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On the Ave. on Flickr.
Just when I thought the walk down the Ave. for the Festival was a bust, I ran into this guy ;-)
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Eco-Glam on Flickr.
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Eco-Glam on Flickr.
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A walk with my father on Flickr.
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A walk with my father on Flickr.
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Ladder #12 on Flickr.
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Ladder #12 on Flickr.
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CDscape on Flickr.
“You can do anything you want to do. What is rare is this actual wanting to do a specific thing: wanting it so much that you are practically blind to all other things, that nothing else will satisfy you.”
“An artist has got to get acquainted with himself just as much as he can. It is no easy job, for it is not a present-day habit of humanity.”
Robert Henri (1865-1929) -
Together on Flickr.
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They teach me to want the grass on the other side of the fence. And convince me that its greener because I don’t have what it takes, but make hollow promises to provide that greener grass for a price. All while where I stand gazing for so long, the grass underneath my feet turns brown. Forgetting the other’s and mine were one before we brought our fences and trotting.
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Go For A Walk on Flickr.
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lajoiedespetiteschoses asked: you have such a lovely blog!!(:
Thank u for the note of encouragement. I’m about due for another posting…
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![Title: Exclusion
For the last 5 years I have been facilitating discussions (and trainings) about race and justice (i.e., racism, White privilege, internalized racial inferiority, the model minority). Most of the time the discussion is in the context of mental health and generally the audience is predominantly White professionals and students.
Without fail, before every speaking engagement, I get very anxious and sick. Depending on the level of preparation required often determines how far in advance this ritual begins. Sometimes hours, days, and in a couple incidents it was months in advance! This anxiety will manifest itself in any number of ways: nausea, increased heart rate, sleeplessness, agitation, nervousness, doubt, fear, distraction, dread, upset stomach, loss of appetite, procrastination, praying profusely, verbal processing with a mentor or friend, etc. And then there’s the frantic reviewing of old tapes in my head of past speaking experiences, and mapping out how to handle potentially difficult questions or conduct thrown my way. For example: “What proof do you have?” “That’s not my experience.” “All my friends are of color.” “We’ll have to agree to disagree.” “What are your qualifications?” “I was the minority in an all Black neighborhood.” “What can we do to fix the problems these people have?” “I feel like a victim of reverse racism.” “I don’t see color.” “What does this have to do with my job?” “We have worked really hard and tried everything, but they just don’t care.” “Nobody gave me anything, I earned everything I have!” “We just need to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps!” Overtime I have been learning to craft responses for these potential scenarios that encourages White people (and sometimes people of color) to stay at the table without diluting the gravity of this epidemic.
The worst response of all is one of complete and utter silence (often due to resistance and disassociation). Why is this the worst? Because there is no potential for dialogue in silence. There is no sharing. As far as I am concerned it is neglect, which is a form of abuse. The most hostile responses are usually the ones that go unheard. And when the time is up they collect their belongings and beeline for the exit with a look of indifference as they travel to wherever their heart is at. In those situations, the invitation for healing and transformation is rarely accepted. I am especially grieved when this happens.
In light of the alternative, I have come to appreciate the more, shall we say, resistant if not overtly hostile responses. At least it is authentic, and gives us something to talk about and identify any places where we seem to be disconnected. [Now, don’t get me wrong, around half of the people in the room are usually onboard with the slow, painful, humbling yet redemptive work necessary to travel the path of racial reconciliation.] Nevertheless, the remaining percent can make the long journey feel like a bed of hot coals. Especially when this remaining percentage are often people in positions of power and leadership (i.e., supervisor, police officer, principal, teacher, therapist, lawyer). And they will often unconsciously undermine and scrutinize the process. Hence the familiar feeling like I am on trial and I had better present a damn good case, because this moment will have an impact on what they choose to do. Will they be drawn into the process or push away? The cost is critical. In a world where we are slowly regressing in racial reconciliation maturity, I know that each person, at some point in his or her life, is given the opportunity to either choose to be part of the solution or perpetuate the problem. There is no neutral territory in this proverbial fish bowl.
The pressure and emotions weigh on me, thus I try to lean on God. Literally, I look up at the sky before I walk through the door and whisper, “Alright, God, this was your idea. Let’s do this.” Meaning, if God isn’t in it, then we are screwed.
Now, this begs the question, “Why in the hell do I bother to do this kind of work if I hate it so much?” You ever seen something really horrible go down in a crowd of people and no one do damn thing about it? And the solution was in the same room, but no one saw it or used it? Did it piss you off or break your heart to such a degree that it blinded you to everything else that was happening around you? And did your body tense up, skin feel flushed, and your stomach get really cold or hot? For me, when I hear and see how we perpetuate prejudice and injustice, my blood boils somethin fierce and it has the tendency to override my fears and discomfort. We commit atrocities (overt and covert) everyday in the name of normalcy, and what is necessary to stop it resides within the choice to do so. And not only stop it, but simultaneously step into an intimacy, healing, and joy we have never known before. When my eyes have seen the potential for whichever WE choose, I will not, as much I want to at times, go back to living a lie.
Love is kind, but it is not passive. Love keeps no record of wrongs, but does not ignore systemic wickedness. Love is patient, but it does not waste time.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ly8sxbflqF1qdmddeo1_500.jpg)
Title: Exclusion
For the last 5 years I have been facilitating discussions (and trainings) about race and justice (i.e., racism, White privilege, internalized racial inferiority, the model minority). Most of the time the discussion is in the context of mental health and generally the audience is predominantly White professionals and students.
Without fail, before every speaking engagement, I get very anxious and sick. Depending on the level of preparation required often determines how far in advance this ritual begins. Sometimes hours, days, and in a couple incidents it was months in advance! This anxiety will manifest itself in any number of ways: nausea, increased heart rate, sleeplessness, agitation, nervousness, doubt, fear, distraction, dread, upset stomach, loss of appetite, procrastination, praying profusely, verbal processing with a mentor or friend, etc. And then there’s the frantic reviewing of old tapes in my head of past speaking experiences, and mapping out how to handle potentially difficult questions or conduct thrown my way. For example: “What proof do you have?” “That’s not my experience.” “All my friends are of color.” “We’ll have to agree to disagree.” “What are your qualifications?” “I was the minority in an all Black neighborhood.” “What can we do to fix the problems these people have?” “I feel like a victim of reverse racism.” “I don’t see color.” “What does this have to do with my job?” “We have worked really hard and tried everything, but they just don’t care.” “Nobody gave me anything, I earned everything I have!” “We just need to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps!” Overtime I have been learning to craft responses for these potential scenarios that encourages White people (and sometimes people of color) to stay at the table without diluting the gravity of this epidemic.The worst response of all is one of complete and utter silence (often due to resistance and disassociation). Why is this the worst? Because there is no potential for dialogue in silence. There is no sharing. As far as I am concerned it is neglect, which is a form of abuse. The most hostile responses are usually the ones that go unheard. And when the time is up they collect their belongings and beeline for the exit with a look of indifference as they travel to wherever their heart is at. In those situations, the invitation for healing and transformation is rarely accepted. I am especially grieved when this happens.
In light of the alternative, I have come to appreciate the more, shall we say, resistant if not overtly hostile responses. At least it is authentic, and gives us something to talk about and identify any places where we seem to be disconnected. [Now, don’t get me wrong, around half of the people in the room are usually onboard with the slow, painful, humbling yet redemptive work necessary to travel the path of racial reconciliation.] Nevertheless, the remaining percent can make the long journey feel like a bed of hot coals. Especially when this remaining percentage are often people in positions of power and leadership (i.e., supervisor, police officer, principal, teacher, therapist, lawyer). And they will often unconsciously undermine and scrutinize the process. Hence the familiar feeling like I am on trial and I had better present a damn good case, because this moment will have an impact on what they choose to do. Will they be drawn into the process or push away? The cost is critical. In a world where we are slowly regressing in racial reconciliation maturity, I know that each person, at some point in his or her life, is given the opportunity to either choose to be part of the solution or perpetuate the problem. There is no neutral territory in this proverbial fish bowl.
The pressure and emotions weigh on me, thus I try to lean on God. Literally, I look up at the sky before I walk through the door and whisper, “Alright, God, this was your idea. Let’s do this.” Meaning, if God isn’t in it, then we are screwed.
Now, this begs the question, “Why in the hell do I bother to do this kind of work if I hate it so much?”
You ever seen something really horrible go down in a crowd of people and no one do damn thing about it? And the solution was in the same room, but no one saw it or used it? Did it piss you off or break your heart to such a degree that it blinded you to everything else that was happening around you? And did your body tense up, skin feel flushed, and your stomach get really cold or hot? For me, when I hear and see how we perpetuate prejudice and injustice, my blood boils somethin fierce and it has the tendency to override my fears and discomfort. We commit atrocities (overt and covert) everyday in the name of normalcy, and what is necessary to stop it resides within the choice to do so. And not only stop it, but simultaneously step into an intimacy, healing, and joy we have never known before. When my eyes have seen the potential for whichever WE choose, I will not, as much I want to at times, go back to living a lie.Love is kind, but it is not passive.
Love keeps no record of wrongs, but does not ignore systemic wickedness.
Love is patient, but it does not waste time. -
For the last few months I have been taking my photography to the next level. (Whatever that means.) This journey has raised a number of questions and challenges (i.e., deciding a business name, creating a meaningful logo, pursuing photography jobs outside of my comfort zone). One of the greatest challenges I have faced thus far came in the form of a question from a friend, “What is the statement that you want to make to the world with your photography?” He had asked a number of questions, but this particular question struck me. The magnitude of the question is forcing me to explore some deeper questions that I imagine many professional artists grapple with throughout their lives: Why do I do this? What is at the heart of what I do? What does it mean to me? Why would it mean anything to anyone else? Why photography?
Taking a pretty picture isn’t enough of a reason, least not for me. Is this just an overplayed fad for me? Do I really want to do this to the point of taking risks, suffering, failing, and sacrificing? What is my justification (or at least explanation) for why I chose this medium or why I even bother to do art at all? When I was a kid I drew, as a teen I did pottery, and in college I wrote, and now photography. So why do any of it and why stick with this one? And how far do I want to go with it? This collection of questions requires reflection, meditation, dialogue, and a response.
I begin with what I consider to be a foundational question, “What does photography mean to me?” What does photography mean to me when no one else cares? What does it mean to me when others care about it differently? What does it mean to me when I feel no sense of hope or am distracted? What does it mean to me in the face of adversity and discouragement?
The question prompted a recollection of an experience just over three years ago when my Dad had a brush with death that scared the shit out of me. I was aware that as I was getting older, my Dad was getting older and the notion of impending death grew closer. It is a familiar reminder that things change. And change doesn’t ask for my permission or give a damn about how I feel. When I dare myself to reflect on this truth, I am compelled to greater appreciate the borrowed time I have with those I love. My father is the one person I have known the longest in my life. We are not as close as I would like, but that is a life long journey. The day I got a call from my Stepmom that he had collapsed to the floor and was sent to the hospital is when I most feared that our journey was coming to a harsh and abrupt end. I wasn’t ready; there was still so much more I wanted to share of my life and so much more I wanted to see fulfilled in his. I don’t recall what all happened before arriving at the hospital, but I do know I intentionally brought my camera. When I think about it, its kind of a weird thing to bring along, which is why it sticks out in my memory. At the time I had no idea how severe the situation was, but I knew that if my Dad wasn’t going to make it I wanted to have something to remember him by. Sure, I could have written, recorded, or just simply be, but I chose to bring my camera as a witness. I knew it wasn’t enough, but it was important. Looking back I’m glad I did, and so is my Dad. Whenever we need to be reminded of what happened, we look at the images of him waving goodbye to the camera as he went into surgery for an aneuritic aorta, unsure if it was going to be his last goodbye. When he survived the surgery, the images I took afterwards further told a story not only of tears, but also of great relief and joy. The contrast in images were more powerful for me than had I only taken pictures of his recovery.
When I posted the pictures, I think they freaked people out a little. Understandably so, considering they are very intimate images. Some thought it was weird that I took pictures of my Dad like he was an object; others felt my images were a gift. I felt it all, but regret would have felt heavier. This was especially the case when I had my sister take a picture of my Dad and I before he was rushed away to surgery. If it was my last moment with him I wanted to make sure it was remembered. We prayed, we cried, we gave encouraging words, we distinctly and explicitly expressed love in words we had never so passionately uttered, and then we cried some more. For my father, he said that if he had died it would have given him the opportunity to say goodbye to those he loved that were not present and to remind us when we needed it. I wasn’t declaring him dead before it had even started, I just wasn’t willing to take any chances. Had I known he was going to be fine I still would have taken photos of our pre-surgery moments, and share them with others…even though it was uncomfortable. A considerably miraculous surgery, our narratives and my before-and-after images tell a much more complete story.
In the face of such blatant uncertainty, photography meant capturing a glimpse of someone I love knowing it may be the last of his life. That is the sometimes sad (other times longing) beauty of photos. My images are moments that can never be experienced again, but will hopefully serve to remind.
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There was supposed to be a clear shot of the total lunar eclipse from 6:30-7:30 am that Saturday morning. It was a clear night, but about an hour before the eclipse was total the clouds and fog rolled in. A bunch of us were left standing around (freezing our asses off) taking pictures of the cityscape and chatting about camera gear. For anyone who knows Seattle weather, this fickle and unfortunate turn of climate is no surprise. Which is why most of us just shrugged and muttered the familiar saying, “That’s Seattle weather for ya.” Even so, I wasn’t particularly happy to be hanging out on the Rosal Bridge at 6:30 am. I rented a 24mm for the eclipse so I made the most of it and my tripod by taking shots of the surprisingly busy freeway.
What stuck out the most for me about that morning was the fact that I was there. I figured I had to be really excited and serious about photography to take it upon myself to rent a lens, scout potential locations the night before, wake-up before dawn and stand around on a icy bridge knowing there was a chance I wouldn’t get a good shot. Unwilling to accept defeat, I seized the moment and took pictures of whatever stuck out from the darkness. I walked away a little bummed, but rather impressed with my level of commitment. (Getting me up in the morning is like waking the dead.) Plus it was my first time really playing around with long exposures for my cityscapes, when historically I rarely have my tripod available. So all in all it was a rich experience that gave me a couple interesting shots including this one ;-)
