Telling Truth With A Camera

Knowledge is a personal high.

When you’ve spent days or weeks circling around the essence of a story or a concept, like an osprey hovering over a school of mackerel…. At the moment of impact, when a concept gels into a plan, or the camera captures that classic Cartier-Bresson Moment, when the hunter snags a fish in her beak, there’s a chemical explosion in the soul that becomes addicting.

Participants in MPW64 in Troy, Missouri didn’t have days to figure things out. They needed to come up with their story ideas in half a day; then go back out and try again if those ideas didn’t have the potential for immersion and fruition. This wasn’t going to be a cake walk; not an opportunity to hobnob and add a line to their resume. There was going to be growth, and that meant growing pains.

 Never mind anyone’s jet lag, or the increasingly inclement weather, or the fact we couldn’t eat or drink in the compound we’d secured from the city: a former church, complete with pews.

For the returning faculty, seasoned editors and photographers from around the country, and the crew, largely graduate students from the University of Missouri’s School of Photojournalism, this was our Big Chill week. Some of us only see each other once a year, at the Missouri Photo Workshop. We can recite the narrative to Jim Richardson’s Cuba, Kansas documentary project by heart, and never tire of seeing the pictures again. Richardson’s classic photos of small town America, and tributes to photojournalism emissaries like Cliff and Vi Edom, remind us it is ever-more critical to teach the tenets of “Telling Truth With a Camera.” 

We come to choreograph the dance of enthusiasm on a blind date with opportunity. 

In Troy, over the course of a week, cowboys and prom queens are once again immortalized. Unsung heroes have their songs finally scripted, grandparents filling in as parents are lauded, veterans are recognized for their service once again and hyperactive families exhaust even the most energetic photographers.

Roundabout day four, when the duct tape failed to curtail the weight of the black curtain separating us from a crisp autumn day, I momentarily escaped into a pasture of green grass across the street from our compound. Following a slow creek along the park, I discovered some alien seedpods still clinging to downed vines behind American Barbeque. I managed a few photographs of the weightless seeds before they were swept away on the chilly breeze.

The beautiful rust-colored shells were like birds of paradise with a green trim and white parasolled pods waiting for a lift.

Deeper into the park behind me, between tall trees, as the sun danced through leaves, a man kneeled, searching the grass, dropping handfuls of something into a broken dustpan. Farmer Ben was collecting Swamp Oak acorns.

  Hadn’t I seen acorns before? (Must be a city girl).
Farmer Ben knew all about my mystery pod and seed ensemble: milkweed. When he was a child in elementary school, at the time of the war, the students were dispatched to the fields to collect milkweed seed pods because there was a shortage of cotton. Their burlap sacks of milkweed pods were shipped to factories and used in the making of jackets and blankets for soldiers abroad. 

Seventy years later, Farmer Ben was still collecting what trees cast off, selling his acorn harvest to a seed broker in another town who marketed them by the ton.

Back at editing headquarters, participants were showing signs of fraying. The crew was wrapped in blankets and living off peanut butter from the jar. Stories weren’t as photogenic as the photographers had thought they would be. The townspeople weren’t as receptive on day two, or three, as they were on the first day, being shadowed by a photographer. Their unkempt living rooms or less-than-perfect habits were harder to conceal now. Truth With a Camera.

Shooters were learning real people skills, or coming to terms with lazy exposure and composition habits. Editors who spent all day looking at images, weren't shy about passing along harsh truths. Veteran workshop organizers David Rees, Jim Curley and Duane Dailey have tailored the pace of the workshop, themed the presentations and organized the makeup of the teams for maximum growing pain (and pleasure in the outcome). Everyone survives mostly intact, but only a handful find this new dance magical. The majority will take their experiences home, wrapped in dirty laundry and legendary workshop fatigue. Their “Aha!” moments will appear at another time.

 

Stepping outside of one’s self far enough to step inside someone else’s world, then telling that someone else’s story is a zen process of letting go. More Truth With a Camera. Followed by late night unwinding sessions under the watchful gaze of Fred the Head.

Participants are shoved out of their comfort zones. Heading into the unknown; we only learn when we take risks. For me, giving a presentation is out of my comfort zone. Many of us are braver in dangerous confrontations on the job than at a podium explaining ourselves.

It's worth the squirming and  sweaty palms before/during a presentation to arrive at the day we sit with participants going over their final edits together. My faculty partner Rick Shaw, the venerable Director of the POYi competition, and I have coaxed some risk-taking and nuances in seeing from most of our shooters by now.

They have preciously guarded 400 total frames over four days and we arrive at the moment we whittle their story down to eight, maybe 12. This is magic for all of us. Editing is another means of storytelling; and herein we respect the photographer’s vision for their story, while also showing how to approach their next story, when they watch us pairing images into a narrative.

A faculty tradition at MPW is the brief escape of faculty into the town we have only experienced thus far in pictures. We descend like a swarm of wasps on consignment shops in search of relevant gifts for the MPW crew. Discovering what once-coveted items have been since relinquished by the denizen of Troy made us smile. Randy Cox got to reveal more of his spontaneous self. We all really missed Melissa Farlow to guide us in this and so many other things.

There were bobblehead George W. Bush and John Kerry dolls, a Masonic fez cap, record collections, a variety of fishing knives, tools, porcelain figurines and a discounted painting of Jesus.

Being on our own to search for food that day landed us at a Sonic. There is no inside to a Sonic, at least not for customers. You either park and order at an intercom, or get out of your car, walk twenty feet to a patio with tables and speak your order through an intercom to a person inside just thirty feet away. Hmmm. The locals were highly entertained by our utter confusion in this system of commerce. Well fortified with the power of burgers, onion rings and limeade slushies, we returned to the Mother Ship with our treasures to settle in for the evening's show, the results of our collective week-long efforts. As the work played on a big screen we could hear people breathe normally for the first time in a week. 

The biggest treat is the townsfolk coming to see the prints displayed at the local high school.

Workshop participants and faculty finally meets the subjects we know only through stories.

And then it’s over, but not really. Everyone leaves MPW seeing the world with fresh eyes, including the faculty. More and more it's an experience that doesn't happen at the workplace for photographers these days. It keeps us all coming back.

The amazing crew is constructing a look at everyone's photo stories at http://www.mophotoworkshop.org/.

 
 

There And Back Again

Vacation is not a strong enough word.

Yes, I vacated the premises in San Diego and the road that brought me North. I cleared my mind: took a virtual rag through one ear, out the other, carrying all thoughts of chores out of reach from all six senses.

I could smell the low tide before opening my eyes that first morning. Thick wet sands studded with clams, oysters and mysterious mud worms lay revealed in the morning glow as the resident Canadian geese squawked the dawn.

It is San Juan Island County Fair week! Truly, island life brings out the depth of spirit in those who live here year-round. This is not your average county roundup of foods, crafts and critters. At the SJICF, Barbie is strapped to zucchinis and hurdles down a skate ramp. Clothing is made from discarded cigarette boxes.

And the Rabbit cars. Those pesky multipliers were so plentiful, locals humans would literally ride shotgun, snagging the long eared lopers with a net. At the fair, this year however, the rabbits had the upper hand, a pair of Barbie dolls were symbolically tangled in the nets of giant rabbits perched in the driver’s seat of the 1949 Rabbit Buggie. A less than subtle suggestion of which species has multiplied out of control in modern times.

The volume of deep breaths began filling that cleared space in my mind. Fresh air was followed by colors, infinite possibilities, unnatural combinations. The forever memories created by spontaneity.

  A walk down the road with empty pockets gave birth to a tart of wild plums: a gift for the local French teacher. A read through the local paper sent us scurrying to catch the last night of the local production of Midsummer Night’s Dream, with an 80s flare. The moon was dressed in a turquoise body suit and Elton John glasses. 

  My loving friends humored me by kayaking with me around part of the island they call home. I had brought my favorite kayak up with me, so the next time I visit I can fly, and spend more time playing, less time driving.

 Their preferred method of getting around is on two wheels: motorcycle with sidecar, scooter, and bicycle.

This allows for stopping and smelling the roses. And this year there were many. Everywhere. Among the groves of pine and madrona: roses, dahlias, sunflowers, wild things. Along with the usual inhabitants: eagles, osprey, kingfishers, oyster catchers, seals.

On a cool day I borrowed a bicycle, caught the ferry to the next island and rode for hours among the trees and vast pastures of Orcas Island. The ferries encourage pedestrians and bicycles by granting free passage. Can it get better?

  Yes, I could spend more time laughing uncontrollably and soaking up inspiration from talented friends who can’t help but paint, draw, grow unheard of flowers, build homes and dance.

Tearfully leaving my Legend behind, I had one last paddle with her, knowing that since she was built here in the Pacific Northwest and she was being cared for in good hands, I was leaving her in a good place.

One last night in Seattle, we watched the glow of sunset soak into the snows on Mt. Rainier form the porch, myself and my wonderful college friends, Melinda and Jan.

Leaving Seattle after breakfast at the Sunlight Café with creatively brilliant photographer friends Betty Udesen and Alan Berner, both the car and I ran out of gas 11 hours later in Cornish, CA. I got the very last room in town, at the Quality Inn ($49), because of the insanely popular Olive Festival there. Who knew?!

The brochure touted the breakfast gathering the next morning. Olive waffles? I settled for fig newtons and coffee, my road staple. And found a Southern Nevada radio station playing anything other than church that Sunday morning. Irreverent in fact, I discovered “Cows with Guns.” (Check the original animation on YouTube!) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQMbXvn2RNI&noredirect=1

Some 1,500 miles later, back in San Diego I dredged up a 33-year-old photo of Melinda and I… back in the day. It won’t take me 33 years to get back up there to be sure.

And that space in my mind? There’s still room. You know it was more transformation than vacation if you are still calmly saying to yourself, “It will get done,” or you stay behind the slow moving tractor trailer for the last half mile to your exit. I’m still smiling. I have a feeling there was something permanent in this one.

 

Immersion: Northern California and Beyond

I was already awake.

The text at 5:35 a.m. Sunday morning read, in part, “maybe you are looking at the moon equidistant between Jupiter and Saturn. I have my surf boat on the car…. But my bike is looking lonely.”

Being that I’d surfed the day before, I took the bike suggestion to heart. In just four miles, however, I was changing a flat near a trolley station. A homeless man illegally parked in the trolley parking lot working on his car came over to watch and offered to sell me a cold drink, and if I didn’t have any money "we could work something out."

A man in a jeep waiting for the light to change watched this exchange for a few moments before pulling over. The former Marine, an Ironman competitor, got out to offer assistance, largely to dispel the homeless man, I believe. Bless his heart.

The slightly shorter-than-planned ride cleared my head and recharged my endorphin supply. Too much sitting, driving and long work hours; I felt like a banana slug. So I made my decision: I was leaving that very night while the street fair raged outside my apartment. I’d beat the morning rush hour and get a head start on my border to border journey. First stop: the land of actual banana slugs.

 How slow is northbound Sunday night traffic? In two hours I’m as far as…. Anaheim. Somehow my timing landed me squarely front and center for the 9:30pm Disneyland fireworks. Great bursts of cascading white glitter exploding to the west of the freeway practically in front of me. Hundreds of other cars are crawling even slower now to watch. As I pass underneath it sounds like car tires blowing. The afterglow of rockets bursting in air in my rearview mirror are like police car lights approaching. I didn’t like fireworks much before; now they’re pure bad news.

Traffic is flowing again, maybe hitting 35 mph, until it’s not. I hold my breath, hoping the car speeding up behind me sees that our lane has stopped, and that the impact doesn’t launch my kayak through the rear window of the car ahead, splitting the space between two heads of glittering  Mickey Mouse ears. He veers just in time barely missing my bumper, leaving that metallic taste in my mouth.

About the time I’d hoped to be easing down the north side of the Grapevine, I was in fact, in North Hollywood. My original dream of spending the night in glorious Buttonwillow? Fantasy. Settling in at Frazier Park at midnight, I am splurging on a bowl of cherries and the Sunday NY Times.

Maybe there would have been no rooms in Buttonwillow. I’m just sayin; looking on the bright side.

 As always, the slog through a drought-stricken San Joaquin Valley seems a relentless barrage of old country, new country and Christian radio. I’d been here several months earlier to photograph these acres of cattle and hopeless viaducts. Our story about the nation’s dwindling water resources showed me just how bad things are, how little water there is to be shared above ground from the rivers, and below in the aquifers.

Bypassing a welcome invitation from friends in lovely, I headed across the Richmond Bridge. Stations like KSLUG and KMUD broadcast Democracy Now. Local programs discussed concepts like indigeneity and ethnobotany with experts. John Sebastian and The Byrds took over the playlist.

Diffused by fog the sun set on the Noyo River in Ft. Bragg as I paddled behind a couple from Wisconsin and one of my best friends guiding our flotilla downriver, pointing out double-crested cormorants on one side, ospreys on the other; a boneyard of valiant former fishing vessels receding into the foliage.

 A calm morning on the coast isn’t always what the locals want. Sure it’s a perfect summer day.  But that means there’s no viable surf slamming against the rocks for play. It’s a day designed for hiking and mountain biking and … work.

 Why can’t human families grow the way redwoods grow? A circle of starters enmeshed at the roots, individual trunks shooting skyward till they reach full growth. If you look up into a redwood canopy, a complex embrace woven of green arms reach out, laughingly, sways in the sunlight. In these redwoods the sound of wind in the branches is actually wind in the branches.

As many times as I’ve walked under the fragrant pride of a pine or redwood forest, I will never tire of seeing clear streaks of light illuminate green needles against the chocolate-rich trunks. Nor the casual creeks with water so clean you only know it’s there when colorful leaves land spinning on the surface.There's no hate in the forest.

Residents of these rugged coastal environs have a mutual understanding: surviving here gives you the joy of being part of all this indescribable beauty.

But the rite of passage that is winter here means simply living is believing in a world where humans submit to the overarching control by Nature. Where else can you talk about the six-foot long octopus embracing your crab cage as you pull it up, or the nests of birds half the size of a sedan or the single rouge wave that put a fishing vessel on the rocks, and have  everyone nodding in acknowledgement of the story’s veracity?

An evening spin among the caves, small pour-overs and beds of bull kelp was all I needed to validate the long drive and insure I’d be back sooner than later.

One cannot look at the ocean here without wanting to be in it. My friends Jeff and Cate at Liquid Fusion Kayaking have crafted a lifestyle that allows them to not only be perpetually in kayaks along the coast or on mountain bikes through the redwoods, but in which they can share all that with anyone willing to try. Generous souls, they live what they preach: eating local, using their graywater for organic gardening and advocating for environmental protection.

 Tracks to Kayaks lets people ride the famous Skunk Train to a bridge where they jump onto kayaks to return to the sea on the river.

The pain of leaving Ft. Bragg was mitigated by the coast-hugging highway north. And by roadside attractions like tree-trunk sized carvings of bears, salmon, more bears, and live elk grazing in the appropriately named Elk Meadows.

 My kayaks wouldn't fit through the tree at Leggett, CA, however.

Oregon was a blur.

 Picking wild blackberries on the side of the Smith River was the last cool fresh air. It was now evening so I made a promise to myself to return to Wonder for the wild driftwood creatures. The neon blue peace sign glowing in the darkness as I passed Calapooya made me smile. But from there on until Creswell, it was only the rolling hills of Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest to the west, the Umpqua National Forest to the east were a sea of green: fir, pine, redwood tree tops. A glimmer of hope for the planet’s few remaining forests flashed through my brain. The sun was a hazy fireball on the horizon. I could smell smoke from an unseen blaze being battled far away. Hope faded to anxiety.

Breakfast with the Blues on the radio seemed fitting for Eugene, Ore. while weaving my way between logging trucks over bridges in the morning fog. Gradually thickening traffic over an uneventful five hour drive culminated in downtown Seattle, followed by the end goal of walking around Greenlake where sun-starved Seattlites dotted the grass like bees on blossoms.