Caution

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CAUTION - PHOTOGRAPH AT YOUR OWN RISK!
These rocks have been photographed by the top
landscape photographers in the country.

Your work WILL be compared to the best of the best.
Management is not responsible for any embarrassment,
or regret on the part of reckless photographers who proceed
beyond this warning to press the shutter. Should you
proceed, you are urged to keep your photograph
hidden safely in a drawer.

I’m quite certain I saw this sign posted in Sedona, Arizona. As you can see, I decided to live dangerously. After all, the picture brings me pleasure and reminds me of that color-filled evening and the wonder of those rocks. But, let’s just keep it between you and me, okay?

Passages

Recently, I have been musing about the changing nature of the events and celebrations that tend to dominate our personal calendars. I am not talking about the yearly calendar events—the holiday gatherings and traditions, but the special events that mark the transitions in a life. Moreover, I am talking specifically about the events during which we are not the “the star of the show”—the birthday girl or boy, the bride or groom—but the gatherings we attend to honor or celebrate the passages in the lives of others. When we are very young, our social schedule includes mostly birthday celebrations and it’s all about cake, ice cream, and maybe a clown. Then, especially if we live near extended family, we are likely to move on to a series of rather staid graduation ceremonies with all those lofty expectations. And, of course, we all come to the tumultuous, sometimes giddy (and almost always expensive) wedding stage. (I have known a number of young actors here in Los Angeles who can never pay down their credit card, because there is always another wedding “back home”.) Naturally, the wedding phase leads to the baby shower phase for the females and—depending upon the closeness of the friends—christenings, another round of birthday parties, graduations, and weddings.

I will give away my age by revealing that I am in the memorial phase of my life. You know. The phase where we switch from shouting, “hello!” to whispering, “good-bye”. Last night, set me reflecting on the diversity of tone in the far too numerous memorials I have attended in the last few years. Perhaps because I live in a community that is home to a plethora of creative people, most of whom are quite comfortable taking center stage and putting their individual stamp on almost any occasion, no two memorials are the same. Each is intensely personal, reflecting the personality of the deceased as well as those who have crafted the memorial and, to some degree, those in attendance. Each holds a special place in my heart and mind and I am grateful to those who made those events possible.

Last night’s memorial was a fitting testament to a life well-lived. The event honored an accomplished musician. Thus, not surprisingly, the “hall” was filled with musical talent. The talent was generously shared, and through the healing power of music the tears got all jumbled with joy and love. The evening was a perfect final note to what had been a lovely song.

The catharsis of saying goodbye and celebrating someone’s life seems, to me, a crucial stage in what turns out to be a never quite ending grieving process. (I can’t say I buy the theory “that time heals all wounds”. For me, time allows for the formation of calluses and scabs over the bruises and wounds. Nevertheless, it takes only an unexpected reminder of the loss to rip off the callous or scab and all that pain comes flooding back. This may very well be a flaw in my own character rather than a truism. Still, it is my experience.) But, beyond the catharsis, the memorials have been instructive. They remind me that our time here is brief. Then, when we are gone, there will be others left behind, who will remember us—with our without affection. So, perhaps we should occasionally give some thought to how we will be remembered. The stories that I hear consistently shared at these life-celebrations are a sober reminder of what counts. Without fail, the moments most often recalled with affection and gratitude are little moments. Moments of small kindnesses or personal humor in awkward situations. It’s so tempting to spend our time wondering how our contributions to “the world” will be perceived, while those in our immediate lives are starved for those special little moments they will always remember. Is it too gruesome to confess that I have decided to work a bit more on my memorial?

Real and Unreal

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My first impression of this picture, as I browsed the archives, was, "Wow, I must have gotten carried away with processing on that one." Curious, I checked and, surprisingly, there was minimal work done on the file. As it turns out,I had brought the raw file into Lightroom and I hadn't touched the vibrance slider, or any of the color sliders. I had brightened the shot a tad and added a smidgen of fill light. That was it.

The experience reminded me of one of the favorite stories told by the head of the drama department where I got my undergraduate degree. He chided us to study nature and to be more bold with our choices in lighting designs. He delighted in telling us that after living in the southwest for a time—being an east coast native—he returned to the northeast to work in theatre. While he was certain he was holding "as ’t were, the mirror up to nature", his lighting designs were met with derisive comments, and he was frequently asked to alter his plans. He told us that more than once a director pointed to the stage and informed him that, "That light outside the window looks fake. I want something much more realistic."

At first glance, I was certain that this image wasn't "realistic". It was lovely to remember Mr. M.—all my memories of him are fond ones—and pleasing to remember that sometime sunsets really are that spectacular.

Losses

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If you have a friend you have been meaning to call, call. If there is someone you have been intending to get together with for lunch or dinner, go. If there is someone you have been meaning to write, write. We hurtle through our lives planning all those things we will do next week, next month, even next year. Meanwhile life passes by; things change; and people who were there last week are gone. There’s no taking it back. There are no second chances. Gone is gone.

R. G., rest in peace. We will miss you and your quick smile.

Paradise and Mush

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It definitely ain't art, but I just wanted to show you one of the things I will have to leave behind at our little home. The Birds of Paradise were here when we moved in and they have survived all our sputtering attention and neglect. They have not only survived, they have treated us to a grand display of outrageous color each and every year. They will be sorely missed.

With the bedlam here, I missed an opportunity to celebrate a tiny anniversary this week. The post on the 26th was post number one hundred. I should have had a small celebration.

For the last couple of days even if I take a break to sit down at the computer, I stare at the screen, but nothing happens. My brain has turned to mush. I think one or two neurons might be firing—might be. This moving thing is for young people, or the wealthy. (Some days I fantasize about what it would be like to simply direct others to do all this work. I could just walk around directing others to handle the chores.) I have read numerous fascinating entries in the blogs I visit most days (all the Paul's—Butzi, Lester, and Maxim—have been posting some wonderful material. Meanwhile, Doug Stockdale continues to describe his progression as he develops a series and enlightens the rest of us in in the process. But, I sit like a lump unable to articulate my admiration for their work, much less add anything to the conversation. Since the 2008 Great Rebellion of my digestive system, those jolts of caffeine that can coax a few more neurons to fire are no longer an option. I would love to tell you stories about The Husband sanding and painting the front door (we are still tweaking and polishing); the relief of finally being on the market, our one day trip to Bear Valley delivering still more boxes. But, I couldn't do any of them justice. So, I will settle for letting you know there are stories—just not today.

The End of Phase One—Finally

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The trees got trimmed; the deck got painted; still more boxes got filled; who knows how many trips were made to the thrift store to donate items that should have been gotten rid of a long time ago; furniture got rearranged and some was moved out of the house. We were pretty much there last week, but I got sick (stress does wicked thing to the body, doesn’t it?) and then we got inspired to do more. So, we spent another week, doing still more tweaking, polishing, and “set dressing”. The Husband and I are exhausted, but we got a passing grade. Whoopee! We go on the market this weekend. I know, I know “the market is dead”. Still, someone is buying, and we are prepared to be exceptions. The main thing is that phase one is behind us. Today, Carey, our LA realtor, (we have our LA realtor and our Bear Valley realtor—lucky us, both fantastic ladies) told us that sometimes going through this ordeal wrecks marriages. Now, she tells us. I think we were working so hard that we were too tired to fight.

The only photography I have done is taking pictures for Carey. (Hey, it was better than not taking pictures at all.) Actually, it was a great experience, since I knew nothing about taking photos for marketing a house. Because I had neither the time, nor the energy, to do anything fancy, I kept it verrrry simple and shot with the on-camera flash. Still, she liked what I got, so I guess I learned a few things along the way.

I dipped into the Colorado folder for the photo above.

KISS

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I have been reading some of Mark Hobson’s posts at The Landscapist, and he has posted some very useful information for making a photo book. His choice among the POD printers is Shutterfly. Ding! I had completely put out of my mind the fact that a little over a year ago I ordered a book from Shutterfly. It wasn’t wonderful, but that was pretty much all my fault. I have learned a great deal since then—that seems like a long time ago. Besides, on that occasion, I simply used their templates, and I wouldn’t do that again. Still, I have some experience with that setup, and this would save me the angst of searching for the right printer and familiarizing myself with another printer’s format. I also found very appealing Mark’s suggestion to simply do the layout in Adobe Photoshop, forget learning another program, and feel free to keep the text to a minimum. Hooray! I’m in favor of all that. Perhaps, my favorite part of Mark's posts were his advice to keep it simple. All too frequently, I forget that old wisdom, KISS—Keep It Simple, Stupid.

The idea of getting 35 shots I can bear to have printed in a book is still intimidating. Plus, I will have to lay the book out page by page in Photoshop—I stopped with Adobe Pagemaker (that was way back) and never made my peace with InDesign. I can save that challenge for next year. Nevertheless, I feel encouraged. Now, if the theme I have in mind just holds up to scrutiny and we ever sell our house—and we ever move, and I ever have time to pick a camera again!

That Blasted Hourglass

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Some people (Let’s face it women, mostly. Because, over all, we do more housework than men do. ) talk about housework being conducive to a meditative state. After all, you don’t burn a lot of brain cells dusting and scrubbing. The greatest percentage of your mind is free to wander.

Lately, I have been doing A Lot of housework and my mind is wandering in ways that are not necessarily productive. Now, some of the woolgathering is devoted to soul-stirring images of life in Bear Valley. Pictures of sunsets replete with breathtaking clouds swimming in shimmering golds, hawks swooping down in the meadow grass just beyond our back door, deer wandering across our pasture land and stopping to graze, our horses gamboling in the field with the Tehachapi’s as a backdrop—pretty sweet stuff. On the other hand, some stuff creeps into my head that is not so comforting. Lately, one image that returns all too frequently is that of the blasted hourglass of time. (Natuarlly, this is partially connected to The Book. SoFoBoMo, that is.) But, here’s what’s troubling. That sand in my hourglass isn’t passing through to the bottom slowly and smoothly, as it should. The darned thing is functioning more like a funnel—and I’m talking about a biiiig funnel—one you would use for flour, or rocks, for crying out loud.

SoFoBoMo Dreams—or Nightmares

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Hard as I try to stay focused on cleaning the house (our realtor comes Tuesday morning and she is a tough grader), my mind keeps drifting to thoughts of photo books. Of course, I pretty much need a theme I can shoot in our new home in Bear Valley. By April 1, the date the SoFoBoMo season opens, we expect to be moving, or at least spending a great deal of time at our new place. Choosing a theme that tied me to my current area would be awkward, to say the least. I have tried to come up with a theme that capitalizes on the current chaos in my life, but so far, nada. More than once, I have “settled” on a theme, then picked at it a couple of days, and discovered it doesn’t hold up for me.

Yesterday, as I cleaned and listened to rock music from of the “British Invasion” on FM, my mind wandered as usual to the photobook, and I hit on another idea. (Must have been The Stones or maybe it was The Animals. Hmm. One of those themes might work in Bear Valley. No, not really.) Now, let’s see if this idea lasts more than two or three days. I’ll give it a few days before saying it out loud. In the meantime, I have been spending every second I can excuse from work reading the blogs of other participants. Everyone is incredibly generous with information and research. I am rapidly learning that the best part of this entire project is being a tiny, tiny piece of this great group-adventure. While I am nearly paralyzed with fear about this thing, I know I am going to learn so much that it will be worth the scare.

Several bloggers are posting useful information about the SoFoBoMo challenge. I have already mentioned Paul Butzi (The Instigator) and Doug Stockdale, who generously shares his thoughts about his own journey. In the last couple of days, Colin Jago has posted a list of all the participants with links and John Seltzer has created a new blog dedicated to SoFoBoMo, complete with a blogroll including all who have accepted the challenge. A great big "thank you" to all the guys who contribute so much. Of course, now any hopes I may have harbored about slinking along the edges of this, blessedly unnoticed, have gone up in smoke. John's new site is titled, "Tell The World". Now, it's official. If I make a fool of myself, the whole world will know.

Our Little Bit of Heaven

Well, folks, what do you think? We believe it has potential. Sure, there is a lot of work to be done, but it's a great location.

Only kidding. This is the real McCoy. This is where we will soon be hanging our hats.

You do know the camera can lie like crazy, don’t you? I feel compelled to admit that just beyond the garage (on the left side of the picture) there is a fence; and right over that fence, you would see our neighbor’s house, barn, and horses in their pastures. Furthermore, if I had stood on our front porch and taken a picture facing that way, you would see, all the neighbors’ places on the other side of the road. But, our place looks so wonderfully idyllic, so private and “country” this way. After all, I didn’t add anything to the photograph, and I didn’t delete anything after the fact. It’s just what I chose to leave out of the frame. Tricky, I know, but photographers do this sort of thing.

Even with the confession of framing the scene to best advantage, can you see why we call it our Big Sky country? At last, we have a place where The Husband can finally play at being gentleman rancher. Meanwhile, The Wife can chronicle the stories of “A Man and his Bush Hog” (that's the tractor, in case you know as little about tractors as I do), “The Gentleman Rancher and the Arabian Steeds”, and “The City Slickers Go Country—Sort Of”.