the masthead as editor in chief, but once his voice was no longer dominant, the magazine faltered.

More critically, though, Playboy the company became the primary competitor to Playboy the magazine. Special Editions introduced in the 80s were much heavier on photographs and contained extended set not shown in the magazines. Those who were primarily interested in the pictures picked up titles such as “Girls of the Big Ten” rather than the full magazine. The introduction of videos in the 80s also distracted some magazine buyers. Over the years, Playboy the company has become more dependent upon revenue from licensing than publishing, and that distraction has stolen glory from the magazine.

Playboy dropping nudes from its magazine is a reactive strategy that is likely to only hasten its demise. While Playboy’s management is quick to tout the five-fold increase in unique views the website had when it dropped nudes, expecting print readers to respond the same way is foolish and naive. Playboy dropping nudes is like the New York Times eliminating investigative journalism or Vogue deciding to drop fashion editorials. Gutting their primary source of glory is likely to have the opposite effect and may well find its editorial staff looking for new jobs.

Art / Photography / PotD

Abandoning The Revolution

October 20, 2015

String of Souls (2010)

Sexuality surrounds us like a dangerous aura. The same reverence that is given to the spirit is not given to the flesh. We have had a sexual revolution, but the sexual revolution only has made sex more pervasive. It hasn’t granted the level of reverence and respect that it should have.—Gioconda Belli

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]When Playboy® chief executive Scott Flanders defended the magazine ‘s move toward non-nude images last week, he said, “The battle has been fought and won.” Mr. Flanders, the magazine’s first CEO outside the Hefner family, was referring, of course, to the battle that was the sexual revolution. Without question, a lot has changed in our attitudes towards sex and sexuality since Hef started the magazine in 1953. However, to abandon the very thing that has brought the magazine this far is rather like General George Washington defeating Cornwallis then, instead of becoming President, Washington moves back to Britain. Was all that effort for naught?

There is absolutely no question that Playboy® was a major contributing factor in changing the landscape of American sexuality. The magazine’s participation in that movement wasn’t always welcome, either. Those of us who are old enough remember know feminist stalwart Gloria Steinem went undercover as a Playboy Bunny in an attempt to discredit the magazine. Others have criticized the fact that, while the country was struggling with the matter of civil rights, Playboy diverted the attention of white men by shoving the sexual revolution in their face. In the magazine’s defense, their interviews with both Malcom X and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. were exemplary examples of Playboy’s continual contribution to contemporary issues conversation.

Yet, for all the talk, it was always the pictures that stood out. Sure, the articles were important and timely and informative, but without that famous gatefold, would anyone have bothered reading them? Probably not. Looking at the progression of styles and poses in the photography across the years is almost like a visual encyclopedia of America’s changing attitudes toward both sex and beauty. Hair styles, grooming choices, accessories, backgrounds, and changes in body types are all indicative of the effect Playboy has had on the sexual revolution.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]But is the revolution really over?®® Is there nothing else that should be explored through conceptual nude imagery?

Whether one liked the magazine or not, one of the things I’ve always admired about the magazine is that they didn’t back down in the face of criticism. At first, Hef was demonized for the nudity. People screamed, ranted and raved when Jennifer Jackson became the first black Playmate of the Month in 1965. Mouths frothed when Marina Baker, Miss March 1987, talked about being bisexual and even more when Stephanie Adams, June 2006, came out as the magazine’s first lesbian centerfold. Playboy didn’t back down or apologize.

What’s important to our current conversation, though, is without the pictures none of those women’s contributions would have been relevant or recognizable. They all would have just been one of the millions of women battling against a status quo that shut them out. Photography can do a lot about bringing attention to issues and creative, conceptual, nude imagery is critical to that effort because of its ability to direct our attention when other methods fail. Issues of equality, such as #freethenipple, still remain. Imagine a gatefold who’s had a mastectomy; that would be leadership that Playboy is uniquely positioned to provide.

What Mr. Flanders and others at Playboy seem to miss is the fact that “winning” the revolution is only the beginning. We need a magazine that takes us from the revolutionary aspects of photographic nudity to using that imagery to teach respect for sexuality, especially in the face of overwhelming amounts of porn. Who is better positioned to lead that movement toward reverence and respect than the magazine that helped get us to this position? Now is not the time to abandon nudity, Mr. Flanders. The work has just begun.[/one_half_last]

Art / Photography / PotD

Lighting Matters

October 19, 2015

A Little Light Through A Window (2011)

The great photographers of life – like Diane Arbus and Walker Evans and Robert Frank – all must have had some special quality: a personality of nurturing and non-judgment that frees the subjects to reveal their most intimate reality. It really is what makes a great photographer, every bit as much as understanding composition and lighting.—Caleb Deschanel

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]If Playboy® magazine’s chief content officer Cory Jones thinks that nudes have become passé, perhaps one of the reasons might be that the magazine has dropped their emphasis on creatively and seductively lit images. Back when the magazine started in 1953, the gatefolds were pinups in the classic style, with a careful attention to maintaining a sense of illusion. Lighting was critical. The photographs from the first few years, the ones that caught your grandfather’s or great-grandfather’s attention, look to us now almost like a set of realist paintings. They were carefully shot and carefully processed to portray a specific image that implied luxury and refinement. They were classy, not slutty.

During the 1960s and 70s, Helmut Newton came to the magazine and set the world on fire with his black and white images that were naturally lit. While the concept sounds easy, just show up someplace with decent indirect lighting and shoot where there are no shadows, photography for Helmut was never that simple. He would scout locations and check for the perfect time of day when the lighting was going to be precisely the way he wanted. Then, he was picky as hell about things such as reflection and making sure that poses put shadows precisely where he wanted them. There was never anything accidental or surprising about Helmut’s photos; what you saw was exactly what he intended.

Then, starting in 1976, Arny Freytag pretty much took over Playboy’s® gatefold and did so with highly-specialized lighting schemes that sometimes used as many as fifty flash heads to create just exactly the precise amount of light he wanted across every inch of the photograph. Arney didn’t just make sure the lighting for the model was correct, but he cared about the background as well, whether it was a complicated room full of furniture, or something seemingly as simple as a rumpled sheet. Arny would fuss endlessly over the precise placement of lights, taking endless Polaroids® until the lighting was to his critical satisfaction. [/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]Such were the years of Playboy® at its heyday. As Arny got older, he didn’t shoot for the magazine as often and the difference was dramatic. Lighting was terribly inconsistent from one photographer to another. Some insisted on blowing out the highlights and the background. Others, especially once the magazine moved to using digital cameras, created images that were as flat as the paper on which they were printed. Shadows showed up in awkward places. Sunlight glared down on models with no filter or any form of diffusing. Editors and photographers alike seemed to rely more on Photoshop® to fix the errors rather shooting good pictures to begin with. With those attitudes, anything would quickly become passé.

When Hugh Hefner started the magazine, there was an inherent emphasis on quality because he wanted a men’s magazine that would stand out with class and not be like the low-class smut being produced at the time. He knew that was the only way to win over the large-scale acceptance of the men’s magazines necessary to make it profitable. There was no room in Hef’s magazine for bad lighting or poor photography. Even non-nude photographs, such as those accompanying the famous interview portion, were by photographers who knew how to light a portrait correctly.

Playboy® faces a tough battle ahead if it plans to go up against men’s giant such as GQ and Esquire with the bad lighting some of their photography has shown the past 20 years or so. There simply is no substitute, now or in the future, for a photograph that is lit properly from the very beginning. If an editor wants to capture readers attention, good lighting is an absolute necessity, even if readers don’t recognize it. Sometimes it’s the details that keep a magazine from being passé.[/one_half_last]

Art / Photography / pop culture / PotD

Anything But Passé

October 18, 2015

An Insufferable Desire (2008)

I believe that history has shape, order, and meaning; that exceptional men, as much as economic forces, produce change; and that passé abstractions like beauty, nobility, and greatness have a shifting but continuing validity.—Camille Paglia

Passé. Nudes are passé. At least, that’s the story according to Playboy® magazine’s recently-appointed chief content officer Cory Jones. The magazine announced that this past week that it is initiating a complete re-design and re-branding, beginning with the March 2016 issue. Jones said, as part of the announcement, “You’re now one click away from every sex act imaginable for free. And so it’s just passé at this juncture.” And with that, every male, and more than a few females, around the world sighed the deepest of sighs. There’s no arguing with the prevalence of nudity and porn on the Internet. And yes, it does make the current content of the magazine passé. Such wasn’t always the case, though, and that it is now is partly Playboy’s own fault.

Before I totally give in to ranting and raving, which I have a whole week to do, let’s be very clear about a few facts surrounding the magazine’s decision. First, what you see on the newsstands today is not Hugh Hefner’s magazine and hasn’t been for quite some time. Hef turned control of the magazine over to his daughter, Christie, in 1988 after he suffered a stroke in 1985. So, if you didn’t turn 18 until sometime after that date, you’ve not seen the magazine as it appeared under Hef’s control. Christie started making changes immediately and continued trying to keep the general content of the magazine moving forward until she stepped down in 2008, but even under her, the quality of the nudes suffered.

The magazine has been totally out of family control since earlier this year, and while Hef ostensibly has “approved” the change, his physical and mental condition has deteriorated to the point that one can legitimately question whether he really has a true concept of what’s taking place. The magazine’s website eliminated nudes over a year ago, which may be more understandable given the online competition, but then, the web version never has been anything more than a shadow of what the magazine was under Hef. One might even go back to Christie’s decision to move into video as the beginning of the decline.

Here’s the rub: poor quality nudes, such as what have appeared in the magazine for the past twenty years, have always been passé. Part of what made Playboy® the magazine it was under Hef’s control was the quality of its nudes. Not just anyone could shoot for the magazine and get their work published. Consider the list of photographers who once shot for the magazine. Arny Freytag, Pompeo Posar, Suze Randall, Mario Casilli, Herb Ritts, and most notably, Helmut Newton. The people who were behind the camera for the magazine during its heyday, who were responsible for its definitive look, were not hacks, but well-respected photographers with significant careers outside the magazine.

What happened? Expediency took the place of quality. Video was new and flashy and those early VHS tapes didn’t have to be good to sell well. Before long, the quality that had built the empire was completely gone. Never mind that attitudes about nudes and sexuality were changing, the photography by the mid-1990s came nowhere near the artistry that had existed before. Photoshop® and post-editing took over, lighting and creative posing and staging, which can be expensive, took a back seat. Models began looking more and more plastic.

So yes, the nudes that have appeared in Playboy® magazine the past 20 years are incredibly passé and changing that is a good thing. However, eliminating nudes completely is the easy way out. By going with a more glamour-oriented photography style, the magazine puts itself more in competition with titles such as GQ and Esquire. There, too, they will struggle if the quality of their photography doesn’t improve, and there’s no indication that it will.

Great nude photography will never be passé. However, mediocre magazines always will, and that’s exactly where Playboy® has landed, a fact that makes us all very sad.

Music / PotD

Everybody Has The Blues

October 17, 2015

Most Refined (2009). Model: Samantha Caster

Everything comes out in blues music: joy, pain, struggle. Blues is affirmation with absolute elegance. It’s about a man and a woman. So the pain and the struggle in the blues is that universal pain that comes from having your heart broken. Most blues songs are not about social statements.—Wynton Marsalis

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]Everybody has the Blues. I have the Blues right now because the kids are already awake and making way too much noise, and because this is the end of Blues week. I like next week’s theme of classic nudes, but this week has been rather special and I’m sorry to see it come to an end. My friends have the Blues, one from not sleeping well for several nights, another remembering, and feeling, the passing of a friend on this date some years ago. Blues happens to everyone, everywhere, all the time. There is not a day, nor even a moment that passes but what someone has the Blues.

I don’t think the Blues are something to be avoided, though. If anything, I think the Blues should be embraced, welcomed, and given the time and emotion to be felt deeply. The only way one gets over the Blues is to feel them and then to let that feeling come out in some form. Creative people have an advantage there; they can write or sing or paint or draw their way through the Blues and end up with something beautiful. Some of the most wonderful works of art have come from letting the Blues take over the creative process. When we allow the Blues to be a natural part of our experience, they participate as the balance against which we measure our level of joy. Without the Blues, how would we know how happy we are?[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]The music this week has been some of the best. One of the reasons Blues music is so popular is that the emotions from which it springs are universal; one can identify with the music because one has felt the emotion for themselves. Blues music brings us together in our pain, or at the very least the remembrance of it. For example, as I get older I think of people who were part of my childhood, people whose names I can’t even remember now, and the song, “Do I Ever Cross Your Mind” plays on cue in my head. Or something happens that reminds me how much things have changed in my lifetime and the B.B. King/Bobby “Blue” Bland duet, “Funny How Time Slips Away” comes to mind.

“Everybody Has The Blues” seems like a fitting way to end the week. It doesn’t matter who we are, rich, poor, married, single, young, old, we all get the blues. The song, like today’s picture, is a little more refined than what we normally see from the Blues, with Ray’s orchestra and the smooth voice of Tony Bennet joining him. Yet, there’s still that tone of melancholy in the bridge. There’s no escaping the Blues. They’re going to get you. Might as well accept them and go on. Enjoy the song.[/one_half_last]

Music / PotD / Uncategorized

Got My Mojo Working

October 16, 2015

charles i. letbetter - got my mojo working

Portrait in Blue (2011). Model: Rebekkah Perigrin

I think I believe a little bit in the power of people to really cast a bad energy on you if they want to. If the bad mojo wants to come your way, look out.—Dileep Rao

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]Maybe it’s just me, but I hear the word mojo and it’s almost impossible to not immediately think of Mike Meyers in the character of Austin Powers. Then I inevitably wonder whatever happened to Meyers and why he didn’t pursue the whole Austin Powers thing more aggressively while it was working for him. The only answer I can find is that he must have lost his mojo, too. That happens, it seems. Mojo has this ability to just get up and walk away whenever it damn well feels like it. Rather sucks when that happens.

Of course, not everyone has mojo to begin with. I can’t say that I’ve ever had a particularly strong mojo of any kind. If I did, it was when I was too young and stupid to recognize it and put it to work for me. Mojo seems to involve just a bit of arrogance on top of a healthy dose of self-confidence and there have been few times that my confidence has been sufficient to tip the scales in that direction. Although, now that I’m sitting here typing this, the times that I’ve been able to pull off large nude shoots almost certainly have required a bit of mojo working. [/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]Mojo is such an elusive thing, though. I think most people don’t have mjo more often than they do have it. Maintaining mojo is hard work; it requires being at the top of your game, not letting your guard down, having everything together no matter what happens. How many people can realistically do that day in and day out? Sure, two or three days a week, maybe, and almost certainly a couple of times a month, but all day every day? I don’t think so. Not unless you’re someone supremely cool like Sir Ian McKellan or Patrick Stewart; they never seem to lose their mojo, at least not in public.

And then, like the song says, there are some people on whom no amount of mojo works. There’s nothing one can do when encountering such a person; they’re just immune to the stuff. And just because the mojo works on someone once doesn’t necessarily mean it will a second time. Perhaps there’s a little bit of deception in mojo, making ourselves out to be more than we are. Rebekkah had her mojo working the night we shot this portrait. Or maybe it was the wine. Maybe wine is mojo. Wait, scotch is mojo! Maybe. Enjoy the song.[/one_half_last]

Music / PotD

Baby Grand

October 15, 2015

Steal The Moment (2013). Model: Loren Hawk

Sometimes I can only groan, and suffer, and pour out my despair at the piano!—Frederic Chopin

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]I’ve never owned a baby grand. I’ve played countless numbers of them over the years, but for a variety of reasons I’ve never owned one and that makes me a bit sad. Not all pianos are created equal, you know. Even when they’re in tune there is a significant difference in the tone between a studio piano, which is what I had growing up, and a baby grand. Of course, when I was much, much younger I thought I’d have a twelve-foot Steinway sitting in the middle of my living room floor. Perhaps, had life taken a very different turn 30-plus years ago, that might have happened, but there’ve been many times when, moving logistics aside, twelve feet was longer than any one side of the living room. A baby grand is five-foot to five-feet, four-inches long, which fits in just about any room. I still don’t have one, though.

Still, no matter what size piano or keyboard one has, they make for incredible friends when one has the Blues. A baby grand is the perfect outlet for the widest range of emotion. Sometimes, one is quiet and contemplative, and a gentle touch on the keys produces a soft tone that is reflective and peaceful, full of thought. When one is sad, all it takes is shifting to a minor key and what would be tears fall into beautiful melancholy streams of emotion. Angry? The piano has been the outlet for my anger more times than I care to count; it can not only handle the power of the emotion but sends it back with a musical force that is satisfying.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]The problem with relying on a baby grand as one’s emotional outlet is that often one feels those emotions most deeply and strongly in the middle of the night. Timing tends to be an issue for anyone not actually playing the piano. No matter how skillful the playing or how beautiful the song, people tend to not be too terribly receptive when it jars them from their sleep at 3:00 AM. I’ve even had one neighbor threaten violence over what he considered to be the inappropriate timing of my playing. During the quiet moments of the night, even the softest tones are too much for most people.

Perhaps it is better, from a relationship perspective, to put one’s worries into a good book, divert the energy toward more physical pleasures, or at least some activity that doesn’t wake the entire neighborhood. I can tell you right now, though, even taking pictures of beautiful women, such as today’s photo, as much as I love doing it, is not as emotionally satisfying as sitting down and becoming one with a baby grand. Nothing else responds to the Blues in quite the same way, personally, deeply, as though it were a part of your body, as does a baby grand. There is no better therapy.

Ray understood. Enjoy the music. [/one_half_last]

Music / PotD

What Kind Of Woman Is This?

October 14, 2015

Blue All Over (2015)

Being jealous of a beautiful woman is not going to make you more beautiful.—Zsa Zsa Gabor

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]I’m going to go off script this morning, because, with a title like What Kind Of Woman Is This? I feel the need to do some explaining. We tend to look at the Blues as a way of working out something challenging to us. No, not always. There are times when all it takes is the presence of a beautiful woman. Here are the lyrics:

The gates of Heaven must be open
I think I saw an angel just walk by
Hey, the gates of heaven must be open
I think I saw an angel just walk by

I heard a blind man screamin’, say
Now there goes a sight for my sore eyes
There goes a sight for my sore eyes
Now there goes a sight for my sore eyes
What kind of woman is this?

You should be locked up, pretty girl
In my bedroom with me
Hey, you should be locked up, pretty girl
In my bedroom with me

So we can do the same thing that Adam
Did under that old apple tree
What he did under that apple tree
What he did under that apple tree

Well, well, well, well, well, well
Choke out
Here I come again

There’s always some good lookin’ girls
Hangin’ ’round this famous place
Well, hey, there’s always some good lookin’ girls
Hangin’ round this famous place, talkin’ bout legends now

Aww, but this particular one
Looked like somethin’ from outer space
She looked like somethin’ from outer space

What kind of woman is this?
Hmm, what kind of woman is this?
What kind of woman is this?
Ooh, what kind of woman is this?

Look at that, she shakes all over when she walk
She made a blind man see
Made a dumb man talk
What kind of woman is this?
Hmm, shucks

[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]What Kind of Woman is This? is the only original song on Buddy Guy’s 2005 album, Bring ’em In. That would mean he was 68- or 69-years-old when he wrote the song. Considering the fact that it really is not much more than one long pick-up line, one might think that the Blues comes from knowing he’s not going to be the one to get her. I would have to challenge that, though. Blues musicians seem to get better with age, like so many other things, and I’ve not seen one yet that didn’t have groupies waiting at the stage door.

One might also question whether the song’s title is sexist, patronizing, objectifying, or possibly even misogynistic. I think the song is actually more appreciative than anything. We’ve all been in that crowded room when a particular woman walks in and turns every head in the place. Maybe she’s wildly attractive, or maybe she’s a strong, confident woman who doesn’t put up with the bullshit she gets from men; perhaps she’s both.

So, where do the Blues come in? What’s the cause for the emotion? Can there be such a thing as a happy Blues song? Yes, there are happy Blues songs, and in some aspects this may be one of them. But what I think Guy is talking about is a distraction. Perhaps the woman’s presence was unexpected. Maybe she sat a little too close to the stage. One thing for sure is that everyone in the room, including the blind man, if more interested in the woman than in the person on the stage. Any musician will tell you, a distraction that compete’s with your performance is plenty of reason to sing the Blues.

Here’s to the women who can distract whatever is going on in any room, and here’s to the musicians who have to endure the distraction. May you both manage to keep your composure. Enjoy the song.

[/one_half_last]

Music / PotD

Dust My Broom

October 13, 2015

INTENSITY (2012). Model: Cole Prosper

You may write me down in history with your bitter, twisted lines. You may trod me in the very dirt, but still, like dust, I’ll rise.—Maya Angelou

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]There comes a time, or two, or more, when one has to look at their life, their circumstances, and maybe even the people in their lives, and decide to make some changes, or “dust my broom.” An exact etymology of the phrase was difficult to find, but it seems to go back quite ways, which seems to make sense. I can just imagine some poor woman of the 15th or 16th century stepping to the door of her humble little house and shaking out all the dirt the broom had picked up while being dragged across the floor. Dusting the broom was just a natural part of cleaning house. “Cleaning house” is a natural part of our lives as well.

We see people dust their brooms today when they prune their social media friends lists. We collect names because they make our numbers look good, but over time we realize those names and numbers are not only doing us no good, but may even be causing some of our problems. When we hit that realization, often in a fit of frustration, we clean house and dust our broom. I did that very thing back at the beginning of the year, culling over 1,000 names that were little more than numbers. Fewer than ten asked to be re-instated. Those numbers were obviously little more than dead weight.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]If one digs down and examines the phrase, we realize that dusting the broom is the final act of cleaning house. When cleaning house, you need the broom handy to get all the dust and muck and dead spider skeletons out of all the corners and from under all the furniture. You gather everything up in a pile, dump the bulk into the garbage, and then dust the broom. Get rid of the big stuff first, and then shake off the little stuff that wants to cling on and cause more trouble. Who knew there could be such deep, introspective meaning to a Blues song?

Tuesdays seem like they might be a good time to dust the broom. Monday delivers a lot of garbage and we tend to let that mess just accumulate and stack up. Time to get rid of it all. Sweep out the nonsense, tidy things up, and put everything back in order so you can get on with your week. Dusting your broom is an act of empowerment, you taking action to put your life back in balance, being done with yesterday’s dirt, and moving on. So grab that broom, shake the dust out, and then put on some blues. We’ll all feel better for having done so.[/one_half_last]

Music / PotD

Damn Right, I’ve Got The Blues

October 11, 2015

Feelin’ Blue (2012). Model: Aubrey Carr

The blues was like that problem child that you may have had in the family. You was a little bit ashamed to let anybody see him, but you loved him. You just didn’t know how other people would take it.—B. B. King

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]I listen to a lot of music while I’m sitting here editing pictures. Walk in on me during one of these sessions and you’re likely to hear anything from The Gaither Vocal Band to Florence + The Machine. The playlist that I hit most often, though, is four and a half hours worth of the Blues. Everything from remastered Robert Johnson and B. B. King to Bonny Raitt and Aretha Franklin is on that list. The Blues get me through those sessions when I’m just not feeling it; when I’ve lost the emotional connection I might have had with a picture. One thing photographs have to do is make people feel, and if I’m not feeling anything chances are pretty high no one else will, either. The Blues gets me over that hurdle because the Blues are little more than pure emotion given some rhythm.

Contrary to popular belief, having the Blues doesn’t mean one is depressed. Depression is a serious mental illness. The Blues are just the realities of living and the challenge of living them. A Blues singer wails about what’s bothering them, whether it’s a lover that’s done them wrong, a boss that demands too much, a car that won’t run, or a leaky roof. Sing it out. Sing through what you feel. Put it out there, let it be what it is, and then move on with your life. A good Blues song doesn’t try to solve life’s problems, but unites us all in the fact that we all have the same issues, that we all survive, and we all keep right on going, because that’s what people do.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]Musically, the Blues aren’t especially difficult to play. Take a smooth walking bass line and drop three, maybe four, chords over it, and then take that wherever you’d like to go. The Blues don’t require one to have a lot of musical skill or training, but simply that one has the ability to feel. Sure, there are some people who do it better than others, but it’s the emotion, not the music skill, that they bring to the song that makes the difference. The deeper one can feel and communicate that feeling, the better the song.

So, all this week, we’re going to have the blues. The pictures are all processed with a blue tone, using a variety of different processes. No two are processed alike. Then, we’re going to pair those pictures with some of my favorite blues songs, which I’ll include with each picture. The pictures don’t have any direct connection to the songs chosen, but our hope is that between the photograph and the music your day will be a little bit better.

What’s important in life is that we are not afraid to feel, and that we find positive and appropriate ways to communicate that feeling. We don’t need anyone else getting upset and picking up a gun, or taking out their frustration physically on another person. Sing it out. Even if you can’t carry a tune, you can still sing the Blues. We don’t mind. Go for it. Feel better. Enjoy the Blues.[/one_half_last]

PotD

Growing Up Too Fast

October 10, 2015

Uh-oh, Dirt; How Did That Get There?

Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing up is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing.—Phyllis Diller

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]All too quickly, our week of baby pictures comes to an end. I could easily go another week or more, but I’ll save those for another time. We need to move on here, just as babies move on with their little lives, growing up right in front of our eyes. Growing up happens much too quickly from a parent’s perspective, and too slowly from the child’s. Growing up is why we take pictures, so we have a record, so we can look back and prove that we really were tiny, cute, and cuddly. While our personalities develop in ways that may make us grumpy and prickly, pictures show us that we were once small, and probably even lovable.

None of us actually remembers growing up. If your parents took a lot of pictures and tell a lot of stories, it can feel like you remember that period of your life, but fortunately, we forget the sensation of sitting in a wet, poopy diaper and being force-fed strained peas. We forget the frustration of being immobile, or the fear of thinking that anything, or anyone, not directly in our line of sight was gone forever. Be thankful we don’t remember trying to put everything we touch into our mouths, or that diaper rash that your mom could never quite get to go away. Growing up definitely has its advantages.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]When it comes to our own children, though, growing up is something that happens much too quickly. We put them to bed at night, and wake up the next morning to find they’ve grown two sizes. They go from nursing to demanding pizza in a heart beat. When someone says one of my sons’ names, my first thought is still of them being little and riding on my shoulders. Now, they’re all well over six feet tall and could more easily carry me than I them. Birthdays whiz by at alarming speed and our babies go from playing with cars to driving them.

Watching your kids growing up is challenging not merely because we lose the baby and trade them in for adults, but because all the while they’re growing up, we’re growing old. There’s no escaping either condition, no matter how much skin cream one uses or in how good of shape one stays. By the time our children are grown enough to be out of the house, we’re old enough to be ready to sell it and move to an apartment near a beach. Life is rather cruel that way, isn’t it?

Growing up is inevitable. Growing up happy is a gift. Having pictures to remember it all is a treasure. [/one_half_last]

PotD

Uncontained Cuteness

October 9, 2015

While On A Walk

Little girls are cute and small only to adults. To one another they are not cute. They are life-sized.—Margaret Atwood

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]I once heard someone say that Humans would never have survived as a species were it not for the fact our babies come filled with cuteness. Otherwise, ancient parents would have killed them the first time they threw up on mom’s favorite loin cloth, dented dad’s new wheel, or drew on the cave walls. Being cute is a necessity for a child to survive. I’m not sure how much they realize that their ability to live to the ripe old age of ten relies on their cuteness, but it certainly does. Just because we live in a modern, slightly more civilized and allegedly forward thinking age we don’t occasionally think about how nice it would be to sleep past 6:00 AM on a Saturday.

Cuteness isn’t necessarily distributed evenly, though, even among children. Adults don’t like to admit that, but we know it’s true. Our firstborn had a way about him, an ability to look up at someone with those big blue eyes, and just cause any adult to melt. Neither of his brothers could do that. We still loved the other two, of course, but we didn’t get stopped at the grocery store to compliment them the way we did with the first one. Cuteness comes in varying degrees and some kids get it by the barrel full while other have to quickly learn to either be cute or get used to sitting around in dirty diapers all the time.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]Sometimes I think little girls get more of a break in the cuteness department. We put things in their hair, or if they don’t have hair we give them darling little headbands wth flowers the size of their skull and that distracts adults enough to think the kid is cute. The only accessory a little boy gets is dirt. Even with dirt, though, girls get more attention. Any time a girl gets dirty, it’s cute. When a boy does the same thing, we just dump him in the tub and blame his father. No one ever likes to think of cuteness being sexist, but it is, and it always has been in most places, excusing those moments in history when being a girl could get you killed.

Most kids hit that period of unrestrained cuteness about the time they’re four months old, and typically hold on to it right up until the point they grab hold of the tablecloth and send the entire Thanksgiving dinner crashing to the floor, or smear lipstick all over Mommy’s new Dior dress, or do something to send the neighbor kid to the hospital in an ambulance.

Cuteness doesn’t last forever, which is a sad thing. I know more than a few adults who would have done well to hold on to theirs. [/one_half_last]

PotD

Bath Time Memories

October 7, 2015

Pure Innocence

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.—Sylvia Plath

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]One of the most interesting experiences is bathing a baby. I can’t speak to anyone else’s experience, but it was quite possibly the most fun ever had in our kitchen. The little infant tub fit nicely across the kitchen sink and we’d carefully make sure the water was all nice and warm before getting the baby wet. Of course, he’d immediately pee all over the place once his skin touched water, so we’d pick him up, sanitize everything again, and then put him back down in the tub. This was quite possibly the most perfect ending to any day. Their little laughs and splashes not only got them clean, but momentarily wash away all those parental anxieties that plague your mind when you have a little one.

I think one of the main reasons babies like baths so much is that the warm water reminds them of being in the womb, except that now they actually have room to squirm and move around. They aren’t quite sure what to do the first time or two; it takes a while to get accustomed to having all that space. I think it was our second one that took nearly two weeks to adjust. Being unswaddled was an anxious moment for him. We learned to strip him down to his diaper and give him a few moments to get used to the air meeting his bare skin before putting him in the bath. Once they adjust, though, they love every minute in the water. They love the warmth, the liquid, and the attention.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]The down-side is that babies are slippery when wet. Did you ever try taking a shower while holding a baby? It sounded like a good idea: have some bonding time with the little guy, save some water and time. Babies become the most slippery objects on the planet once they’re wet, though, and holding on to them is practically impossible. He loved the spray of the water and would start kicking and laughing as babies are prone to do when excited. I had to call for backup before I dropped the little bugger. Baths in a tub are much safer when sitting down anyway. We quickly abandoned that idea.

Of course, once they’re big enough to sit up a bit on their own, the kitchen sink is the perfect size for a little one’s bath. Just toss them in like a load of dishes, except leave out the dishes; that’s another one of those things that isn’t quite as good an idea in practice as it may sound. Every baby tries to nurse the kitchen faucet while sitting in the sink, which makes for awkward pictures to show their first, second, eighteenth girlfriend. Who knows, should one of them ever get married, maybe we’ll pull out those pictures for the reception.

Bath time was some of the best memories ever. I rather miss that. They grow up too soon, you leave them alone in the bath, and next thing you know they’re moving out on their own.[/one_half_last]

PotD

Let Sleeping Babies Lie

October 6, 2015

Ballets and teddy bears

People who say they sleep like a baby usually don’t have one.—Leo J. Burke

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]I never knew how important sleeping is until we had a baby. Not so much my sleeping, mind you, but the baby’s sleeping. It really is a big deal and, like much of everything else, it varies greatly from one child to the next. All three of our boys were different. The first apparently read the textbook while he was in the womb and followed it quite precisely. He spoiled us. The second didn’t read anything and came out ready to play, not sleep. EVER. The third, bless his little heart, slept through the night from day one. That seemed to upset the pediatric nurses, but when you’re on baby number three you’ve learned: let sleeping babies lie.

When you’re about to be a new parent, you slowly become aware of just how much work this new child is going to be. Your life patterns and routines are going to be dramatically altered. As you consider the growing list of things you’ll need to do, you begin to wonder how it is all going to fit. Then, you tell yourself the biggest lie ever: “I’ll get it done while the baby is sleeping.” No, you won’t. By the time that precious little squirt finally falls asleep, you’ll be too exhausted to do anything else. You decide laundry can wait, dishes can wait, exercise can wait; pretty much everything can wait while you take a quick nap.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]”Put your baby on a schedule,” pediatricians and mommy blogs tell you. Yeah, right, like a baby can read a schedule. That approach might work once, if the child decides to agree, but be prepared to negotiate the sleeping schedule with your infant. Be prepared to lose those negotiations. The baby doesn’t understand a thing you’re saying. They’ll either laugh and coo because the big people look so funny when talking to the baby, or they’ll cry and spit up because, even at two-weeks-old, they’ve already had enough of your bullshit. Trying to put babies on a sleeping schedule is like trying to walk a cat on a leash: just because someone on the Internet says they did it doesn’t mean it’s actually possible with your child/cat.

Before you know it, your entire world revolves around the baby’s sleeping schedule. Getting them down for a nap is a precise routine you could, and sometimes do, perform with your eyes shut. You warn friends to not call or drop by while the baby is sleeping. You re-arrange your schedule, your meal times, and your entire life. There is no force or power on earth as strong as that of a sleeping baby. Be very quiet and tiptoe away.[/one_half_last]

PotD

Diaper Changing Stations

October 5, 2015

Dad’s Hat

Always remember your kid’s name. Always remember where you put your kid. Don’t let your kid drive until their feet can reach the pedals. Use the right size diapers… for yourself. And, when in doubt, make funny faces.—Amy Poehler

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]I still remember the first time I changed my eldest son’s diaper. Everything was so tiny. The diaper was tiny. His butt was tiny. The poop was tiny. Changing that first diaper made everything seem so easy. And while, on an intellectual level, I knew that the amount of poop in the diaper would grow and that it wouldn’t always be so easy, my feeling in those first hours of his little life was one of confidence. Diaper changing? Not a problem. We’ve got this. This whole baby thing is going to be a breeze.

Yeah, that was total naiveté at its worst. Not only was there not sufficient warning as to the extreme amounts of excrement this child would produce, I did not have the experience in greased pig wrangling that one needs to adequately diaper any child more than one-month-old. Sure, we had heard horror stories, but we never thought that our darling little boy would ever produce such a challenge. We watched what we fed him, we monitored what Mom ate while he was nursing, and we even carefully measured the amounts and types of liquid in his bottles. We really thought we had a handle on things. We couldn’t have been more wrong.

Our little guy was about four months old when disaster struck. It was a bright, sunny, Saturday morning. We had dropped off Mommy and were on our way back home when I heard a noise from the back seat that caused me to shudder. By the time we arrived at home, the fragrance was enough to tell me that we had not encountered anything quite like this. I knew that this wasn’t going to be the average diaper change, but when I opened the car door and realized that his entire car seat was covered in poop, I momentarily stepped back and questioned where I might borrow a hazmat suit. EVERYTHING in the back seat of the car had to be cleaned. Who knew one little boy’s bottom could be so very explosive.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]At least we were home to take care of that particular disaster. Even more challenging, if that’s possible, is trying to change a baby using one of the baby changing stations found in public restrooms. Like most parents, we generally avoided having to use those questionably-secured plastic tables largely because one could never be too certain as to how clean they might be. There are times, however, when one really doesn’t have a choice. When you look at your child and realize that the poop has gone up their back and into their hair, you can’t just do a quick change with the baby in the stroller. You need access to water and towels.

Unfortunately, public diaper changing stations are frequently ill-positioned to actually treat the worst diaper encounters. Whomever thought it was a good idea to put a diaper changing station inside a bathroom stall was an absolute idiot. If a parent is desperate enough to use a public changing station, they need access to a sink and warm water, not a toilet. We also need access to paper towels; not because we’re going to use them on the baby, but we’re going to want to coat that plastic changing station in as many paper towels as possible before putting down a changing pad, and then we may even want to coat the pad as a precaution. Changing a baby on a public diaper station just has way too many challenges.

I’m glad my boys have long left the days of diapers behind. I don’t wish to ever be in that position again, and am happy to walk right past most diaper changing stations. There is one diaper changing station we all need to frequent, though, and that’s the voting booth. As Mark Twain famously said, babies and politicians need to be changed for the same reason. Consider the voting booth your political diaper changing station and don’t be afraid to use it. Baby wipes optional. [/one_half_last]

Art / PotD / Social Commentary

Love, Everyone

October 3, 2015

Welcome Home (2013)

Hatred does not cease by hatred, but only by love; this is the eternal rule.—Buddha

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]What’s wrong with people? I look through the news this morning and all I see is hate. Republicans hate democrats. This religion hates that religion and both hate anyone who disagrees with them. White hates black, black hates white, and they both hate brown. If I were to do a quick, informal estimation, which is exactly what I’m doing right this moment, I would say that roughly 80% of what has been tossed at me this morning ultimately contains a hateful message. Where is the love? Where is the empathy? Where is any attempt at actually wanting to get along with other people.

Here’s the great paradox of the 21st century: we’re willing to spend billions of dollars (collectively) looking for love, trying to find love, improving ourselves so that we’re more lovable, but we don’t do a damn thing toward actually loving other people. We are as selfish about love as we are everything else in our lives. We want it all to come to us, knock on our door, overwhelm us with emotional goodies, and reaffirm our sense of how valuable we are to the world. We define love not as something we feel toward other people, but by the quantity of warm fuzzies other people give to us.

In other words: we don’t have a fucking clue. For all the talk about love, we fail to realize that love is an act of giving, not an act of receiving. Love is not something that happens to you, but something you distribute to others. Love is not doing something based on what you feel, but what you feel based on what you’ve done. Love is active, not passive. Love is not something to be found, but something we create, from the center of our being, so that we might give it to someone else. Love is not narrowly limited to a familial relationship, but an over-arching sense of inclusiveness and responsibility to the greater good of humanity.

Love holds no bias, nor fear, but includes everyone.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]So, we are, and have been for a while, at this point in the United States where we have had more mass shootings (where more than four people are shot), than there have been days in the year. We foolishly ask why this keeps happening. Some want bans on weapons. Some want tighter control on those with diagnosed mental disorders. Some want everything locked down and stored in a box where no one can get to it. None of those are solutions. We cannot solve with legislation what was not caused by government in the first place. There is only one reason we keep shooting ourselves: we’ve forgotten how to love.

It was a mere 45-50 years ago that we, my generation and those just older than us, were all about peace, and love, and happiness. We were sure that we could change the world with love, and ultimately we were correct, but we didn’t see it in the way we thought we would see it. We thought love would give us things, take away responsibility, make life more relaxed. What we failed to realize is that love creates responsibility and when we fail that responsibility, we fail love. Love doesn’t just chug along like a toy train circling the Christmas tree. Love requires maintenance, effort, and a completely selfless attitude.

Where is the American society failing? Don’t blame government, Republican orDemocrat. Don’t blame religions, present or absent. Don’t blame race or economics. Blame the total and complete absence of love. We’ve stopped loving, we’ve stopped teaching our children to love, and we’ve stopped letting love be the guide by which we live our lives. In a world where we’ve all but thrown love out the window, is it any wonder that society has gone to hell in a handbasket?

Love, everyone. You won’t learn how until you try.[/one_half_last]

Art / PotD / Uncategorized

All Tied Up

October 2, 2015

Creatively bound (2012)

Women’s fashion is a subtle form of bondage. It’s men’s way of binding them. We put them in these tight, high-heeled shoes, we make them wear these tight clothes and we say they look sexy. But they’re actually tied up.—David Duchovny

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]Some of you are going to have difficulty believing this, since you possibly have never seen one, but there was once a time when people only had one telephone per family and that one was connected to the wall. You couldn’t take it anywhere. It had a big dial that consumed its face and one had to dial as many as eleven numbers one at a time to call anyone. There was no 911. If you needed to talk with someone in the next town over, it was considered long distance and you had to talk to an operator for that to happen.

One of the worst sins during that period of American history was keeping the phone “tied up.” This was especially serious if you shared a phone line with your neighbors, something called a party line. There was no party. At least, ours wasn’t. Sure, you could pick up the phone and listen in on their conversation, but we had boring neighbors so there wasn’t any fun in that. Instead, they complained that we always kept the phone line tied up. Poppa had calls coming in at all hours of the night and if the phone rang at our house, it rang at our neighbors’ houses, too. They weren’t especially happy.

Poppa had competition for the phone once I became a teenager. Well, sort of. I liked the concept of calling and talking to my friends, but we were all geeky and stuff and once we exchanged whatever piece of information we needed, we’d just tie up the line not saying anything.

The worst was one evening when I called the girl I was sort of dating. We tied up the phone for the better part of three hours. The conversation consisted largely of, “What are you doing?” Followed by, “Oh, not much. What are you doing.” This went on for three fucking hours. I think half the town was annoyed with us by the time we hung up, because anyone who tried calling Poppa during that period couldn’t even leave voice mail. Instead, they just got this frustrating alternating tone called a busy signal. [/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]Keeping the phone line tied up became serious in the 90s when we started getting modems and connecting to this thing called AOL online. They gave out free CDs at the stores and for $15 a month you could connect to their computer system and read the same news that was in the morning newspaper. We were cool. We were high-tech. We kept the phone line tied up for hours. I lived several hundred miles away from my parents by that time, but I also had their only grandchild. They tried calling often to see what he was up to, but the phone line would be tied up almost every time.

We don’t have any of those issues now, of course. Talk all you want. Text all you want. Tie up the phone all damn day if you wish. Pay a huge phone bill. I find it interesting that we consider a $50 a month phone bill inexpensive. Heads would have rolled had Poppa ever gotten a fifty dollar phone bill. I remember him once challenging a $36 bill. “No one could talk on the phone that much,” he told the customer service representative. She agreed and adjusted the bill.

Who knows what telephony will be by the time my children are my age. The technology is changing so rapidly that they likely will not have to use a device at all; voice communication will be built into clothes or, at the very least, wearable accessories. Tap an icon, order pizza. Tap a button, have a friend join you. There will be a button for calling your mother; you’ll avoid it. No one wants to tie up the shirt listening to their mother complaining about how she never gets to see the grandkids. Wearable phones means one could, theoretically, be tied up with their phone rather than on their phone. The future could be kinky.

I bet you looked at the title and picture and thought I was going a very different direction with this, didn’t you? Sorry, but I didn’t want to be that obvious. Being tied up has too many possible scenarios. I didn’t want to “tie up” your entire day.[/one_half_last]

Art / PotD / Social Commentary

Shame, No Shame

October 1, 2015

All Wash(er)ed Up (2010)

In the face of patriarchy, it is a brave act indeed for both men and women to embrace, rather than shame or attempt to eradicate, the feminine.—Alanis Morissette

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]I grew up being taught that everyone had a responsibility to work hard. Both my parents worked long hours. I had my first paycheck at 14. Sitting around idly isn’t something I do well. I fail to understand this act of binge-watching television series because after about an hour everything in my body tells me I need to be up being productive. We were taught that it didn’t matter what you did, that all jobs contributed to the greater good and deserved people’s respect. Looking down on, or shaming someone, just because of their occupation was about as rude and ignorant a thing one could do.

So, as I’ve grown up and gotten a taste for how the world actually is, I am continually disappointed when this particular sin of shaming other people shows up, typically denigrating a friend for something they’ve done to feed themselves and/or their family, complete with name-calling and harassment. As this has happened within my circle of friends three times in the past five days, I’m calling bullshit on the shame patrol. There is no shame in working hard, no shame in getting one’s hands (and body) dirty, no shame in sweating hard, and certainly no shame in doing jobs you don’t especially like just to keep the lights on and food on the table.

One of the earliest impacts on my sense of work ethic was a WWII veteran named Warren Hartsocks. A short, stocky man who never lost his buzz cut, Hartsocks had dropped out of school to join the military. The US Army taught him to be a mechanic and that’s what he proceeded to do the rest of his life. If you came across Hartsocks during the day, he was likely wearing a well-stained wife-beater t-shirt and baggy grey pants, equally stained. He was missing most his teeth, eternally had an unlit stogie in the corner of his mouth, had a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush, and in the summer his body odor could get pretty strong. People called him a dirty, foul-mouthed mechanic and tried to avoid him, but he worked hard for every dime he made, was a gentle soul, and took the time to teach me how to fish. [/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]The list of occupations society often shames is too long, but here’s a list of the ones that I see most often:

Retail workers, because, you know, those clothes at the mall just jump on the rack by themselves.
Construction laborers; that house you live in just built itself.
Mechanics, like you can change a fucking tire by yourself.
Strippers, cam girls, etc., one of the truest forms of capitalism’s supply and demand.
Grocery baggers, who carry your chips and ice cream so you won’t snag a nail.
Janitors, because lord knows you’re too busy to empty the damn trash yourself.
Farm workers, laboring sunup to sundown because you just have to have strawberries in December.
Meat packers, constantly covered in blood.
Food service employees, because minimum wage would make them too rich.
Truck drivers, on the road too long to get you those damn strawberries.

I can only think of one occupation that deserves shame: Politicians. Our country’s founders envisioned elected office to be one of public service, not privilege or power, and certainly not one that led to wealth. The concept was that a person would give a period of time to serve the people from their elected districts, not pander to ridiculous ideologues and corporations with deep pockets. Politicians inherently serve only their own interests at the expense of the rest of us. They have taken us from being a democracy to an oligarchy. Public office was never designed to be a position of profit, but one of giving to one’s country.

Too many days I go to bed totally disappointed in the human race. We shame those who work the hardest and praise those who contribute to our demise. Perhaps the real shame is on us all.[/one_half_last]

Advertising / PotD

Totally Unrelated To Anything

September 27, 2015

Oops, it slipped (2010)

Providing meaning to a mass of unrelated needs, ideas, words and pictures – it is the designer’s job to select and fit this material together and make it interesting.—Paul Rand

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]Welcome to our grand experiment, one which is far from being scientific and authoritative in nature, but still slightly more than anecdotal. You see, for websites like this one to be profitable, one of two things has to happen: either it drives enough traffic to make advertising ratios work, or it drives enough traffic to actually impact business. Neither of those has happened yet. There are a number of factors involved, of course, but one of my frustrations is that the content of the articles seems irrelevant to their popularity. What matters is how provocative are the pictures. Last week proved that premise quite handily. The pictures were totally unrelated to anything. We knew we were pandering, and it worked; our weekly hit count was higher than it’s been in months.

So, this week we continue in the same vein, but going a step further. The articles this week will not only be unrelated to the pictures, but they’ll be unrelated to anything. They may be funny, they may be nonsense, they may occasionally be serious, but you won’t catch us talking about technical things like how the mirror reflected light awkwardly back in the model’s face in this picture. Nor will I tell related stories like how it snowed nearly nine inches while we were shooting this set, or how the place where we shot no longer looks anything like this now, which makes me sad. Instead, I’ll talk about something totally different, like trees.

Except that, for the moment, I’m not really interested in trees. I’ve not done any research on trees. I have noticed that our lack of rain is ruining the fall foliage. Rather than turning colors, leaves are simply dying, turning brown, and falling. How depressing that is. No pretty colors. Rather sucks when you think about it. We had all that rain back in the spring and now we get nothing. I suppose this is making it easier to get in the fall harvest; fields aren’t muddy so farm implements can roll across the crops with optimum efficiency. I have cousins whose business involves leasing combines and such for the harvest. I would imagine their business is doing rather well at the moment.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]For the two or three people who actually attempt to read the articles, this week could be either entertaining or frustrating, depending on what happens. What I’m expecting is that I’ll get up each morning and just go with a stream of consciousness based on how I’m feeling at the moment. Milan Fashion Week wraps up on Tuesday, Paris Fashion Week starts Wednesday. Both require me getting up earlier than usual some days, but at least Paris is only a five-hour time difference versus Milan’s six. That extra hour can be brutal when there’s a critical show at 3:30 AM our time. I’m not sure I’m capable of anything resembling consciousness at that point.

Early morning writing requires help. I have a browser plugin that not only checks my spelling, which can be atrocious early in the morning, but also checks my grammar. Sometimes its grammar checks are a little too strict for this style of writing. I am, after all, being rather conversant. This isn’t the New York Times by any stretch of the imagination. Yet, it pains me to see any writing where the grammar is totally ignored, and when the plugin corrects things it usually does so with good reason. I miss things when I’m tired. I also have difficulty caring when I’m tired. I’ve been tired a lot, lately. The plugin has been working overtime.

Totally unrelated, I’m wondering what would be too explicit; at what point would a photo be so audacious as to actually turn traffic away? Is that even possible? At the same time, I more frequently wonder what it would take for people to actually start sharing these posts; that’s what it’s going to take to really bump the hit counts. I can only reach a limited number of people at any given time. For us to get the big numbers, where the website begins to pay off, people have to share what they see here and that’s not happening. But then, how many people are doing anything more than looking at the pictures, anyway?

Yeah, that’s what I thought. Totally unrelated to anything.[/one_half_last]

pop culture / PotD

A Poverty Of Life

September 24, 2015

Leave A Simple Photo Alone (2015)

Where justice is denied, where poverty is enforced, where ignorance prevails, and where any one class is made to feel that society is an organized conspiracy to oppress, rob and degrade them, neither persons nor property will be safe.—Frederick Douglass

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]What did you have for breakfast this morning, anything at all? As adults, the meal is perhaps the easiest to skip. A cup of coffee and we’re out the door. We don’t have time, we’re not in the mood to prepare anything, and many people just don’t have breakfast food in the house. Maybe we could make toast, but that’s about it. I’ve heard mothers complain that they just can’t get their children to eat breakfast. My mother would be appalled. Breakfast wasn’t an option, it was a mandate.

Life really wasn’t all that different when I was growing up, but there was one thing about which my mother was adamant: you’re eating breakfast. It didn’t matter how early it meant we had to get up, we weren’t leaving the house without having food. Where we lived in rural Oklahoma, there was no catching something on the way, or stopping at the convenience store down the street because there was nothing there! I think school breakfast might have been an option, but I never knew anyone who actually ate it. There were some Saturday mornings in high school where the band bus left for a trip at some ungodly hour that required us to leave home at something like 5:00 AM. Guess what, we sat down and had breakfast first. Every morning. Not just something slapped together, either. Eggs. Bacon or sausage. Hot cereal during the winter. Toast. Fruit in season, when we could afford it. Breakfast was a big deal.

Today, there are more options. It actually makes sense for Kat’s kids to eat their breakfast at school; it’s built into their schedule along with lunch. We know they’re getting nutritionally appropriate meals and we don’t have the added fuss at home of trying to convince them to finish their food before the bus comes at 6:30. People who have to commute to work also have more options now than were available forty years ago. There’s a fast food option on every other corner. Seated service restaurants are in greater abundance. Grocery stores are open earlier. We’ve got it made, right?[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]No, we don’t have it made. Having it “made” means that everything is balanced and healthy and that we’re making the right choices. None of those things are accurate. Our lives and our diets are anything but balanced or healthy and we’re notorious for making bad choices. We create poverty within our own lives by eliminating the things we need most while being excessive in the things we need the least. Children get the worst of it, too. We place them in food poverty by failing to make sure they’re actually eating fruit. Globally, a lack of food in the diet kills 3.4 million people a year, and the great majority of those are children. They don’t only have impoverished diets, they have impoverished lives.

More than a financial state, poverty is a life condition. Even people whose incomes are well above what is considered the poverty line can still have impoverished lives because of the choices they make in how they spend what they have. One of the biggest areas of poverty, strangely enough, comes in having too few fruits and we replace that with an excess of sodium, which in turn kills yet another 3.5 million people. And no, grabbing a bottle of juice isn’t the same, especially for children. Juice doesn’t contain the fiber and other nutrients available in whole fruit. What’s sad is grocery stores and markets dump tons of wasted fruit every day. Global economies keep prices out of reach for people who need fruit the most, and those who can afford fruit look at it more as a dessert item, not a dietary necessity.

We like to think we’re rich, and comparatively we are, but look in your shopping cart the next time you buy food. If you have three different kinds of chips, packaged foods, and/or soda, and less than three different kinds of fresh fruit, you are creating a poverty of life for you and your family. We should all be appalled. [/one_half_last]

PotD / Social Commentary

Education

September 18, 2015

Think A Minute (2013)

The paradox of education is precisely this – that as one begins to become conscious one begins to examine the society in which he is being educated.—James A. Baldwin

[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]My mother was a teacher in more ways than one. Yes, there are a few people out there who endured, and survived, the trials and tribulations of being in her classroom. She didn’t stop teaching when she walked out of the classroom, though. Education, she believed, was something that began the moment one woke up of the morning and didn’t end until one was unconscious at night. She saw the potential for making every moment a teaching moment, and she wasn’t going to let one’s education be incomplete.

Mom always said she was 5′ 2″ tall. I’m sure she was at one young point in her life. Most of my life she was about an inch shorter than that, and she continued shrinking. That never stopped her, though. She couldn’t be bullied, by administration, student, or parent. To cross her as an adult meant being on the receiving end of a tongue-lashing that damn-near drew blood. To cross her as a child meant bending over, grabbing your ankles, and being thankful her arthritis prevented her from swinging that paddle as strongly as she might. In her mind, the first thing one needed in an education was discipline and respect. One didn’t begin learning until those two things were present.

At the same time, though, Mother could be incredibly compassionate. Being the preacher’s wife in a small town meant she usually knew when a student’s family was struggling. School policy prevented her from helping a child directly, but she would find a way to make sure a child had food at home, or clean clothes, or in at least one case light by which to read. Hugs were something she handed out readily, even long after one left her classroom. After school tutoring wasn’t’ part of a program; it was just something she did as student’s had need.[/one_half]

[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]Mom would not have done well in today’s schools. She understood that an education isn’t just information one learns to regurgitate on command, but how we learn to take that information and improve our lives and the lives of others. She hated standardized tests because she knew that people can’t, and shouldn’t, be standardized and neither can the education system that teaches us. She taught more by living than by lecturing. She set an example for her students that was worth following.

I look now at how schools have changed and want to cry. We have so woefully underfunded our schools that teachers show up to find absolutely no resources in their classrooms, not even textbooks or dry erase markers. We totally misunderstand the point of education when we think test scores are a sufficient or accurate measure of learning and/or teacher adequacy. Library shelves sit empty because there’s no money for books. We wonder why there’s a teacher shortage in almost every state, not realizing that by the time teachers pay for all their supplies, books for their classrooms, and materials for students, they’re not longer making a living wage!

I’m glad that the little ones can now come home and watch re-runs of Mr. Rodger’s Neighborhood on Netflix. They are thoroughly enthralled as they pick up the values education that are no longer part of the school curriculum. Education for them is a very different experience than it was for my sons, and almost unrecognizable compared to my experience. That we have allowed the situation to deteriorate is inexcusable and everyone is at fault. We have no education system when we refuse to learn. Even Mother couldn’t solve that problem. [/one_half_last]

experience

There are three kinds of men. The one that learns by reading. The few who learn by observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence for themselves.—Will Rogers

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The falling leaves drift by my window. The falling leaves of red and gold. I see your lips, the summer kisses. The sunburned hands I used to hold.—Johnny Mercer

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Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us.—Voltaire

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Once you get a spice in your home, you have it forever. Women never throw out spices. The Egyptians were buried with their spices. I know which one I’m taking with me when I go.—Erma Bombeck

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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.—William Wordsworth

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I believe that history has shape, order, and meaning; that exceptional men, as much as economic forces, produce change; and that passé abstractions like beauty, nobility, and greatness have a shifting but continuing validity.—Camille Paglia

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I think I believe a little bit in the power of people to really cast a bad energy on you if they want to. If the bad mojo wants to come your way, look out.—Dileep Rao

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Sometimes I can only groan, and suffer, and pour out my despair at the piano!—Frederic Chopin

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Being jealous of a beautiful woman is not going to make you more beautiful.—Zsa Zsa Gabor

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You may write me down in history with your bitter, twisted lines. You may trod me in the very dirt, but still, like dust, I’ll rise.—Maya Angelou

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The blues was like that problem child that you may have had in the family. You was a little bit ashamed to let anybody see him, but you loved him. You just didn’t know how other people would take it.—B. B. King

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Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing up is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing.—Phyllis Diller

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Little girls are cute and small only to adults. To one another they are not cute. They are life-sized.—Margaret Atwood

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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.—Sylvia Plath

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People who say they sleep like a baby usually don’t have one.—Leo J. Burke

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Always remember your kid’s name. Always remember where you put your kid. Don’t let your kid drive until their feet can reach the pedals. Use the right size diapers… for yourself. And, when in doubt, make funny faces.—Amy Poehler

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Hatred does not cease by hatred, but only by love; this is the eternal rule.—Buddha

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Women’s fashion is a subtle form of bondage. It’s men’s way of binding them. We put them in these tight, high-heeled shoes, we make them wear these tight clothes and we say they look sexy. But they’re actually tied up.—David Duchovny

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In the face of patriarchy, it is a brave act indeed for both men and women to embrace, rather than shame or attempt to eradicate, the feminine.—Alanis Morissette

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Providing meaning to a mass of unrelated needs, ideas, words and pictures – it is the designer’s job to select and fit this material together and make it interesting.—Paul Rand

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Where justice is denied, where poverty is enforced, where ignorance prevails, and where any one class is made to feel that society is an organized conspiracy to oppress, rob and degrade them, neither persons nor property will be safe.—Frederick Douglass

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The paradox of education is precisely this – that as one begins to become conscious one begins to examine the society in which he is being educated.—James A. Baldwin

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