What the Heart Can Imagine

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"In art, the hand can never execute anything higher than the heart can imagine." 

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Telling Stories With Images

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I enjoyed the responses to my last post and probably will post similar questions in the future. A great big thank-you to all who participated in the conversation. I appreciate the time taken to share your stories and each comment left me with something interesting to contemplate.

The story elements that evolved in my mind as that recent image emerged were rather dark. There was a sense of being lost in a forlorn and harsh environment—a cold, brutal wind stung my eyes. Even though there seemed to be vast open spaces around me, I was hemmed in by something I couldn't see. Everytime I felt I was about to gain control over events, I was faced with a dark and unexpected turn. The mountains were a challenge that I somehow had to reach, for the only hope lay on the other side.

I am intrigued by the connection between the elements in a picture and the properties of the story that emerges. For me, it isn't a clean and linear line. It is as if the image whispers stories to life and the stories then play on me as I process the image. I have come to think of that interplay as a kind of a dance. The intellect is in charge, then yields to the heart. I know precisely where I am going and how to get there.... Then, I lose my way and stumble about taking cues from what?  A dream, a memory?

When I stop molding an image—when I am ready to share it and say "This is it—for now", the result sometimes feels like something that is not really my own. There is no one or thing to blame, of course, but neither can I claim full credit—if, indeed, any is due. I led during parts of the process, but there were moments when it felt more like following. It was a process that took me to a discovery.

There is another aspect of images and communication that intrigues me. I have noticed that some people seem to think that if the image is made well enough it will say the same thing to all viewers. Wouldn't that turn the entire communication experience into a guessing game? "Guess what story I meant to convey with this image." That sounds like a really lame parlor game.

We all bring our unique life experience to every contemporary experience. We, each, arrive at any given moment with our particular baggage and that baggage will affect what we read into the story before us. Just as you and I would visit the same spot, but return home with different photographs, shown the same image we will read different stories featuring our particular characters and playing off our personal history.

The responses to my invitation for your stories gave me a good taste of what I was craving—some conversation about personal emotional responses to an image. What more could I have asked? The photo here was taken on that same stretch of highway as the last picture. This one calls to my mind very different stories, even though the setting is similar and the characters in the image certainly look similar. I hope this one suggests stories that speak to you.

Free at Last

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Lately, I haven't published posts about places I have been and I am combing through archives for photos. That is because I haven't been anywhere! Things have been very quiet in my life for a several months now.

But, things are finally changing. My endurance level has increased and, in the last few weeks, the pain level in my back has decreased dramatically. My left leg is still a bit strange. But, at least it actually feels like it belongs to my body.

Besides, my being mostly housebound was about more than physical issues. I haven't had a valid driver's license for months. It came due for renewal late last year and the last thing on my mind, at that time, was driving.

Tuesday, The Husband and cruised down to Arvin for my appointment to take the written test. (Yes, the photo, above, is another of those drive-by's and taken with the G7. I would love to say that I spotted the hawk first, then waited for the right moment. But, that would be a lie. We were moving way too fast. I am grateful for all gifts, great and small.)

All went well at the DMV, and I now have one of those temporary paper licenses that fills in, until I get the official one in the mail. By the way, I have read that, in California, the delay on those plastic cards can be two months—or more. Interesting, since the temporary license expires in two months. Hmmm. Wonder how that works?

Nevertheless, for now, I am a legal driver. I feel like a kid who just got out of school. At last, I am free to see how much driving I can do without stirring up my back. Being more independent will open up considerably more photo opportunities.  Hot dog! Time to fill up those hard drives.

A Break from Winter

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For a few weeks now, I have gotten up each morning unable to believe the beautiful autumn weather. Once, I had found myself thinking, "Oh, boy. We'll pay for all this bliss by mid-February." The negative thinking reminds me of one of my favorite stories.

Everyone knew that not only did Mrs. O'Reilly always find the dark clouds and miss the silver lining, she was bound to spread the word so everyone else would see just how bad things really were. Still, Mrs. O'Leary, from next door, never lost hope that she could get her neighbor to see the bright side of life. On a fine spring day, both ladies were hanging out their laundry. "Ah, the blue skies are sparkling", cooed Mrs. O'Leary, leaning on the fence, "and it's a lovely breeze that's cooling my brow. Sure, it's a fine day, isn't it Mrs. O'Reilly?" "Maybe", growled Mrs. O'Reilly. "But, it's raining somewhere".

I suppose there is a bit of both ladies in each of us. For now, I am concentrating on the brisk, but comfortable temperatures and all this sunshine. In spite of freezing temperatures almost every night, we have had days that were downright warm. The boggy portions of our property are gradually drying and each day is more beautiful than the one before. It has been like having an unexpected winter vacation, and we didn't even have to crank up the RV. The Husband and I are loving it. Oh, and Galen is pretty happy about it, as well. Multiple play periods outside with one of his humans makes him a very happy pup.

The Internal Fog

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Even with the sun shining brightly, there are days when I struggle to clear the foggy mist from my brain. In this case, the perpetrator of the fog was the surgery in November; but, there are many events that can produce an internal mist that engulfs the brain. I have always experienced a similar miasma after the loss of a loved one.

That period of stumbling about, losing one's way in the half-light, is disorienting, at best. Still, I like to believe that during that lost period, we are processing and sorting material that will shape us and eventually find it's way into expression, if we will only give it the opportunity.

I'm never wise enough to fully grasp the meaning of this experience, much less articulate it. I only know that once the fog has completely lifted, nothing looks quite the same. During the recovery period, I almost always long to "be myself" again.  Inevitably, however, when the edges of my world grow sharper and the colors more vibrant, I find that nothing is exactly as I remembered. Including me.

A Foggy Sunday Afternoon

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Saturday, The Husband, Galen, and I went to Cub Lake for a walk. Well, it turns out that much of the surrounding paths and grassy areas are now part of the lake. Thanks to large puddles blocking the way, the walkways were fit for strolling only if you were wearing mud boots. I wasn't. We didn't. Instead, we meandered about in the areas up above the lake and across the road. We came home satisfied enough for the afternoon, but wondering where we were going to take our family walks while the Cub Lake recreation areas dries out.

We decided, Sunday morning, that the places to check were the Equestrian Center and Town Campground. Both are at considerably higher levels than Cub Lake, and we felt confident that we would find paths dry enough for comfortable walking. By noon, the fog had rolled in, and the 40 degree temperature was long gone. By the time we finished lunch and got on our way, the outdoor thermometer had dropped to 28 degrees and was still falling. Additionally, the fog had obliterated from sight all our outbuildings, as well as the houses across the way, and a family walk was no longer quite so appealing. Still, it seemed like a good day to at least enjoy a drive around the valley. We haven't lived here nearly long enough to feel ho-hum about the scenery—fog or no fog.

For the first time in weeks, I grabbed a camera for the short drive. Just like "the old days."  The notion of photographing in fog was tempting for me, Sunday, and I needed to do a good test drive on that 40D and 24-105 that had taken a nosedive. Why not? So it was too cold for wimpy me to spend much time outside. And what if there would be no twisting into contortions to take photos out the window. (Uh uh. Not on my permission list yet.) It would be fun just to look—and perhaps manage a photo or two.

Well, you can imagine how long my resolve lasted. Because I had taken the precaution to bundle up as though headed for the North Pole, I survived popping out of the car several times angling for oaks-in-fog shots.  It was a fun drive. By the time we got home, I was looking forward to some time in front of the fireplace; but, I thawed out quickly. It was a lovely Sunday afternoon.

Tackling the Piles

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For much too long, I was verrrrry bad and let chores pile up. Sooner or later, one has to face up to those piles and dispense with at least a portion of them. It doesn’t matter how much you dread it. You can only postpone things so long.

Some of the catch-up work centered around file storage. I set up a couple of new hard drives that had languished in the cabinet a while and continued moving files for better organization. What tedious work.

I also installed more memory in my computer. Truth: I assisted (mostly with prep and clean up). The Husband installed. You can only imagine how chicken I am when it comes to poking around inside a computer. If I planned to do much of this sort of thing, I would dig up an old machine, then take it apart—wreck it most probably, get another and work until I could break one down and successfully put it together again. Unfortunately, I can’t work up the enthusiasm for the project. There are too many other things I want to explore that are higher priority for me.

I enjoyed very much the responses to my query on a backup scheme and have decided to follow through with that plan. I posed a couple more questions in my responses to the comments on that post, and I expect to be tweaking this strategy over time.

I’ve also spent time recently on some test shooting and checking a couple of locations in preparation for a shoot some time in the next couple of weeks. For one of the test sessions, I was at the BVS Equestrian Center and got distracted by the trees there. Let’s face it. I am frequently distracted by trees.

Finding an ideal location for pictures of horses with riders hasn’t turned out to be as easy as I had hoped it would be. There are number of reasons for that statement, but I won’t open that can of worms today. Those chores are piling up again.

Allergens 1, Anita 0

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Not long ago, I mentioned that I have virtually no sense of smell and that it gets me in trouble. Unfortunately, I also have nasty allergies. I have also admitted that our social life is pathetically dull. Well, we received an invitation last week and it worked out for our schedule. Since I had been mostly cooped up with bookkeeping programs and taxes, I was eagerly looking forward to an evening out. The best part is that the company was delightful and I had a great time. I passed over a slight alarm that went off in my head and hoped it was imagination. After all, while it was obvious that the home was going through major renovation, that didn’t mean any of the paint was fresh enough to cause me problems and I was having a great time gettting to know people. Besides, I always have hopes (maybe it’s blind stupidity) that I will be able to practice mind over matter and survive if the allergens aren’t strong enough to bring me to my knees immediately.

There was a great deal of getting to know one another and we got a tour of the home, now part way through through its impressive transformation. The view from the living area is splendid and I filed away the road to their house as one to explore, camera in hand. Determined to at least avoid stomach problems, I was careful to consume nothing but water. I didn't want anything to spoil the lovely evening. After about two hours, I could no longer ignore the warning signs and, fortunately for me, the party was breaking up anyway. It turns out we weren’t the only ones who normally turn in early.

Before we had completed the five minute drive home, I knew that my Superwoman cape had once again failed me. I could feel the asthma coming on and the headache building. Whatever the trigger, my throat was tightening, and I knew I was going kick to myself the next day for being stubborn. Who knows whether it was lingering paint fumes, too-new-for-me carpets, some adhesive used? Whatever the culprit was, The Husband didn’t detect any odors that would have alarmed him so it wasn't just my nose that failed.

An antihistamine probably blunted the effects considerably; but I slept badly, got little rest, and woke up feeling as though I had been rolled over by a bulldozer on a personal mission. My only comfort Saturday was the Dodgers completing a sweep of the Cardinals and heading for the NLCS. We take our pleasures where we can find them.

Dry Creek

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Saturday afternoon, The Husband and I drove to the neighboring town of Arvin to look at outbuildings. No. I most certainly did not say outhouses. Goodness! Where is your mind?

What has us thinking about outbuildings? Well, that recent dip in the economy and the big slide in the housing market just as we were relocating put a kink in our budget and we had to let go of a few dreams. One of the casualties was that charming barn we had in mind. While it would have looked great, more importantly, it would have provided shelter for the horses, hay storage, and a tack room. As things turned out, the horses had to settle for the mare motel, while The Husband is making do with the tarps and cinder blocks for hay storage along with a corner of the garage as his tack room. For a slight improvement, we have our sights on some outbuildings made by a California company called Dry Creek Mini-Barns.

Arvin is “just down the road a piece” and I love the drive down through the base of the Sierra Nevada’s and ranching country to the farm country and oil wells in the San Joaquin valley. Traveling through the foothills entails a never-ending display of delightful colors and flowing, sensuous shapes. The greens of spring are an unearthly electric green and the oak trees, for a short time, are a pale and remarkable lavender. But for much of the year, the hill sides are golden. By summer, the grass is starved for water and baked to a rich gold by the California sun. I never tire of the spectacle. My one sadness is that, on the road through the mountains, there are few places for pulling off the highway to enjoy the countryside, and there are precious few side roads for exploring. Mostly, these are scenes that one must hold in the mind; or, in my case, shoot like a mad woman from a moving vehicle. Occasionally, my crazy experiments yield something that pleases me and brings back the feelings of awe and peace that I draw from the landscape.

A SoFoBoMo Surprise

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Last Saturday, I started my SoFoBoMo project, but it was until later that I realized I had begun. It had never occurred to me to start my book on that day. Nothing was further from my mind. The Husband wasn’t around that evening and I headed down to Cub Lake for a walk. However, I had forgotten that earlier in the week I had seen signs down there of an upcoming lakeside wedding. Drat. Sure enough Saturday was the night of the festivities. Not in the mood for the crowd around the lake, I almost gave up on the walk, but ultimately decided to drive over to Oak Canyon Trail.

At its southern end, off San Juan Drive, the trail is a generous easement between properties and doesn’t begin to resemble a canyon. That section is wide enough to accommodate a vehicle and runs along about a quarter of a mile between the back yards of the houses and barns lying on either side. I knew it would be most unlikely that I could run into anything wilder than a rabbit in that highly populated area, so I felt safe setting off by myself.

Of course I had my camera with me and before I knew it, I was shooting. It would have to be a very short walk, because at the end of that quarter mile I would leave behind the horse corrals, barking dogs, braying burros, and cozy back yards to turn down into the canyon and past the sign warning of mountain lion sightings. The cool evening was perfect for a longer walk and I was feeling more like a hike than when I had left the house. Early on, I got a good look at a couple of deer in a clearing up ahead of me and they were tempting me pass that sign by and take my chances in the canyon. I wasn’t quite ready to turn back when I came to the turn in the trail and reached the warning sign; but, common sense won out. I left the remainder of Oak Canyon Trail for another evening.

When I reviewed my shots, I discovered that I had actually gotten a few that I liked. That’s especially pleasant when you are not expecting anything. Two days later, it dawned on me that June1 had arrived and I had better get cracking on SoFoBoMo. It came as a pleasant surprise to realize that I had already begun. I just had not planned my start date.

What Are Friends For?

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Recently, I whimpered in public about what I put myself through when faced with the challenge of completing a photography project. I admit that I sat on that post for some time, reluctant to share such personal doubts and the particular fears that I confessed. It turns out that it was one of the best things that I could have done for myself. Some bloggers left comments on my site and a number of others posted commentary on the topic at their blogs. All of it was incredibly helpful. This experience was another reminder that if you would like a little help, you might try asking for it.

Not surprisingly, the oft-repeated theme in the responses was “simply get on with the work.” I admit that it’s an annoyance to need reminders of this simple fact, but there we are. There are times, thank goodness, when I simply need to remind myself. Then again, there are times when the reminder has more impact coming from others. That’s especially true when colleagues share that they have occasionally needed to jog their memory, as well.

What I am celebrating is that this spilling of my doubts and admissions to getting blocked spurred even more than the invaluable reminders that there is no way around the wisdom of just doing the work. I got a welcome chorus of admonitions to “Buck up and get on with it”. (I felt a little like one of those characters in a movie who is falling apart and when slapped by the common-sense hero, the now clear-eyed fellow says, “Thanks, I needed that.”)

The bonus was that I got more in the way of coping techniques than I hoped for. A major contribution came in the form of an excellent and most helpful statement by Martin Doonan. I’ve pulled a few lines from his post, but you really need to read the entire thing (along with a number of other posts, by the way). Martin says that starting is never a problem for him and adds that like some others he likes to “get going, prove stuff can be done, extract the goodness and move on.” He goes so far as to say that he is “not a completer.” Then he pulls it all together with this first-class lesson.

"I've learnt that to complete stuff, I need to make the end run easy on myself. Line everything up ready for a quick blast for the finish line…
thus my key strategies for getting projects done: having confidence in my ability to do the thing and clearing the path for an easy finish." (emphasis, mine)

Bingo. The simple, and ever so smart strategy, of anticipating the potholes near the finish line is useful enough, but what had the most impact on me was that reminder that confidence plays a critical role.

Then, the full “Whack on the Side of the Head” came while chatting (in comments) with Niels Henriksen about his

February 17 post:

“I don't know why I tend to criticize myself for learning when I know that I am still a beginner and therefore I shouldn’t expect so much. Part maybe that in other activities I am better and therefore subconsciously I tend to think the next activity should go as well.”

Duh. I knew better than to compare myself to others. But, I have been making a mistake that is just as disastrous. While I haven’t done it consciously, on some level I have been measuring my skills as a photographer against my skills as an actor and teacher. Never mind that I had spent multiple decades honing those skills.

Now, thanks to Niels and Martin, I know that when I wrote (in that whine) about missing teaching, part of what I was missing. I craved that confidence that I had earned over decades while working in one field. Even though I continued to work hard at honing my skills as an actor, then teacher, I knew for a long time that I was building on a solid foundation. Of course, what’s most embarrassing is that I seem to remember giving advice very much like this to people I coached in the past. Lesson learned and re-learned.

After chewing on these revelations for a few days, I thought about the many books on productivity and creativity that I have consumed. Those books made a major difference in my teaching career and have thus far served me well in my new passion. But, this business of carrying on conversations with individuals who are currently more involved in doing the work rather than talking about the process from the position of the instructor have something to offer that is difficult to find in books. There is a freshness and rawness to these conversations that rarely makes its way into books. The book-editing process is a valuable one, but sometimes it sucks part of the energy and flavor out of the material. The academic voice often creeps in and stifles the humanity of the speaker. There are some amazing people writing on the web, and I am learning more than I ever expected to by following a few of the passionate photographers who are willing to write about their process.

Way Down Yonder

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The last time we spent some time in Bear Valley, we were treated two evenings in a row to a visit by some of our four-legged neighbors. On both occasions, the deer hung around the little stand of trees at the far edge of our property about a quarter mile (according to The Husband) from the house. (This deer, "way down yonder" is actually just beyond our property line.) I don't have the lens to get a good shot, but I tried my new 70-200 f4 IS lens combined with a 1.4 teleconverter and, after a bit of cropping, I managed to get this teaser.

I don't know how I long I will be able to tolerate not having a good 300mm lens that will work with that converter what with deer, coyotes, and hawks tempting me on a regular basis. A person can only tolerate that sort of pressure for so long. Right? Heck, I have even found myself fantasizing about a blind of some sort out in that field. Too many temptations.

I Love LA—Mostly (Apologies to Randy Newman)

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This evening, we went to Gabrieleno Park to chase moonlight and found some light we weren’t counting on. As we entered the park in what used to be my Honda Accord, but is now The Husband’s, we noticed a rather sizable gathering of folks in the area closest to the entrance where the public restrooms are, along with several barbeque pits and a large grove of beautiful old oak trees. One of the barbeque pits obviously had a roaring good blaze going and I noted that I had rarely seen that many cars in that part of the park. We drove on by, following the road that wound toward the back of the park and past the large fenced arena for the horseback riders.

Our intention was to hike away from the park, along Haul Road and the nearby horse trails, to make our way toward the giant blooming yuccas about half a mile from the park. We have never gone there for a walk that we didn’t have a good time and every visit is little different. Besides, tonight there was a double mission. My handy-dandy calendar I print for each month said the moon would rise at 7:11 PM tonight, and I figured that would be just about right to catch a near-full moon coming up over the mountains with enough light in the sky to get a nice shot. Besides, what the heck, if that didn’t work, I would turn around and maybe get more sunset shots. All that and the yuccas, too. Sounded peaceful, wonderfully bucolic, and I would add to my pile of shots for my SoFoBoMo project. (There’s some question as to whether that’s really a good idea, but never mind.)

Just as I had stuffed every last shot I could get on a one-gig card, we heard six or seven loud pops, one after the other, coming from somewhere behind us—in other words in the direction of the park. I was thinking, “Strange, why would anyone be shooting off firecrackers this time of the year”, when The Husband said, “That was a pistol.” Within seconds, there it was again. “Pop! Pop!” By then, the mood had changed a bit and we knew chasing the moon was a lost cause anyway. Sure enough, the cloud cover that had rolled in about 4 PM was thicker than the proverbial pea soup in the East. No moonrise for us, so we decided to head back West. As we picked our way back through the mean chollo cactus and over the rocky trail, we couldn’t help but listen to see if we heard police sirens. Nonetheless, for the longest time it was absolutely quiet out there, except for the distant hum of the freeway and a brief exchange of niceties with the charro in his colorful, ultra wide-brimmed sombrero riding a big paint.

Of course, I had to load another CF card just in case the sunset became irresistible, but before long there was a distraction and I forgot to keep an eye on the sunset. A helicopter had begun circling to the west of us—that would be over the park. Soon it dropped down, so we could see clearly that it was, indeed, a police helicopter. I began to wonder if we would be stuck in the park waiting for a long investigation. (I was once waiting in line at a bank and found myself behind a fellow with a gun who hoped to withdraw a lot of people’s money. Fortunately, he never used the gun, almost in spite of the loud-mouthed woman behind me who kept asking why that rude man had stepped in front of the line, and who did he think he was anyway. I wanted to clamp my hand over her mouth to shut her up, but figured I would then be identified as an accomplice. After it was all over, I remember how long it took waiting for the investigation before we were all released to go home, stop shaking, and say our prayers of gratitude for walking out of there.)

As we neared the park, the light was fading and the helicopter circled high above us while the passengers got a good look at us. The husband said, “Don’t point that camera at them!” It was tough to resist because there was a bird flying exactly in almost perfect sync with the ‘copter and the two silhouetted against an inky evening sky was very tempting; but I had already had the thought that that might not be a smart move. The Husband was a little concerned about toting the tripod in the growing darkness and wondering what it might look like from up there in the air. When we got to the fence bordering the park and ducked under it to head for the car—the only one left in that part of the park, the ‘copter began to circle us, and by now the searchlight was on. Now, I have lived in Los Angeles for thirty-five years, but this was a new experience for me.

I am wearing a sweatshirt hoodie with my head covered (forgot the hat). Jim is carrying the large weapon; I am carrying a small weapon of some sort. And, we are coming out of the brush, in the semi-darkness, to get into a dark Honda Accord in a deserted parking lot where gun shots have recently been fired. Hardly any gang members drive Honda Accords, right? Wrong!! Why else would they steal them? By the thousands?!!! Because they not only take them to chop shops for parts, but they drive them themselves. We calmly packed the gear in the trunk of the Accord, being careful to not make any sudden moves and just as we finished, the police car came down through the trees and headed for the lot where we were. The cruiser pulled up— we had been careful to not make a move to get in the car, and the helicopter was circling in a tight circle now, with the searchlight pinned on the two of us. I am thinking dead bodies on that lawn near the entrance and wondering what this chat with the police will be like.

The police couldn’t have been nicer. I think they figured pretty fast that we looked quite harmless, and it turned out they just wanted to ask if we had heard gunfire. We told them we had, they said thanks and wanted to know how many. We obliged, then crawled in the car, finally out of the spotlight and, by then, sure that there obviously weren’t any bodies on the lawn. The cruiser followed us toward the exit, past the deserted lots, and when we reached the spot where the party had taken place, we were appalled to see that the barbeque was still roaring and the area looked like a giant pig sty.

We pulled in—still being followed—and began picking up garbage—believe me we couldn’t have made a dent in it if we had spent the night there—and searching for bottles of water to douse the barbecue pit that was filled with enough hot coals to cook barbeque for a small army. The Husband told the patrolmen that this was where we had seen the big party, and they set about picking up shell casings in the parking lot while we worked on garbage and the fire. I heard one of the policemen place a call asking to be notified if anyone appeared at nearby hospitals with gunshots wounds. So there was a pathetic ending to a night of idyllic beauty and tranquility, punctuated by what is all too common in Los Angeles. There are parts of my life here I will miss fiercely—and then, there are some….

Aaand We're Off!

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Best of luck to all those participating in the SoFoBoMo game. And a special big thank you to Paul Butzi for coming up with the concept and issuing the challenge. In theatre, one wishes colleagues a good show with “Break a leg”. What is the equivalent in the photography world?

It is a joy to be part of such a fine crowd. We have our hero, Paul Lester, who showed us that we could do this. After all, if Paul could accomplish “One” in less than three hours, surely a month would be more than enough time for even those of us who may be slowpokes to produce a project. Paul Butzi named Gordon McGregor as our cheerleader. Gordon has been doing yeoman service for some time, but outdid himself with his new “pipe”. Combine that with John Seltzer’s blog, “Tell the World”, Colin Jago’s list of participants and collection of posts, plus Paul Butzi's collection of posts at the mother ship and it’s easy to keep track of what the SoFoBoMoers are up to. Recently, I nicknamed our fearless leader, Paul B. The Instigator, then later elevated him to Pope Paul. Now Paul L. has picked up that name and repeated it, and I find myself wondering what other names Paul B. might earn in the course of this coming sixty days of feverish activity. I think I see a wicked streak in him with this offer of a print to anyone who completes two projects in the sixty days. Hasn’t he yet learned that you don’t throw down the gauntlet to this crowd? He is bound to get a few takers, so I hope he has chosen that print and is prepared to ship some “prizes” to the “winners”. Perhaps he should also be prepared for some spouses or significant others producing voodoo dolls of the fellow who started this sublime madness.

The Sound of the SoFoBoMo Starting Gun

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I had intended to sleep in today and save what little energy I expected to have for taxes after a tiring day yesterday. However, the SoFoBoMo starting gun woke me at 6:30 AM, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. It seems I have changed my mind yet again and decided to start my project today, after all. It will be just a toe-dip in the pond, but I will officially start my photobook. I had thought I would be logical and do some catching up first, but all the exciting new things I have learned in the last couple of weeks have me itching to get going.

The last few days had gotten a little crazy. Last week ended with jack hammers at the front of the house and tar paper at the rear. The plumbers were destroying the sidewalk and half the driveway, while the roofing contractor and his crew got rid of damaged rafter tails (almost sounds like I know what I’m talking about, doesn’t it?) and repaired a portion of the roof that might have aroused the interest of an inspector. The Husband had taken repairs as far as his skills, tools and, most of all, time would allow. It was time to bring in a team of pros.

Before the dust had cleared, we ran away on Saturday to Bear Valley to recharge the batteries. Part of the plan was to take a break before grappling with the final stages of filing taxes. That would clear the decks for me to plunge into SoFoBoMo. However, a funny thing happened on the way to the starting gate. Last Friday, my doctor instructed me that a first test checking my gall bladder raised questions and I was set for a CT Scan for Monday (yesterday). Have you ever had one of those delicious barium shakes? Oh, yum. To make a long, very boring story short, I spent most of yesterday fighting the typical nausea and headache after-effects.

I did manage a few meager accomplishments other than processing a few shots from our weekend getaway. I discovered that the reason I was no longer able to print a PDF out of Pagemaker was one of one of those all-too-common-for-me operator errors (Distiller offers way too many choices for novices like me.) One more problem solved. Yesterday morning before I got away for my rendezvous with foul liquids, my Shutterfly book arrived. Speedy service. I placed the order late afternoon Tuesday, March 25, and the book arrived Monday around 10:00 AM. Another question answered. It's “no” to Shutterfly.

The biggest problem with Shutterfly is that this service offers no profile and I have never run across one. (I will ask Mark Hobson about this. He mentioned using Shutterfly and liking the results.) In the case of some photos, I was quite disappointed. Obviously, their lab tweaks the exposure to “help out the photographer”. In the case of one highly stylized shot (posted here Saturday, March 8, 2008), they had brightened the shot to bring back much of the detail they assumed I had lost by mistake. In the case of another shot that I had liked for its subtle tones (Tuesday, January 29, 2008), they blasted it with color and turned it into something quite garish. I certainly can’t complain since I threw this book together pretty fast and, after all, it was free. (Without the freebie, the 8x8 book would have cost $29.99). Next time I will try Blurb.

The accompanying photo was taken on Highway 223 on the eastern edge of the San Joaquin Valley just as you come down the western side of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. This spot is about forty-five minutes away from our place in Bear Valley. No doubt, I will be making multiple visits.