Okay, Sure, That's Me

"We all look alike" was an inside family joke when I was growing up.  It was an easy, mildly amusing, ironic way to explain the annoying confusion, ignorance, and/or apathy of non-Asians in telling us Asians apart from one another.  Anything ending in "ese" was interchangeable—which in the '60's and 70's meant only Japanese and Chinese, but in later years would encompass Koreans, Filipinos, Thai, Vietnamese, or any other Asian.

In later years I was mistaken for my brother, which always mystified me since he is taller, has a larger frame, and just plain old doesn't look like me.*  Sometimes I wonder why we don't look more similar.  Cousins, maybe, but not brothers.

I was in a restaurant near the campus of the University of Minnesota one day, and someone walked by my booth, suddenly pivoted 90 degrees to face me and my friends, bending his knees and pointing at me á la James Bond with a pistol, and shouted, "Joe Chang!"  I looked at him stoically and intoned, "No."  He pivoted back, his expression frozen, and moved on.

The sad thing was, I actually knew Joe Chang from a class we'd both had, and he looked nothing like me; he was shorter, heavier, did not wear glasses, and—to me, the clincher—was Chinese, not Japanese.

Sometimes, I have to admit, it works in my favor.  While in my thirties, I was standing on a street corner in Dupont Circle, back then the gay neighborhood in Washington, D.C., when a handsome man directed a flirty "Hiiii!" towards me as he approached.  I responded, momentarily confused.  When he implied a shared understanding about a couple things, I said, "I think you're mistaking me for someone else."  I thought, this is where he drops the smile, mutters a "sorry" and walks off, and I steeled myself for the inevitable rejection.  Instead, his smile remained and he continued talking to me as the light changed and he accompanied me across the street.

Half a block later we stopped since he was actually headed in the opposite direction, and he suggested we get together sometime.  I couldn't believe it; this only happened in the movies.  He told me his name and said he was "in the book."  (This was long before cell phones or the Internet, and for those too young to remember such a time, "in the book" was a common phrase meaning you were listed in the annual directory published by the phone company.)  After we'd gone our separate ways, he tested me, yelling, "Hey!  What's my last name?"  I answered correctly.  There was no way I was going to forget it!

(Yes, we did meet, but it didn't go anywhere.)

Even now, I am occasionally the subject of mistaken identity.  I was at Bodega Prime, a breakfast spot in Santa Fe, a year ago, standing in line to place my order, when I noticed a woman looking at me from a table across the room.  She waved.  I knew there was no one behind me or on the other side, so I hesitantly waved back.  While waiting for my food, I wondered who she was, who she thought I was, and whether I should choose a table on the opposite side of the restaurant (what I wanted to do) or be bold and sit near her (what I thought I should do).  

The entire approach to my visit that week was to be socially bold, so I took a breath and walked straight to their table.  After exchanging hellos, the woman said, "You probably don't remember us. You probably shook a hundred hands."

I didn't know what to say beyond the obvious, so I waited for her to supply a clue: the event, someone's name, or the venue of our supposed meeting.  The only place where I'd met people that week—and I'd only been in Santa Fe a couple days—was at a gallery opening, and I'd only shaken four or five hands there.  I was almost positive hers was not one of them.

Instead of a little help, though, she only said:

"And here you are—a rock star."

Now, my mind tells me that what she really said was, "And here you are, like a rock star."  But I really can't say for sure.  She thought I was some kind of celebrity, but I'm not sure if it was literally a rock star.

Either way, I still had no clue how to respond, and it felt like too much time had passed to extricate myself cleanly, so I changed the subject, thinking I'd get away with it under the guise of modesty.

"What are you all having this morning?  Is it good?" I asked, eyeing their plates.  And after another 30 seconds of chitchat, I graciously excused myself and sat a few tables away from her.

Ponder as I might through breakfast, I reached no conclusions about what had just happened, whether or not I had met this person before, who she thought I could be, or if there was anything more I should do.

Later, one Facebook friend commented, "That was so nice of you to play along and make someone feel happy that they'd met someone famous."  

Nice?  I'd been feeling guilty since the moment I'd walked away from her.  I'd never intentionally allowed myself to be thought of as someone else, whether by a stranger who knew a former classmate or a handsome man I'd benefit from fooling.  By keeping mum about being an ordinary non-A-lister, wasn't I selfishly enjoying the attention, and maybe adoration, of someone who would be embarrassed, disappointed, and possibly angry, had she known I wasn't any kind of celebrity, rock star or not?

As I thought about it, however, I felt more and more like shrugging. Besides the cowardly rationalization that I'd most likely never see her again, it was also highly unlikely she'd see the real person she'd mistaken me for and engage him enough to discover that I'd been an unknowing imposter.  And I hadn't said anything to intentionally perpetuate the masquerade.  (In fact, I hadn't responded at all.)  No harm, no foul.  And like my friend had said, maybe i had inadvertently given her a small moment of positivity, a fun story to share with friends, who would have no way of knowing she hadn't actually met anyone important or famous.

Being mistaken for someone else isn't that big a deal and certainly wasn't negative in any of these encounters.  In two of them, it connected me with people I would not otherwise have known.  In that sense, having an additional persona can only be a win.  

I may not be Joe Chang, but I'm happy to meet you, anyway.


*In an ironic twist, it now strikes me that the photo I chose to highlight these differences actually makes us look the same height and frame, and I recall that the reason I wanted a picture that day was that we had both chosen to wear grey jeans and a cobalt blue polo shirt.

...but Now I See

As I left church today, a woman was sitting outside the door.  I braced myself for what would surely be a request for money.  "Sir," she said as I walked past her quickly, "please buy me something to eat."  My reflexes spit out all the usual responses in my mind:

• You can't help everyone who asks.  (Last night, three people asked me for money, all within as many blocks of the same street.)
• They only want alcohol.
• It will only encourage them to return and make it their post.

But as I continued on my way, her words echoed in my mind: "Please buy me something to eat."  And I heard sincere desperation in her tone.  This was honestly the first time in 30 years of living in DC that someone had asked me for food rather than money.  She was not after alcohol, and she wasn't trying to scam me; she was hungry, plain and simple.  And this wasn't the kind of hunger that makes you blurt out happily, "I'm starving!" on the way to the restaurant on 14th Street that's the new hot place for brunch.  This was the kind of aching, gnawing, all-consuming hunger that is not satisfied on a consistent basis.  We all know what it's like to be hungry, but we also know that it is within our own power and usually timing to ameliorate it.

This was something I could do, and easily.  I was headed to Whole Foods, anyway.  Heck, it didn't even have to be a sacrifice, since I could buy this woman lunch and eat what I had at home instead.  I weighed the time required to walk back and tell her, against the time it would take to just keep going and return.  Even if I asked her to wait, there was no guarantee she would believe me and stay...so I picked up my pace and kept going.

In Acts 9, after seeing the Lord on the road to Damascus, "something like scales fell from Saul's eyes, and he could see again."  As I neared Whole Foods, I suddenly saw things more clearly.  That I had just bought a lemon-ginger dark chocolate bar for myself, on a whim.  That I was going to Whole Foods to buy white birch firewood because it burns better than standard hardwood in the fireplace in my "luxury condo."  That I could buy lunch for someone else and not even think twice about the cost, and that I would be doing so instead of going to a nice restaurant for brunch with friends - as I did almost every Sunday, again, without even considering what I might spend.  I was astounded and excited in my reset perspective and worried about getting back to church before the woman left.

Unfortunately, she had, by the time I got back.  I shoulda, shoulda, shoulda...and now I have a sandwich and drink for tomorrow.  Sometimes you just have to act rather than overthinking it, to do as the Spirit moves you.  Damn this need to analyze and be sure all the time!

I will hope and pray she returns next week, and if she does, God help me, I won't hesitate this time.

A New Height of Arrogance

People jaywalk all the time.  Everyone knows that.  I myself jaywalk - but only when it doesn't inconvenience any driver, and only when I am responsible for myself and not anyone with me.

Tourists in DC push jaywalking to the extreme, as if they have some invisible force field around them, making them impervious to cars going 35, headed straight towards them.  The larger their numbers, the more they believe in their safety and right to stop traffic. 

But this year's prize goes to the woman who crossed against the signal at the Lincoln Memorial this afternoon, looking straight at me and playing chicken with me and several other fast approaching drivers - while she pulled her small children along with her.  

Can someone tell me what kind of fucked-up thinking makes it worth using your own small children as human shields so you won't have to wait thirty seconds for the light to change?

It wasn't like we were several blocks away (which would still not have made it right); we were less than a block's distance from her when she started across the street.  This was at the northwest corner of the Lincoln Memorial, a stretch of roadway where there is rarely a break in the traffic coming from or headed towards the Memorial Bridge, a major artery across the Potomac connecting Virginia and DC.  After decades of dangerous situations involving tourists coming out of caravans of buses parked illegally on the opposite side of the road, a traffic light was finally installed.  There is no vehicular cross traffic at this light - no intersection exists - so there is no other reason to stop traffic.  Of course, this dumb-shit mother couldn't be expected to understand that that light was put there solely for her safety.

The only reasonable explanation for her breathtaking stupidity was arrogance - the belief that her time, even thirty seconds of it, was worth far more than mine or that of all the other drivers around me, and that therefore, she had the right to stop all traffic, regardless of the signal.  This is really the height of arrogance.  Not surprising in this city, though it's not what you would expect from a tourist (which makes me postulate that she was a local.  I think most tourists know when they're being stupid, even while behaving stupidly.)

Should I have stopped?  Probably.  Was it stupid to keep driving right past her as she reached the median?  Probably.  Was it worth the risk of hitting someone just for the sake of making a point?  No.  I'm sure that while I was thinking she couldn't possibly be stupid enough to actually keep walking, she was thinking I couldn't possibly be stupid enough to keep driving.

But let's not forget, she created the situation of her own free will.  This was not like NYC, where every day, masses of working people jaywalk with hostile drivers barreling down on them.  If you're going to play chicken with your own life and assume all personal risk, go ahead.  But don't take anyone with you, especially not children.  And certainly not your own.


 

I'm In!

I just posted my first FotoVisura album and now have my own page as part of the community.

Let me know what you think!
 

Re-Awakening of Spring - Er, Fall

The signs of fall are unmistakeable.  Outside my bedroom window, the Japanese maple is chartreuse, on its way to gold, and the giant cherry tree is tinged with yellow and orange as a prelude to its flaming red glory; the mornings and evenings have turned cool and the days are pleasantly warmed by the slanting sun - and the 2014-2015 PEN/Faulkner Reading Series began last night!

While I have attended the readings for many years, this may have been the first time I went to the season kickoff, and I found myself more excited than usual.  I suddenly realized that for me it was like finally getting to a concert on time instead of arriving late.  And how fitting that the first reading featured four emerging writers hosted by an established name, nascent careers serving as a metaphor for a reading series at the beginning of a season, and vice versa.

Each of the writers read an excerpt of a story just published in the Virginia Quarterly Review, and Ann Beattie, the moderator, then asked each a question about their work.  It was an enjoyable evening, and it whet my appetite both for reading the rest of each story and for attending more of the reading series.

As I was starting to think about these things while walking back to the Metro after the reading, I was struck by the luminous quality of the quiet autumn night on Capitol Hill.  

The Hill takes on a different character at night, one not seen by camera-toting, t-shirt clad people spilling out of a caravan of buses.  The brick sidewalks in deep shadow and streetlight, the quiet streets of Victorian and Federal row houses, the dramatic spotlighting of churches and Government buildings, are all starkly on display when the only sound is one's footsteps.

It was also nice to not feel such a bifurcation between my writer self and my photographer self and to sense an easier fluidity between the two.  They may be different, but they're not oil and water.

 

Having picked up a copy of the VQR at the reception, I did read more of the writers' work before going to bed and again this morning, and I was impressed and inspired.  It was just the charge I needed to jump-start my own writing (starting with this piece) after taking several months off!  Part of this was re-engaging with the literary community and being reminded that even though writing itself is a solitary pursuit, telling stories is not - in fact, it's very much the opposite.

It was a night of great expectations - for these four talented writers, for the reading series ahead, and for my own development in this new year.  Thanks to PEN/Faulkner for doing so much to feed the literary community in D.C.!

This is No Red Moon

Today the Supreme Court ruled in favor of Hobby Lobby, which sought to limit reproductive health care coverage of its employees based on religious freedom.  Let's just cut to the chase.  This particular ruling may be about a very specific, "narrow" situation that will only happen on "rare" occasion.  But as we all know, Supreme Court rulings are precedent-setting.  It's a slippery slope that will allow certain "closely-held," "faith-based" companies to pick and choose what laws they will comply with, as long as they claim religious freedom as the reason.

I am a born-again Christian.  I believe Jesus Christ died for my sins.  I believe He rose from the dead and that the way to eternal life with God is through a relationship with Jesus.  I've memorized lots of Scripture, read the Bible cover to cover more than once, and been "slain in the Spirit" several times.  But this is a whacked-out ruling.

Just because a company is owned by people with certain beliefs does not mean that company should be allowed to cherry pick which Federal laws it wants to or does not want to obey.  Employment law applies to all employees; otherwise, what's the point?

Are we now going to see some extremist group thumb their nose at Equal Employment Opportunity law and keep their African American employees in the mailroom or deny them promotions because they believe that blacks are a lower order?  Are Muslim-owned companies going to be free to hire only men if they believe women should stay indoors?  Is  Hobby Lobby now going to openly refuse to hire or promote gay people?  Or to freely fire them (which is actually perfectly legal, since the Employment Non-Discrimination Act keeps failing to pass in Congress - not that it would matter, now that this ruling can be used to fight any lawsuit over it)?

A spokeswoman (woman!) said that this ruling is a victory for "all" people, no matter what your opinion.  Never mind that that makes no fundamental sense - this ruling is only a victory for straight, fundamentalist men who think their beliefs should trump civic law.  This woman might change her mind over Plan B coverage if her sister - or daughter - worked for Hobby Lobby and found herself pregnant after a brutal home invasion and it took several days wading through government bureaucracy to get alternative coverage.

When people decide which laws should apply only to others - or, as with marriage equality, which laws only apply to them - that is more a sign of the breakdown of democracy (or, dare I say, society?) than anything else in recent years.  And much scarier than anything Ben Percy can think up.  This ruling is truly frightening, because it is real.

Whether He Would or Wouldn't Is Up to Me

Last night at his PEN/Faulkner reading on Capitol Hill, Richard Ford quoted Lewis Lapham as saying, "Nothing necessarily follows anything."  He and Washington Post book critic Ron Charles were "onstage" (in a church) in conversation about whether a character's action can rightly be deemed believable or not.  Ford's position was basically that he was the writer, so he could make the character do whatever he wanted him to do.

What a freeing moment for me as a writer.

At the reception afterwards, standing in front of him at the book-signing table, I said, "It was great to hear you say that, because at the summer writing workshops I attend, someone always says, 'Well, I don't believe the character would do that.'"

Ford looked up and said, "Well, now you know the answer!"

(Allow me a brief digression to share this with you: I'm shaking hands with celebrated novelist Richard Ford, yes, that Richard Ford, who wrote Independence Day, the book that won both the Pulitzer Prize AND the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction - the first time any book had won both - and he is signing that same lauded book, writing a personal greeting to me...and I am nervous, tripping over my tongue, telling him I write fiction, too - how embarrassing, did I just tell him that?! - and he looks up at me and asks where I go for my summer workshops, and I say, "Provincetown, the Fine Arts Work Center," and he says, "Oh, yes!" and then goes back to finishing my inscription.  (He lives in New England, after all.)  He is somewhat intimidating, tall and grey-haired, such a literary luminary, but it's mostly his eyes - those blue-grey eyes that are so pale you can almost see into his head, like maybe you could catch a glimpse of some of his ideas, some of the magic and style of his writing, though it's almost frightening to look.  But I'm completely won over by his warmth, so genuine and patient, the way he looks right at you when he's talking to you, the way he takes his time with you, even though he's never seen you before, and when he says, "It's nice to meet you" and "thank you for coming," he takes his time, and you get the strong feeling he really means it - as if he hasn't already said it to the twenty people before you and as if he isn't going to say it to the fifty people behind you...as if he's not a 70 year-old famous writer who could probably use the rest more than you but won't get to bed until long after you.  Despite his austere publicity photos, Richard Ford is one very nice man.)

Why do writers always challenge other writers in questioning the behavior of their characters?  Sure, actions usually need the support of motivation, but sometimes people do stuff seemingly out of left field.  Would anyone have thought the following plausible?

• A young boy considered a "normal kid" by the neighbors goes on a slashing spree one day at school, severely injuring many, and gets charged as an adult
• A young couple takes their baby and toddler child on a boat into the open ocean, intending to sail around the world
• A grad student waiting for his wife to travel cross-country to join him in married student housing drops out of grad school and returns home to help her raise the child fathered by his (former) best friend

Though none of these seems particularly likely, all of them did happen in real life.  But workshop people would tear plots like these to shreds, claiming he/they "wouldn't do that."  Is human behavior that predictable?  Do we always know what people are or are not going to do?

And do we want to write or read only stories in which everyone behaves as expected and no one does anything surprising?  ZZZZZZZZZ  Not me!

Thanks, Richard Ford, for giving me the freedom to let my characters do strange, inappropriate, fascinating things that keep the reader turning pages!

PHOTO CREDIT:  Amazon.com

What He Left Me

Down in the basement of the house where I grew up, on the floor of an old grey metal cabinet that stretched far above my head, were supplies that held silent mystery: flat yellow boxes of Kodak Ektachrome photosensitive paper and scary-looking bottles of developing fluid.  Sometimes I would pick them up and just wonder, excited about my dad's occasional mention of setting up a darkroom.

On another grey cabinet, this one large and squat, with shallow drawers for flat storage of blueprints, sat some kind of developer machine.  We never knew how it worked.

Somewhere in my dad's past, he had apparently developed his own photographs, though he never gave us the details.  That remained for us to imagine, especially when it became clear that the darkroom would never happen.

Dad, always the shutterbug!

We all knew he liked taking pictures.  He documented everything, from holiday dinners (every one of them), to how we looked before going off to church, to the trees in our backyard.  I thought it was kind of ridiculous - and that was during the days of film, when every frame counted and cost something.  Weren't all the poses the same, whether around the dining room table at Thanksgiving or in front of the house on a Sunday morning?  Didn't we always look the same?

After he died in 2004, we discovered that this passion went back to his years as a young adult.  We found boxes and boxes of photos going back to the 1960s, World War II, and even as far back as his early childhood - meaning he kept pictures belonging to his father, who died before WWII.  And in an old Army foot locker were hundreds more photos from his days as a young draftee in the China-Burma-India Theater - along with rolls of movie film.

Young Man, as subject

Too bad he wasn't as good at organizing and mounting pictures as he was at taking them.  Since they were all loose - in envelopes, boxes, or simply bound with a disintegrating rubber band - it's hard to know if he meant for them to be passed on or if it was all just part of his general tendency not to throw anything away.

Whatever the case, he showed me over the decades that it was important to capture moments of time that will never be repeated (even if they seem to recur, in a young boy's mind).  That there was value in documenting events, family get-togethers, the seasons.  That even the ordinary was worth photographing.  And this, I have come to realize, was his greatest gift to me, this way of seeing and valuing life, this sense of urgency to capture a fleeting moment.  

From the time I received my first camera as a child - a cube-shaped Brownie, which I still have - I've always loved taking pictures.  I finally realized recently that this passion was hard-wired in me, and I decided to stop suppressing a years-long drive to pursue photography beyond simple snapshots and see where it would take me as an art form.  In 2012 I jumped in with both feet, crossing over to the visual arts side at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, MA, and taking my first week-long photography workshop.  This summer I will be taking my second one, working with David Hilliard in an exploration of photography as storytelling.  (And in my own full-circle experience, we will be working synergistically with Pam Houston's fiction workshop, which I took three years ago at the Taos Summer Writers' Conference.)

When you're cool, you're always ready

As photography takes up more and more space in my head I feel grateful to my dad.  My friends get impatient with me for "taking 500 shots of the same thing" (that's a direct quote) the same way we would always groan when my dad wanted to take yet another picture of us around the dining room table as the food got cold.  He was on to something and passed a little more of it on to me each time he forgot to wind the camera first and we had to say "cheese" again.

Henri Cartier-Bresson couldn't have summed it up any better.  I've quoted him before in this blog and will likely do so again.  It is so much the reason my dad and I shared a drive to photograph:

Life is once, forever.

Winds of Remembrance

The drums and percussion beat feverishly - djembes and bongos, frame drums of different sizes, rattles, shakers - and then settle down to a quieter pulse when someone stands and sings with their flute.  Then applause and a few whoops burst out, and the drumming becomes wild and hypnotic again.  Eventually people get up and move around in a circle to the beat, pounding out the rhythm and allowing the synchronicity to express itself in their bodies.  It's nearly primal; we could be under the stars around a blazing fire surrounded by the red rocks of southern Utah or in some clearing in the Amazonian jungle instead of in a small Best Western ballroom in metropolitan Washington, D.C., on a cloudy day of an endless winter.

From a tag line of a previous meeting, it's music that "transports you to another place." 

Cedar flute, key of G, David O'Neal; bag by Shelly Stenzel, Feather Ridge Flutes

It was the closing to the 10th Anniversary Potomac Native American Flute Festival - three days of flute shopping with some of the very best flute makers in the country, three concerts featuring some of the best NAF artists in the country, and workshops given by those artists.  It was also a time to reunite with old friends, deepen relationships with acquaintances, and meet new friends-to-be.  And as with so many events and activities, that's the true essence of the festival; it's the people that make it such an incredible weekend each year and make it so hard to see it end so quickly.

Gilbert Levy, husband and co-performer of world flutist Suzanne Teng, summed it up best when six of us were sitting in this same small ballroom after almost everyone had left and he said, "Where's the after-party?  This can't be over!"

Will playing the penny whistle at Open Mic

In Mark 9 of the Bible, Jesus is transfigured so that his clothes become "dazzling white," and Moses and Elijah suddenly show up.  Peter is so awed (and a little freaked out) that he tells Jesus "it's good to be here" and they should just stay there, even suggesting that they build shelters.  Everyone wants to stay on the mountaintop.  Who wants to leave, when it's such an incredible experience, when the people are amazing - when it's so fun?!  Who wants to go back down to level ground, where you have to worry about dealing with people fighting and finding food for your next meal and battling the weather?

It's natural to feel sad when such a wonderful gathering comes to a close, knowing it's likely you won't see people for another year.  But maybe we aren't supposed to compartmentalize our lives into A) this wonderful NAF community where people love each other and seek peace and harmony and healing, and B) the real world.  Maybe we're not supposed to bifurcate our lives into 1) this great annual fluting weekend when everything seems wonderful, and 2) the rest of our lives.  Maybe it's all the same thing, hard as that may be to effect.

Transverse bamboo flute, Egyptian tuning, Craig Noss, FireFlutes; bag by Shelly Stenzel, Feather Ridge Flutes

I often restrain myself from referring to "spreading the gospel of the Native American Flute."  But it strikes me that the values of Christianity and the NAF community are quite similar: love, peace, healing, forgiveness, acceptance.  Finding common ground.  Loving your neighbor as yourself.  Agreeing to disagree (a phrase coined by John Wesley, founder of Methodism).  

Whether and to what extent people actually live out these values - in either community - is a completely different subject.  The point is: if fluting is more than just a shared interest in a musical instrument, if it really is about these values, then all the warm fuzzies we experience during a special weekend like this are not meant to be put aside, once we return to our workaday world.  It has to apply as much in real life as it does at a flute festival; otherwise, it's just malarkey (in honor of St. Patrick's Day).  We can't just love other fluties.  We can't only love people we have an affinity for; even the demons do that*.

If I drive home after the festival cursing out those who cut me off on the Beltway, it feels like it negates all the positive vibes from the weekend.  Then it goes back to being just a bunch of people who like flutes.  It can't be only about the music.

Gilbert Levy (playing my djembe!) and Dan jamming after the evening concert

So when I go back to work, back to living my everyday life, maybe I can carry some of this goodwill and love back to the people who were not on the mountaintop with me.  And maybe I can begin to understand that, even while it's about getting the job done, it's also about my relationships with the people with whom I spend the majority of my waking hours.  No one says that's an easy thing, but it's something to consider.

And anyway, my "real life" is what makes these weekends possible, not only financially but emotionally; the highs aren't high without the ordinary.  And every day of being on level ground brings me closer to next year's mountaintop.

* (If you can find the Scriptural reference for that, please comment or email me.  Thanks!)

Is Photography Over?

Yesterday I read a post with the title above on the "Still Searching" blog, moderated by Fotomuseum Winterthur in Zurich, Switzerland, as an "Online Discourse on Photography."  The main question raised was: given the inexorably changing world of photography, with everyone becoming a photographer through the rapidly advancing technology of cell phone cameras and post-production editing, is photography as we know it "over"?

Go to any event, and all you see is a crowd of people holding up their phones, capturing the event.  Posting pictures to Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram is now a way of life and has probably surpassed text as the substance most often sent into the world.  Indeed, the essay asks whether photography and seeing can now be considered the same.

And anyone can now access software to make perfect less-than-perfect pictures.  Every digital camera now offers a proprietary package of tools, and then there is Windows Photo Editor, iPhoto, Aperture, Adobe Lightroom and Photoshop.  One can get as technical as one wants and achieve eye-popping results.

Double Jack in the Pulpit, Robert Mapplethorpe

That isn't to say that everyone understands how to use these tools, though - or that technical software knowledge translates into artistry.  Just because you have the cropping tool on your computer doesn't mean you'll know where or how much to crop - that is to say, why you crop - to make it a better photograph.  (This is not to ignore the issue of having to crop in the first place; it is simply meant as a quick example of the difference between technique and art.)

The same can be said of writing.  Anyone can use alliteration to augment an image ("The snake slithered along the sand and seemed to sneer.") or shorten the length of sentences in an action scene to speed up the pace.  But writing well is so much more than well-chosen techniques to achieve effects.  You still have to stitch together scenes in the right order, formulate believable motivation, rachet up tension, pull the reader on board with the protagonist, tweak the pacing, and manipulate language to elicit emotion (and the right one, at the right time), as well as spin many other plates.  You need both craft and art to make a good story.  Craft can be taught.  Art has to come from within.  (One can develop a sense of vision, but that's a subject for another day.)

Napoli - 1960, Henri Cartier-Bresson

I learned in my first photography workshop that it's not the "seeing machine" you choose that determines the quality of your pictures.  I was shocked to find that my instructor, Joanne Dugan, didn't care what kind of camera we used for class.  She said we could even use a phone camera.  I had naîvely assumed that the "nicer" your camera, the better your pictures would be.  But it didn't take long to understand the main point of the class: that it's not the technology that is fundamental to your photographs; it's your vision, the way you see life around you.  Indeed, some of my favorite images are ones I've taken with my phone.  They're not the best technically, but I like what I captured in the scene - the mood, setting, and composition.

That's why I'm not worried that photography might be "over."  No matter how many people are using their iPhones to take pictures, most are still just taking snapshots and aren't interested in anything else.  No matter how much the price of Photoshop may drop (if it ever does), many are just going to play with it, albeit to varying degrees of sophistication.  Only certain people are going to struggle with capturing their vision of the world in a way that satisfies them.  Only the artist is going to spend the time and energy to bring an image in line with that vision, battling disappointment and frustration. 

Seven A.M., West Seventies, Cinda Berry

Everyone wants to get their pictures out for others to see, but only the artist wants something universal and not particular, to leave behind not documentation but testimony.  And what they create enriches us.

And there's certainly room for everyone here; this is not a race or a competition to see whose photographs should or will exist or be seen.  I like to say that I have been pursuing photography seriously for a little over a year - and relative to my own history, it's true.  But all it takes is one look at any photography website or the Flickr site of a photography Meetup group to be reminded that I am just another hack.  (A well-intentioned, serious hobbyist, but at this point, a hack nonetheless.)  I might fancy myself a neophyte artist - I don't even consider myself an evolving artist quite yet - but I am barely at Square One, and it doesn't take much for me to feel intimidated and overwhelmed.

But it does no harm to photography for people like me to try their best with their limited knowledge and skill to try and create memorable, unique images, whether we fancy ourselves as artists or not, because there will always be plenty of true artists who see the world differently from the rest of us and have different ways of interpreting it through

Provincetown Dusk, Mark Abe

their photographs.  They wrestle with technique and nuance and meaning in ways we have never considered.

They probably worried over this question at other times, too, like when the Polaroid camera first arrived or when the digital camera was born.  But the democratization of tools does not mean death of the art.  Can't it instead mean a potential increase in popular discussion, and isn't that good?  Photography that is passed off as art but which lacks heart will distill out.  And images that are generated by amateurs in a thoughtful, sincere effort to create art can hardly be a threat to it.  Even when produced by hacks like me.

So, is photography over?  

Not on your life.



Photo Credits: mapplethorpe.com, imgarcade.com, intaglioso.com, Mark Abe

Cosas Bonaerenses Mas Notables

Most Notable Things About Buenos Aires

3.  Extreme Driving

People in foreign countries drive crazy, right?  And in Buenos Aires there is an overall

attitude that rules are merely suggestions and laws are meant to be broken.  I've crossed myself and held my hand over my eyes riding in a New York City cab, but never before had I ever been in a cab impatiently passing another car in the same lane.  ("Oh my God," I said out loud.)

2.  Parallel Monetary World

The ever-falling Argentine peso combined with rampant inflation has led to an alternate reality with a "blue market" exchange rate (no one calls it the "black market") that benefits those with American currency.  Paying at the official exchange rate of 5.6 pesos to the dollar in October 2013 meant that the sofa pillow I bought for $425 pesos appeared as $76 on my VISA statement.  If I hadn't been $10 short in cash that day, I could have bought it at the blue market rate of 8.8 pesos - or $48.

The guys I was traveling with bought some snazzy shoes at 28 Sport in Palermo Soho for about $1760 pesos.  If they'd paid with a credit card, the shoes would have set them back $314.  But since they had dollars and asked about the rate, they only paid about $200. 

Far from being clandestine, secret, or illegal, this is simply the way business is done in Buenos Aires; just about all stores and restaurants will readily tell you the blue market exchange rate  and re-figure your bill upon request.  Some will even post the day's rate on a sign.  It's so ordinary you don't even have to say "blue market" or otherwise qualify "exchange rate" in any way; everyone knows what you are asking.  No one wants pesos - they all prefer dollars - and Americans benefit dramatically by obliging them, so everyone wins.  There are all kinds of ways the Argentines use to shelter the value of their assets from the tattered economy, and they want all the dollars they can get.

In the weeks following my return to the States, I watched the peso continue to fall and eventually read that the $10 peso barrier had been broken - meaning you could get nearly twice the value using American cash at the blue market rate than at the official rate using pesos or a credit card.

1.  Not tu, Brute

Forget what you learned in school - the familiar "you" form of tu is not used in the Rioplatense Spanish spoken in Argentina.  Instead, they use vos, which has a verb conjugation I never learned in junior high (where we were taught Mexican Spanish) or high school (where we were taught Spain Spanish), since neither Mexico nor Spain uses vos.  In fact, I'd never even heard of it before my trip to Argentina.  We did touch on the plural familiar "you" form of vosotros in school but focused only on ustedes for the plural second person.  Fortunately, vos conjugates the same way as vosotros except that you just drop the vowel preceding the accented i, e.g., where "y'all talk" is hablaís, "you talk" is hablís.

Even more fortunately, you probably won't be there long enough to be on familiar terms with anyone, so you won't have to use vos anyway. 

Some countries use it sometimes, while other countries use it in speech but not in writing.  Argentina and neighboring Paraguay and Uruguay are the only Spanish-speaking countries in the world that use the vos form in both the spoken and written language.  And since the media uses it, it is widely seen on billboards, bus shelter signs, and handbills.

Photo credits: Pri.org, csmonitor.org, vamospanish.org

Gracias, Buenos Aires

I finally crossed the Equator and spent a week in Buenos Aires, Argentina, sightseeing and shopping my way to worn-out feet, a interesting mix of memories, and not a few nice purchases. Here's what else I brought back - first, the bad news:

THE WORST OF BUENOS AIRES

3.  Niceties
Americans aren't good at it, either, but porteños (residents of BA) never say anything after bumping into you on the street (and I'm not talking about just brushing past your shoulder).  Granted, some of these "accidents" might be failed attempts at pickpocketing, which is prevalent in Buenos Aires, but most are not.

2.  Eating

There's some veggies under there somewhere...!

You can order salads and sides in restaurants, but among the entrees, there is a lack of healthy choices.  The vast majority are various types of red meat, especially steak, as Argentina is known for its beef (which probably belongs under the BEST OF BUENOS AIRES section).  And if you order meat, that's what you get: a big slab of meat on a plate - and frequently nothing else.  At a parilla (steakhouse), the meat is grilled, but there is a lot of cheese, butter, and cream in other dishes.  Part of this is due to a major Italian influence, as well as the many French cafes and restaurants.  (Strangely enough, obesity is not seen on the streets.) 

1.  Trashiness
Graffiti covers buildings everywhere, regardless of the level of affluence or style of architecture.  It's shocking at first.  Curb appeal is not a known concept; blending in and being inconspicuous seems more valued than setting oneself apart.  Only twenty percent of residents own their property, so pride of ownership is lacking.  Buildings which may be beautiful architecturally can nevertheless be rundown with doors or windows missing, or at least dirty.  Garbage can be found on the streets on holiday weekends, and dumpsters line the sidewalks.  Worst: as a general rule, dog owners do not pick up after their pets, so dog mierda is a very common sight on sidewalks everywhere, forcing you to constantly look down while you walk.

 

THE BEST OF BUENOS AIRES

5.  Architecture
Everywhere you look are beautiful tall buildings with wrought iron balconies; grand, heavy wooden doors.  Many of the buildings were built at the turn of the century (the 20th, not the 21st) and reflect Italian and French neoclassical influences.  Pity they aren't maintained so well (see above). For a nice summary of bonaerense architecture with photos, see A Gringo in Buenos Aires.

4.  Eating
The empanadas are fresh, delicious, and cheap.  The Malbec is plentiful and pleasing.  And the eating is such a huge part of the culture that in a restaurant, one is expected to linger after dinner rather than clearing the table for the next party.  You might have to wait a while for everything to happen, even to order, but it's nice to not be run out with a forced smile when the meal is over.

3.  Evita 

Eva Peron galvanized a whole nation without holding elective office.  She's on the 100 peso note.  People still leave flowers at her final resting place 60 years after her death.   President Cristina Fernandez Kirchner is sometimes compared to her, and Evita will probably remain the yardstick by which all future female leaders will be measured.  She's made the Argentine woman a strong figure, to say the least.

2.  Brio
The Italian spirit of the Argentine heritage comes through strongly in everyday interactions with the people.  The way both men and women kiss each other on the cheek when parting company.  Ending a face-to-face conversation with "ciao" (or chao in Spanish, I suppose) and a phone call with "un beso" ("a kiss").  Tango - luscious, sensual, and provocative - not just for tourism, but infused in the porteño culture.

1.  MEN
OMG - so many men in Buenos Aires look like they are, used to be, should have been, or are going to be, models.  Whether older, in their prime earning years, teens, or just kids, male beauty is disproportionately prevalent and stunning.  It's the same in Rome, so this is not surprising.

Next: The Most Notable Things About Buenos Aires

Murder Mystery

We are workshopping my story.  The others want to know more about the murder.  They want to know why I ended the story without explaining how it happened.  They say the motive for the murder is very weak, if there is even a motive that is evident.

The problem is: there is no murder.

Even when I explain that I wrote everything that happened and did not keep anything from the reader, even when I remind them that the other character left the premises while the woman who dies is still walking and talking to herself, they are not persuaded.  Even the instructor says the story has the potential to be expanded so that the murder can be explored further.

She wasn't murdered!  I should know - I'm the one who wrote the story.

They remain unconvinced.

He didn't do it!  In fact, no one did.  She wasn't killed!  The only mystery is how you people could think she was!

This powerfully illustrates a wonderful phenomenon in fiction (even while it may frustrate the writer in some cases): people bring to their reading of a story all kinds of things, things the writer - and even the reader - cannot control, things that influence what one sees and how one experiences a story.  And this accounts for people's wildly different reactions to the same story.

My writer friend Mary tells an anecdote reminiscent of the three blind men describing an elephant but which sounds more like a three-guys-in-a-bar joke.  Her writing group was discussing a story she had written.  The feminist tells her, "Your story is really about the disenfranchisement of women in a male-dominated world."  The Russian guy says, "This is a story of alienation, of immigration, and assimilation into an unfamiliar society!"  The transgender woman says, "You've really written a story about gender identity.  It's a transgender story!" 

I had a very strong reaction to another story in the same workshop where we talked about my non-murder.  David had written a story about a man on a quest the day of his father's funeral.  I felt absolutely positive that the story was really about the main character's love for his father, despite the fact that he never mentioned it or alluded to it and in fact, said things that indicated feelings to the contrary.  I praised David's amazing skill in writing a story that was so clearly about something completely unsaid.  I was so sure and so moved by this that I completely embarrassed myself by nearly breaking down while talking about it in class.

It strikes me now that maybe the story wasn't about that at all, that maybe that was not David's intention when he wrote it.  Maybe all of that was unsaid in the story because that wasn't how David wrote it.  Maybe I was deeply moved because of what I brought to the story.  And maybe that's why no one else in the workshop reacted the way I did. 

It's fascinating how all of our personal issues - our fears, regrets, dreams, unfinished business, and tangled relational histories - feed into how we experience a story.  It's wonderful how they can add dimension and depth to our reading.  

The writer may never know how or why a particular work will take one reader's breath away, cause another to cry, and another still to move on, unaffected.  All one can do is write from the heart and trust the reader with it.  Even when they must be left to deal with the murder of someone who wasn't killed.