[dropcap] Sleep deprivation. That’s really the only excuse I can think of for some of the copy that was offered up during our latest round of business card re-design. As a photographer and creative, I can’t keep handing people the same business card year after year. First, the phone number keeps changing in this cell-oriented world where keeping the same number is an exercise in how much patience I don’t have. Second, seeing the same business card more than twice makes one look boring. We have to keep changing this up. [/dropcap]
As we were once again going through that process this week, our habit is to choose from some images we like, whether they be cute or different or just awesome, and then try them out on our business card template along with unique copy for each one. We then eliminate them one by one until we have the look we want. or at least have some concept of what we don’t want.
In the end, the two-sided design we chose looks nothing at all like the images you’ll see here. We rejected all of these looks, all the copy, all the concepts. And after having gone through that process, we found some humor in the ones we rejected.
So, here are the ones we didn’t choose. As for the ones we did, you’ll just have to catch up with me somewhere and ask for one. They should be here in a couple of weeks.
As always, click on any image below to view the full slideshow.
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Something happens when one is light boarding dozens of photographs at a time. You look through a first pass, a second pass, and even a third pass, choosing only the ones you think are best for the topic at hand. Then, some time later, the topic changes and you go back through the same set of photos and select a completely different set of images.
That’s what brought us today’s images. None of them had been processed or published before today, though their siblings have. We took a different approach, looking for images that were softer, perhaps with a bit of motion blur to them. We wanted edges that weren’t quite as precise and lines not so clearly defined.
The photos are of two different women take at two different times of day in the same room. We gave them a common color palette and were careful to avoid any processing technique that might sharpen the image. We wanted soft, bright, and relaxing.
I know a lot of people who destroy images they don’t use on the first pass. I’ve done that very thing on some occasions. This gallery is a strong argument for not doing that. What doesn’t fit the first time around could well be exactly what you want or need later.
Second chances. Every image deserves them. Maybe even a third. One never knows what needs the future may hold.
As always, click any of the thumbnails below to open the full gallery.
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As I’m writing this, I’m waiting for yet another fashion show to start in Milan. To say this past week has been hectic would be a tremendous understatement. In the past four years, we’ve never gone this long without adding anything to the website. I feel bad about that.
I wish we had new pictures as well, but it would be unfair to ask anyone to come in for new pictures when I don’t have time to edit them immediately. We’ve made that mistake before. The pictures are still sitting there. Not making any promises on that front.
What I do have is a curated set of pretty people. Understand, when I use the term “pretty,” we are in no way talking about physical appearance. Pretty is who one is, the person they display, who you allow other people to see. Unfortunately, we’ve photographed a lot of people over the years who are attractive enough on the outside, but less so when it came to who they really were. The people in these pictures were wonderful, every last one of them. We would happily work with any of them again.
Sigh. For some reason all the pretty people keep disappearing, moving away, getting on with their lives. I do wish they’d come back occasionally.
As always, click on any thumbnail to open the full slideshow.
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In fact, we’ve been wholly consumed by New York Fashion Week, and it’s not going to get any better with London, Milan, and Paris still to go. We’ve not had time to edit or curate any photos. So, we thought we’d take a quick look at just a few people who have made repeat appearances in front of our camera. These are some of our most favorite people in the whole world and they’ve let us do some really crazy things with them. Mind you, this isn’t everyone by a long shot. We just wanted to keep the number of photos manageable.
Have fun!
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The weather seems to be working against us. Each time we’ve planned on shooting outdoors, it has thrown some manner of difficulty at us, challenging and changing our plans at the very last minute. This shoot was no different.
There wasn’t snow in the forecast when we scheduled Loren Hawk’s return in front of the camera. Cold, yes, but no snow. Yet, we woke up not only to a lawn covered in white, but occasional squalls that momentarily sparked fear for what might happen next. Fortunately, the squalls were short, accumulation was small, and we were able to continue with only minor changes.
You’ve likely already seen part of this shoot. Loren brought along a friend, Melinda, and Melinda brought along her friend, Bella. We convinced both of them to participate and published those pictures on Tuesday. You can see the gallery here.
Our primary attention, however, was on Loren. It’s been a year and a half since we covered her in paint. This time, we decided it might be more fun to capture her softer, more thoughtful side. After all, Loren is a wonderfully intelligent young woman, something that too many people miss when looking at her pictures. We wanted to catch images that are closer to the every-day person, not just the model.
But then, it snowed.
If Loren was terribly concerned about the weather, it didn’t show. Well, not much. She didn’t really enjoy giving up her warm coat to stand in the middle of the sidewalk on Mass. Ave. She didn’t shy away from it, either, though. She handed her coat to Melinda and off we went.
The snow provided just enough context for the season. The squalls hit while we were driving downtown but managed to stop by the time we were ready to shoot. You’ll see the white blur of a few snowflakes in some of the shots, but for the most part we had little interference.
Kat had fun playing with Loren’s hair and used a very careful approach with her makeup so as to keep it lighter and more natural. We’ve gone darker on other shoots and wanted to stay away from anything that might appear too moody.
Having Loren here was fun. We certainly don’t want to wait another year and a half before she returns. Enjoy the pictures.
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A couple of different Facebook conversations yesterday led to this mini gallery. One came from a photographer who mentioned that his models were not nude, but that they are “alternatively clothed.”
My response was that they must have been wearing the Emperor’s label. If you don’t get it, you must not have been paying attention in second grade.
Then, in regard to my own post about reading articles before liking them, one person commented that she only looks at the pictures.
I can see that. A lot of people prefer the pictures over the stories that go with them. So, I told her I would consider doing a mini gallery of fake nudes. This is that gallery.
They’re not really nude, of course. No, not at all. Not even close. At least, not by White House definitions. This is the way the world works now. We just turn everything upside down and backward and call it whatever the hell we want.
Honestly, I don’t care what you call them. Just enjoy.
We don’t shoot a lot of pets. You know the rule: never work with children and animals. That’s generally a pretty good rule to follow.
However, Bella’s mommy, Melinda, brought her along to a shoot we were doing with Loren Hawk. Bella, a long-haired chihuahua, was so wonderfully well behaved and so adorably precious that we had no other choice than to include her in some of the pictures.
And who doesn’t need pictures of an adorable little puppy on a miserable Tuesday such as this?
Thanks to Kat for giving Melinda a touch of makeup and hair manipulation. Melinda didn’t come prepared to participate. Surprise!
Enjoy this break from all the worries of the world. Follow Bella’s example and just chill.
[dropcap]I found it difficult to curate a gallery for this week. My heart just wasn’t in it. Our eyes have been glued to news reports and wire feeds as thousands of people have been stranded, detained, and/or deported at our nation’s airports. They are victims, innocent victims of the president’s illegal immigration order the excludes people from seven countries from entering the US. Never mind that these people have legal work visas and green cards. Never mind that they have family members here who are relying upon them, waiting for them. Never mind they have employers who need them. The president’s order was a giant “fuck you” to all of them without regard, and a “fuck you” to the entire country.[/dropcap]
With all that going on, trying to find pictures along any kind of theme for this morning was impossible. I gave serious consideration to skipping this week’s gallery altogether. But no, when in moments of crisis, we need things that are beautiful. We need to see the beauty in our fellow human beings.
I’m sorry I don’t have pictures of anyone from the countries directly banned by the president. People in that situation rarely make it in front of anyone’s camera. They prefer to live quiet, unassuming lives with their families. They don’t take any chances.
So, for this week, we chose what I call “second glance” images, those pictures I probably didn’t choose on my first pass through a set, but have come to like for some reason or another. I hope they will bring a moment of beauty into your day, perhaps your life. Enjoy.
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#AlternativeFacts became one of the leading headlines over the weekend and we just couldn’t resist the temptation to play with some of our own. While we’ve seen some creative memes, we went more for the obnoxiously overstated. These are some of the most “alternative” facts we could find. All are things we’ve heard said in the past by real people who thought they were being smart. At the time, we thought they were idiots. Now, we find out they were just being “alternative.”
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Over the years, I’ve photographed hundreds of thousands of women. Many were beautiful models, but many were not. Every last one of them, however, has been a wonderfully unique individual. So, when someone comes along disparaging women in any way, I tend to take offense. I despise the stereotype of the air-headed model who doesn’t know anything more than how to look good. Sure, there have been a couple over the years who seem to match that description, but the vast majority are far from that. Even those who might appear somewhat clueless are usually hiding strong qualities that are not immediately evident.
So, for today’s gallery, I decided to choose a group of photos specifically highlighting some of the strongest women I’ve known, specifically focusing on images from 2003-2008 just to keep things under control. Among those, you’ll find photos of Cherokee women quilting and doing beadwork. You’ll also find the late Anne McCaffery, author of the Dragonriders Of Pern series. You’ll find musicians, dancers, actors, designers, accountants, lawyers, immigrants, and so many others that I can’t remember them all.
If I were to include all the strong women I’ve ever shot the gallery would go on for pages. They are the rule, not the exception. Enjoy.
[Remember, click on an image to view the gallery in slideshow mode.]
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We’ve not done much of anything with a humorous bent to it in a while, and we’ve certainly not played any hashtag games in a couple of months. So, when I saw #OddThingsToBragAbout trending on Twitter this morning, I decided this would be a good time to jump back on that bandwagon. After all, if you’ve been out in public much at all, you’ve likely heard someone bragging about some very odd things. We can’t seem to help ourselves. We might as well laugh.
Pulling some favorites from Twitter:
Graduating from Trump University. #oddthingstobragabout
— Janet Yellen (@askyellen2) January 21, 2017
I wore the same pair of underpants for 46 straight days before anyone complained about the smell! #OddThingsToBragAbout
— Banter Hawk (@BanterHawk) January 21, 2017
#OddThingsToBragAbout The length of one’s pubic hair – (sorry)
— Narnia Harvey (@NarniaHarvey) January 21, 2017
#OddThingsToBragAbout How much money you save by not using toilet paper.
— Hillary Hates Me GWM (@pinepilot) January 21, 2017
#OddThingsToBragAbout Inhave never failed at masterbating ever
— Sambo (@abtsag) January 21, 2017
Of course, the whole purpose of a hashtag game is participating. I’ve overheard some people brag a lot recently. Here are a few we’ll be adding to the list:
I could probably sit here and think of more if I really wanted to put that much effort into it, but this is supposed to be a game, a fun past time, not work. I wonder what you would come up with? If you think of anything, add it to the hashtag on twitter and then tag me: @charlesletbette. Let’s have some fun for a change.
I’ve said many times before that models inevitably come and go. Young women who are bright, talented, and intelligent are not likely to stay stuck in a place that does not offer them enough opportunity or challenges for being their best. Models move away and, too often, we never see them again. We try to get over it.
When Jenn King announced a couple of weeks ago that she is moving to Austin, TX, my first response was to give her a hard time about moving to a state governed by some of the most stupid and backward people the planet has ever seen, such as Rick Perry and Ted Cruz. Fortunately, Austin is the type of city that insulates itself from most of the idiocy around the state, but still, it’s Texas. As an Okie, I hate seeing a friend move to an under-developed country. [insert evil grin here]
I hadn’t considered how many times we’ve shot with Jenn over the past few years. Since we first met, she’s married and has a wonderful baby girl and expanded her career as a florist, which is ultimately what takes her away from us. However, as I was looking through photos earlier this week, I realized just how many pictures I have of Jenn and didn’t want her to escape without a final look at all the beauty she’s brought into our lives.
While I could endlessly extol her virtues as a model, I have to admit that my favorite set with Jenn came very early one morning as we did portraits of her and her daughter. It was early and baby girl wasn’t too sure what to think about the old guy that was trying to take her picture. She warmed up, though, and took some beautiful pictures. Then, as we were paused between shots, a deer wandered nearby. Baby girl looked over at the deer, pointed, and called it a dog. Her sweetness and innocence made me smile.
So, without droning on forever, here is a brief look back at some of our favorite shots with Jenn. By the way, I have to thank makeup artist Danelle French for introducing us in the first place. Danelle did most the makeup for these shoots, just please don’t ask me to remember who else was involved. I’m not that talented. I’m old.
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Model: Cassie Kerns
Hair & Makeup: Kat
Hey, look! A brand new gallery with brand new pictures! How long has it been since we did that? Uhm, a long time. And this one almost didn’t happen, either. The weather this week sucked and I woke up Thursday morning wondering if I could even hold the camera. The first thing I did was pull the camera from the bag to see if I could keep it steady. I could, but it hurt like hell. The thought of canceling crossed my mind. A year ago, I would have. I really needed to shoot, though. I needed the chance to be expressive. Plus, I didn’t want to let everyone down.
Our original plan was to shoot most of this set outdoors. I’ve not shot much outside the past two years and was really anxious to get in some winter shots, even without the snow and with all the grey clouds. I knew I could make that work. That wasn’t going to happen, though. As we prepped for the second look, the rain that had been a mild annoyance whipped itself up into a major problem. Wind blew a hard, cold rain sideways. Our outdoor plans flew away. I was pissed. I really wanted those outdoor shots more than anything. I struggled to keep any sense of composure as I mentally re-worked the concepts for the limited conditions.
We continued shooting, Cassie and Kat keeping a positive, professional attitude despite the lack of space and forced changes in concept. My hands felt like they were on fire as I held the camera. Cassie was wonderful, even finding a way to sit in the window when there really wasn’t any place to sit in the window. We worked through the last two looks and I felt certain we had some strong images. I was hoping that I wouldn’t open them to find them blurred by a trembling hand. I kicked myself for not pulling out the tripod.
Much to my delight, the number of blurred shots was minimal. In fact, curating this set was quite challenging. Cassie’s experience as both a model and an artist comes through quite strongly and I was pleased with how Kat’s makeup communicated just as well in black and white as it did in color. There are more images we’ll save for a later day.
What we have today are the images that appealed to me on first pass. That’s not to say there aren’t others that might end up being stronger, but these are the ones that shouted at me as I poured over the RAW images. I’ve divided the four looks into six visual sets of five images each. These include the teaser images we released earlier.
The first two sets are fashion editorials based loosely on concepts and styling from Unconditional vol. 4 Winter and Poland’s K Mag No. 85. The changing background color represents the versatility of the trench coat, something that has become a fashion staple regardless of the season. The high-waisted slacks are a more of a fashion argument, a continual theme that designers explore then drop, perfect for that blank expression so popular in Europe.
Stretch and Hold is the concept enveloping the second two sets. Our purpose here is two-fold. First, it’s a muscle study with an emphasis on the obliques, upper trapezius, serratus anterior, deltoids, sternocleidomastoid, and anterior scalene muscles under the stress of holding a stretched pose. Those are best seen in the black and white images. Second, the stretched deltoids and latissimus dorsi muscles gave us a good opportunity to highlight the beautiful artwork on Cassie’s back and sides. The muscles pulling upward give us an especially good look at the details of the center artwork.
I Am Real is a set of five portraits based on the tattoo on the inside of Cassie’s left arm. The struggle to be real, to be one’s self, is one with which a lot of people can identify. Full of emotion, we struggle to create individuality, pulling ourselves from the amber haze of social nomenclatures and fighting to find clarity and focus amidst insecurity and uncertainty. Cassie does a wonderful job of giving physical embodiment to emotions many have difficulty expressing.
Rain Delay is the title set and I think everyone’s favorite. There is a peacefulness to sitting in the window wrapped in the softness of a cable knit sweater while sipping a hot beverage (coffee, in this case). The wind and rain has subsided a bit at this point, but the raindrops clung to the window as a reminder of the contrast between the harshness of the outdoors and the comfort of being inside. Thoughtful and contemplative, these images capture a warmth and beauty we all want for our winter’s survival.
I hope you’ll take your time going through the 30 images below. If you click on any of the photos, the display transitions to a slideshow for easier viewing of the individual photos.
Our tremendous thanks to Cassie and Kat for their incredible effort and help in making these images possible. I’m still hoping we get to do those outdoor shots, somewhere, somehow, very soon.
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I just am in the mood to write and throw some words together in a form that slightly resembles sentences.
I let myself “sleep in” for this first time in forever this morning. Sort of. I still had to get up and let the dog out and feed him, pay some attention to the cats, refresh the water bowls. Those things have to happen on schedule or there are messes made in direct retaliation. Animals are ruthless that way. Still, I let myself stretch out on the couch and snooze for another 45 minutes. That leaves me now, though, with this need to write without actually having anything that I’m supposed to write.
Stream of consciousness. Or, perhaps more accurately, stream of unconsciousness. I’m awake but there’s a large part of me that doesn’t feel awake. The children, of course, prevent anyone in the house from getting any sleep once they’re up, and they’re always up too fucking early. Always. All of them. Not just ours but every child across the planet. Too damn early. It’s a conspiracy. I blame school. They have to get up so fucking early for school that their little bodies are unable to make adjustments for the weekend. School shouldn’t start before 9. Ever.
Wait, I’m going to need pictures for this, aren’t I? Damn. I already know I don’t have anything that fits. Oh well, that doesn’t seem to bother anyone too much. At least, if it does, they never say anything. Not to me. I’m told there are people talking behind my back. Spineless chickens. There are so many easy ways to contact me, especially through our Facebook page, and rarely does anyone bother to do so. Not to complain.
I’m old and don’t get around like I once did. A friend from California is in town this weekend and it would have been nice to go out and catch up with her last night, but no, between the threat of ice and the deep desire to commune with my pillow nothing happened. I’d still like to see Sam, hear what adventures she’s had in SoCal, so maybe we’ll be able to work something out. Still, I’m old and one of the hallmarks of age is not just a lessened ability to be mobile, but less desire. Sad, really.
Which is why I just saw Deadpool for the first time yesterday. I sat here and watched it with my 18-year-old son, who, like his brothers, is a comic book nerd. No, I’m not sure how it happened that all three of them are that way. Anyway, we sat here and laughed all the way through the movie. Then, because timing is everything, this morning I come across this interview about the sequel. I am now uncharacteristically excited about a sequel that I probably won’t see until 2019 or so. You would think with all the technology they’d find a way to put these things together a wee bit faster. But then, writing. That still takes as long as it always has.
Even though I’m old and slow, though, hearing the six-year-old Tipster call me a “jack a-s-s” through the door still makes me laugh. Hard. She just did it again. She knows she’s not supposed to say the word ass because we don’t have a donkey so it’s an adult word. She can spell it, though. And she does. This morning, I’m a jack a-s-s because I won’t let her stand in the hallway right in front of her step-brother’s door making noise. “Go back to your room and close your door,” I told her. That makes me a jack a-s-s, in her opinion, and it also makes me laugh. Perhaps I shouldn’t. Perhaps I should be upset. But you know what? I’m not. She’s not actually saying the word. She created a workaround to express herself. I’m good.
#WhatIWouldTellA15YearOldMe is trending. I’m guessing the hashtag was started by a 16-year-old. Twitter only gives you 164 characters to begin with. By the time you add that hashtag you only have 112 characters left with which to give yourself a world of useful advice. That’s not going to be nearly enough room, dude. 15-year-olds need a lot of advice. They won’t listen to it, of course, because they’re 15. They think they know everything already. We all did. We forgot it all by the time we were old enough to actually use that alleged wisdom, though.
#WhatIWouldTellA15YearOldMe is still too long for a hashtag, though. What’s even more disappointing is all the really lousy advice people were giving themselves. Like, “he’s not really that into you.” REALLY? You have 112 characters to give yourself advice that will make your life better and that is how you’re going to use it? You might want to take another swipe at that, Skippy. Or wait another 15 years.
When I think back to when I was 15 years old, I’m embarrassed. I mean, it’s one thing to not fit in, which I didn’t. Or, at least I didn’t think I did. It’s another problem altogether to feel as though you need to exploit just how different you are, which I did. So, what advice would I really like to give my 15-year-old self if I thought there was a bat’s chance in hell of my listening (I wouldn’t)? Something like this:
Those are the most recent words from the angry six-year-old. I have no idea what she’s talking about. To my knowledge, no one stayed up all night. No one wants to stay up all night. Although, there are times it certainly feels like we did. Six-year-olds, much like 15-year-olds, say a lot of things that don’t make sense. I wonder where they get it from? Oh, wait, I may have an answer for that.
Peta has bought shares in Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessey (LVMH). Something about crocodiles and handbags.
The Uneasy Truth Behind Amazon’s Hiring Blitz And What Startups Are Doing To Fix It. So, you’re telling me all this job growth may not be a good thing long term?
Senate intelligence panel to probe Russia hacking. That article isn’t nearly as interesting as the headline makes it sound. There’s no intelligence and they’re not actually inserting things into Russians. Dammit.
Plan for pink ‘pussyhats’ in Washington after Trump’s inauguration. Don’t even try to tell me you don’t want to read that article. Politics aside, the thought of 200,000 women wearing pink pussyhats on their head makes me wish I was there to take pictures. These women are marching for a cause but don’t think for a moment they won’t take their pussyhats and party like hell afterward. Feminists really know how to pound some liquor.
C’mon, work with me here. That pun is funny.
That is what I do not want to be.
For if I were an Oscar Meyer wiener,
There would soon be nothing left of me.
Don’t pretend you didn’t just sing that in your head. Unless you’re like, 15 years old, in which case you’ve no clue what the reference is in the first place. We don’t always end up being what we wanted to be when we were 15. Hell, when I was 15 I didn’t even have a good grasp of what the possibilities actually were. What’s worse, there are more opportunities now than ever and I still don’t think we’re doing enough to help 15-year-olds achieve the broader vision of what they have the potential to do. We’re failing.
But, within the realm of things I’m glad I’m not, an Oscar Meyer wiener isn’t the worst possibility. I wouldn’t want to be any of these things, either:
So, we’ve established that life could be worse. That doesn’t mean that it can necessarily be better. Not right now. Not under these circumstances. Not with the $11 I have in my wallet. I already have coffee and chocolate and scotch. I already have a hot fiancé. I already have incredible kids. There may be a lot of things that I want, but that doesn’t mean any of them would make my life any better. Quantity does not determine quality.
Okay, I wouldn’t mind being a Nobel prize winner. That would be cool. Nothing I do really qualifies me for any of their categories, though.
Annnnnnnnd, I’m done writing now. My fingers just said, “stop.” Not audibly, of course. They’re just starting to really, really hurt. Fucking pain. I’d complain but you wouldn’t understand, and if you did it would only be because you’re suffering the same thing and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Well, maybe the president-elect’s thumbs, if that would keep him off Twitter.
I need more coffee, too. And I suppose I should find some pictures to slap on here. I think I know where to look. Totally not related to anything I’ve written, but they’re pictures that are part of a story. You like a story, don’t you? Of course you do. Especially when you get to make up the details for yourself.
Have fun with life.
Model: Cassie Kerns
Hair/Makeup: Kat
Click on any image below to view a larger version
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Look for more in our full gallery this Sunday
Everyone likes a good portrait, but there are times when we’re shooting when we just have to take a break and be silly for a moment. Then, there are the times when something happens and we don’t realize it until later. This mini gallery is a combination of both. We went all the way back as far as 2003 for some of these. Sometimes the subjects knew what they were doing, other times they had no clue. Unfortunately, all but a couple I’ve lost contact with, which is rather sad.
Anyway, here’s the gallery. I hope it gives you a few giggles.
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I am not an athlete. One look at me pretty much lets one know that. Not that I didn’t try, though. All through Jr. High I did my best to fit it. I tried ’em all: football, baseball, and basketball. One coach even let me on the basketball team in eighth grade. I played for the last three minutes of one game where we were already losing by 18 points. Other than that, I did my best to be encouraging from the bench. Because of my experience, however, I have an incredible amount of respect for those whose eye-hand coordination is sufficient to allow them to be successful at a sport or two.
When I got older, I tried my hand at some other sports that weren’t quite as dangerous, such as tennis and racquetball. Uhm, did I say they weren’t dangerous? That would be an error. One of my worst sprains ever came from diving across a racquetball court and missing the damn ball. It was fantastic exercise, mind you, but I was repeatedly covered in bruises and spraining something, which probably contributes to the arthritis pain I have now.
Sports are wonderful. I can sit and watch football for as long as the chips and beer hold out. I can watch baseball live if there are plenty of hot dogs, and I can sometimes even tolerate an NBA game as long as 1. I didn’t pay for the seats, 2. We start drinking upon arrival, and 3. I don’t have to drive home, ‘cuz I’m not going to be sober by the time we hit the fourth period. I have absolutely no axe to grind with sports in general. I’ve even been out on the golf course and am pretty sure the solution to doing well is taking four or five Xanax before hitting the course. Although, that probably violates some rule about athletics and drugs.
So, given that sports are sports and involve getting all sweaty and worked up and physical in one way or another, I am totally perplexed why entire athletic organizations would get so freaking upset by being told that they’re not arts. What the literal fuck? How can anyone in their right mind even begin to put the arts and sports in the same basket? Why would you even want to try? They are both two very distinct and different things with two dramatically different purposes. Why are we even having this conversation?
Blame Meryl Streep.
When I wake up each morning, one of the first things I do is check to see what’s trending on Twitter. I try to prepare for our 5 Things You Should Know article before I go to bed each night, but there’s always the chance something can happen while I’m sleeping. I went to bed Sunday night before the Golden Globes because, 1. we had been up 17 hours already and was exhausted, and 2., find awards shows to generally be a complete waste of time. Monday morning, however, I get up to see that not only is #GoldenGlobes trending, so is #SportsAreNotArt and #MerylStreepForPresident. That was my first clue that something of reasonable significance had taken place.
Sure enough, it didn’t take long to discover that Ms. Streep had pretty much eviscerated the president-elect, who deserves every last bit of the condemnation heaped on him last night. That was a big story in of itself. What was getting just as much attention, at least on Twitter, was when Ms. Streep had said that football and MMA are not art.
Oh. My God. You would have thought that Ms. Streep had plunged a dagger into the very heart of the planet and that we all were about to die. The President of MMA even wrote and posted a huge ass response trying to convince Ms. Streep and the rest of the world that there is something remotely artistic about two people stepping into the ring and proceeding to pummel each other to the point of concussion and, most likely, permanent brain damage. Yeah, some people apparently think that there’s an art to bleeding.
Now, before we go too much further, we should take a look at Ms. Streep’s words in context. So, here’s a larger version of what she actually said:
I was born and raised and educated in the public schools of New Jersey. Viola [Davis] was born in a sharecropper’s cabin in South Carolina, came up in Central Falls, Rhode Island. Sarah Paulson was born in Florida, raised by a single mom in Brooklyn. Sarah Jessica Parker was one of seven or eight kids from Ohio. Amy Adams was born in Vicenza, Veneto, Italy. And Natalie Portman was born in Jerusalem. Where are their birth certificates?
And the beautiful Ruth Negga was born in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, raised in — no, in Ireland, I do believe. And she’s here nominated for playing a small-town girl from Virginia. Ryan Gosling, like all the nicest people, is Canadian. And Dev Patel was born in Kenya, raised in London, is here for playing an Indian raised in Tasmania.
So Hollywood is crawling with outsiders and foreigners. And if we kick ’em all out, you’ll have nothing to watch but football and mixed martial arts, which are not the arts. They gave me three seconds to say this, so. An actor’s only job is to enter the lives of people who are different from us and let you feel what that feels like. And there were many, many, many powerful performances this year that did exactly that — breathtaking, passionate work.
The longer point Ms. Streep would go on to make is how the president-elect continually demonstrates a lack of regard for anyone who is not white and rich and that the press needs to habitually call him out on his nonsense. Like the opinion or not, Ms. Streep has a right to it and since she had the platform to make that opinion heard she had every right to take advantage of that situation.
What she said about football and mixed martial arts not being the arts, however, is correct. They’re not the arts. They never have been and they never can be in their current forms. Moreover, we really don’t want to think of them as art. To put athletics into the art basket would require fundamentally changing their reason for existing. We wouldn’t like most sports if they concentrated on being artistic. We want them to be the physical display of training and skill in a competitive format that they are. We like them that way.
The MMA world seems to be much more upset about Ms. Streep’s remarks than is anyone in the NFL. Bellator CEO Scott Coker even took the time to write and tweet a response which says in part:
Please be my guest at the LA Forum on January 21st and you will see that Mixed Martial Arts is truly artistic – which will feature fighters from all over the world competing at a world class level.
Now, in case you’re not a huge MMA fan, which I am not, we looked up the event scheduled for the LA Forum on January 21. The multi-bout card includes the following people beating the living hell out of each other: Tito Ortiz and Chael Sonnen, Georgi Karakhanyan against Emmanuel Sanchez, Paul Daley against Brennan Ward, and Ralek Gracie against Hisaki Kato. The event is broadcast free on the SPIKE cable network. All the young men on the card are big, tough, and athletic. I’m sure they will all give their best in the ring. Those who enjoy watching this type of competition will be thrilled. However, not a damn thing about this event is going to be artistic except, possibly, the singing of the national anthem.
Why? Because sports are not arts. In case you were sleeping during your humanities class, or completely skipped out that semester, the are five basic arts: painting, sculpture, architecture, music and poetry. Those have existed since the beginning of time and deserve to be respected as such. As society developed, somewhere along about 3,000 BCE, theatre and dance were added to the list. As part of that gradual progression and the development of technology, film was added as an extension of the theatre. Photography, video production/editing, design, sequential art, conceptual art, and printmaking have been added as an extension of painting. Arts related to painting, sculpture, and architecture as generally classified as visual arts while those related to music, dance, and theatre as classified as performing arts.
Now, please, take a close look. Do you see anything in that list that looks like a competitive sport? Granted, dancing is extremely athletic, which probably explains why I suck at that, too. Still, a dance performance isn’t a competition like a sport is. No one keeps score. There’s no audience hoping that the prima ballerina pulls a hamstring so that the understudy can win. Dance is not a sport. Sport is not an art.
While I could spend hours nit-picking all the minute details that hold arts apart from sport, the primary difference is that one is a competitive exhibition whose purpose is to determine a definite winner while the other is a presentation for the visual and visceral pleasures of its audience over that of those creating. Athletes want to win, to beat their competition. Artists want only to please an audience in some form or fashion. There’s no contest. In the case of visual arts such as painting, sculpture, and architecture, there’s not even an end point so long as the works still exist. They can go on and deliver pleasure and expression for centuries provided they are given appropriate care.
To be art the work has to attempt some significance outside itself, either through its impact on society and culture or to the greater art itself. There must be an aesthetic element to the work and contain an element of emotion that varies from artist to artist and work to work. Art requires no participation of anyone outside the artist and yet is fulfilled in its exhibition. If one is an Art History major, one classifies art through both form and function. Art requires a unique creative act whose interpretation is variable by either the performer or the audience, and sometimes both.
I suppose, if one really stretches the definitions, one might claim that some sports figures are artistic in their work, but then we still come back to the fact that sport must, inherently, be competitive. Sport is a contest; there is a constant adversary. The fundamental of success in sports is that one follows the rules for their function within their sport or one is disqualified and penalized. Even in a sport seemingly as benign as golf, one must still exhibit some form of aggression against that stupid little ball if one hopes to ever win. None of those things are appropriate for art.
And none of this explains why anyone would bother to be upset that the two are distinct and separate entities. I don’t recall ever seeing anyone trying to turn art into a sport. Most artists I know would bristle at the very idea. So why would a sport try to portray itself as an art? What is the purpose of such an attempt? Are athletes feeling left out that, despite their million dollar salaries, they’re somehow left out or cheated by being portrayed as artists? If football players want to feel more like real artists, then perhaps they could start by attempting to get by on one-tenth their current salaries; that would still have them being paid more than most artists. I simply cannot imagine why anyone in sports would be offended by Ms. Streep’s comment.
The only thing I can surmise is that the athletes who are upset are simply jealous that there’s an arena from which they are excluded, which is interesting since I’ve known multiple athletes who were also wonderful artists in genres that are actually art. It’s not that the person can’t be an artist, but more that the sport itself isn’t art.
Sports are sport, and they’re a lot of fun and have an important place in our society. The arts are art, and they’re a lot of fun and have an important place in our society. Yet, art and sport as distinct, separate entities occupying different spaces that have no need to overlap. Together, with other fields such as science and math, and philosophy and literature, they make our world a very wonderful place to be. We don’t all need to occupy the same space. Be cool with what you are and let others be what they are and we’ll all get along much better.
We’re focusing primarily on black and white this year, but as we were playing with the concept of color film yesterday, the conversation turned to color and how to boost it without adjusting the saturation levels. That got the wheels moving in my head. There are literally thousands of ways to boost color without ever touching the saturation sliders in Photoshop. We didn’t take time to explore all of them, but we did apply ten different methods to the photos below, each generating a different result.
Which method is best? That’s totally up to you. Different methods fit different purposes and intent. This is where one’s artistic intent come into play. Some methods are certainly more palatable to a broad audience than others, but we don’t always want to appeal to a broad audience, do we? So, take a look and consider what you can do without touching the saturation slider.
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For the past five years, photographers everywhere, especially us old guys, have lamented the loss of film. When Kodak filed for bankruptcy we saw the writing on the wall. Films began dropping one by one until the only films the once-dominant company still had on the market were Kodak Gold 200, Kodak Ultra Max 400 and a series of professional films. Kodak’s premier color film, Ektachrome, was killed off in 2012.
However, what was old is suddenly new again. Take music, for instance. Vinyl had been declared dead a long time ago, but in the past two years it has begun making a comeback and now accounts for eleven percent of the music market. Could the same thing happen in photography? Is it time to bring back film?
That’s the gamble Kodak is making in announcing that it’s bringing back the Ektachrome film line later this year. They’re hoping that the difference between a good film image and a digital image will be enough to spark a retro revolution that will produce an increased demand for film. The timing seems to be right. The film has been off the market just long enough for old-school photographers and photography school instructors to start missing it. This could be the next big thing in photography.
Maybe. Even if Ektachrome takes off in popularity, there are still some photographers face in using the film, and the first one comes with the cameras themselves. Anyone who has started in photography in the past 15 years without going to photography school hasn’t used a film camera. That’s going to be a problem because film cameras don’t have all the onboard tools that many digital photographers have come to rely upon. Want to change ISO? Have to change the film. Spot metering? Doesn’t exist except in hybrid cameras. Connectivity and GPS? Uhm, check your phone. There is no “landscape” mode, no “black and white” mode, and definitely no “art” mode. You have to know the film, know how it works, and adjust your settings manually to get the best shot.
The second issue, especially for photographers not in major metropolitan areas, is going to be finding someone who can actually process the film. While Ektachrome isn’t quite as challenging as Kodachrome was, it still takes a technician who knows what they’re doing with the chemicals or else it comes out looking like garbage. And if you need to modify the film, good luck. It is extremely challenging to work with as a slide film. While there are still several places that have the ability to process the film, almost all are in major metropolitan centers. That can be a major pain in the backside for anyone who lives and works in a rural area. And do we even want to start talking about turn around times?
Yeah, there are some problems. Yet, for those clients who really want film, this is quite possibly the film they want, especially if you’re shooting outdoors where Ektachrome does its best.
Now, I can hear digital shooters saying, “Yeah, but I can get the same effect with a Photoshop action.”
That produces two questions. First, if you’ve never shot the film then how do you know how the digital emulation should look? I’ve looked at four different popular emulation action sets and all four of them produce dramatically different results. How do you know which one is correct? The answer is: you don’t unless you have shot with the film. A lot.
The second question is WHY? Why would a digital photographer want to emulate a film look other than for the fun of it? Okay, maybe that’s enough reason for some people. But while there may be a market for film prints, the market for emulated digital prints doesn’t exist. Then, once again, there’s also that nasty problem of emulators not being especially accurate. Let me give you an example.
One of the most flexible film emulation filters is located within the Nik Collection, which happens to be free. The emulation within the Nik Collection is preferable to a Photoshop action because it actually gives the photographer the ability to make adjustments to allow for situations where the software misreads the photo in some way. Where actions require the photographer to compensate for a yellow/red saturation that is too high, the Nik Collection filters allow one to adjust those channels and bring them back into the range of something that’s actually usable.
Does the end result match what is achievable in film? I suppose it’s possible, but one has to be ready to work with the software on pretty much every image.
Here’s what I’m talking about. Below, we took five outdoor photographs and processed them using Nik’s Ektachrome 400 emulation. For the sake of comparison, we left the default settings in place. We’ll show the raw image first and then the emulation.
You’ll have to decide for yourself which version is preferable. You can see through the succession that the emulator tends to have some challenges with yellow and red. This is interesting given the actual film tends to push saturation on blue and green. Can it be adjusted within the filter? Yes, but one would have to know exactly which adjustments to make where, wouldn’t they?
I’m not against film emulators. They can be fun and interesting study tools, but they don’t take the place of actual film. One has to shoot differently with film than with a digital camera. There are no short cuts. “Fixing it in post,” becomes a matter of cost and skill, not convenience.
I’m excited about the return of Ektachrome and I may even dust off my old Canon F1 and shoot a roll or two if I come across some extra cash. Make no mistake, though. It’s not shooting with a digital. Don’t think you can just grab your grandfather’s camera and start shooting. Film is still for people who actually know what they’re doing behind a camera.
Take care.
2. muse
Who needs a muse? Not everyone, for sure. If one is a photojournalist one need’s a keen sixth sense to know what to shoot and when to get the hell out of a situation. If one is a portrait artist, one needs a good light setup. If one is an editorial photographer one needs a strong perception of the details in everyday life. There are plenty of creative endeavors that have no call at all for a muse.
Artistic photography is one of those genres, though, where having someone consistent, someone on whom a photographer can depend, really can make a lot of difference. I base this not only on my own experience, but what I hear from other photographers as well. While we enjoy working with several different models, having that one person, or, if you’re lucky, maybe two people, around who you can shape and build concepts and ideas is invaluable.
The requirements for that role, however, have changed over the years. At least, they have for me. For example, as inspirational as Kat is for me and as encouraging as she constantly is, you might have noticed that we took only one set of pictures of her last year, and that was while we were on vacation. The myriad demands on Kat’s time and energy leaves her without the space necessary to be a muse. She simply cannot fill that role, no matter how much I love her.
At the same time, I can no longer wait around for someone to have some spare time, or drop by at any random time of day, or call me up in the middle of the night. Those were all former options that made it easy to accommodate a muse. However, as my life and work have transitioned, that level of randomness no longer works for me. A lot has changed. What I want and need from a muse has changed. I don’t know if these guidelines necessarily apply to anyone else, but I think they make a good foundation. Every artist and photographer is going to have their own modifications to this list, but take a look and consider whether you might be someone’s answer to a serious need.
In the past, there was always a lot of emphasis on the person in the picture being pretty. That requirement, generally speaking, is gone. For me at least, what is more important is that the model is genuine, open, and capable of revealing her true nature and personality to the camera. I’m not looking to create a fantasy. I’m not telling a fairy tale. Instead, I’m expressing a perspective of reality. I need a muse that is real and not faking it for the camera.
This means that I’m open to models who are not 19 years old, whose bodies show the wear and tear of real life. I’m open to a muse who has physical limitations, someone who has to work within given parameters and has strict limitations. Those challenges can actually aid inspiration because it challenges us to find a way to be expressive within that box while simultaneously creating something outside the normal concept of artistic figure work.
I also feel that we are at a point in our society where beauty does not always deliver the message we want. Beauty often equals conformity and there are few instances where anything artistic should be conformist. There is such a thing as being too beautiful for certain types of artwork. A muse today can be the ordinary person who simply wants to become a part of art. Those works can be every bit as moving as anything else we’ve ever created. One just has to be willing to try.
Historically, there have been advantages to having experienced models as muses. They understood posing. They knew from which angles their bodies look best. They understood the processes behind a photo shoot. Those were all valuable qualities to have and I’m still certainly not opposed to working with experienced people. There are times where experience is a must. However, experienced models don’t always make the best muses for a number of reasons.
A muse needs to be able to work with and capture the creative mind of a specific artist, not an entire audience of fans. Experienced models today come with large numbers of Instagram followers demanding to be fed new images on a regular basis. Models have obligations to maintain an image on social media that might be contrary to what the artist is wanting to achieve. A muse needs to be more like a blank slate without the external influence of someone else’s expectations.
Experienced models also tend to impose their own perspective over the top of the artist. The photographer suggests a specific pose, for example, and the model is reluctant because it might show belly rolls or expose cellulite or make her hips look big. Sorry, that just doesn’t work anymore. Imperfections, the natural ways in which our bodies respond to sitting or lying in certain positions, are expressions we don’t want to avoid. Working with a muse who doesn’t mind if her stretch marks show or her face is a bit wrinkled is wonderful. Act how you are, not how you think someone else wants you to be.
It’s one thing to have a concept for a photo shoot and then cast a model to fit that concept. Quite different is the experience of having a muse around which you can mold, shape, and most importantly, plan a shoot. Knowing exactly the face and the body with which one will be working allows the artist to plan deeper, to think in greater detail, and to create in ways that are more precise, even when the product being created is abstract.
A problem many of us have had before is that too many would-be muses wanted to know exactly what we were doing before they would agree to do the shoot. There is some validity in that if the model/muse has safety concerns or doesn’t know the photographer/artist well. There have been too many instances where one is asked to just show up with a bag full and clothes and wing it. That approach is not only unprofessional, it is unacceptable in the current social reality.
What we need from a muse today, though, is someone who does not dictate the concept, but rather inspires it and works with a photographer to create something wonderful. The photographer might ask their muse, “How long can you stand on one foot?” The muse wouldn’t challenge why they were being asked to stand on one foot, but would know on which foot they can stand the longest. And yes, that can make a difference. Being able to plan for the peculiarities of a muse makes the end result better and the overall process run smooth.
Now, more than ever I think, people look at artistic photographs and expect them to say something about life. Figure studies that play with concepts of light and shadow fall flat on today’s audience that has already seen just about every permutation of shadow manipulation possible. While that doesn’t mean light and shadow work isn’t still valid, what it tells us is that we do well to consider placing those studies within the broader concept that envelopes some condition of life.
This affects who one chooses as a muse because some models are so dramatically disconnected from normal life that it is impossible for them to present an image of the human condition. We need muses with whom not only the photographer can relate but the potential audience as well. We need muses who help keep both us and our work real. We need muses who are grounded in what it means to be alive in 2017.
At the same time, though, those same muses need to appreciate how art intersects life, that there are moments of beauty in the things we do that are mundane and ordinary, that expressing our emotions in careful and planned outbursts can deliver powerful images, and that fragility and vulnerability is a level of beauty all its own. A modern muse is aware of how the image they portray can affect society and plays to that artistic reality.
I have enjoyed working with several people over the years who acted as wonderful muses for a great wealth of work. Those with whom I’ve done the best, though, have always been the ones with whom there is a natural, unspoken, synchronization; a mutual agreement in the way we view life, art, love, and freedom. As I look at what is required of artists today, I find that achieving that synchronization with a muse is all the more important.
This is one of those places where it’s the little things that matter. For example, I don’t think I could work with a muse right now if they didn’t drink coffee. Caffeine not only affects our energy level, coffee specifically puts us in a unique emotional space that is not achievable with other caffeinated drinks. I need a muse who can sit down and have a cup of coffee with me before we ever think about taking any pictures. If a model can’t meet me on that specific emotional wavelength we’re not going to do as well as we might.
Interpersonal synchronization is difficult to describe because it’s going to be different for everyone. Sometimes it’s knowing that a specific time of day works best for you both. Other times it’s the silly things like the way you both cross your legs or enjoy listening to the same kind of music. Synchronization is personalized for every artist and muse and no two muses are likely to synch on exactly the same things. One has to wait for it and let it happen.
Muses understand the risks
I can’t begin to tell you the number of times over the past 30 years where models have gotten upset because we didn’t deliver as many finished photos as they expected, or the outcome was different from what they anticipated. There have been times where, even after letting a set sit for several days, I couldn’t find anything to my liking. Understand, that is almost never the model’s fault. Some days I don’t feel well and my perspective is off. On other occasions, I may not have planned well enough or perhaps even forgot a necessary piece of equipment that prevented me from getting the shots I wanted.
More than ever, I need a muse that understands those risks. Not every concept is going to be a good one, no matter how much planning we might put into it. Work with me long and often enough and there will be those times where I fail to anticipate consequences, such as the taco seasoning that didn’t wash off or the drink mix that burned sensitive skin. When one works with an artist on a regular basis these things are going to happen.
This is one of the defining differences between a model and a muse. Models get pissed when things happen, especially if it turns their skin orange for the next two weeks. Muses understand and find a way to work it in to their life story. Muses enjoy the adventures that come from working with an artist, even if those adventures sometimes don’t come out exactly as we planned.
One of my greatest frustrations is when we spend hours giving a set of photos a particular artistic look and/or perspective only to have the model say, “You did a good job, but I just don’t like the way I look in them.” This is the artistic equivalent of, “it’s not you, it’s me.” In a single statement, the model destroys the work of the artist and makes the whole issue about them. I can’t think of many statements that drive an artist mad any quicker than that one.
We need muses that understand that the work we’re producing is not about them at all. How they look in a painting or a photograph needs to respond to the overall theme of the image, not some personal vanity that makes them feel good about themselves. The sum of the image is greater than any of its individual parts. That’s why we select certain poses and facial expressions while leaving others alone. And yes, it’s going to differ dramatically from one artist to another. There is no gold standard in art that says we have to portray someone with flawless skin or a perfect body. If anything, art prefers exactly the opposite.
We need muses who are willing to become a part of the art, who understand that they are giving themselves to something greater, to a concept that is larger than the individual. Artistic imagery today cannot be flat and singular. As we’ve discussed already, contemporary artistic imagery has to express life and explore the whole of reality, not merely a pleasant looking portrait of a pleasant looking person.
No, we’re not talking about physical capabilities, though sometimes those qualities, too, are advantageous. When I ask a model to be flexible, I’m thinking that one needs to be open-minded about what we’re doing, the message we’re attempting to make, and the social impact of what that message might be. This can be really challenging for the would-be muse, even if they’re clicking on every other level with the artist.
Here’s the thing: sometimes art demands that we shout in order to be heard. If we oppose something that is taking place in society, it is not enough that we create an image that calmly says, “I disagree with that.” No one pays attention to those images. Instead, we have to look for ways of expressing our disdain that is dramatic, different, and even shocking. For the muse, that might mean asking them to do something they normally wouldn’t consider doing. We need them to be flexible.
For example, let’s say that I was considering doing a piece protesting men’s involvement in attempting to dictate a woman’s reproductive rights. I might think of a concept that involves the proper medical use of a speculum. There’s no way in hell that image is going to be considered safe for work, is it? Just thinking about it makes me a little uncomfortable. That wouldn’t be a “fun” set of pictures for me to take. Yet, the message resulting from those images would undoubtedly make a point. We need muses who are flexible reaching outside their comfort zone for the sake of the art.
There have been times in my career where I could repeatedly call upon the same muse time after time, even with long periods of not seeing each other, and still produce wonderful results. Given the state of my life and that of society in general in 2017, I’m not sure that is even remotely a reasonable expectation anymore. What I’m seeing today is a situation where lives don’t just gradually morph from one stage to the next, they leap and jump, sometimes violently, across disparate and unexpected conditions. Life in 2017 is more fluid, more open to immediate change and that renders one’s longevity as a muse much shorter than we might like.
It is no one’s fault when what was once a creative and thriving relationship between artist and muse suddenly becomes impossible to maintain because of changes in either life. A muse’s life is suddenly skewed by the need to stay home and take care of a parent radically disabled in a car accident. A painter wakes up one morning to quite unexpectedly find they can no longer hold a paintbrush. A job offer half-way around the world suddenly alters one’s career choices. These things are a reality of our lives and sometimes we have to bid goodbye to people and things we love in order to do the things that are better.
Letting go of a gifted and talented muse isn’t easy. I’ve cried more than once. Yet, no muse lasts forever. We don’t want them to. Artists must change as well and if we latch on to a muse and never let them go then we eliminate at least some of the opportunity for us to grow and explore new forms of creativity. Muses speak to a specific period in our lives and leave behind a record of what was important to us both individually and socially at that time. Then, like starting a new book in a series, we open a new cover, find blank pages, and start to fill them with new images.
We may not all need a muse, but when we are lucky enough to find them they do wonderful and amazing things for our work. Perhaps you might think of the artists you know and whether you might risk being a muse. Perhaps a trial run, posing for something simple or even silly, might be a good first step. Being a muse is a special relationship and one should take care to connect with an artist whose vision is complimentary to their own. Be sure, every second one spends working with an artist is a special moment that the rest of the world should envy, and being a muse, even for a short while, is a very special calling indeed.
Building on the concept from Sunday’s gallery.
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One of the dangers of shooting within the same genre, even figure studies, is that after several years one can begin to lose some perspective. All bodies start looking the same. There are only so many different ways one can bend the figure without requiring surgery afterward. Mountain ranges become indistinguishable. Canyons are all grand. It’s a problem.
The same thing happens when we use the same processing methods continually. All our photos begin to look like the others. Our aesthetic renders topics moot because we become so committed to our “look” that we don’t realize how commoditized our work has become.
So, we decided to start this year with a different perspective, one that takes us out of the normal perspective and turns curves into angles, gradients of light into distinct regions, and super-imposes the unfamiliar on the familiar. We imagine how our images might look if there were such a thing as a cubist lens without completely losing the original form behind it.
Exploring within this realm opened a plethora of new opportunities and decisions to be made. From the ten images we chose for today’s gallery, no two are rendered in the exact same manner. Some we favored light. Others we favored shadows. We created barriers for some and blurred them out for others. We explored, which is how we hope you will view them. The year is new. We set out own paths from here.
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Since yesterday was not so blistering cold as to threaten pneumonia simply setting foot outside, I asked Kat to drop me off downtown with the camera for a couple of hours. It has been a couple of years since I’ve gone wandering around down there on my own, so it was interesting to see just how much has changed, and what’s stayed the same.
There’s really no specific point to the photos we took. Part of the challenge of photographing a place with which one is familiar is finding the things that stand out within the things that are ordinary. So as you look at the photos below, see if you can find what’s different in each one. I promise, there’s something in each one. Some are very subtle, others not so much. Enjoy.
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James Baldwin
Why you need to see “I Am Not Your Negro.”
The short version
Raoul Peck’s stirring documentary about the late James Baldwin, I Am Not Your Negro, opens nationwide in theaters tomorrow. Every person in the United States needs to go see this movie. We need to understand. We need to know. This may very well be the most important film you see all year.
A little background
James Baldwin was a profound and sometimes incendiary writer, poet, and speaker. His words struck a nerve not only within the black community of the 1960s, but among white people who were afraid of the civil rights movement. Baldwin’s words were strong and resonant because they were accurate and true, whether anyone wanted to believe him or not.
Baldwin’s story comes to life in ways never before seen in Raoul Peck’s documentary, I Am Not Your Negro. Peck was given access to the FBI’s extensive file on Baldwin and using that information, along with miles of film footage that hasn’t been seen since the 60s, he brings Baldwin back to life juxtaposed against the Black Lives Matter movement and the groundswell of white nationalism currently taking place across the US.
Here’s the trailer for the movie:
In light of the unforgivable gaffes the president made in yesterday’s statement on Black History Month (where he praised the work Frederick Douglass is doing) and his stated intention to declassify white supremacy groups as violent extremists, we need this movie now. I worry that far too many white people are going to dismiss it as “a black thing.” This is not “a black thing.” This is an us thing. You and me. Regardless of our skin color. This is about who we are and who we have always been as a nation.
Because I’m reasonably sure 98% of those reading this have never seen a James Baldwin poem, I’m giving you one now. It’s long. Read the whole thing. Consider what he’s saying. The words may have been written before some of you were born, but they are still just as applicable now as they were 50 years ago.
Staggerlee wonders
I always wonder
what they think the niggers are doing
while they, the pink and alabaster pragmatists,
are containing
Russia
and defining and re-defining and re-aligning
China,
nobly restraining themselves, meanwhile,
from blowing up that earth
which they have already
blasphemed into dung:
the gentle, wide-eyed, cheerful
ladies, and their men,
nostalgic for the noble cause of Vietnam,
nostalgic for noble causes,
aching, nobly, to wade through the blood of savages—
ah—!
Uncas shall never leave the reservation,
except to purchase whisky at the State Liquor Store.
The Panama Canal shall remain forever locked:
there is a way around every treaty.
We will turn the tides of the restless
Caribbean,
the sun will rise, and set
on our hotel balconies as we see fit.
The natives will have nothing to complain about,
indeed, they will begin to be grateful,
will be better off than ever before.
They will learn to defer gratification
and save up for things, like we do.
Oh, yes. They will.
We have only to make an offer
they cannot refuse.
This flag has been planted on the moon:
it will be interesting to see
what steps the moon will take to be revenged
for this quite breathtaking presumption.
This people
masturbate in winding sheets.
They have hacked their children to pieces.
They have never honoured a single treaty
made with anyone, anywhere.
The walls of their cities
are as foul as their children.
No wonder their children come at them with knives.
Mad Charlie man’s son was one of their children,
had got his shit together
by the time he left kindergarten,
and, as for Patty, heiress of all the ages,
she had the greatest vacation
of any heiress, anywhere:
Golly-gee, whillikens, Mom, real guns!
and they come with a real big, black funky stud, too:
oh, Ma! he’s making eyes at me!
Oh, noble Duke Wayne,
be careful in them happy hunting grounds.
They say the only good Indian
is a dead Indian,
by what I say is,
you can’t be too careful, you hear?
Oh, towering Ronnie Reagan,
wise and resigned lover of redwoods,
deeply beloved, winning man-child of the yearning Republic
from diaper to football field to Warner Brothers sound-stages,
be thou our grinning, gently phallic, Big Boy of all the ages!
Salt peanuts, salt peanuts,
for dear hearts and gentle people,
and cheerful, shining, simple Uncle Sam!
Nigger, read this and run!
Now, if you can’t read,
run anyhow!
From Manifest Destiny
(Cortez, and all his men
silent upon a peak in Darien)
to A Decent Interval,
and the chopper rises above Saigon,
abandoning the noble cause
and the people we have made ignoble
and whom we leave there, now, to die,
one moves, With All Deliberate Speed,
to the South China Sea, and beyond,
where millions of new niggers
await glad tidings!
No, said the Great Man’s Lady,
I’m against abortion,
I always feel that’s killing somebody.
Well, what about capital punishment?
I think the death penalty helps.
That’s right.
Up to our ass in niggers
on Death Row.
Oh, Susanna,
don’t you cry for me!
2
Well, I guess what the niggers
is supposed to be doing
is putting themselves in the path
of that old sweet chariot
and have it swing down and carry us home.
That would help, as they say,
and they got ways
of sort of nudging the chariot.
They still got influence
with Wind and Water,
though they in for some surprises
with Cloud and Fire.
My days are not their days.
My ways are not their ways.
I would not think of them,
one way or the other,
did not they so grotesquely
block the view
between me and my brother.
And, so, I always wonder:
can blindness be desired?
Then, what must the blinded eyes have seen
to wish to see no more!
For, I have seen,
in the eyes regarding me,
or regarding my brother,
have seen, deep in the farthest valley
of the eye, have seen
a flame leap up, then flicker and go out,
have seen a veil come down,
leaving myself, and the other,
alone in that cave
which every soul remembers, and
out of which, desperately afraid,
I turn, turn, stagger, stumble out,
into the healing air,
fall flat on the healing ground,
singing praises, counselling
my heart, my soul, to praise.
What is it that this people
cannot forget?
Surely, they cannot be deluded
as to imagine that their crimes
are original?
There is nothing in the least original
about the fiery tongs to the eyeballs,
the sex torn from the socket,
the infant ripped from the womb,
the brains dashed out against rock,
nothing original about Judas,
or Peter, or you or me: nothing:
we are liars and cowards all,
or nearly all, or nearly all the time:
for we also ride the lightning,
answer the thunder, penetrate whirlwinds,
curl up on the floor of the sun,
and pick our teeth with thunderbolts.
Then, perhaps they imagine
that their crimes are not crimes?
Perhaps.
Perhaps that is why they cannot repent,
why there is no possibility of repentance.
Manifest Destiny is a hymn to madness,
feeding on itself, ending
(when it ends) in madness:
the action is blindness and pain,
pain bringing a torpor so deep
that every act is willed,
is desperately forced,
is willed to be a blow:
the hand becomes a fist,
the prick becomes a club,
the womb a dangerous swamp,
the hope, and fear, of love
is acid in the marrow of the bone.
No, their fire is not quenched,
nor can be: the oil feeding the flames
being the unadmitted terror of the wrath of God.
Yes. But let us put it in another,
less theological way:
though theology has absolutely nothing to do
with what I am trying to say.
But the moment God is mentioned
theology is summoned
to buttress or demolish belief:
an exercise which renders belief irrelevant
and adds to the despair of Fifth Avenue
on any afternoon,
the people moving, homeless, through the city,
praying to find sanctuary before the sky
and the towers come tumbling down,
before the earth opens, as it does in Superman.
They know that no one will appear
to turn back time,
they know it, just as they know
that the earth has opened before
and will open again, just as they know
that their empire is falling, is doomed,
nothing can hold it up, nothing.
We are not talking about belief.
3
I wonder how they think
the niggers made, make it,
how come the niggers are still here.
But, then, again, I don’t think they dare
to think of that: no:
I’m fairly certain they don’t think of that at all.
Lord,
I with the alabaster lady of the house,
with Beulah.
Beulah about sixty, built in four-square,
biceps like Mohammed Ali,
she at the stove, fixing biscuits,
scrambling eggs and bacon, fixing coffee,
pouring juice, and the lady of the house,
she say, she don’t know how
she’d get along without Beulah
and Beulah just silently grunts,
I reckon you don’t,
and keeps on keeping on
and the lady of the house say
She’s just like one of the family,
and Beulah turns, gives me a look,
sucks her teeth and rolls her eyes
in the direction of the lady’s back, and
keeps on keeping on.
While they are containing
Russia
and entering onto the quicksand of
China
and patronizing
Africa,
and calculating
the Caribbean plunder, and
the South China Sea booty,
the niggers are aware that no one has discussed
anything at all with the niggers.
Well. Niggers don’t own nothing,
got no flag, even our names
are hand-me-downs
and you don’t change that
by calling yourself X:
sometimes that just makes it worse,
like obliterating the path that leads back
to whence you came, and
to where you can begin.
And, anyway, none of this changes the reality,
which is, for example, that I do not want my son
to die in Guantanamo,
or anywhere else, for that matter,
serving the Stars and Stripes.
(I’ve seen some stars.
I got some stripes.)
Neither (incidentally)
has anyone discussed the Bomb with the niggers:
the incoherent feeling is, the less
the nigger knows about the Bomb, the better:
the lady of the house
smiles nervously in your direction
as though she had just been overheard
discussing family, or sexual secrets,
and changes the subject to Education,
or Full Employment, or the Welfare rolls,
the smile saying, Don’t be dismayed.
We know how you feel. You can trust us.
Yeah. I would like to believe you.
But we are not talking about belief.
4
The sons of greed, the heirs of plunder,
are approaching the end of their journey:
it is amazing that they approach without wonder,
as though they have, themselves, become
that scorched and blasphemed earth,
the stricken buffalo, the slaughtered tribes,
the endless, virgin, bloodsoaked plain,
the famine, the silence, the children’s eyes,
murder masquerading as salvation, seducing
every democratic eye,
the mouths of truth and anguish choked with cotton,
rape delirious with the fragrance of magnolia,
the hacking of the fruit of their loins to pieces,
hey! the tar-baby sons and nephews, the high-yaller
nieces,
and Tom’s black prick hacked off
to rustle in crinoline,
to hang, heaviest of heirlooms,
between the pink and alabaster breasts
of the Great Man’s Lady,
or worked into the sash at the waist
of the high-yaller Creole bitch, or niece,
a chunk of shining brown-black satin,
staring, staring, like the single eye of God:
creation yearns to re-create a time
when we were able to recognize a crime.
Alas,
my stricken kinsmen,
the party is over:
there have never been any white people,
anywhere: the trick was accomplished with mirrors—
look: where is your image now?
where your inheritance,
on what rock stands this pride?
Oh,
I counsel you,
leave History alone.
She is exhausted,
sitting, staring into her dressing-room mirror,
and wondering what rabbit, now,
to pull out of what hat,
and seriously considering retirement,
even though she knows her public
dare not let her go.
She must change.
Yes. History must change.
A slow, syncopated
relentless music begins
suggesting her re-entry,
transformed, virginal as she was,
in the Beginning, untouched,
as the Word was spoken,
before the rape which debased her
to be the whore of multitudes, or,
as one might say, before she became the Star,
whose name, above our title,
carries the Show, making History the patsy,
responsible for every flubbed line,
every missed cue, responsible for the life
and death, of all bright illusions
and dark delusions,
Lord, History is weary
of her unspeakable liaison with Time,
for Time and History
have never seen eye to eye:
Time laughs at History
and time and time and time again
Time traps History in a lie.
But we always, somehow, managed
to roar History back onstage
to take another bow,
to justify, to sanctify
the journey until now.
Time warned us to ask for our money back,
and disagreed with History
as concerns colours white and black.
Not only do we come from further back,
but the light of the Sun
marries all colours as one.
Kinsmen,
I have seen you betray your Saviour
(it is you who call Him Saviour)
so many times, and
I have spoken to Him about you,
behind your back.
Quite a lot has been going on
behind your back, and,
if your phone has not yet been disconnected,
it will soon begin to ring:
informing you, for example, that a whole generation,
in Africa, is about to die,
and a new generation is about to rise,
and will not need your bribes,
or your persuasions, any more:
not your morality. No plundered gold—
Ah! Kinsmen, if I could make you see
the crime is not what you have done to me!
It is you who are blind,
you, bowed down with chains,
you, whose children mock you, and seek another
master,
you, who cannot look man or woman or child in the
eye,
whose sleep is blank with terror,
for whom love died long ago,
somewhere between the airport and the safe-deposit
box,
the buying and selling of rising or falling stocks,
you, who miss Zanzibar and Madagascar and Kilimanjaro
and lions and tigers and elephants and zebras
and flying fish and crocodiles and alligators and
leopards
and crashing waterfalls and endless rivers,
flowers fresher than Eden, silence sweeter than the
grace of God,
passion at every turning, throbbing in the bush,
thicker, oh, than honey in the hive,
dripping
dripping
opening, welcoming, aching from toe to bottom
to spine,
sweet heaven on the line
to last forever, yes,
but, now,
rejoicing ends, man, a price remains to pay,
your innocence costs too much
and we can’t carry you on our books
or our backs, any longer: baby,
find another Eden, another apple tree,
somewhere, if you can,
and find some other natives, somewhere else,
to listen to you bellow
till you come, just like a man,
but we don’t need you,
are sick of being a fantasy to feed you,
and of being the principal accomplice to your
crime:
for, it is your crime, now, the cross to which you
cling,
your Alpha and Omega for everything.
Well (others have told you)
your clown’s grown weary, the puppet master
is bored speechless with this monotonous disaster,
and is long gone, does not belong to you,
any more than my woman, or my child,
ever belonged to you.
During this long travail
our ancestors spoke to us, and we listened,
and we tried to make you hear life in our song
but now it matters not at all to me
whether you know what I am talking about—or not:
I know why we are not blinded
by your brightness, are able to see you,
who cannot see us. I know
why we are still here.
Godspeed.
The niggers are calculating,
from day to day, life everlasting,
and wish you well:
but decline to imitate the Son of the Morning,
and rule in Hell.
by James Baldwin
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