The Good Old Days

(Sarah, 2010)

I've been awfully nostalgic lately. Times are tough right now, just about everyone can attest to that, but then again, if we're really honest with ourselves, things have always been tough in one way or another. I've always believed that being blind to the great complications of life, engaging in that innocence and naiveté so many people own day-to-day, is, of course, a much easier place to inhabit, but is that really where we want to be?

The realities of life have never been fair or easy, and though the recent economic crisis has hit most of the world fairly hard, I don't ever recall a time when people were consistently, fundamentally happy with everything. In especially the United States' highly politicized fear-mongering climate, it is far easier to sugarcoat the past and be fearful of the future. Hindsight is always 20-20, and when I sift through the twenty-four hour news cycle I am often shocked by the warm, glowing terms with which the past is discussed. Oddly, many of the loudest voices of fear and anger are the same people who vilified and demonized that same time period in the past as it was occurring.

The most common example cited: the 1950s. That period after World War II is often touted as a utopian age, when children in nuclear families grew up in happy homes occupied by a working father, a stay-at-home mother, and zero complications. None of the talking heads on television now will ever reference the open racism, back-alley abortions, or anti-Communist jingoism that alienated and, more often than not, caused great physical and philosophical harm to our society as a whole. Interestingly enough, not many people realize the word "utopia" derives from the Greek language, literally translated as "not a place," as in "somewhere that does not exist." Today, many politicians use the 1950s as a benchmark of what we need to get back to, yet they recite the same phrases that politicians have used for millennia. There are quotes from two thousand years ago of Roman senators decrying a need for their culture to get back to the ideals of "financial responsibility" and "family values." It appears the we as a species haven't evolved that much since the time of ancient conquests and the bacchanalia.

I believe all of this comes from a lack of perspective. The old lyric "you don't know what you've got till it's gone" pretty much sums up major aspects of human nature. In my case, I'm not nostalgic for the past, I'm nostalgic for the present. My own life is full of uncertainty, be it professional, personal, financial, and even spiritual. I can't say what is going to happen tomorrow, but I do know that I will eventually look back on these days and think fondly of the good moments, ignore the tough times, and wish I could be back where I currently am. The problems I am dealing with today, the stress and pressures, will have all been resolved and forgotten in a week or a month. It won't matter what rude e-mail I got, what driver cut me off, or what deadlines have been forced upon me. All I'll recall is the smiles on my nieces' faces, my nephew's first words, and all the crazy, silly situations I put myself in through my photography. Everything else is a waste of time and energy, and though that is a belief easier declared than practiced, we all need to be reminded that it is actually true.

The answer is simple: the reason we are all nostalgic for the past is because we know how it ended up. The Cuban Missile Crisis: resolved. The war in Vietnam: over. The turbulent 6Os: forgotten in a drug-addled haze. As a society, we're still here fighting and fucking and having backyard barbecues, just like we've always had. In the grand scheme of things, human life is "business as usual." I'm sorry to remind you, but there will always be uncertainty. Sure, life is not a video game, you don't get a second chance, but just try to appreciate life for what it is, not for what you'd like it to be. Do your best, take some risks, and get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new and unexpected day.

Size Matters?

I can't tell you how many times people have derided me for the size of my models' waistlines. Adjectives like skinny, waifish, and even Anorexic have been used, often accompanied by a not-so-subtle accusation that those are the only kind of women that I desire to take photos of. Yes, the fashion and glamour industry does lend itself to smaller, leaner looking women, that is not a secret. Sex sells and I will be the first one to admit that thin bodies are what our society currently regards as the ideal form of attractiveness. In elaborately staged imagery I've often used those kinds of models to illustrate a point, using them in an ironic context in hopes of continuing a dialog about the industry as a whole. Whether you believe that or think that dialog was successful or not is something only you as the observer can judge.

Either way, please know that I personally love women of all shapes and sizes. Being a large person myself, and coming from a long line of heftier people, I've appreciated the beauty of curves and extra skin my whole life. I have sketch books full of fleshy, folded women confidently displaying themselves, whose bodies, you may or may not know, are far more fun and interesting to draw and paint than those of taut sinew and muscle. I've often tried to convince larger women to model in a revealing manner for me, getting excited by their initial bold and fearless interest. Unfortunately, when the time finally comes, these ladies always seem to back out with one excuse or another.

Consider my excitement then when I finally got to shoot the lovely and engaging Mockingbird Girl, whose real name will be withheld to protect the innocent. She is a well known model who has worked with very talented and high profile photographers for years, and after three separate attempts we finally managed to meet up in Brooklyn last month. Though our schedule was rushed due to the complications of life, Kacie and I spent a few hours with her on a Friday evening sharing stories, drinking Bulleit Whiskey, and of course, taking a few photos.

Her eccentric and complicated personal history was intriguing, hearing of her Persian ancestry and growing up all over the globe, tales of her family and weird modeling experiences, etc. The fact that all of that was delivered with her very sultry British accent while naked and sipping whiskey made the event only that much more amazing. She is the kind of woman who exudes an aura of sexiness without trying, that sensual appeal that can never be manufactured. She was funny, honest, self-deprecating, and completely comfortable, not just with herself, but with Kacie and I, which is always half the battle when working with a virtual stranger.

The rarity of finding a voluptuous woman who is comfortable posing for photos, let alone completely nude, is like winning the lottery, though I still wasn't one hundred percent satisfied with the situation. My two main regrets from that evening were the limited schedule and my lack of proper equipment. After Mockingbird Girl had gotten stuck so long in traffic, and with Kacie and I having a party to attend immediately after we got done, I continually felt rushed, trying to make the most of the time we did have. Also, due to the lateness of the hour, natural light was clearly ruled out, and having had to travel compactly to NYC, I was lacking any artificial light other than my small flash. True, a lack of professional equipment is never a deal breaker if you know what you're doing. However, I still wished I could have had a whole bevy of complicated lighting to make the special moment that much more extraordinary. Ah well, such is life.

Once we were done, we quickly helped carry her bags to her vehicle and all went our separate ways. Only a few days later, when Kacie and I had a bit of down time in Philadelphia, did I finally get a chance to look through the images we had shot that night. For the lack of creative lighting and rushed schedule, I found the bare bones images we captured together pretty intriguing. Maybe you think I'm biased or that I find the sheer novelty of the model alluring, but I don't think that's it. We captured something simple, sweet and special that night, and I for one look forward to finding an excuse for getting back to Brooklyn to work with her again soon.

Keep In Touch

(Kacie Waits, 2010)

Though I consider myself to be a caring person and a decent friend, I will freely admit to being horrible about keeping in touch with people that I don't deal with in my daily life. It is a struggle that I have to actively work at, making little reminders to myself in order to let those that I care about in different states and countries know that I am thinking of them. To put it a simpler way, the phrase I've unintentionally subscribed to my whole life is "out of sight, out of mind," and I don't like it.

We've all had people come in and out of our lives, some of whom have names we can't remember, while others have names we wish we could forget. At some point you will run into these people again, whether at the store, on vacation, or dating your sister. So often I've had to be momentarily polite and then avoid their desire to reconnect as quickly as possible, never once feeling bad about not sharing their interests in rekindling our association.

To be even more blunt, I've never understood how having a shared experience with someone for a brief period, such as an academic class or working together at a part-time job, allows that person to pretend that they have a close relationship with you years later. Now that's not to say that people whose social lives revolve around work, school, or some other organization is a bad thing, because it isn't. However, if that's the only thing you have in common, I think it might be a bit silly to want to stay in contact to share stories of your grandkids thirty years later.

We've all lived diverse chapters in our lives, from attending schools in different states, working in many different job fields, and traveling in ever-changing social circles. There are a lot of great people that I always wished I could stay connected to, and there are three times as many that I wish I could avoid indefinitely.

So, with the dawn of life-consuming social networking sites, my fear of this "keep in touch" phenomenon has only been heightened. For a long time I was apprehensive about becoming fully engaged in sites like Facebook and MySpace, fearing that the only people that would find me were my disgruntled ex-girlfriends or the jealous boyfriends of past models. Surprisingly, I have been excited and inspired by finding people from my past who I truly enjoyed knowing back then or have sincerely missed from my life.

In the last three years, I've found people I've been searching for or have been thinking of for years. We've had dinners, worked on projects together, and, at the very least, been able to stay in touch with the aid of all of this amazing modern technology. Just today I shot family portraits for an old boy scout and high school friend who, up until two years ago, I hadn't heard from in over fifteen years. I've been lucky enough to see his son grow and change every time they come back to visit our home town. Even though we weren't and aren't the closest of friends, having that small piece of my past life, which I practically ignore and rarely think about, makes me feel more complete in a way I never knew was lacking. That is just one of at least a dozen examples I could cite, and I am curiously optimistic about who else might come out of the ether.

At best, maybe I'm becoming more mature and am able to handle more complex friendships and relationships than I ever have before. At worst, I've become nostalgic and am perhaps glossing over the past. Either way, I can't deny that it feels right.

Getting Ready For Summer

Some will see this as an objectification of a woman. I see this simply as a study, a light test with water, which I've rarely ever used and feel the need to experiment with.

I enlisted Katie's help via text message. She gladly stopped by after a long day of work just now, a wide assortment of bathing suits awaiting approval in her bag. In total, we shot for no more than ten minutes in front of my garage. The whole time I tried to figure out the proper amount of water pressure, make sure she wasn't freezing, and constantly worried about electrocuting her with all the power cords I had laying in the new puddles forming in my driveway. After changing and briefly looking at the samples of what we got, she laughed, gave me a hug, and went home to cook dinner for her dad. She was maybe at my place for a total of twenty minutes, tops.

This is the typical kind of afternoon I have after spending the day working at my family burger restaurant, Tom's Take Out. Some people say my life is crazy and wild and fun, and I suppose from their perspective it is. From my point of view, I'm just trying to avoid becoming yet another clever, creative person in a small town who isn't making full use of their talent or artistic drive. It's a daily struggle, and I'm doing my best.


(To purchase a copy of my first photo book, please CLICK HERE!)

10 Days of Kacie

Coming home from a weird day at work and a long afternoon of running errands, I was pleasantly surprised by my home's odd transformation. As some of you may or may not know, I choose to have my little one bedroom duplex convey both a minimalist attitude and a Spartan aesthetic, baring very few decorations and almost nothing on the plain, vanilla, stucco walls. In my absence today my friend and model, Kacie, who is visiting for three weeks, had done some work. She had vacuumed, rearranged my entire kitchen drawer system, washed all of my dishes, reorganized my cabinets, decorated my window sills with bottles and flowers, bought a cilantro plant, and even had a bowl of freshly sliced oranges sitting on my living room table waiting for me. I found myself smiling, speechless.

If you haven't followed any of my previous postings about her, I stayed with Kacie in Philadelphia for one interesting evening of my cross country trip last summer. We had such a fun, productive time that we've kept in contact and created a pretty solid friendship. Much to my delight, she decided to come out to visit me in California for a few weeks in hopes of more good times.

Since her arrival last Monday we've shot almost five thousand images all over the central coast including beaches, a winery, rural train tracks, old houses, bars, farmer's markets, and cow pastures. We've had dinner with my family, played with my nieces, danced until midnight with some of my other models, talked for hours, and have drunken a fair amount of whiskey. So far I'd say her visit has been a complete success. I'm pleased to have also been able to make good on all the promises I had made to aid in her comfort here, such as getting the kinds of food she likes, touring places she'd like to go, etc.

Though she appears in photos as a soft, vintage pin-up model, I have made much about how outspoken she can be, how strong and almost macho she comes off in real life. Essentially, she's your typical straight talkin' South Philly broad. In preparation for her arrival I have described her to my friends as your typical tough guy-friend who just happens to inhabit the body of an attractive woman. Best of all, she's not only an excellent model, but the fact that she’s got her photography degree doesn’t hurt at all, leading to us having a wonderful shorthand for a myriad of conversations.

When Kacie goes down to LA for a few days next week I am sure we'll both enjoy the little break apart, for anyone in close quarters for too long can get tiresome. Still, I am extremely surprised and impressed by just how easily the whole encounter has been. I will be the first one to admit that I've never been at my best with many roommates, but the transition from bachelor photo-factory to a warm, inviting home has been fairly seamless. I'm learning a lot.

As I type this I am sipping on a glass of orange juice and whiskey with some muddled orange slices she just made me. We're listening to Beethoven while she makes stir fry in my kitchen and dances around. It smells wonderful. I have no complaints with my life right now.

I will leave you with a few of my favorite images from her visit so far, all of which came essentially straight out of the camera:


The Audrey Hepburn Look.


Kacie is a Lady.


Her "gypsy look" at Pismo Beach.


Quick snap shot while she gets ready.


Kacie Likes Ribs.


The Oso Flaco stare.


Hugging the wall.


And lastly, one of my favorites.

I look forward to shooting thousands of more images in the next few days, stay tuned.

Don't Talk to Strangers

To my continued amazement, I have been fortunate to travel a lot these last several years. However, seeing many unknown faces and not getting a chance to talk in depth to most of them is one of the only two regrets I have about those excursions. Going through my archives while preparing to update my various websites for an important summer of self-promotion, I've been surprised to find so many simple and straight-forward images of complete strangers. Though I'm not known for my naturally lit images of real-life documentation, I usually find meeting new people and taking their photos far more rewarding than most other types of work I've done.

So, here are a few of my favorites, I apologize if you've seen some of them before. These are all people who stopped for only a moment to let me capture their likeness, but who I didn't really say much to and certainly have never seen again. They are strangers to me in every sense of the word. Interestingly, I've seen their faces enough in my archives that if I were to run into them again, I would probably freak them out by engaging them like a long lost friend. These are in no particular order:


"Menudo Guest", Pauma Valley Indian Reservation, CA 2009


"Paul Stanley from Kiss", Santa Maria, CA 2007


"Los Luchadores", Los Angeles, CA 2008


"Abortion Opponent", Santa Maria, CA 2008


"Civil War Reenactor", Gettysburg, PA 2009


"Cuban Posers", Cocoa Beach, FL 2009


"Tourist Dork", San Francisco, CA 2006


"Head Flower Girl", Paso Robles, CA 2008


"Not-So-Innocent Girls", Philadelphia, PA 2009


"Caribbean Mother and Child", Punta Uva, Costa Rica, 2004


"Neighborhood Playas", Philadelphia, PA 2009


"Burlesque Dancer/Wrestler", Los Angeles, CA 2008


"Mennonite Boy Cutting Grass in the Rain", Intercourse, PA 2009


"Polar Bear Swimmers", Coney Island, NY 2010

"Photographers deal in things which are continually vanishing and when they have vanished there is no contrivance on earth which can make them come back again."
- Henri Cartier-Bresson

Coming to Terms

(Somewhere over Nevada, 2010)

My last eight days had been spent in sheer exhilaration. Though the last year has been admittedly remarkable in regards to just about every aspect of my life, the previous week still would probably win out for the largest amount of concentrated overall fun. I had been in New York City at dance parties, visited long desired museums, and met my artistic and musical heroes who volunteered their cell phone numbers. I spent time with dear friends, experienced more than my fair share of laughter and drunken hours, and above all, engaged in a much needed lack of responsibility. This made what my brother affectionately refers to as the "Year of Mark 2.0" seem to be an almost real and tangible thing. So here I was, not twenty four hours after returning to Santa Maria and reality, with an eighteen year old girl whose doctors give at most five years to live, crying in my arms on my faded second-hand couch while I attempted to answer her unanswerable questions about the fairness of life.

I've only known Jenna for a little over three months, but in that time she has shown me her joy, passion, and sweetness while never holding back the honesty of her flaws, fears, and regrettable past deeds. We spent a fun afternoon catching up and sharing photos, taking in a late lunch and frozen yogurt. We joked, discussed future plans, just hung out. It was nice. Having suffered with her illness for most of her life, she is strong and brave in a way most people will never have to experience until they are frail and grey. On this day however, she either finally felt comfortable enough with me or was too emotionally tired to contain her tears anymore.

Personally, I've almost completely suppressed my ability to cry in any real world setting. It takes a corny or courageous plot point of some artificial entertainment source to finally let me allow myself the five second burst of tears I manage to eek out from time to time. After such an emotionally charged previous week, on the plane ride back I could sense a good fifteen second cry coming soon. With Jenna in my arms I really wanted to cry, especially in those long moments of silence when the only sound in the room was her quiet sobbing muffled by my t-shirt and the bumping old-school jams of low-riders cruising by. But I didn't and still haven't.

I supposed I could talk at length about her horrific personal ordeals with men, the boxes of mandatory pills doctors have prescribed, her past experiences living in a wheel chair and now with the occasional use of a cane. There is too much to tell and I've put off writing about it for weeks. I want to share these stories, show the life that she has given me permission to display, but frankly, I'm not yet ready for all that. It is still too new to me and I don't yet know how to feel about it. Maybe these paragraphs are the first steps on that road.

Jenna and I have many plans for the future, both creatively and socially, for as long as her health holds up. I want to show her things that I think she might enjoy or find important. The questions she's asked about life being fair, about the how's and why's of things, can only be answered with the same directness my parents thankfully gave me: That's just the way it is. Life isn't fair, bad things happen to good people, and things might not ever get better. All we can do is live for the moment, take as much pleasure in life as possible without hurting others in the process, and hope that the memories we leave behind give comfort in some way to others when we're gone. The hardest thing for me is that I want to convince her that these hard lessons get easier to accept as time goes by, but sadly she doesn't have the amount of time it takes to come to terms with all of it, and that's the most unfair thing of all.


The doctors say her physiology is that of someone in their sixties, and at the rate she's going she will have a fatal heart-attack before the age of twenty-three. Doctors have been wrong before. Unfortunately, no amount of prayer, luck, homeopathy or goodwill can make a difference in how to deal with such a situation the way acceptance can. Just thinking about Jenna can keep me up at night, filling me with sadness, hope, anger, regret, and joy. In the brief time I've known her I already feel changed, and for that I can't thank her enough. Maybe some day all of this will make sense, but the real tragedy is that deep down I know it never, ever will.

Art Appreciation

Neff, Noah and I braved the snow to attend the Brooklyn Museum's Kiki Smith opening on Friday. Neff got in due to Noah's extra ticket while I was left to my own devices. Using my fake, photoshopped "press pass", which I had created to finagle my way into the Michael Jackson trial back in 2005, I easily convinced the matrons manning the front counter that I should be given entrance, and tada! Lamb ball hors d'oeuvres for me and free beer for my cohorts.

We saw the show, shmoozed with various friends and acquaintances, and of course I had my photo taken with Kiki, trying not to act like a silly school girl meeting one of the Jonas Brothers. I was pleased to see children at the show, a rare sight in the New York City area on a whole, let alone in an art world setting. There was a stroller here and there amidst the large-headed sculptures while Obama-voting parents held their toddlers up to the chine-collé prints, hoping to pass their love for this work onto the next generation.

In one of the rooms, we spied a boy of about seven or eight sitting on the floor of the crowded gallery amidst all the mingling adults. He had taken a liking to one of Smith's sculptures hanging from the ceiling and was intent on drawing it in this little book. Neff, Noah and I all were intrigued to see the kid in action, but before I could take a photo of him in the cramped space he was bolting up to proudly show his dad, an artist Noah turned out to know personally.

About half an hour later we were done exploring the museum and were headed off to find some dinner and a well-needed drink, hopping into a quick-filling elevator. The last people to get in were the little boy who had been drawing and his parents. We stood fairly quiet in the elevator as the boy reviewed his night's work, clearly seeming disappointed. Finally he looked to his dad and said, loud enough for all of us to hear, "It took me so much time and I got such little pictures!" At this point we all smiled, and Noah commented on the boy's frustration for all of us, saying sympathetically, "Now you're thinking like an artist."

It was a light, fun moment that unfortunately illustrated a real frustration for creative people, whether they haven't reached double digits or are collecting social security. We all easily saw ourselves in that boy's disappointing realization, when this thing you start out doing for fun finally begins to feel like it is real work and thus less enjoyable.

This week spent in New York has been truly great in so many unnameable ways. Thankfully, in the last four years I've come full circle in my sensibilities, from entirely forsaking the art world and what it stands for to relenting passed the self-deprecating concept that there might actually be a place in there somehow for me. Either way, I'm ready for the next step, excited to get back to work, and look forward to the challenges from new realizations to come.

June 25, 2009: The Breaking Point

("Onikaa Strikes Back!"2009)

It was the twenty-eighth day of what was beginning to feel like my never-ending cross country trip. I was leaving East Lansing, Michigan, pleasantly impressed with my model and host, Onikaa. She had proven to not only be as insane a model as she had promised, but also a wonderful host. In the one night I was there, she provided a great home-cooked meal, lively entertainment with her family and friends, and a fair amount of alcohol. Of course I hadn't slept very well on the floor of her spare room, but as usual by 9AM I was back on that ceaseless road. It was only a day after I had infamously been detained at the US/Canadian border, though so much had transpired since then that the incident already seemed like ancient history.

The level of exhaustion I had willingly pushed myself to at that point was as maddening as it was humorous. Still I continued, meeting necessary deadlines to fit the schedules of those left on my itinerary. All I could think about was home, my own bed, and not having the uncertainty of where I might lay my head that night. Choosing to listen to the radio, I welcomed the irregular DJs and weird local commercials that would keep me more focused than the drone of a familiar iPod playlist. The rest of Michigan didn't take too long, the northern tip of Indiana was pretty painless, and I was so groggy that the traffic of Chicago seemed like a pleasant break from the constantly shifting scenery. It also felt good later that day to cross Wisconsin and Minnesota off my list of states never visited, though I'll freely admit that I'm unable to remember anything specific about either one. I felt a constant rush against time, and afraid to risk slowing down for fear of losing what momentum I had left.

My main memory of that day was the endless entertainment reports. First was the report of the passing of Farrah Fawcett, then an hour later the all consuming media blitz reporting the death of Michael Jackson. Though I'd been the happiest and chubbiest Mexican kid on my block to wear a single white glove in the mid-80s, my current burnt out state left me feeling more surprised than disappointed, focused more on the task at hand than Pop Culture's loss. Almost immediately after hearing the news, as I put more and more tired miles behind me, I received modern society's version of a public eulogy: the dirty text-messaged joke. Some were just about Jackson, others wittily tried to incorporate Farrah's loss to colon cancer as well. I'm usually a loyal fan of a good off-colored joke, but given my emotional state at the time I could only think "ooh, too soon."

By nightfall I was almost falling asleep at the wheel. Then, like a shock to my system, an intriguing sign caught my eye: The Corn Palace. I had reached Mitchell, South Dakota, almost blindly breezing passed it as I had everywhere else that day, but my curiosity was piqued. I had heard of this legendary home of "Corn-as-Art" for years, and though I surely could have rested conformably on my death bed having never visited, I was glad for the excuse to stop. In my haze I almost missed the exit, having to dangerously skirt across several lanes at once to safely clear the off-ramp. The Corn Palace, surrounded on all four sides by its entertaining corn husk mosaics of historic sites, was a pleasant ten minute deviation that woke me up enough to carry on for a few more desperate hours.


By this time it was after 11PM and my sore body's only goal was to cover as much ground as possible while maintaining my sanity. During the entire trip I was averaging about 4 hours of sleep a night, some in hotel rooms and nice spare rooms, but many more in strangers' makeshift guest areas. One night it would be a mattress on the floor, the next a sunken velvet couch or a small child's bed. The funniest part was that I inflicted all of this upon myself. As I look back on it many months later, I must admit I really, truly enjoyed the experience, though at the time I might not have agreed. But 1:30AM, I was done. Still an hour outside of my intended destination of Rapid City, the site of Mount Rushmore, my vehicle was the only light in a far-reaching black horizon. I had covered about twenty percent of the length of the country in one day under the strain of exhaustion, and I didn't know how much more I could take. Finally, like a beacon of hope, I was greeted by a closed gas station's illuminated marquee as I sped over a slight grade. In what felt like an eternity, I slowly pulled alongside the building to check the security of the surrounds, decided I didn't care, parked, threw my seat back, and fell asleep immediately.

I awoke in what felt like just a few minutes, my whole body aching and unexpectedly shivering. In my sleep I must have covered myself with the thin, white robe worn by my models during breaks from physically revealing photo shoots, but it just wasn't enough to keep me warm. With my eyes throbbing and head spinning, I couldn't understand why the sun had already begun to rise over the flat landscape. It appeared to be one of the loveliest sights I had witnessed in years, or at least that was the perception through my sore, crusted-over eyes.

Reacting solely through force of habit, I reached to the open camera bag on my passenger seat and blindly slipped my hand through the camera strap, knowing what I needed was attached to it. I clumsily reached to open the driver's side door, falling out onto the asphalt in the cold morning air like a bumbling drunk, instinctively slinging my camera over my shoulder in one fluid motion for its protection. Attempting to stand like a baby fawn on newborn legs, I inadvertently slammed my face into the thick layer of dust that had been building up on my truck for weeks. Steadying myself as best I could, I awkwardly took two more steps toward the back of the vehicle, again losing my balance and hitting the side of the dirty truck. I remember sorely leaning there for a moment, actively seeking muscle memories to relearn the concept of bipedal stability, wiping my eyes in a desperate attempt for any sort of clarity. When I finally reached the back bumper, I placed a precarious knee for balance and fired my camera wildly at the sunrise, adjusting the zoom lens to shoot as wide a scene as possible in a vain attempt to capture anything worthwhile.

Once my brain registered some unknown feeling of accomplishment, I stumbled back, swinging my camera back into its bag. I fell back into the comparative warmth of the truck's cab and onto the still-reclined seat, slamming the door behind me. Reaching for my cell phone to check the always important time, I saw it was already 5:17AM, which for some reason led me to briefly whimper unintelligibly. It was at that moment I made the unusual decision to allow myself to fall back asleep, which I did for a necessary and undisturbed four hours. It was that simple, and I felt relieved.

I knew finally that I had reached my physical breaking point, but I was also thankfully aware that it could only get better. When I did eventually wake up hours later I felt ready to finish what I had started weeks before. I had seen so much and traveled so far, but I was ready to be done. It was the beginning of the end and I was finally on my way home.

Forsaking All Others

He's one of the goofiest guys I've ever known, a dorky "white trash" kid with nothing more to offer a woman than sincerity and a good heart, which has always been about enough in my opinion. She is the eldest child of a very old-fashioned, working class Mexican family, the daughter they had pinned a lot of their hopes for the future on. Her family has never really approved of their three year relationship, with the language barrier being the smallest of the numerous handicaps to overcome. In spite of the dissension, the couple finally got married last weekend, roping me into being the lucky photographer for the festivities.

Neither the ceremony nor the after-party would have been described as formal or extravagant, with the reception being held at the groom's family home. The six-foot subs laid out on the pool table beneath the collection of Budweiser memorabilia still didn't prepare me for the joke wedding cake topper of a plastic bride dragging her squeamish groom to an unwanted future. Though I had been terribly reluctant to be there at all and remained unenthusiastic the entire time, I did my job well and in hindsight I'm very glad I was able to witness the spectacle.


Love, passion, overcoming odds, reality over desire, and destiny versus dumb luck are all topics that occupy my thoughts most of the time. Even with the palpable tension that day, dirty looks across family lines, and the groom's mother as disturbingly and maniacally overwhelmed with excitement as much as the bride's father was miserably uncomfortable, I found an inspiring sense of truth and beauty amidst the chaos. There in the 20' by 30' basement "reception hall", surrounded by the tenuously taped ceiling balloons, with the DJ blaring loud Spanish Banda music, complete with colored light show and smoke machine, the couple reminded us all in their two minute dance what the occasion was about.

They laughed and kissed and cried, whispering in each others' ears despite the maelstrom of both real and perceived distractions in the room. For that very brief time they illustrated what the whole concept of these kinds of ceremonies are about: the most optimistic sense of Hope. Of course it only lasted as long as the groom's mother could prevent herself from interrupting, beer in hand, to take over the dance floor. Still, it made an impact, if only on me. They were finally together, and no matter what vocal or unspoken objections anyone might have had that day, these two people were emotionally and now legally committed to each other. Whether blissfully ignorant of what the future holds for them or willful, they had at least ventured to take that first step on the path of a life together, and in this day and age you have to at least respect that.


All told, it was the most awkward, uncomfortable family gathering I had experienced since my extended family's 1990 reunion was abruptly ended by a drunk cousin picking a fight with the band leader. Experience has proven that even the strongest of relationships can not always hold up against the kind of countless obstacles these two young people will have to tackle together. All that they have is their promise to each other and the hope that they each can deliver. I, for one, wish them all the luck and happiness possible. Here's hoping they make it.

This Year

(Vintage Bed, 2008)

This year was one that will stand out for the rest of my life, the kind of year you reference more often than others when telling stories of lessons learned, uncertain times, miles traveled, and amazingly unusual experiences. This year I met more new faces than I have in a long time and learned more about myself than I was aware I needed to.

In the last couple of years I have made my life much more of an open book, expanding my web presence and what I'm willing to admit about myself with various blogs, profiles, etc. Though I am a very private person, overall I think that it has been a positive experience in forcing myself to just put more of who I am out there. I'm not that bizarre of a person, don't have much to hide or many demons to conquer. The phrase I've used before is that "I'm just a simple guy trying to do my best." However, that isn't necessarily true.

Yeah, I'm a pretty decent person, but I don't try as hard as I should. Also, to be perfectly honest, I'm not that simple, either. When it gets down to it, I'm a pretty complicated guy, but thankfully what I want and need day-to-day are simple enough to not be too difficult for others. That said, just being easy to be around doesn't make you a good person. Though I don't really believe in the concept of "new year's resolutions", my goal is to do enough in the next coming year to feel like I'm being a better person. I don't think I'm aware of just how daunting of a challenge that might be.

Honestly, I don't know where I'll be this time next year. My guess is still living in Santa Maria near my family, doing what I do, hopefully a little more successful, hopefully retaining the perspective I currently live with. Listening to some others, however, the sky could be the limit. We shall see. No matter where I am headed, I just wanted to take a second to record my current view of things, give a nod to those new faces that stood out from the rest this year, some love to the loyal family and friends who have helped me along my journey so far, and a wish for all the best for you in the future.

Let's make 2010 a good one, shall we?

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Here are a few of my other links:
My Twitter: For updates of new photo postings and unnecessary flippant observations.
My Tumblr: I reserve it for a bit more risque imagery illuminated with mainly mopey tales and lyrics.
My newer Flickr account: Contains many photos and my inspiration for them.
My older Flickr account: A censored profile with lots of photos, more risque images, and a whole lot of descriptions.
My ModelMayhem: A website for finding models in various locations around the country.

"Dear Santa..."

("Katie West's Pigeons" 2009)

After careful consideration I think I've finally narrowed down my Christmas list. This in no way means that these items are the only things I would like to have, but these are the things I could most immediately make the best use of. Here they are in no particular order:

-A solid ten hours of uninterrupted sleep
-Thicker hair in the front
-Thinner hair on my back
-A Fujifilm Instax Mini 7s
-Much better timing when entering peoples' lives
-Higher quality clown noses
-Peace in the Middle East. AGAIN.
-For this unfortunate knot in my left hand to go away
-A muse who prefers being naked but doesn't feel the need to be
-An intern who actually knows the things I need them to know
-Less "eye-baggage"
-Peace on Earth
-Good Will towards men
-Did I already mention the Instax?
-An in-house barber
-For that one guy to just stop with the nonsense already
-For that one girl to just chill out already
-A dictionary on my cell phone
-New models with no tattoos
-Old models with more tattoos
-More curiosity and less concern


I realize many, if not all of these are impossible to acquire, but even the attempt is nice. Sometimes it really is the thought that counts most. However, I hear Amazon is having a sale on the Instax...

Like a Piece of Meat

Many over the years have called me a pornographer, a misogynist, or simply an objectifier of women. Having more respect for women than I do for myself, I've always been bothered by this while also trying to not take it too personally. I know who I am and what my intentions are in my photography, so if people don't get it, that is just their biased opinion. Thankfully, all of the women in my life trust me and respect most, if not all of the projects I work on and those who model for me love working with me on these projects.

Unfortunately, I think I am the exception to the rule. It doesn't take more than a few moments looking at sites like ModelMayhem.com to realize that the majority of people who call themselves photographers are little more than horny guys wanting to see women pose in bathing suits or less. I can't tell you how many horror stories I have heard from models who have had photographers grope or attack them during vulnerable moments of a photo shoot. The modeling industry is just a microcosm of course, the tip of the despicable iceberg of countless unnameable horrors that women have to deal with daily due to certain males' lack of self-control. Just look up the statistics of sexual assaults in this country alone, or the fact that at least one in three women serving in the military are raped or sexually assaulted today. I can't really say I expect things to change, as human nature can never really be denied, though I'd love to see it at least try to evolve.

As a self-affirmed mama's boy and an uncle of nieces, I can't avoid thinking about these things, especially lately/ At the same time though I am sure my images are seen as only adding to the problem. Maybe that is correct, perhaps these images I present only contribute to the continued objectification of women. No matter what someone's intentions are when creating something, how that thing is understood by the majority matters much more. I'm not really sure anymore, but I'm trying to figure it out.

Shades of Grey

This week someone told me that I make a lot of declarative, definitive statements regarding most matters in the world and in how I perceive things to work, especially in these tough times. They didn't say it was a bad thing, just that it was unusual in this day and age, and how it was refreshing overall. Of course I was aware that I have very strong opinions about many topics, but I hadn't been called on it in a while and it got me thinking again about why I am this way.

It's no secret that I am an idealist, that I believe things should be a certain way and that I do my best to help anywhere I can along those goals. I'm sure many of my formative years reading comic books, where the line between offensive villains and defensive heroes was always clearly defined didn't help my idealized thought process. Nor did stories of knights, whip-wielding archaeologists, and George Bailey help in my perceptions of doing what needs to be done to serve "a just cause".

Still, I am left uneasy with the concept that I am a definitive person, that my opinions are absolute and unwavering. Yes, the notions of absolute "right" and "wrong" would be great if they were always clear and easy to define. However, as we all know the real world does not necessarily work in such a clear cut manner. Unfortunately, in the real world decisions are often made through reluctant compromise where sometimes, most times, no one really wins in the end, or at least not the "good guys".

I am abundantly aware of what shades of grey consume us on any given day, but that doesn't mean I have to be satisfied with them. We all make concessions every day to make the path easier, to lighten the load, to make others feel better, or when we are just too tired to put up a fight. It's natural, and in these tough economic times, people are even more afraid to stand up and take a risk. It is completely understandable, and if you don't get that, then you either haven't been watching closely or are untouched by the changing times.

The countless shades of grey that consume the world we all inhabit seem to fluctuate between lighter and darker shades depending on the weather, who is in power, what news network you watch, the intensity of your headache that day, and how much sleep you got the night before. Life isn't easy, but since when has it ever been? We have all done things at some point that we aren't proud of or that we regret in those quiet moments when the kids are asleep and the dog hasn't been fed yet, but that's okay, too.

All that said, the only thing that really bothers me about all of the struggles and uncertainties today is the lack of hope I see in people. A lot of people I know want things to get better but go through their days with a sincere disbelief that things can ever get better. Okay, maybe in certain instances they are correct, but no one ever lived a good life and nothing ever got better by thinking the worst. So sure, I freely admit that I may not always be the most positive person out there, but the one ideal I will always cling to is hope. That can never be a bad thing.

"The Little Things"

(Tom's Take Out Calendar, November 2009)

So much of what makes us individuals is actually a string of small traits and subtle interests gleamed from others. Catch phrases, shared movies, television shows and books, certain ways we like our tea or the way we dress, all of these things stem from the influence of other people in our lives, even if they are only there for a fleeting moment.

Having lived what I see now as a somewhat sheltered life, much of the little things I've gotten into, words I often use, and inspirations that have enhanced my everyday life have come from places I am almost unaware of. These are all little gifts that I otherwise would never have known if not for someone's personal outside example. These small things have brought so much joy and comfort, and thus have helped make me who I am today, that there is no possible way I could repay the myriad of people who have guided me to this path.

With Thanksgiving Day imminent, I thought I'd take a second and make a list of as many things as possible that I never liked, words I never used, or attitudes I never appreciated until someone personally influenced me. Some of these things I actively and vocally decried, disavowed, or just plain wrote-off as dumb, useless, silly, or evil for some childish notion of the past, or simply never thought about at all. They are, in no particular order:

-the necessity and over-use of cell phones and all of their functions
-the love of certain consumables, including Ethiopian food, boba tea, edamame, tofu, balsamic vinegar and oil, udon noodles, sushi, and more
-the ease and functionality of digital photography, the fixed 50mm lens, UV filters
-the awareness and appreciation of "Alternative" music of the early to mid-'90s
(i.e. Pixies, Built to Spill, Soul Coughing, etc.)
-the awareness and appreciation of contemporary "Indie" music
(i.e. The Mountain Goats, The National, Neutral Milk Hotel, etc.)
-the ability to use Photoshop, Mac computers, etc.
-shooting in "RAW"
-the appreciation of plain white (not color-gelled) lights in photography
-a slightly more open-minded perception of certain drugs and harmless, though technically illegal activities
-being forced to go out after dark to socialize
-openness in discussing taboo subjects, including masturbation, bodily functions, personal nudity and bodily issues, etc.
-appreciation for "pin-up" styled imagery
-being able to ask for and accept a hug, neck and back rub, and a little bit of help now and again
-preferring a functional pick-up truck to some sporty, fashionably smaller vehicle
-taking the time to appreciate people who my first reaction would be negative of, including those unusual or questionable interests, body modification, personal associations, etc.
-the use of laptop computers in public
-using iPod vehicle adapters
-an almost complete lack of fear about taking a financial risk versus having an amazing experience
-appreciation of alcohol in its various forms (except beer), mainly whiskey, wine and tequila
-my overuse of the word "crazy" when describing something unusual
-the spiritual guidance of gurus such as Robert Smith, Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, Mike Doughty, Peter Gabriel, others
-being forced to use MySpace, Facebook, and Flickr.com, which led to amazing things and people entering my life

I am sure there are countless others, but these are the ones that have sprung to mind recently. With that said, I still have a long way to go. I find that I'm still painfully set in my ways in many regards, but I'm trying. To those who know me really well, honestly, truly, I'm trying. To all the Americans, have a Happy Thanksgiving, to the rest of the world, Happy Thursday!

"No one knows how love works."

I really enjoy Mark Morford's columns. He's insightful, witty, and pretty damn honest. Here is an article that I had cut out and taped in an old sketch book two years ago. I couldn't have said it better myself.

NO ONE KNOWS HOW LOVE WORKS
Mark Morford
San Francisco Chronicle
July 25, 2007

I am not married. I have never, to the best of my knowledge, been married.

I do not have any children of which I am right now aware. I am, in fact, recently single again for the first time in many years. Also: no mortgage. No debt. No daily array of behavioral meds (yet). No significant or particularly dangerous skeletons - none that can speak or call the CIA or reveal the location of the photographs buried on my hard drive, anyway.

This is a weirdly fascinating position to be in, and not only because many of my long-coupled friends think I must've won some sort of amazing social lottery, with the prize being a debauched free-for-all of sybaritic adventure.

No, when you're single and you've finally made it past the age when you've felt both love's deepest tongue probings and also its most random horror-flick slashings, what it means, at least for me, is that you get to become this odd sort of sounding board - a blank slate for love's warped potential, a reason for others to extrapolate on the nature of love and life and sex and how difficult/wonderful/impossible it all really is.

Which is merely another way of saying, I am learning something. Or rather, relearning. Or rather, knowing something everyone sort of knows but no one really talks all that much about because it's so damn obvious and also painful and fraught and wonderful, pounded back into my thick skull in a delightfully unexpected way.

Here is the big lesson, the thing that keeps coming at me, again and again and again: No one has the slightest clue how to make love work.

I know. Shocking. But truly, it's weirder that you might think.

See, singlehood at my pseudo-mature age can be a time of profound cleansing, of enjoying the moment as you ready for the new, of trying to figure out just what you're all about and what you really want and how to go about getting it, or not getting it, or letting it all go and not attaching to it so that it may find you, in the healthiest and sexiest and most honest way possible.

And so, you look around. And you ask. And you get feedback, comments, perspectives from all those in various stages of lovedom around you.

(Very few of my circle are single, and if they are, they're almost certainly seeking that special one to make it all make sense.) And that feedback ain't what it used to be. If it ever was.

For every happily married couple I know (and I do know a few), there are three more who are confused and tense and battling all sorts of doubt and crisis and regret. For every wedding announcement, there are two more separations. For every guy I know who's tremendously happy to be settled, there's another who wishes he could've had "just one more year" of unbridled freedom.

It goes on. For every woman I know who simply can't wait to have kids and who tears up in front of a newborn and whose biological clock is ticking like Dick Cheney's pacemaker in a gay fetish dungeon, there's another who has quietly realized that she should maybe never have become a mother.

Couples you think were rock solid and perfect have fallen apart, screamingly. Couples you thought wouldn't last a year have made it to 10 and show no signs of slowing. Couples who got together in college and were miserably mismatched took a decade off and had lots of sex with other people and then got back together and it's now the perfect, true thing. More or less. Unless it's not.

See, at a certain point, all the variants become so astounding, so dizzying, so universal, that you finally realize (yes, for the 1,000th time) there is no rule. There is no pattern. The exceptions are the rule. There is no approach that, overall, seems to work for most people most of the time. There's not even a hint of a possibility of a whisper of a rule, and anyone who tries to tell you differently, be it a church or a parent or a relationship guru, is, to put it gently, astoundingly full of it.

This is why God laughs. This is why the Fates roll their eyes and belch.

Because you think you have this crude set of boundaries and guidelines that you insist you will live by as you head into the uncharted waters of love and sex and attraction, and these silly notions grow and thrive and breed like drunken Mormons all through your 20s and 30s, when all your friends are hooking up and all the marriages are as fresh as squirted mother's milk and all the love is sweet and skittering and hot and everything seems aimed toward the positive, the right.

And then, time happens. Fights. Breakdowns. Crisis. Fertility issues.

Financial stress. Loveless marriages. Sexless marriages. Second marriages. Unwanted kids. Wanted kids who end up being the repository of all the angst of the loveless marriage. Divorce. Stepchildren.

Open relationships. Closed relationships. Polyamory. Experimentation.

Sperm donation. Therapy. Also: Cancer. Disease. Accidents. Death.

Rebirth. Morning breath.

Oh, and one more: infidelity. Oh yes. Here is perhaps the most fascinating topic of all, the soul's dirty little secret, the hottest of love's hot buttons. Because maybe you used to look at adultery and say, "Oh my God, no way, it's just so wrong, horrible, hurtful, dangerous." Maybe it was even your absolute rule. Unassailable. You simply do not cheat. Do not wander. Not ever. No no no no no.

Except, yes. Except when you get to know someone - or perhaps multiple someones - and for whatever unexpected reason and unquantifiable mutation of love and body and life, it becomes actually understandable. Justifiable. Encouraged, even. Still painful, hurtful, dangerous? Yes. But if you're honest, your boundaries will shift. Your definitions will blur. And what's more, you realize that this is how it has to be.

Maybe it's simply a case of the more you learn the less you understand. Maybe it's all about the wisdom of aging.

Me, I like to think it's simply because, for the most part, we're still just one big gaggle of spiritual infants, still love's little quivering carry-on Chihuahua: trembling and jumpy and sweet and trying to work through the infinitely frustrating, cruelly painful, orgasmically delicious variants of how the human soul can get its love on.

And baby, from what I can tell right now, we've got one hell of a long way to go.

Living well is the best revenge.

About two weeks ago I watched as a new friend of mine debated his failure at a personal goal against a group of people. After listening to a bit of well-earned self-pity about what the other people might think of him, this timeless line popped into my head: "Living well is the best revenge."

Personally, I try not to hold too many grudges in my life. Whether or not I'm successful in that endeavor, I can thankfully say that nothing I do as a result of a grudge involves a feeling of vengeance towards any wrong doing I've perceived directed at me. Sure, life is not easy and I'd be the first person to admit that. Unfortunately, too often people seem beaten down or fired up by their perceived lack of fairness in this world. Too much time and energy is wasted essentially shouting at the heavens for clarity, a chance at redemption, or answers when there actually aren't any to be found. What it comes down to is, at some point if a person spends their time focused on whether life is fair or not, as well as the concepts of winning and losing, they are probably wasting their best years. I have known countless people like that and have avoided those types of people as much as possible for years.

What seems like my now healthy perspective on fairness and winning came at a personal price, for I too was once wrapped up in years of long nights spent wondering the "hows" and "whys" of the universe. Finally, by the grace of some unnameable supreme being, I woke up one morning and realized it just didn't matter.

I've never been one of those guys who sought the highest highs of success, getting off instead on the adrenaline of "the doing", "the making." I've often received more excitement over the attempt than the idea of some anticlimactic "win", which felt like a brick wall of emotional let down. I can vividly remember looking at the winner of a class competition as a child and thinking "and now what happens to him?" Nothing. Life went back to normal for him and all of us, so why did it matter if we strived for the top prize? Of course, I can't say I don't enjoy being the best at something, nor am I ever not trying my hardest at a given task, but I'm never really too disappointed when falling short of perfection. There is usually someone who is going to be better at something than you are, but why beat yourself up over it? Growing up, whether I won or lost at something my dad always asked me if I had tried my best. When I would answer "yes", he would breathe a sigh and say "well then, that's all that matters" and never bring it up again.

Maybe overall I'm just not a competitive person by nature. Winning to me isn't all it's cracked up to be, and neither is losing if you learn a great deal from it. I've also learned that there is no weakness is discussing failure. All strength gained from lessons learned is a victory if applied timely and appropriately. So let's all go out there and do our best, take a deep breath, maybe stop for a drink afterwards, and enjoy the valid attempt. Sometimes that's all you've got.