Flawed Workflow

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

The more progress I make with this cleanup the more I realize how much is yet ahead of me. It isn’t as if I had dumped files on random hard drives with no system at all; still, I have found my system woefully wanting. Part of my problem is that I got completely shutter-happy for several months this year and my shaky system was overwhelmed. It was overwhelmed partly because the system was weak, but mostly because I got took hundreds of pictures and began rushing to the next batch of photos before I completed the workflow on the previous one.

As for my filling system, it isn’t as if I hadn’t spent hours reading articles about workflow and organization. But, not surprisingly, if you read twelve experts on organization of files you get twelve different plans for surefire solutions. At this point, I am more convinced than ever that some of this flailing about it is an inevitable part of the process. I suspect that ultimately, each of us has to establish a system that works for us. For example, I remember studying the workflow of one individual who organizes all his files almost exclusively by numbers, assigning each project a unique number. Ugh, my head hurts just thinking about it. Though I learned early on that some numbers, dates and file numbers for example, are essential, that expert’s methods would turn me into a whimpering wreck in less than a month.

My method of organizing my files is still in flux and that is the major problem. The biggest problem was procrastination. I put off the drudgery work and had fun. Am I contrite? Not really. Yes, I now face an unholy mess. But, I had a grand time creating it, and I learned a great deal. It will be a long slow process, but I am getting closer to sorting out the chaos.

And then, there’s the anxiety about some of the photos I am tossing. Believe me, in spite of my jokes about machetes and General Sherman tactics, I am proceeding somewhat cautiously. Confidence in my editing abilities has grown in the last year, but I have a ways to go in that department. I still consider myself a near-beginner at this photography thing and a hungry student.

There were some interesting comments on my last post about editing old files and I noted the anxiety others face when deleting old photos. I would love to hear some ideas on workflow systems.

Paying the Price

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

You know those news stories that include a photo of the usually slump-shouldered elderly person in the baggy, soiled sweater with the hair pointing every possible direction who has been exposed as a pack rat? The next photo shows an appalling scene of stacked newspapers, tin cans, empty cereal boxes, and all sorts of debris that normal people discard. We shake our heads and say, “How does something like this happen to a person?” Well, those are the pictures that have come to mind as I have buried myself in the chore of cleaning out old files. I feel far too much like the person in that first photo.

Since I began taking pictures, I have been sloppy about editing. Like many of us, I suspect, I would much rather take photos than face filing duty. I not only don’t mind photo processing, but usually enjoy it. It is the downloading, editing, and keywording that are drudgery. As for cleaning out folders and discarding pictures in old folders—that I will postpone until I can’t avoid it any longer. Oh, sure, I will occasionally get serious and clean out a handful of old files, but it has always been tough for me to be ruthless and, mostly, I have taken the easy way out by deleting a handful of obvious losers and promising myself to get back to a folder later.

The time is here. I can’t simply continue adding external hard drives. At last, I have begun going through old folders and this job calls for a machete. I need to channel my inner General Sherman. (Yes, that is a gentle swipe at The Husband and his style of landscaping.)

I did notice as I started this project a few days ago (yes, that’s where I have been—buried under piles of electronic debris and obsessed with cleaning up the mess.) I will say that that the task is easier this time around. Because I have been taking hundreds of photos in the last several months, it is finally easier to discard marginal pictures that could possibly be saved. Besides, I faced the fact that I can’t simply continue to add more external hard drives. Another scene that has been popping into my mind, recently, is one where I place the newest hard drive at the end of the row and my desk collapses in a heap of dust.

Sunsets and Repeated Themes

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

A few days ago, Paul Lester posted his thoughts about the themes some of us repeat in our photographs. I admitted in my comment on his post that I sometimes think, from the beginning, I have been endlessly repeating the same five or ten photographs. Sure, I produce some pictures that have subtle variations in details and sometimes I manage larger changes that might briefly fool the casual observer. Even then, it wouldn’t take a genius to see that the scriptwriter is rehashing one of the same old familiar plots—just trotting in new actors—maybe even tossing in a few new set pieces or turning the opus into a period piece.

From the beginning, sunsets have been a dominant theme of mine. Periodically, I vow to myself that I will close the door on this phase and declare, “Enough. I could supply a city full of amateur photographers with sunset photos.” My effort is wasted. Ultimately, I never can resist going for one more.

The truth is that, while a part of me wants to resist photographing sunrises and sunsets and “move on” to a new subject, I never grow tired of losing myself in that splendor that marks the beginnings and endings of each day. For me, those final moments as the sun sinks out of sight are always particularly touching. Another day has slipped away and those hours can never be retrieved.

Some days end with no fanfare, and I find that touching in itself. No fanfare. No eye-filling displays of color. The sun simply slides behind the curve of the planet and the day is fundamentally gone. Then there are the days when the sun, in a last fierce blast of energy, belches color across the sky and the west erupts in a dazzling display of golds, purples, and pinks. Not all days give way quietly to the darkness. I am always awed by the drama.

I know my fascination with sunrises and sunsets has something to do with my keen appreciation of story and, after all, all stories have beginnings and ending. Great stories, (the ones we tuck away in the backs of our minds, so we can take them out and relish them now and again) have beginnings that grab us and say, “Come with me. Forget everything else. You don’t want to miss a moment of this!” The endings or resolutions of those stories are equally engaging and tend to stay with us. They often persist in our minds because they are spectacular. But, perhaps most of all, those endings that are satisfying incorporate events that are not fully predictable, while still resonating with us as ultimately inevitable. We have all read novels or seen films that were weakened by endings that didn’t meet these criteria. Sunsets always seem to be fitting endings. They are certainly predictable to a degree, but you just never know what delicious surprises may be thrown in during those last few moments.

I notice that my fascination with sunsets grows as I age. That’s probably because, like everyone else, I become increasingly aware of my mortality as the years pass. Sunsets are also about transience. No day, no matter how much fun, or how significant—or how awful, for that matter, lasts forever. These are not morose thoughts. They are simply some observations that were floating through my mind while I processed this photograph and marveled at the beauty and splendor that is there for us to enjoy each evening as one day fades into the next.

The Last Rose Standing

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

Not surprisingly, I became quite attached to the only rose that was spared in The Great August Massacre. Now, it probably qualifies as the most photographed rose on the North American continent. I wasn’t thinking about insects as I focused the macro lens on this occasion, but these wise guys popped into the frame. I decided to humor them.

Originally, I toyed with the idea of going black and white for this one. When that didn’t seem right, I opted for the muted tones. When you consider how addicted I am to color, I wonder what this says about my state of mind. Maybe it has something to do with all the dreadful news from the Los Angeles area. It’s difficult to manage a light-hearted attitude with the fires devouring acre after acre.

Small Pleasures in a Small World

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

I am no expert on retirement. Yet, in spite of my new and limited experience, I have a theory that when one retires it is apt to result in either an expansion or retraction in the size of one’s world. Some retire from the workforce to expand their world—to travel and see sights abroad, or at least to explore their own continent. Maybe these people take advantage of their new leisure to participate in activities that were previously off-limits due to lack of free time. Either of these choices can result in a widening circle of friends and associates. There is another group who find themselves staying closer to home after retirement and, in some cases, reducing the number of activities. To some degree, these changes may not be choices, but the consequences of shrinking financial resources or loss of physical strength and resilience. The second route may mean a smaller world along with fewer friends and associates.

Clearly, I am in the second group. My world is infinitely smaller now than the one I inhabited a couple of years ago. I am content to spend day after day without ever getting off the ranch. (Our place isn't really a ranch, but that's our little joke between The Husband and me.) I spend so much time on photography that it leaves little opportunity for other pursuits. Whereas, in the past, I worked with dozens of people every week and my circle of associates was constantly in flux with new faces added on a regular basis, I now go a week, or more, without meeting anyone new. Previously, my work with others put me in a position where it was easy to become personally invested in other people's progress and emotional well-being. I willingly assumed that responsibility and I carried my work around with me almost every waking hour. I hadn’t realized how tiring that was, because I gave it my all by choice and took pride in my work.

Do I miss my larger and busier world? Yes, sometimes I do. Would I trade this smaller one for it? Not a chance. Everything in its own good time. As little as five years ago, life here would have driven me berserk. I am ready for it now, and that makes all the difference. The quiet, the simplicity, the opportunity to focus on tiny details have come at the perfect moment in my life for me to relish every moment of it. I didn’t always take a moment to smell those roses, or enjoy one of the last wild daisies clinging to summer. And, I confess that it took a time for me to slow the internal engine. My mother once chided me that I had only two speeds: off (for as short a period as possible) and full bore. Now, I am learning to cruise at slower speeds and even let the engine idle occasionally. With the exception of intermitent pangs of guilt for being a slacker, I am making the most of my time as I I stroll through more of my days.

Newly Mown Fields

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

When The Husband reaches for a hoe, weed-whacker, or the mower, I quake in fear. You need to know this, The Husband is a fine gardener. With my lousy back, he not only does the heavy lifting in our gardening, he does all the lifting. He cares, he truly enjoys the rewards, and he is willing to do the work. I am deeply grateful.

However. You knew that was coming, didn’t you? However, when it comes time to clean up the yard, he is, in his heart, committed to what I have named the General Sherman school of landscaping. That’s General William Tecumseh Sherman, he of the “scorched earth” policy. Right. The general who torched Atlanta.

When he announced that it was time to mow down what was left of the wild daisies near the house, I was a little nervous. Who knew what else would fall along with the dried daisy stalks. I watched him drive the tractor out of the shed and retreated to the office, resigned to live with the consequences.

This time, it turned out for the best. I can walk more freely now, no longer dodging the impenetrable clumps of stalks with all the dried vegetation camouflaging goodness only knew what. The ant beds are a new concern, but I have long been wary of the gopher holes, and we do live in rattlesnake country. Now, I can see where I am going and feel more confident to explore beyond what had been my narrow walkways. The first signs of fall are already in the air and there will be more of these cloud shows in the days to come. It’s nice having access to even more viewpoints from which to enjoy them. General Sherman, a job well done. I salute you, sir.

ADDENDUM:

Before the pixels had settled from this post, General Sherman went back to work. The second wave of the battle took out the daisies that were still hanging on at the edge of the patio. War is indeed hell. Now, about that salute.

No Scents Whatsoever

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

(Before you jump to any conclusions, check that spelling. I will occasionally own up to having very little sense; but, this time, I am talking about scents.)

We all miss out on things in life. The notion of “having it all” was always an empty promise and a cruel tease. Instead, life is about making choices. Letting go of one thing to hold on to another. Taking one road, but missing out on the other. Foregoing one pleasure for the sake of different one.

One of the things missing from my life had nothing to do with choices. I have no sense of smell and, since I never did, I can’t rely on memory to bring back lost pleasures. At first, it seemed only slightly odd to me as a child that others talked about perfumes while it seemed to me that the only flowers with any scent was maybe gardenias. My mother had a treasured gardenia bush that my father had planted as an anniversary gift and my mother couldn’t have been happier had it been a fur coat. (Well, that’s weak. We lived in central Texas and a fur coat would have been useful for only about two months out of the year. And, yes, I know fur coats are politically incorrect; but, I was born and raised before, and therefore remain somewhat blissfully immune to, pc thinking.)

At any rate, thanks to that bush, I found that if it put my nose down inside—nearly through—a gardenia, I could detect an aroma and, because there weren’t many aromas in my world, it was a pleasant sensation. The only other scent I recall was that of fresh leather when my brand new saddle arrived from Sears and Roebuck, no less.

Gradually, I discovered that everyone detected thousands of these smells that I was missing out on. But, since there wasn’t much I could do about it, I suppose I simply concentrated on the joys of my other senses. Over the past few days, I have thought about these things as I cut bunches of lavender from the small lavender field in front of the house. Everyone tells me that the smell is sweet and fresh and maybe I get just a vague hint of something in the air—something that tickles my nose. Or, perhaps there is nothing more than the power of suggestion.

I do know that I enjoy the pale, purple color along with the whorls of the tiny blossoms marching up the spike. When I am cutting, I have a fine time out there with the bees. Later, I take great pleasure in scattering the tied bunches around the house. The plants are a joy to see, as well as photograph; and, even if my nose can’t detect the subtleties, the power of suggestion is strong. My imagination tells me that the house is sweeter for their fragrance, and that’s almost as good as the real thing.

Windows and Temptations

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

I am beginning to think that I may never complete the unpacking and get this house really together—I mean take it beyond simply functional. Too many work areas are positioned to offer a view of the fields, and what am I to do with so many temptations in my path? How can I be expected to concentrate on unpacking boxes, or organizing the last of the cabinets and drawers when I am faced with such wonderful diversions?

Who could resist picking up a camera with swooping hawks; scurrying ground squirrels; a coyote slinking across the field; elk on the trail headed for Cub Lake; the swallows, blue birds, and crows that come and go constantly. Then there always seems to be something blooming, or showing new color. There were poppies, then lupine, then daisies; recently there were rose buds; the hollyhocks are hanging on; and, most of the lavender is still colorful. As if that all weren’t enough, there are the mountains, trees, shadows, and often clouds.

With all that just outside my windows, following through on chores proves hectic. Even meals can be a challenge. Some days, I never manage to finish a hot meal because of all the interruptions. Prepare the food and settle in for the meal. Jump up and grab the binoculars to enjoy the antics of blue birds. Re-settle for another bite. Leap for the camera and slip out the back door to gaze at the hawks—oh, yes, make a few attempts at photographs (the hawks in flight are a challenge I have yet to master). Linger to marvel at the sky, grasses, and trees. Oops, return to microwave to reheat cooled meal; and then, repeat all of the above steps.

Libel and Innocent Creatures

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

So, the truth comes out. False accusations flew and the local deer were impugned without sufficient evidence. Their very reputation as a species was sullied, and all due to hasty conclusions made in a pique of anger. Ladies and gentlemen, the deer are entitled to an apology.

Let us examine the evidence in the snapshots included here. Now, I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, did a deer dig that burrow in that planter box? Of course not. The day after the precious rosebuds disappeared—stolen in the night by a heartless villain, it appeared that some digging had taken place. Now, we have definitive evidence. Ladies and gentlemen, Exhibits A and B.

Clearly, one of the many burrowing creatures that reside here in Bear Valley Springs has illegally established residence in this planter. No. The records are clear. No permits were pulled for this occupancy. This is a straightforward case of unauthorized tenancy.

I ask you for a not guilty plea for the deer. We owe an apology to these innocent victims of circumstance. This was an embarrassing episode demonstrating the pitfalls associated with assumption of guilt.

Now, let us catch and punish the dastardly underground creatures that wreaked this devastation.

Gather Ye Rosbuds

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

Robert Herrick gave us some good advice in his poem. Just today, I was reminded to

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow will be dying."

Yesterday morning, I got out in the yard early. There I was, dressed to the nines (in my pj’s and bedroom slippers with that inevitable straw hat), and having a photographic feast on daisies, geraniums, petunias, and the fledging rose bush that The Husband recently planted. I was keeping one eye on the den of evil flesh-eating red ants, but mostly focused on enjoying one delicate and just opening rosebud, along with two or three buds that were mere promises. All in all, there were six or seven roses in the making. The anticipation was delicious. Soon, there would be a splendid show of the mostly white blossoms with the subtle pink touches. I was dreaming of another morning of exploration and further experimentation with the macro lens combined with Live View. (It took me a while, but I just got interested in this feature on my 50D.) When I went to bed last night, I was already relishing the dilemma of choosing among the blooms.

By now, you have probably guessed the ending of this sad tale. I awoke this morning to discover two pathetically bare rose bushes—stripped of all but one bud. The deer were probably the culprits. The hungry scoundrels had passed over the acres of grasses, along with what is left of the daisies, for our roses. Success growing roses in Bear Valley Springs is spotty. I have heard other such gloomy tales as mine. Yet, I have also seen bushes blooming away and seemingly immune from deer attacks. It’s time to learn the secrets of those whose bushes are surviving. In the meantime, I have a few photos to help me remember the sweet and fragile blossoms that I did get to enjoy.