Miss Jane

I’m pretty late for a Thanksgiving post. But I spent the four days around “turkey day” living large—golfing, hunting, watching college football, and overeating—way too busy to write anything. But in between those traditional holiday pastimes, I found time to spend with family, my parents, an aunt and uncle, and cousins. One of my family’s favorite diversions at gatherings is walking down memory lane, recollecting about the lives of parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. I’m not sure anyone actually walked uphill through the snow both to and from school, but my ancestors certainly endured poverty and hardship. Understanding the past definitely puts more of my life in perspective and helps me understand some real reasons to give thanks.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the privilege of interviewing a 93-year-old lady named Miss Jane for a feature story. She was born in 1917. A child of the Depression, she knew hardship—true cold, darkness, and life without electricity. Unlike most of the people of her generation, especially the women, she was fortunate to be able to attend college thanks to FDR and the New Deal. She found a job with the Red Cross and had a 30-year career with Central State Hospital. But unlike so many whose dreams involved escaping home, Miss Jane’s dreams were to get back there. She moved back to the family home, began to purchase back land lost in the Depression, and established a cattle farm that she has managed alone for nearly sixty years. “All I ever dreamed of was getting back home.”
Unlike my family and Miss Jane, I’ve never faced such hardships. I have never lived in a home without air-conditioning. I never attended a school without air-conditioning either. I’ve certainly never gone to bed cold, wanted for clothing, or faced missing a meal. My parents were resolute that I was going to college, that I would have opportunities they were not afforded. There is indeed reason for thanksgiving each and every year.

But I am quite envious of one of Miss Jane’s possessions. One dream, the chance to return to her home and build a farm, compelled and motivated her through her early life and career. I’m envious of that clarity, that sense of purpose and satisfaction with its achievement, which defined her life. I really don’t know what dreams I hold most dear—and if any are achievable goals or merely fascinations that occupy the imagination without motivating action or resolve. Could it be photography, a corporate career, or something else entirely? Maybe it’s a function of a mild case of midlife crisis. Am I looking to be Judge Wapner instead of Doug Lewellen? Is that enough to find happiness? Or is it art for arts’ sake that I seek? I yearn for that clarity and the prospect of a dream where achievement can bring such satisfaction.

Without a doubt, Miss Jane has many reasons to give thanks. She never married and lives alone on her farm amid 220 acres and 67 cows. And she never got air-conditioning. But she’s living her dream.

Providence

I believe in providence. Even in spite of my oft bad attitude and sometimes myopic vision, I can’t help but realize when God has placed something in my path, just when I need to see it. So this past Wednesday, when work pressed in from all sides, and I didn’t have time for travel to a conference, God had something I needed to see.

I had been asked to speak at Winshape Retreat, on the campus of Berry College. I was pretty skeptical. No televisions, no phones, and no Internet. Thanks to a rehearsal, I didn’t arrive there until after midnight. But morning broke with a brilliant sunrise, a fitting beginning to two great days.

Winshape Retreat, an oasis and the product of one man’s vision, is funded by Chick-fil-a. Fittingly, for seventy years, it was a large dairy operated by Martha Berry. In 2003, it was donated to Truett Cathy’s Winshape Foundation. While preserving the serenity and beauty of the site, barns were turning into guest rooms, restaurants, and meeting facilities.

On Friday, I saw an impressive presentation by a Chick-fil-a marketing executive. Instead of touting the iconic cows, he outlined a business model truly unique in our world. Chick-fil-a has set itself apart in the fast-food market—over $3 billion in annual sales, closed on Sunday, and they put the word “God” in their mission statement. And ten percent of Chick-fil-a earnings go to fund Winshape.

It was rejuvenating to spend two days at this amazing site—to walk these serene grounds and experience service as a function of religion, not business. On Friday, I got up before sunrise to spend some quiet time on the grounds with my Nikon. I should have been prepping for my presentation. Instead I captured a few images to preserve the lessons put in my path at this wonderful place.

Playing the Trail

Four of us trekked to Opelika, Alabama to play golf for the last two days. We played the Auburn University Club on Sunday and the Lake Course at The Grand National, part of the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail., on Monday. The Auburn Club was great, a wonderful layout with firm, slick greens. But the highlight of the trip was Grand National. Unfortunately, my golf game really wasn’t up to the test, especially with cold weather, wind, and tough rough. In fact, I played just downright awfully—just don’t ask me about the rock. But it was a great first glimpse at the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail.

In the early 1980s, Dr. David Bronner, the CEO of the Retirement System of Alabama, had a vision to diversify the state’s pension fund and help out the economy. After hiring Robert Trent Jones, Sr., a renowned course architect with over 500 courses to his credit, the state set out on an ambitious project to build 378 holes at eight sites at one time.

The $145 million investment seems to have paid off. Alabama claims the trail has had more than a billion dollar impact. Over 200,000 non-resident golfers play the course every year, spending more than $185 per day. And there are now 26 courses.

By contrast, Georgia’s own network of eight state park courses is foundering. There are gems, Arrowhead Pointe in particular. But most of the courses are losing money and Georgia’s leadership is considering privatizing all of them. While the golf, at least on my part, wasn’t exactly stellar, the trip was great fun, a badly needed escape from reality. And it was a great lesson in what can happen when someone with vision and leadership can ask “what if.” I’m jealous that a neighboring state has outshined my home yet again. Next thing you know, we’ll be losing college football games to Alabama schools, too. Well, never mind.

At The Fair

There’s something about the fair— a midway with carnies hawking “the world’s smallest woman”, livestock shows complete with 4-Hers and blue ribbons, pig races, and virtually anything you can imagine deep-fried on a stick. What more could you want? Do the calories in a wedge of chocolate dipped, frozen cheesecake on a stick count if you eat them at the fair?

I hadn’t been to the Georgia National Fair in years. So when the opportunity arose last week, I just had to go, and I had to take the Nikon. Strangely enough, this was to be the setting for my first ever attempt at fireworks. I don’t know how I've been taking photographs this long and never tried them before, but thanks to a shutter release and a tripod, I managed a few frames of the fireworks, the lake, and the midway in the background. The wind didn't cooperate, blowing the fireworks back over my head and the smoke right into the lights of the fair. So the setup that I had at first selected, with my 24-70mm f2.8, had to be modified. The slow and considerably less sharp 18-200mm f3.5 was the widest lens I had, and my only recourse. The fireworks shot posted here was a 13 second exposure at f5.6 at 18mm. The trip was fun and the results weren't too bad. I couldn't bring back enough funnel cakes and fried Snickers for everyone, but I hope you enjoy these shots.

Meet Cleo

I'm a sucker for kittens and puppies. Anyone who isn't should probably be shipped off immediately to Guantanemo Bay as a threat to national security. So when I saw this black and white ball of fur in the hands of a friend, at a golf course no less, I was instantly hooked. "They're going to take her to the shelter tomorrow," she said, and it was all over.

She was supposed to be a gift for the kids, but I've hesitantly let them play with her, knowing full well that she's mine. And what else would I do with my kitten, besides get her to chase every piece of string in the house, but to photograph her.

In case you were wondering, this was taken with a 70-200 at f2.8 and I used two SB800s fired in commander mode for lighting. Cleo wasn't too sure about the speedlights, but she's already a ham.

Granted, many will think this a silly post. No, it's not a matter of national security, bad economic policy, or even college football. It's much bigger... in a tiny package. In two days, Cleo has me wrapped around her black and white paw. She's fearless--that will come in handy with my kids--and full of mischief. My kind of pet.

Goodbye Lucy O'Donnell

I was listening to NPR this morning and heard that Lucy O’Donnell Vodden, age 46, died yesterday, apparently of complications from her battle with lupus. Probably like you, I had no idea who Lucy was. Come to find out, she was once something of a muse, a friend for a boy named Julian, and the inspiration for a timeless hit song from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

In 1966, Julian Lennon came home with a drawing of his friend Lucy O’Donnell. In his drawing, she had diamonds for eyes. Young Julian showed his father the drawing and told him it was “Lucy in the sky with diamonds.” Despite the song’s innocent inspiration, Lewis Carroll references, and odd chord structure and meter (6/8 verses and 4/4 chorus), it was banned by the BBC because of its drug references.

For whatever reason, the story got me thinking about muses; the individuals, mostly women I suppose, who inspired artists—painters, poets, musicians, and photographers alike. For generations, scholars—and Nat King Cole—have debated the origin of La Gioconda—The Mona Lisa. Who was she? What brought that smile? Layla was inspired by Eric Clapton’s obsession with model Patty Boyd, who at the time was married to friend George Harrison. How many museums, book shelves, or iPods are filled thanks to a glimpse, a chance meeting, a lifetime relationship, or a broken heart?

So goodbye Lucy O’Donnell. The world never met you, but you live on thanks to your inspiration of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, who co-wrote your song. I think I’ll pull out my iPod and fire up some Beatles just for you.

Savannah

There is something mystical about Savannah, Georgia. I was fortunate to spend a few days there this week for a conference. And during those three days and nights, I soaked in all I could of this special port city.

Savannah has a unique texture, a compelling contrast of industrial harshness, tourism, food, and art. Underlying virtually everything there is the overwhelming depth of history and the constant flow of the ships and commerce giving life to the city and the state of Georgia on the Savannah River. The river and the massive ships that navigate her waters is a constant backdrop to all that happens here. But among the city streets and the Spanish moss draped parks are wonderful restaurants, amazing art galleries, and scores of art students.

There’s something about Savannah that touches my soul. There’s so much history here—for the state of Georgia, the town, and for me, as well. For whatever reason, a visit here is rejuvenating, sparking my imagination and my passion for things that are special to me.

One of my favorite places in Savannah is Forsyth Park, a thirty-acre gem surrounded by Savannah’s history neighborhoods and inns. The centerpiece of the park is a spectacular cast iron fountain purchased from France in 1851. I try to make time for a visit to this special place every time I visit Savannah. Certainly, several of what I consider to be my best and favorite photos were taken here—moments behind and away from the camera that I cherish.

On this trip to Forsyth Park, I was forced to dodge raindrops, several times seeking shelter among the Spanish moss draped oak trees. I guess that was somehow appropriate. But as sprinkles turned into a steady rain, I encountered an adorable couple walking under an umbrella near the fountain. After a few moments, they sat down on one of the benches ringing the waters. I asked if I could photograph them and they agreed. When I finished shooting, the gentleman told me, “If you need our names, we’re Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.”

Forest Gump visited this park. And I guess he was right. “Life is like a box of chocolates. You just never know what you’re gonna get.”

Deus Ex Machine

I had the opportunity today to hear U.S. Representative John Barrow speak about the proposed cap and trade legislation. The House passed a bill containing a cap and trade provision months ago, albeit without the vote of Congressman Barrow, and the matter is now in the hands of the Senate. Barrow, an unabashed Blue-Dog Democrat, has been supportive of Georgia’s electric utilities, including cooperatives, but more importantly, he has been a proponent of affordable energy for Georgia consumers and industry.

Two of Barrow’s points really hit home for me. The first was a comparison of the energy policy work of Nancy Pelosi, Henry Waxman, and Harry Reid to “deus ex machine”. Now, if you’re not a theatre or film major, then like me, you probably haven’t heard that term. It’s Latin for “God from the machine” or sometimes “God in a box”. And it’s a plot device in which something miraculously appears to help a character to overcome a seemingly insolvable predicament. It’s also apparently considered to be a poor storytelling technique. In the case of the American Clean Energy and Security Act of 2009, it’s a pretty apt term.

According to Representative Barrow, Democrats are trying to push through legislation that raises electricity prices in hopes that technology will emerge allowing future energy needs to be met without carbon release. Ergo deus ex machine. That technology is far off from being born. Heck, it isn’t even a glimmer in daddy’s eye. It’s a bad plot. And Netflix probably won’t take this one back.

Congressman Barrow’s also comparing carbon reduction to the U.S.’s drive to reach the moon in the 1960s. According to Barrow, the country’s leadership declared that a moon landing was a critical priority. Scientists and money were thrown at the problem. If global warming is really a threat, why weren’t the stimulus plan bucks spent on carbon sequestration technology, DC transmission lines or superconductors to transmit wind energy to population centers. Instead, Democrats are hoping an environment of high energy costs will spur independent advances in technology.

As inspiring as Representative Barrow’s words were to me, they only made three pairs of eyes glaze over at the dinner table tonight. Energy policy just isn’t racy. Unfortunately, Americans will not take interest in what the Democrats have done to them until they discover that energy prices are too expensive. And then conservation will happen—the fallback position for Democrats should dues ex machine fail to appear at the eleventh hour.

Grab some popcorn and keep your seat. Thanks to the help of Blue Dog Democrats, there’s a lot of plot left.

A Good Walk

September brought a special surprise today; cool weather—perfect conditions for eighteen holes of golf. Today, I had the chance to play Atlanta’s East Lake Golf Club, one of the true gems of golf in America. Over the years, I’ve been able to play some amazing courses, but I truly believe that East Lake is golf as it was intended.

East Lake Golf Club was built in 1906 as the Atlanta Athletic Club. The director of the club’s athletic program was none other than John Heisman. It was built in a time and place where there were no automobiles, let alone golf carts. The sense of history just oozes out of the grounds and striking Tudor clubhouse. Inside the clubhouse is an impressive collection of memorabilia from Bobby Jones, one of American golf’s pioneers and a club member. In 1966, the course was sold and East Lake Golf Club was formed. Over the years, the course has hosted many championships, including a Ryder Cup.

There are still no golf carts at East Lake. So four of us, with a pair of double-bagging caddies, struck out in the cool, overcast morning. The tight zoysia fairways and extremely fast greens were a challenge, but it was the thick rough that did me in. Regardless of my score—and honestly, I did okay on a course hosting a PGA tournament, the Tour Championship, in three weeks—it was a magical day.

Walking those plush, hilly grounds inside the ropes and among the grandstands and hospitality tents being erected, it was great to soak in a little of the mystique of being a pro golfer, even without the game. But most of all, it was fabulous to walk these historic fairways and to work with a great caddy (thanks Ransom)—to play the game as it was intended.

Real Sports

Usually, the weeks leading up to the first weekend of college football can be pretty long and boring in the sports department, especially in recent years where the Atlanta Braves have not been in contention in August for anything save the choice of select tee times at Atlanta’s finest country clubs in October. But tonight has been a rare exception. In addition to the Braves, the Warner Robins All Stars are playing Chula Vista, California in the semifinals of the Little League World Series. And on the NFL Network, the Jacksonville Jaguars played the Philadelphia Eagles—and Michael Vick.

For months, Michael Vick has been hovering on the periphery of the headlines, as reporters covered his bankruptcy, prison release, and ultimately his signing by the Philadelphia Eagles. Even though Jessie Jackson compared him to Jackie Robinson—sorry, I can’t do that one justice—Vick was a mediocre quarterback at best in Atlanta. His career completion rate hardly made it above fifty percent. But when it came to being a thug, he was all-world. He’s a convicted felon. He apparently tried to smuggle pot through an airport, so he’s probably not remembered as a scholar athlete from Virginia Tech. And he flipped off the Atlanta fans after an ugly loss.

On a day when Ted Kennedy’s death probably should have still led the headlines, regardless of what you think of him, Vick’s smirking mug accompanied the lead story of ESPN, the Atlanta Journal and Constitution, and even the Wall Street Journal. You would have thought Elvis was singing the national anthem. I watched a few minutes of the Eagles’ preseason game. I’m not sure why—curiosity I suppose. Maybe I was hoping to see PETA members charge the field, flying batteries, or the warden from “Cool Hand Luke” show up for a beat-down. The Philadelphia fans cheered wildly every time Vick entered the field, albeit only six times. And Vick was anything but spectacular.

I suppose as a Christian I’m supposed to be all about forgiveness. But its difficult when I’m so tired of our society celebrating overpaid thug athletes. Remember Ray Lewis? Did you too wonder why Dante Stallworth got a 30-day sentence after being convicted for vehicular manslaughter after killing a pedestrian while driving drunk. How did Pacman Jones keep an NFL job?

But tonight, there was an uplifting alternative airing on ESPN. While the Warner Robins All-Stars couldn’t pull out a victory, losing in the bottom of the last inning, they and their California opponents put on a clinic in sportsmanship. For every fault found in professional sports, the volunteers and players in Little League Baseball have it all right. They didn’t win. And they didn’t commit any crimes and go on to garner headlines for months. Instead, they played baseball for the best reason—for fun. So while the kids from Warner Robins are done and headed back to school, they go home winners in my book. Let’s see some more headlines about that.

The Real Florida

I just returned from one of the most unique vacations of my life. I have always sought solitude. Disney World is neat, but for me, real magic is an afternoon on a beach where I can't see another soul in any direction. While spending a week on North Captiva Island, Florida, I found two such places… the Florida State Park on the southern end of North Captiva Island and the island of Cayo Costa.

To get to either of these locations, you need a boat. We rented a house on North Captiva Island and had to take a ferry from Pine Island to get there. There are no cars on North Captiva. Everyone, from renters and residents to staff members, drives golf carts on sandy paths that connect the homes and few businesses. To get to the "geopark" on North Captiva, a golf cart will only get you close, as a hike of roughly a mile is required along a sandy path through the typical Florida scrub. But unlike so much of Florida, this pristine area is perfectly undeveloped. In the place of condos and hi-rise developments are seagrapes, palm trees, and over a mile of beach covered inches thick in seashells.

A few miles north of North Captiva Island is Cayo Costa. We reached this beauty by rented boat. The Florida DNR maintains a free dock for tour vessels and private boats in a sheltered cove on the intercoastal waterway side of the island. The park rangers also provide a shuttle from the dock to the Gulf of Mexico side of the island. There are primitive cottages and campsites on Cayo Costa, but there is no electricity, no paved roads, and no air conditioning. Instead, there are nine miles of undeveloped beached.

A twenty minute hike from where the shuttle dropped us off, we reached a finger of sand stretching out into the Gulf of Mexico. There were gulls and terns lining the shore. Oystercatchers picked at the freshly beached sea urchins that littered the shore. Several small sharks swam within a few feet of the surf. And lying everywhere in the one to two feet of water were all manner of seashells and sanddollars.

Cayo Costa has an interesting history. In the 1700s, the Cayo Costa was supposedly home to the legendary pirate Gasparilla. Much of his treasure was never found. Two hundred years ago the island served as a naval outpost, a Cuban fishing village and later as a quarantine station for immigrants entering Florida through Boca Grand Pass. Around this time, Cayo Costa was also home to a sizeable brothel. I guess fishermen and sailors alike needed entertainment, too.

Florida bills Cayo Costa as "the real Florida." Certainly, the state's legislature is to be commended for protecting these pristine areas. While so much of Florida is covered with high-rise developments and concrete, to me, the treasure here is the opportunity to walk these beaches isolated from the world.

Capturing Lightning

It's amazing how a vacation designed to be all about relaxing and doing nothing has such little free time. And there has been very little time for photography. But late afternoon thunderstorms that appeared across the Everglades slowly worked their way out to sea last night, creating a great opportunity to attempt to capture lightning out over the ocean. Having never really tried to catch lighting bolts, I was apprehensive and unsure of a technique. While I got lucky with a couple of great captures, I was dissappointed to find out that my focus was ever-so-slightly off.



This shot was taken on a tripod at f3.5. I triggered the shot with a shutter release and the shutter was open for 3:55. If you look closely, you will notice several tiny streaks in the top righthand corner of the frame. Those are stars revealed by the retreating storms that blurred with the long shutter. A near miss at best, it leaves me with another lesson learned and another opportunity to wonder "what if". But with luck, Mother Nature will give me another chance or two while I am here.

A Somewhat Different Place

So it’s vacation time. On Saturday, we piled in the car and drove eight hours to Pineland, Florida. From there, we climbed onto a boat for a twenty minute ride to North Captiva Island. It’s an amazing place, different in so many aspects from anywhere I’ve ever been. There are no cars, but there are phones and lights. And thankfully, air-conditioning as it is very hot and humid.

For the last two days, I’ve spent most of my time lying on the beach cooking in the hot sun, reading, and listening to my iPod. The water is flat and calm here. The shore is covered with seashells. There are sea otter, dolphin, and some really large tortoise. And the only place to buy anything has $4 cans of Pringles, $40 pies, beer, and not much else.

I haven’t had much time for photography. At dusk both nights, I’ve snapped a few photos of the sea oats and setting sun. A tripod, the right combination of clouds and sunset, and a graduated neutral density filter can do wonders for slamdunk brilliant colors. Unfortunately, my attempt at capturing lightning last night during the apparently obligatory thunderstorm didn’t work out so well. Chances are, I will get another opportunity.

For some reason, I’ve been struggling to concentrate on reading today. Smeared in sunscreen lying next to the Gulf of Mexico is a great place for thinking deep thoughts. That can be a good thing or a bad thing. I found myself listening to a lot of blues and dissecting some intricate stuff like the Dave Matthews Band that I can only wish I could play. Dave Matthew’s music is oddly timed, intricate, and sometimes difficult to understand. Fitting music, I suppose.

There’s an island nearby called Cabbage Key. A restaurant there claims to be the source of Jimmy Buffet’s Cheeseburger in Paradise. True Parrotheads and even people like me with Google know that the idea for Buffet’s song about “lettuce, tomato, Heinz 57, and French Fried potatos” was birthed in the Tortolas, not southwest Florida. Nonetheless, it reminds me of my favorite Buffet song, A Pirate Looks at Forty. Considering I have a month and a half until I reach the big “four-oh”, it’s hard to image that there’s ever been a better written song about introspection, mistakes and “what if”.

It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since I swam in the Gulf of Mexico. So much has changed. And so much is still the same. There’s another afternoon storm blowing in from across the Everglades. I think I’ll go make a margarita and watch it come across the island while I listen to Jimmy Buffet's simple but oh so accurate words.

A Strange Stimulus

An amazing transformation seems to be occurring around the country. The fluffy-clouded euphoria of “Obamination” seems to be clearing. Cutting through the obfuscation of campaign promises and mandates seemingly delivered by a Democratic landslide is the reality that America has taken on vast oceans of debt in the short tenure of the Obama administration with little or nothing to show for it. Folks rooting for both sides of the aisle are starting to realize that affordable energy and quality healthcare are in jeopardy if Obama and congressional leaders get their way. And, the hundreds of thousands of jobs to be “created or saved” have not appeared. A little digging has revealed some odd truths about the truckloads of stimulus money being heaped on the problem.

The Wall Street Journal reported this week that $80 million of the $787 billion Recovery and Reinvestment Act funds went to the National Endowment for the Arts. That was news to me and probably would be news to most Americans, if they ever heard about it. Orchestras, ballet companies, theaters, and film houses around the country—okay, truthfully a large number of them were in New York and San Francisco—got checks for $25k or $50k.

But the aspect of the story that will create the most rancor, assuming the information makes the mainstream news, is that the bucks went to fund projects that would certainly embarrass the congressmen who approved them. For example, San Francisco’s Frameline film house, which received 50,000 taxpayer dollars, recently released Thundercrack, billed as “the world’s only underground, kinky art porno horror film, complete with four men, three women, and a gorilla.” You just can’t make this stuff up. And then there is “The Symmetry Project”, a “study of the body's central axis” which apparently amounts to two nude people writhing on the floor.

It’s difficult to read about the recent exploits of the NEA and not remember photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. While Mapplethorpe received free publicity for his work, the NEA got hammered, and rightfully so, for funding his Cincinnati photography exhibit which included images of bullwhips installed in places where nothing was designed to be inserted and some misdirected urine. Speaking of urine, Andres Serrano’s photo of a crucifix submerged in the artist’s “own” brought national anger when Americans found out that NEA funds partially paid for a $15,000 award for Seranno’s “art”.

Perhaps a relevant side note to this story seems to be the long-standing battle of what is “art”. This goes beyond what constitutes a masterpiece. Americans seem to forever live in the shadow of our puritanical founding. The same images that capture some primordial imaginations also threaten the mores etched in us.

The arts are important. Funding the arts to provide opportunities for artists is important. Now maybe I’d see it differently if the NEA had sent me a big check to photograph the cast of Thundercrack. Whether it’s art or porn or something somewhere in between, forcing me to pay for it with my tax dollars is something I certainly can’t appreciate.

And That's The Way It Is

Walter Cronkite died today. This extraordinary man was the definition of a journalist and once held the trust of millions of Americans in a fashion that few other reporters ever could. Throughout much of my early life, what happened in the world was revealed to me through him every night on CBS.

In late 1980, I was a first year member of my elementary school’s “Quiz Bowl” team. Trivia has always been a strength, but I was scared to death. I was a substitute, but somewhere in the first match, I got in the game. Before long, a question came up, “In February of 1981, the anchor ofthe CBS Evening News…” I never heard the rest of the question. No one did, because I buzzed in. I knew the answer was either Walter Cronkite, the icon of network news, or Dan Rather, the man who would replace him. Fortunately, I guessed Cronkite. For such profoundly different reasons, both men had a tremendous impact on the history of network journalism.

Walter Cronkite truly paid his dues to become the face of CBS news. While with the United Press, he landed in a glider with the 101st Airborne in Operation Market Garden in the Netherlands. He flew on a B-17 bombing mission over Germany and covered the Battle of the Bulge and the Nuremberg trials. He becamethe anchorman of the CBS Evening News in 1962. It was Cronkite who interrupted As The World Turns to break the story that President Kennedy had been assassinated. His coverage of the moon landings of Apollo 11 brought CBS’s new programming unprecedented ratings. And when Cronkite told the world during the Tet Offensive in Vietnam that the war was unwinnable, President Johnson commented, “If I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost middle America.”

Oddly, as much as Cronkite built the CBS Evening News to what it was at its pinnacle, it was Dan Rather, his replacement, who brought it and much of the credibility of network journalism crashing down. Accused of using forged documents to further a story critical of President Bush, Rather seemed to prove what so many had charged… that he was “rather biased”. So, what was the frequency Kenneth?

So at the age of 92, Walter Cronkite signed off for the last time. Cited as the “most trusted man in America” in opinion polls, Cronkite set a standard that will likely never be seen again. Goodbye Mr. Cronkite. We have missed you for years. “And that’s the way it is. July 18, 2009.”

Electric Magic

No matter how long or difficult a day goes, getting behind a camera is always the therapy I need. The ills of my day fade, even if for a moment, as everything is reduced to lighting and composition.

So many of the photos I dream of taking involve models. But as a good friend recently pointed out, product photography may be my bread and butter. So tonight, I grabbed a few items lying around the house and used some creative lighting to complete a few images shot for stock. I’ve had this assignment in my head for some time. And I’m pretty pleased with the results. It’s the miracle of electricity. See the whole set.

So how was it done? Believe me, it wasn't too difficult, although I must admit, at least one $.79 duplex receptacle sacrificed it's life in the line of duty for this project. The most important part was having a 105mm macro lens. A couple of gelled gridspots gave some hard light. As for the rest, there has to be some suspense, right?

Bad News

“I’m not like other guys,” he says with desire in his eye.
“I know.” She smiles back at him. “That’s what I love about you.”
Of course, two minutes later, he’s a were cat, whatever that is. And she ends up suing for unpaid royalties. Seriously.

I guess it turns out those words were more prophetic than anyone could ever imagine. 750 million records sold, 13 Grammy Awards, 13 number one singles in his solo career, a Pepsi commercial gone awry, at least four nose jobs, a child molestation acquittal, and a heart attack later, the “King of Pop” is dead.

It seems appropriate that Michael Jackson ended up dying amid controversy and mystery at the young age of 50? Jessie Jackson is calling for answers. The live in doctor is dodging blame. And Jackson’s mother just got custody of three kids.

I remember the night quite well. It was a cold December evening. I was in the eighth grade and was trying to find my place in the high school band, an organization I could belong to and participate in even during my last year of elementary school. There was a party at Gwen Fordham’s house. Mark Hall, who played the clarinet, was totally obsessed with Michael Jackson. And MTV, an upstart cable network, was airing a new video—Thriller.

Jackson played only a small role in my musical life. Our marching band played “Beat It” on the field my 9th grade year. Occasionally, The Grapevine will break into a chorus or two of “Billy Jean”. And while 80’s tunes make up the largest playlist on my iPod, there’s not a single track from Jackson to be found.
Not that his reputation needed much embellishment, but Jackson supposedly often leaked inaccurate or sensational rumors to promote an upcoming project. The moniker of “Whacko Jacko” was earned. Unfortunately, his career and significance as a musician waned as his oddities and episodes of just plain weirdness piled up.

So on the same day that saw the loss of Johnny Carson’s sidekick and the Six Million Dollar Man’s former wife, Michael Jackson leaves this planet, perhaps for the one he came from. Only time will tell if history remembers him for those thirteen number one songs or for one white glove, a baby held over a railing, or endless jokes about boy’s pants at K-Mart.

Hot Shots

Just two weeks ago, I was shooting in the area around Duluth, Minnesota. And it was cold. Forty-five degrees. For a high. In June. Today, I shot a Little League All-Star baseball game and girl’s softball game in Warner Robins, Georgia. And it was hot. Very hot. My car said it was 102 when I pulled out of the parking lot.

I must admit, I had never shot much sports action before—kayaking, soccer, and some church league softball. So when a friend asked me to shoot their all-star softball team, I made time. Even better, the umpires at both games said, “do what you want, just don’t get on the playing field during the game.”

This was also my first chance to try out my 70-200mm f2.8 in action shots. At f2.8, I was able to really isolate the players against the background. This lens just has incredible bokeh, and in full sunlight—it’s not like they let me pick the game times to accommodate lighting—I was shooting at 1/1000 to 1/2000 most of the day. It’s not great for saturation, but it does an amazing job of freezing a bat and pitched ball in mid-swing.

Chances are, Sports Illustrated will not be calling any time soon. But I had a good time, learned a few things, and with any luck, I might actually sell a print or two. You can check out a few of the images here. I'll upload more as I get them processed.

A Grim, Inspiring Preoccupation

It seems quite strange that themes and issues seem to repeat themselves in my life. Coincidence or not, I often find myself drawn to a topic that fascinates me. That happened over the last few weeks with Judaism, Nazi-Anti-Semitism, and the Holocaust. Certainly not a subject for light reading, I found myself fascinated by several aspects of events in Poland and Germany during World War II and a few cinematic efforts to capture these dark moments from history.

It started with The Reader. I was traveling out of town to a conference and wanted a “book on CD” to help me pass the trip while driving alone. While perusing the offerings on iTunes, I ran across Bernhard Schlink’s The Reader. I knew that Kate Winslet had recently won an Oscar for best actress in the 2008 film adaptation, but otherwise knew nothing else. Something compelled me to purchase and download the book.

Wrapped around a captivating and uncomfortably erotic story of a fifteen-year-old boy and his mysterious older lover, The Reader examines how the generations of Germans after the Third Reich have attempted to come to terms with Nazi crimes. At one point, the narrator and protagonist Michael, later in life after the end of the affair, meets a former Nazi officer while hitchhiking to a concentration camp site. Of the Jewish murders, he says, “An executioner is not under orders. He's doing his work, he doesn't hate the people he executes, he's not taking revenge on them, he's not killing them because they're in his way or threatening or attacking them. They're a matter of such indifference to him that he can kill them as easily as not.”

Last week, while traveling to Minnesota, I picked up a copy of Defiance. Written in 1993 by Nechama Tec, it is the story of a group of armed Jewish partisans, led by Tuvia Bielski, who escape the Polish ghettos to hide in the forest, resisting the German occupiers while attempting to save other Jews from certain death at the hands of the Nazis. Not tempted by revenge, Bielski instead does whatever it takes to save as many Jews as possible. While other partisan groups, particularly the Russians, shun women, children, and the elderly, Tuvia’s group takes in any Jew seeking refuge. When the group is liberated by the Soviet Red Army in 1945, 1,200 Jewish partisans follow Beilski out of the forest. Although I shunned it in the theatre, I can’t wait to see the film now.

Strangely, while sitting in the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport reading Defiance, I heard on CNN that a lone gunman, James von Brunn, had entered the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. and killed a guard with a .22 caliber rifle. An apparent white supremicist, Mr. von Brunn was 88. In his car, illegally parked on the curb, was a note that included the comment, “The Holocaust is a lie.”

So what were the odds that Schindler’s List would air on HBO in the last week? Oddly, I had never seen this award-winning movie. But even at over three hours in length, I had to watch it. Probably like everyone, I was struck by the sheer disregard of the Jews as human beings by the Germans. And I was also struck by the similarities of Schindler and Beikski in their attitude of saving one more Jew. The ring made by the Schindlerjuden factory workers for Oskar bore the Talmudic quote, “Whoever saves one life saves the world entire.”

It’s so easy to look back at the Jewish Holocaust and the horrific cruelties of the Final Solution and see these events as unique and isolated incidents from a distant past. But as a good friend and retired military officer reminded me recently, atrocities continue around the world. Since 2003, over 400,000 have died in the genocide in Sudan. Saddam Hussein executed countless thousands of Kurds in Iraq. Muslims are killing each other over differences seemingly less significant that Baptist versus Methodist theology.

The potential for humans to commit horrific acts continues. If for no other reason beyond Kate Winslet's wardrobe for much of the first third of the movie, The Reader is captivating because it examines the feelings of Germans after WWII. How could so many German citizens not know what was happening in Poland. Is there something in all of us that makes us susceptable to climbing on such a horrific bandwagon draped in patriotism. Having had an opportunity to visit the Holocaust Museum in Washington, I think a visit there should be mandatory for every U.S. citizen. The larger than life efforts of Bielski and Schindler saved over 2,000 Polish Jews. But over 3,500,000 perished, brutally murdered by the Nazis. Can knowledge, understanding, and courage find defiance in each of us?

Rainmaker

I may have a career in the future as a Rainmaker. I’ve discovered that I have a real talent for creating bad weather. In the last two years, I have been able to visit a few dream locations for me as a photographer. In virtually every instance, rain, clouds, bad weather, and closure for renovations seemed to arrive on the same flight.

In May of 2008, I had the chance to visit Portland, Oregon for a conference. Naturally, I wanted to see Mt. Hood and Cannon Beach. I researched the best locations to photograph these areas from, printed out maps, and packed the right gear for the types of shots I wanted to take. What I didn’t consider was the weather. It was raining and overcast on the only morning I had to go to Mt. Hood. Concerned, but determined, I pressed on. As I neared Mt. Hood, it was completely obscured in dense clouds and rain. And when I reached the dirt road leading to the lake where I wanted to shoot the reflection of the mountain, an iron gate and closed sign blocked my way. On the other side, the roadway was filled with ten feet of snow. Two days later, I visited Cannon Beach. Naturally, it was blanketed in fog.

Right now, I’m in Duluth, Minnesota. It’s an amazing town dominated by Lake Superior, an amazing body of water, and the shipping industry it brings. We’re only a hundred or so miles from Canada. And for someone born and raised in the South, it might as well be Mars. Most of last week, the high temperatures in Georgia were in the upper eighties. Since getting to Minnesota, the highest temperature has been about 53 degrees. Pretty cold, eh?

Sunday, I drove up the coast toward Canada. My goal was Split Rock Lighthouse, a magnificent and historic viewpoint perched on a cliff high above Lake Superior. I arrived to see overcast skies, very flat lighting, and scaffolding. Not only were conditions lousy for great photos, but the lighthouse was wrapped top to bottom in scaffolding as the exterior was being restored. I did what any photographer would do. I tried to be creative and shoot around the challenges—and cursed my bad luck.

On Monday, the weather worsened. In fact, the temperature never climbed above 45 degrees and the 30 knot winds drove the continuous rain and the eight foot waves in amazing fashion. Again, undeterred, I lugged the Nikon out into the elements and tried to capture the beauty of the lake and the passing ships along with the fury of the weather. At first glance, it looks like I got a few really interesting, noisy shots of fog, windblown waves, wet breakwaters, and blurry lighthouses through the mist and fogged lens.

It’s Tuesday now, and the weather has cleared some. The sun popped out a couple of times this morning and Lake Superior is relatively flat. I’ve got one final day here to hopefully capture a great sunset. I might even work in some long exposures tonight if weather permits.I don’t know when the next trip will be to another great photography location. Perhaps, instead of waiting for something to come along, I should research where the worst droughts are occurring. I can bring rain. And I have the photos to prove it.

Cats, Uncles, and Oceans

My family got a harsh lesson in compassion, humility, and life and death this week. And at the same time, a chapter in our lives and ties to the past came to an end. On Thursday, we put our cat Gypsy to sleep. She was our only real pet, besides countless attempts at fish, for fifteen years.

In October, Gypsy started making a strange smacking noise. Something was clearly bothering her. A few weeks later, the roof of her mouth started swelling. The vet put her on prednisone and we hoped for the best. But the growing tumor was stronger than the drugs. Over time, she started drooling and eventually began to rub her mouth on any sharp corner, obviously trying to ease the constant irritation. The vet had warned that her quality of life would deteriorate and that we would know when it was time to consider humane options. After marked weight loss and a dramatic increase in bleeding, a bad thing for a solid white cat, we realized that the time had come.Thursday afternoon, the kids said their goodbyes and we took her to the vet for one final visit. I was very impressed by the compassion and class demonstrated by the vet’s staff. But after saying our own goodbyes, an IV was inserted and she slipped off to a final sleep.

In emotional times, it’s easy to find connections that aren’t necessarily there or ordinarily sensed. Gypsy’s death could have been seen as symbolic of other surrounding foundations that have serious cracks and structural failures. Without a doubt, she was seemingly a final “living” connection to two important people from my past.Gypsy was one of dozens of kittens that were born underneath my grandmother’s house. One of nine sisters, my grandma Mullis was as country as country could be. She introduced me to “eggs and brains” and “souse meat”—don’t expect me to explain it here. Look it up for yourself. I refused to eat them then, and I still do. But she also always had cats, a constant source of entertainment for me as a child. In 1994, on the afternoon of my Uncle Harold’s funeral, we coaxed several kittens out from under the back of my grandmother’s home. Gypsy was the one carrying a chicken leg and growling at her siblings to keep them from her prize. I should have known then that she was going to be trouble.

My Uncle Harold was undoubtedly my favorite uncle during my childhood. He was retired militar, having served in the Air Force in Korea and Vietnam. He lived in Florida—on the beach where he owned a motel, no less—and always brought the coolest gifts back to Georgia. At an early age, to my mother’s dismay, he taught me to hate green beans and that a slice of cake could serve as a complete meal. When I was in elementary school, he moved to the Florida Keys to live in a boat. The ocean always seemed to call to him. And he loved cats, too. His favorite and most memorable cat was named Ten Speed. Suitably, Ten Speed was every bit the character as Uncle Harold. He would have liked Gypsy.

I think it was very appropriate that Uncle Harold died of a heart attack swimming in the ocean, a place he dearly loved. A few years back, my grandmother Mullis passed away, too. She died in a sad room in a nursing home. Suffering from Alzheimer’s, she probably died not knowing anyone around her. Oh that she could have instead died swimming in her own ocean.

Goodbye Gypsy. As far as I know, there’s no theological basis for pets finding their way to heaven, but I hope they do. I’d like to think of her playing right now with Ten Speed and Uncle Harold while Grandma looks on.

Memorial Day

So it’s Memorial Day and I picked a heck of a way to celebrate. Around the country folks are breaking out the grills, going to baseball games, and taking the first dip in the swimming pool. But for me, it’s a stomach bug. Instead of a cheeseburger or bratwurst, I’m trying to work up the courage to try some Jell-O. But I did find a way to remember. I’ve been watching war movies all day.

There were some really amazing epic war movies made in the 1960’s and 1970’s, including two that I watched today—Battle of the Bulge and The Longest Day. Films such as these, and Patton and Midway, served to wrap history around the glory and patriotism of American warfare. They were woven around decisive battles. And they demonstrated the heroes of Americans defending freedom. Sadly, after Vietnam, a majority of the war movies, albeit few in total, spent more time criticizing parties, policies and administrations. These films did much to erode the respect for soldiers bold enough to climb into a B-25 or charge a pillbox on Omaha beach. Thankfully, that trend took a major turn when Saving Private Ryan and Band of Brothers emerged in recent years.

Americans seem to always be looking for a hero—the next hero. Sports stars, musicians, and even a few politicians seem to be common fodder for the next American “hero”. Unfortunately, we as a country need a “Memorial Day” to remind us that true heroes fill the pages of the history books of American warfare. And, of course, new heroes are serving in Iraq and Afghanistan today.

So on this Memorial Day, I lift my glass of Sprite high—yeah, clear liquids for me for a while— to the soldiers of yesterday and today. Midway is coming on in a few minutes. With a cast like that, I’m sure I can muster the courage to pop open a strawberry Jell-O.

A Long Weekend

What a weekend. Sometimes I can’t imagine what other folks do with Saturdays and Sundays—watch television, sleep in, or play with their cat. I can't remember the last time I went out on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon to play golf. And at times like this afternoon, I envy them the moments of rest or solitude.

This past week, I picked up an unexpected wedding to photograph. That was a pleasant surprise, but nerve wracking considering I didn’t meet the bride until Friday night at the rehearsal. So after consulting with the bride and watching the rehearsal Friday, I spent most of the evening packing up my gear. Saturday , I spent six hours shooting the wedding, rushed to the wedding of a friend’s daughter, and then played with the band for the wedding reception. Thirteen hours in dress shoes. Four hours in a tux. Three hours playing trombone. And six hours with two Nikons hanging around my neck. By ten o'clock Saturday night, I could barely walk.

Sunday brought no rest. I spent the morning playing keyboard at church and then rushed off to a luncheon. Then I spent two more hours on stage with the Grapevine. But I did get some time to play with a fisheye lens and get some shots of the band for the Website. Oh, and did I mention that it rained?

So why do I do it? Why do I spend so much time chasing hobbies—probably because they are passions. They bring an outlet for creativity. And maybe because they take me to a place I can’t otherwise find in the reality of everyday life. Sometime soon I need some downtime, a chance to shut down and contemplate a few of those realities. But for now, it’s time to hit Photoshop.

Unfortunate Photo Ops

As a photographer, the idea of a dream photo shoot is captivating. What if I could shoot anywhere or anything I could imagine? A celebrity wedding? A sports photography gig at the Superbowl or the Masters? A supermodel shoot on a remote beach? So what would you do with a $328,000 budget, Air Force One, an iconic landmark, and an F-16? Chances are, even if you are a very mediocre photographer, you could do better than the truly awful image supposedly taken as a terribly controversial publicity photo. It is a poor photograph in every conceivable way—composition, saturation, and exposure, not to mention the bad shadow in the bottom right corner.

This past week, Louis Caldera, director of the White House Military Office, took responsibility for the blundered “photo op”, which took place on April 27, sending thousands of New Yorkers fleeing into the streets. Doubtless the fall guy for all of the other military brass and Obama administration wonks who had to also be knowledgeable of the mission, Caldera’s resignation was quickly accepted. And except for the likes of Jay Leno, who continues to use the incident as fodder for his jokes, the media has largely forgotten that it happened.It stands to reason that if the U.S. military and the Obama administration were to truly want a photo op of Air Force One and the Statue of Liberty, a professional photographer would have been involved. One glance and this terrible shot is suitable evidence that a pro had nothing to do with snapping this shot. Would the mission even be launched on such an obviously hazy day? And why use the cramped cockpit and solid bubble canopy of an F-16 as a photo platform? Air Force public affairs photographers do spectacular work. This photo is anything but spectacular.

But while the motivation for the Air Force One “photo op” is unclear, previous administrations and political candidates made critical errors in judgment. In 2003, President George W. Bush was at the controls of a Navy S-3B Viking as it landed on the deck of the U.S.S. Lincoln. The ship became the backdrop of Bush’s famous "Mission Accomplished" speech announcing the end of “major combat operations” in Iraq. It’s ironic that this photo op occurred on the Lincoln, named for an assassinated U.S. president, as the U.S. media did much the same to “W”.

Commenting on the Bush event, Sen. John Kerry, who was seeking the democratic nomination at the time said,"The president's going out to an aircraft carrier to give a speech far out at sea ... while countless numbers of Americans are frightened stiff about the economy at home." Oddly, neither Kerry or anyone else from the Democratic Party have seen fit to criticize a $328,000 photo op in the midst of a pronounced recession.

Most folks have probably forgotten the image of Michael Dukakis in the turret of a tank. Taken in 1988, the backfiring photo op of the presidential candidate in an Abrams M1 tank was very damaging to the Dukakis campaign and was ultimately used in future President George H. W. Bush’s campaign ads. Regardless of who you voted for, Dukakis just looks plain goofy in that helmet.

Back to New York in 2009, chances are, we will never know why the flight took place or who was on Air Force One while New Yorkers scrambled out of buildings below? And chances are, we will never see more images from this shoot or any other during Obama’s reign. But I’m sending my resume and portfolio to the White House, just in case there’s enough stimulus money left to fund my own photo op. Just imagine—me, my Nikon, an F-16, Air-Force One, and a supermodel. Hey, I said it was a dream photo op.

Shooting a Civil War Reenactment

Last week, I wrote about two upcoming Civil War reenactments in my community, the Battles of Sunshine Church and Griswoldville. Over the weekend, I had the opportunity to photograph both reenactments and other events surrounding them. It was a great opportunity to get in close to historically accurate reenactors, practice shooting in some very challenging circumstances, and learn some valuable lessons from comical mistakes.

On Saturday, I got up early to take advantage of some very nice morning light. The reenactors were conducting inspections and drills. There were authentic camps surrounding the battlefield, offering some great opportunities to shoot a number of kids in period dress. I’m still learning my new 70-200mm f/2.8 telephoto. In the morning light, narrow depth of field portraits of reenactors and family were plentiful. But the kids were my favorite, especially when I could catch them from a distance without them noticing me.

At some point during the morning, I was invited to be ”embedded” with the troops during the afternoon battle. So I put on a hot wool confederate outfit, complete with floppy hat, and set out to find a place to hide from the crowd out on the battlefield. I was also given a escort by the event coordinators. I’m certain his function solely to ensure I didn’t do anything stupid and get myself beheaded by a cannon or run through by a bayonet. We selected two “blinds” to shoot from and hunkered down for the battle to begin.

Early in the Battle of Sunshine Church, which the Confederates won, I realized just how challenging the photography was going to be. I was set up in the edge of a fairly dense stand of hardwood trees, and the shadows from the midday sun were deep. Out in front of me, the remainder of the battlefield was in full sunlight. To make matters worse, in the background, from practically every angle, were rows of spectators. I suppose this is where professionalism comes in. Time to get creative and make lemonade.

Soon after the battle started, my “guide” and I decided to move from the first blind to the second. Wanting to travel light and assuming that we would quickly return, I left my camera bag contain the rest of my lenses, armed only with one DSLR and the aforementioned 70-200mm 2.8. Save the troublesome lighting challenge, I was in a pretty good spot to shoot over the heads of a line of Union soldiers as they fired at Confederate troops advancing toward us. But the Union troops were in deep shadow and the southern soldiers were in very bright sunlight directly overhead. To make matters worse, gunsmoke from from the rifles and cannon quickly spread across the area, totally confusing my camera’s exposure meter.The final insult to my photographic skills, or lack thereof, came when the Union troops retreated to and then beyond my position. As quickly as they pulled behind me, the Confederate troops overran us, crowding to within four or five feet, quite the challenge with only one lens with a minimal focal range of 3.5 feet. I laid back in a tangle of vines and poison ivy, ignoring the fireants, and tried to find some creative close-ups, longing for the camera bag I could see, but could not reach.

The second day, the Battle of Griswoldville, proved a little less stressful. The Griswoldville battle is significant only in that it was the last resistance faced by Sherman on his March to the Sea. And resistance is a bit of an overstatement. The Confederate force was made up of local Georgia militia, mostly young boys and old men. They were virtually annihilated by the regular Union forces. I shot from the base of the hill covered with spectators and got a few really good shots, despite the bright sunlight.

Overall, it was a really fun weekend. I shot nearly 1,000 frames and got a couple hundred nice images, some of which I hope will either be published or sold. Regardless of the images, the most valuable thing was the experience of learning to never leave gear behind and to think ahead. For now, I’m still processing photos and hoping I get the opportunity again next year so that I can put some of these lessons to work.

Did You Know it Was a Holiday?

If you’re like most Americans, you probably didn’t know today was a holiday (okay, technically, it was on Sunday). You probably didn’t join a protest or participate in a vigil on the courthouse steps unless you are a member of the NAACP or the Sons of Confederate Veterans. And unless you are an employee of the state of Georgia, Mississippi, or Alabama, you most certainly didn’t get a paid day off in honor of Confederate Memorial Day.

I knew that there was a Confederate Memorial Day, although for some reason I thought it was aligned with Robert E. Lee’s birth date. It seems the date commemorates Confederate Gen. Joseph E. Johnston's surrender to Union Gen. William T. Sherman in North Carolina on April 26, 1865. Since Johnston was charged with Georgia's defense—and based on all of the things Sherman burned in Georgia, Johnston did a really lousy job—this marked the end of the state's participation in the Civil War. I can only assume that Mississippi and Alabama use the same reasoning. In reading some of the tiny amount of media coverage regarding the holiday—seems almost everyone is tired of this issue—I found some shrill, predictable, and ridiculous quotes. I just have to share.

"It's very easy to vilify our Confederate ancestors and write them off," commented Robert Reames, Alabama commander of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. "They were the greatest heroes this country has ever produced." That seems pretty strong language considering all of the heroes of foreign wars against America. Or did he mean America? But in regard to slavery as the cause of the “War of Northern Aggression” he said it is simply “what's being taught through the schools through Yankee books from Yankee publishers telling the Yankee side of the war." You just can’t make stuff like that up.

But not to be outdone, Mississippi NAACP president Derrick Johnson said, “It is a remnant of Mississippi's segregated past. Could you imagine Israel celebrating Hitler day.” I’m sure Mr. Johnson was simply out that day at diplomacy school.

The issue is simple for me. I do think we should memorialize the Civil War and remember it so that we don’t repeat those mistakes again. After all, over 620,000 soldiers and an unimaginable number of civilians were killed, compared to 416,800 fallen U.S. troops in WWII. But I’m not terribly concerned with keeping the Civil War battles going. It ended. The South lost. Let’s move on. And I’m glad Georgia changed the flag... again. Twice. But what concerns me greatly is that well over a hundred thousand Georgia employees are getting paid to take this day off. Seems like a great way to save some tax dollars in a bad economy.

Oddly enough, my community has a Civil War reenactment scheduled for this week. Regardless of the agendas of some of the attendees and participants, it’s a pretty well run event that accurately portrays two battles. With any luck, I’ll have some great new shots to share next week.

Until then, for you lucky state employees, I hope you enjoyed your day off. For the rest of us, get some rest. We deserve it.

I'd Rather Fish, Thanks

No so long ago, while contemplating a difficult decision, a very good friend told me it was time to, “fish or cut bait.” It was good advice then—and it still is good advice. It’s been a blue week. And as I often do, I break out the Nikon when I need a dose of therapy. For subjects, I pulled out two of my most prized possessions, an antique Pflueger reel made in the 1950s and a truly vintage wooden lure of unknown manufacturer likely made around 1908, both gifts from a friend.

In case you are wondering, this was shot with my Nikon 24 -70mm, f2.8 (1/80 at f5.6) and two flashes, one gridded overhead and the other from beneath with a blue gel.

Outside as I worked, the rain and thunder of an unexpected storm spoke angrily. I turned on my iPod for something to preoccupy my mind. Through the din of random thoughts ricocheting around in my mind, Michael Stipe cut through with a lyric I had never really noticed before. “Where is the ripcord, the trapdoor, the key? Where is the cartoon escape-hatch for me? No time to question the choices I make, I've got to follow another direction. Accelerate.”

Remembering Otis Redding

Today I visited the Georgia Music Hall of Fame on the closing day of “I’ve Got Dreams to Remember,” a collection of music, photographs, film and artifacts documenting the career, life, and death of Otis Redding. My only regret is that I didn’t go see this exhibit sooner, so that I could recommend it to others.

The exhibit’s photography was indeed compelling, with many images of Redding early in his career. My favorites were the studio photographs, showing him working with such greats as Booker T. Jones, Steve Cropper, and Donald “Duck” Dunn. And a series of photos from the 1967 memorial service at the Macon City Auditorium showed the outpouring of support, both from black and white fans. A friend told me just this past Saturday that she skipped school to attend the memorial. Caught by a television camera and seen on the evening news by her father, she was grounded for a week. “Was it worth it?” I asked. “Oh yes,” was the reply. “No regrets.”

Otis Redding was immensely influential on the music world, despite having an all-too-brief career. In 1962, Redding recorded These Arms of Mine on the Volt label, a Stax subsidiary, and the song reached #20 on the R&B billboard and #85 on the pop billboard. Five years later, and just four days before his death, Redding recorded (Sittin’ on the) Dock of the Bay. Produced by guitarist Steve Cropper and released posthumously, the song was ironically the only Redding song to climb higher that #21 on the Top 40 charts, holding the number one spot for four weeks in 1968. Dock of the Bay was a turning point, a Dylan-like departure from Redding's soul roots, representing something of a crossover toward pop music. Had death not ended this career so short, who knows what Redding might have achieved.

Aretha Franklin, The Black Crows,The Blues Brothers, and so many other acts benefitted from Redding’s songwriting genius and musical influence—as have I. Today, few know that Respect was written by Redding. And unfortunately, Hard to Handle is much more synonymous with the Black Crows. As a musician, I am very proud to play so many of his songs. And I'm also convinced that if I every make it as a musician, I may may pull a John Madden an only take the bus.

One of the most compelling items on display in the Redding exhibit is a poster for a concert at The Foundry, in Madison Wisconsin on December 10, 1967, featuring Otis Redding with the Bar-Kays. Ironically, the opening act was a band called the Grim Reapers, who would later become Cheap Trick. The Grim Reapers played one set before Redding’s death was announced to the crowd.

Like virtually every artist reaching greatness, Otis’s career caught a huge break. He was the driver for Johnny Jenkins, the bandleader of the Pinetoppers, who did not have a driver's license. Redding would later front the group. Two years later, his stint with the Pinetoppers led to an opportunity to record These Arms of Mine in Memphis. But quicker than fate brought fortune, it brought a Beechcraft 18 aircraft down in Lake Monona near Madison, Wisconsin on December 10, 1967. What an incredible lesson in taking advantage of the opportunities life brings, and living life to the fullest, as any day might be the last.

Dignity for the Fallen

On April 6, 2009, about forty members of the media attended a ceremonial transfer at Dover Air Base in Dover, Delaware. They were present to witness and photograph the arrival of the remains of Staff Sgt. Phillip A. Myers, a 30-year-old soldier killed by an improvised exploding device in Afghanistan. The event was significant because it was the first time in 18 years that a member of the media was allowed to photograph a coffin containing a fallen member of the U.S. military.

On February 26, 2009, Secretary of Defense Robert Gates announced the lifting of a ban on photography of the bodies of returning soldiers. The new policy reversed a ban placed by President George H. W. Bush just days before the first Gulf War that many considered unnecessary censorship. Families now have the final decision on whether to allow the media to cover the transfer ceremony.

The timing of the lifting of the ban is somewhat ironic. HBO’s Taking Chance premiered on February 21. The drama, starring Kevin Bacon, is based on the true story of Lance Corporal Chance Phelps, a Marine killed in Iraq. Bacon portrays Lt. Col. Michael Strobl, an officer who volunteers to escort the fallen soldier home to Wyoming. Like most of the network’s original programs, Taking Chance is extremely well-done and offers a compelling insight into the process of returning fallen soldiers home. By lifting the ban, the Obama administration affords both the opportunity for all Americans to see these daily or weekly events through the eyes of the media and the opportunity for the same media to invade these tragic and deeply personal events.

Controversy over the photography of war dead dates back to the Civil War, roughly the same time modern photography and photojournalism were born. In 1863, Timothy O’Sullivan, one of Mathew Brady’s photographers, captured “The Harvest of Death” a scene of the bloated bodies of Union soldiers at Gettysburg. The U.S. censored war photos during World War I and only after Roosevelt lifted the ban for political purposes in 1944 did Americans see fallen soldiers in the media during WWII. Life Magazine ran one of the first, a shot of three dead soldiers on a beach in Papua New Guinea. The photo was accompanied by text that read, “Why print this picture? Is it to hurt people? To be morbid? The reason is that words are never enough."

For many photographers, the censorship of anything is cause for concern, regardless of how they vote. Certainly, over the last hundred years, presidents have used photographs of dead soldiers, or the flag-draped coffins transporting them, for political purposes. President Obama has now entered into that fray. Regardless of the rights of photographers or the agendas of presidents, fallen American soldiers have earned dignity in death. That same respect should be afforded to their families.

Only time will tell whether the change in policy on these photographs will change public opinion about wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. And I can’t help but wonder how long it will be until another administration reverses this policy change in the name of political gain.

It Must Be Spring

After one last cold snap, complete with a hard frost, Spring seems to have the dreariness of winter in a stranglehold. What are the signs, you might ask? Perhaps they are not all that I could hope for, or not even what many might imagine. Nonetheless, signs are here.

Last Sunday, the Atlanta Braves started off the 2009 baseball season with a win over the Philadelphia Phillies. And Thursday, the roars of patrons filled the air once again at Augusta. If it’s Master week, it must also be Easter. And today, the University of Georgia once again managed a victory in their Spring Game.

On Wednesday, my latest photography purchase was delivered. No longer will I need to rent a Nikon 70-200, f2.8. And today, I had an opportunity to put this magnificent lens to work at an Easter Egg Hunt. Despite harsh sunlight, deep shadows, snapshot seeking parents, and kids swarming like sugar seeking sharks in full frenzy, I managed to capture a few nice shots that convinced me of the value of this lens. (entire set) Ruggedly built, tack sharp, and delivering beautifully smooth bokey, this is a serious lens.

In the deep South, the wonderful days of Spring are fleeting, giving way quickly to the uncomfortable and unceasing heat and humidity of Summer. So armed with a bit more photography hardware, I’m going to bask in the glow of Spring’s sunshine and seek out a few more shots like these.

Finding The Decisive Moment

Recently, I needed to search through a box of archived photographs from the 1950s and 1960s. Many of these prints are of unknown faces and unexplained situations. But I ran across one particular black and white image that truly left me mystified. In it were strange structures, an open area apparently over-washed by the sea, and a stretch of ocean. In the distance was a sign atop a building that read “Steel Pier”. The photo was dated “April 1962”.

It wasn’t too hard to Google “Steel Pier” and 1962. The resulting hits quickly filled in many of the blanks left vacant by the details in the old photo. In March of 1962, on Ash Wednesday, one of the strongest Nor’easters in recorded history hit the Eastern seaboard, pounding the coast from New York to the Outer Banks with waves over 25 feet high. And the subject of this photo was revealed to be the storm-damaged Steel Pier in Atlantic City. But what remained unanswered was why this photo was in our archives, who took it, and why they were in New Jersey, many hundreds of miles from Georgia, in the days following this disaster.

In my opinion, one of the greatest attributes of a great photograph is its ability to tell a story—to exist alone without need of a caption to convey its message. Such an image leaves enough unanswered questions to evoke the imagination of the viewer to fill in these blanks. Photographic history is filled with memorable images. And in rare instances, a photo can serve to create such a stir, to evoke such emotion, that it can change the world.

Henri Cartier-Bresson’s notion of the “decisive moment” fathered photojournalism. “There is nothing in this world that does not have a decisive moment.” Since those early days with his Leica, photographers like Cartier-Bresson have frozen moments that changed ideals and history.

The recreated Iwo Jima flag-raising photo by Joe Rosenthal is probably the most recognized image from World War II. But George Strock’s image likely did much more to win the war in the Pacific. Sensing that Americans were becoming complacent about the war, President Roosevelt lifted the ban on the publication of images of U.S. casualties in 1943. Strock’s shocking photo of three dead Marines on a beach in Papua New Guinea shocked Americans and rekindled a sense of determination.

While Strock’s image may have strengthened American resolve to win a war, an infamous Vietnam photo may have served to turn a country against the conflict. During the first Tet offensive in 1968, Associated Press photographer Eddie Adams captured the execution of Viet-Cong captain by Nguyen Ngoc Loan, South Vietnam’s national police chief. The photo won a Pulitzer Prize, destroyed the life of Loan, who was executing a true war criminal, and turned the public opinion against the war in Vietnam.

Whether the result of pure happenstance or careful planning, opening the shutter at the “decisive moment” can change history. And not every photo was intended to evoke change. Would the photographs from Abu Grave prison in Iraq have ever been taken had it been thought that they would air on international television? Did Stuart Franklin Magnum think that his image of a student facing down a tank in Tiananmen Square would become an icon for hope in China before he squeezed the shutter release?

So the fact remains that I have no idea who took this photo of the Steel Pier or why they ventured to New Jersey and left this image for me to find. Seeing it captured my imagination and my curiousity. Because of it, I know more about a long forgotten storm and its impact on Atlantic City. And it leads me to wonder what impact my images might have on the world and when the next opportunity for a “decisive moment” might come for me.

Finding Something New in Springtime

Georgia O'Keefe said, “I hate flowers. I only paint them because they're cheaper than models and they don't move.” Flower photos catch way too much grief in my opinion. Yes, they are easy to take. And they never talk back. Regardless of your feelings about petals, leaves, stems, and stamens, Springtime is difficult to experience without a few flower photos. So while the cherry blossoms were fresh, I ventured out today to capture some images of my community's most iconic subject. While this effect is quite easy to replicate in Photoshop, it's more fun to create "in camera".
(f14, 1/20, zoomed 18mm to 36mm through shutter)

Dipping A Brush in My Soul

Duke Ellington once said, “I merely took the energy it takes to pout and wrote some blues.” To me, that’s a pretty powerful statement of the channeling of hope, frustration, love, anger, and fear into an artistic endeavor. Be it performed on an instrument or painted on a canvas, art serves as a window to our souls.

On a recent Saturday morning, I ventured into McDonalds for breakfast. It was raining hard outside, and the restaurant was filled with very noisy customers. At a booth off to one side, I noticed an older man with papers spread out across a table. He was writing in a notebook in longhand. One of several books beside him was titled The Screenwriter’s Handbook.

Here among the pancakes and Egg McMuffins was a guy writing a screenplay in a spiral-bound notebook. Many questions came to mind... what was he writing about, why was he writing in this cacophony of distraction, why was he writing in longhand instead of on a computer, and most importantly, would his work ever see the big screen? Truthfully, the odds are against it. Regardless, I couldn’t help but be inspired.

This past Saturday, I photographed a “Meet Authors and Artists” event in my town of Gray. Two local businesses hosted cartoonists, painters, a photographer, and a number of authors. Save the cartoonist, who worked on Spiderman comicbooks, most of these artists had no chance of making a career from their art. But they shared their work with the world. And once again, I was inspired.

It was Henry Ward Beecher who in 1887 said, “Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.” Likewise, I feel that the stolen moments I have captured through my lens are both scenes of the unique way I see the world and also windows into my own soul.I don’t know how many of my images will be seen by the world. I don’t know that I will ever reach a point where I can pay all the bills with my art. And I don’t know that this is a worthy goal in the grand scheme of life. But like the Duke, I hope every day to turn the energy of the emotions of my life into an art of my own.

Seating for Two

Bleak days are not without promise. A tripod, a fast lens, and a slow shutter speed can find beauty, mystery, and intrique, even while dodging raindrops and puddles. (f2.8, 1/30, 70mm)

Edging Nearer the Deep End

So I got my hair cut today by someone different. Seems the lady who usually cuts it is out following surgery. So at the recommendation of a friend, I tried someone new. We talked a little bit about me, about how much I hate my hair and some ideas about what to do with it. She processed that info for a few seconds and then asked, “Are you having a midlife crisis?” How could she say that? Does she think I’m forty? Heck, I’ve got six months until I hit forty.

As I sat down to contemplate this observation from a learned source—let’s face it, hair stylists and bartenders are experienced therapists—I thought of Jimmy Buffet and A Pirate Looks at Forty. I’ve not lived the colorful life he describes. In fact, I think my life has been quite the opposite, void of risk, and I have come to wonder if that is an entirely good thing.

Photography is a passion for me. Seeing my world through a lens—capturing a moment— is therapeutic. That didn’t happen overnight. But in a few short years, it has come to consume much of my imagination, my creativity, and my dreams. And one of those dreams is to find success as a photographer.

Ironically, in the last two weeks, I have had been asked to shoot images for a local magazine, a book cover, and a wedding. My stock photography has done extremely well. Yet, the thought of really sticking my neck out there, of buying new equipment, insurance, and all the other things that come with owning a business sends butterflies rocketing around my belly. Why is it so hard to jump into the deep end of the pool? And in how many other areas in my life have I been cowering near the shallow end where it’s nice and safe—where I can’t get hurt?

A journalist and author from Chicago, Sydney Harris, once wrote. “Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.”

For what it’s worth, I’ve got a new hair style today. And I recently bought some new bootcut jeans that I think look quite good on me, especially for someone 39 years old. And I’ve been hanging out near the deep water, wondering if I can see the bottom—or if that matters.