The Confession

Well, really, I’m more tortured, than artistic. And it may be argued that the artistic is more artifice than artful. But I try, nonetheless.

Folks who don’t know me well (meaning just about everybody) don’t realize I have this creative half that doesn’t wield its powers in the company of friends and coworkers until long after we meet. In fact, not knowing myself as well as I ought, even I remained largely unaware of this need to create until the beast was unleashed during my final year of high school. My more “public” facing personna tends to be bookish, I suppose — and there’s a good reason for that: I’m rarely without a book. Even in good company.

Not quite a misanthrope…

As long as I’m in the confessional mood I might as well admit that I’m also a functioning introvert. Again, this surprises my friends and coworkers for I can be quite garrulous. But I need time alone in order to survive the teeming hordes of happy extroverts. (In MBTI terms: I’m an INTP, for whatever that’s worth.) True to type: my exposure to whirling masses of people often leaves me drained and even melancholy.

But, my wife notes with irony: while I need and enjoy “cave time,” certain public situations get me wired like a happy cat — such as when I’m teaching, presenting, or preaching. Of course, this leaves me even more drained than just being the large, bookish guy with oddball observations at the dinner party. But it’s worth it.

Add water and lavish praise, then stir gently

Now, how about a trip down memory lane to help glue these apparently unrelated sidebars together (closet creativity plus homebody introversion): When I was 12 years old and merely bookish but not yet fully “creative,” I took an art class at school where the teacher enthusiastically assured me I had an aptitude for drawing. I warmed to his praise and eventually became the teacher’s assistant for the class. I enjoyed everything about the course: the drawing, the perspective exercises, the natural art, the hand-thrown clay and firing the pots. I found it relaxing and invigorating at the same time. Though I probably wouldn’t have said that then. I would have used more sedate terms like “Cool,” and “Neat.” (It was the early 80’s.)

So, when it came time to enter high school, I naturally sought to continue my interest in the arts, and selected Art I for my optional “elective” course. I did not know that all elective courses required parental approval, so when I presented the slip for the necessary signature, I hit a roadblock.

“Art? Art? You can’t make a living drawing pictures. Take something else!” (Here, my memory inserts the sound of a Jewish mother nagging. Strangely, my mother is not Jewish.)

Having learned by then what battles could be fought (none) and won (again, none), I meekly submitted, and filled my course roster with the usual: Math, English, Science, Spanish, Physical Ed., Government, and so on. For three years.

Then came the surprise: as an 18-year-old entering the 12th grade, I was legally entitled to choose electives on my own counsel. Even better: having neglected my electives for the preceding three years, I only had one required course left!

This held great promise. I could fill up the entire remainder of the day with any elective curiosity I desired.

“Wow,” doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt about this zephyr of parental emancipation. It’s not that I exulted from being out from under my parents’ collective thumbs (I did exult), but I anticipated with relish all the super-cool things I could do in my senior year. With. Out. Permission.

So, in addition to my final required math class, I added these electives:

• Spanish – I’d completed the required two years, the third and fourth were elective
• The Entertainers – a song-and-dance performance troupe (I know, really, really hard to believe if you know me.)
• Piano I
• Guitar I
• Art I
• Photography I
• Photography II
• Drama I

Yes. the number of courses exceeded the allotted hours in the school day. I was going in early for the Entertainers and leaving late after school hours and going straight to my after-school job. I made it work. And it helped that I was forced to drop the less-interesting all-singing-all-dancing performance club because I couldn’t afford the tux.

If there’d been a basket-weaving class, I think, I would have gladly enrolled.

For the whole of that year, I was drunk on the arts. And while I could recount the praise my instructors piled on me (and I actually did describe it, but you can just thank me for deleting it because, really, who cares? It was high school.), I’ll only say that this one year in school transformed my life and changed my self-perception for good more than any other experience before or since.

I went on to make photos for my college Public Relations department for scholarship money. Later, while working at the A/G headquarters, I shot news photos for the Office of Information department at the 1997 General Council. While I’ve never won any “art” contests, I’ve had my work published and I’ve been paid for it. When feeling my oats, and out of earshot of real pros, I therefore sometimes claim to be a “professional” photographer.

But what have you done for me lately?

Nowadays, my guitar lays neglected in a corner of my house, calling to me from time to time, and my Bride challenges me to take it up again. My son has a little electric piano now, which I dink on infrequently — but I never really had the discipline for the keyboard.

But photography has remained with me as a close companion through the years. I have boxes and boxes, bags, books and binders full of negatives, prints, reprints, and print-outs. Unfortunately, the cost has kept me from doing much with it. I won’t go into the woes of pricey equipment and expensive gear, but it’s enough to say that we who see life through the lens can fill ten rolls of film for every single roll destroyed by the causal snap-shooter.

It adds up.

So, in the end, even though I still have the photographer’s eye, the photog’s mindset and a tendency to see everything through a viewfinder, even my trusty Nikon FA has been languishing these past few years.

Enter the age of gadgets that pretend to be tools

A couple years ago I cunningly convinced my wife she needed a new camera, especially since we wanted to document our kids’ lives in full Technicolor detail. (I’m clever that way, with gadgets. Plus, my wife sees through my ploys, and allows me the illusion of influence because she loves me.) So, we bought her the best cheap camera we could afford: a little Nikon CoolPix 3200. It produces a 3-megapixel image, can do macro (close up) photography, and has a zoom lens built in. The selling point was that it has a more forgiving f-stop “film speed” than the other 3MP cameras I was looking at, and the macro lens worked very nicely.

Yes. It’s really and truly her camera. But she lets me borrow it whenever I want. As long as I buy new batteries.

Now, when I get a few moments, once in a while, I’ll feed my photo jones and go make some pictures. Still, there’s a part of me that holds back: while I love digital photography, the little camera I have still produces more digital noise than I like, the chip sensors are smaller and less sensitive than I need, the pixels are too few, and the lenses are seriously wanting. But, still, it’s photography, and I enjoy it.

The Reason for this Post

So, I told you all that to lead up to this: When I first started this blog back in 2005, I had a goal to create a “portfolio” site as a companion to, or as a part of this weblog. I searched around for WordPress gallery plugins, I tried out a few gallery scripts, and I’ve even posted a few items here on the blog. But I haven’t been satisfied with the solution. The photos in a blog require too much time to manage, they suck a lot of bandwidth, and then you have to struggle with bandwidth leechers who hotlink to your stuff. Plus, it’s hard to fit random abstract photos into my typical rants and raves. Ultimately, blogs emphasize textual communication. Visual stuff requires a different tool.

I’d set up a Flickr account, but just really wasn’t getting into it. I tried using the Yahoo! photos account, but uploading photos felt painful and tedious in either case.

Finally, a couple weeks ago, I realized that some of the hiring managers I hope to impress might be more convinced of my so-called creative abilities if I actually set up something to demonstrate it. So, I set up my “media” page elsewhere on this site, with links to video, MP3 files, and some photos. But I still wasn’t satisfied.

So, back to the drawing board, and back to Flickr. I found a couple desktop tools to make uploading much easier (such as jUploadr). I played with the sets and the tags a little, and I decided to start uploading some stuff. Then, almost immediately, I hit the monthly upload limit. Then I hit the limit for the number of “sets” (or galleries) I could create. I finally broke down last week and paid for a pro account, which means I have to do something about it now.

So just today I found a PHP script which I could upload here that would pull the images from my Flickr account so that I could host my gallery here while managing my images elsewhere. And, best of all, the bandwidth is Flickr’s, not mine. (See lumis Gallery.)

Sweet.

About my photography

I enjoy getting close to a subject. I like finding “art” in everyday objects that people walk right by or glance over without giving a second thought. I look for, crave, and savor the unexpected perspective, the new light cast on an old object.

I want texture, I want to see weathered things up close. I want to see decay and capture its inherent beauty, because, somehow, as things age and crack they reveal their true nature. And this is lovely.

It’s not that I applaud chaos: no, I look for the beauty that lies somewhere between pristine intention and sullied decay. I look for unintended beauty awaiting discovery — if one only looks closely enough.

I regularly challenge myself to find something worth looking at closely near-at-hand. Thus: shots of key rings, fabric, and paper clips; the lunch-time picnic table, the kid’s playground, my back yard. Found objet-d’art.

I also like capturing personality through portraiture, but I absolutely prefer portraits that are more candid. I don’t enjoy posed photos, and I try to avoid the subject looking into the camera and smiling. (Though this is difficult with my kids because we have a couple hams who love seeing themselves on the tiny digital screen.)

I like taking pictures of buildings, too, when I find something interesting. Landscapes are not as much my “thing,” but I envy the Ansel Adams of the world who can somehow take the big world and make it small without diminishing the subject’s grandeur or majesty. I come from the other direction though. I take small things and make them big — and possibly reveal a little grace in the process.

My stuff won’t interest most of you. I don’t expect it to, and I won’t be bothered if you go and take a look and say, “Bah! Boring!” (My wife regularly hears people say, “Your husband takes strange pictures.”) My photos don’t necessarily tell a story, and they don’t all feature people or faces. But for all that, there is a story there still. The weathered and torn and beaten stuff all got that way somehow and even though the story isn’t audible or plainly visible, it’s there, if you have the eyes and ears to see and listen. Or just plain make up.

Without further ado…

So, please visit my new photo gallery. Explore. If you want to leave a comment, you can click through to the Flickr page and leave notes to your heart’s content. If you like something, please do leave a comment.

It keeps my lens shiny.

I try not to post too many things close together, but I was too excited about this to let it slide without posting.

No, I didn’t get a job.

Tonight I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. At first I thought it was a reflection off the rim of my eye-wear. Then I thought, Wait, is that a spider dangling in mid-air? So I looked, and I saw what I at first thought was the hugest arachnid I’d ever seen clutching the wall of my house.

But, no, after I stopped screaming hysterically (at least, in my head), I looked more closely, adjusted my spectacles, and realized I was seeing a beautiful dragonfly.

I gently encouraged the little critter up on my finger and, cupping my hands together, I went to show the winged beast to my wife, before setting it free. She suggested a photo. I readily agreed.

And you get to enjoy the fruits of our now-emancipated find.

Eat as many mosquitoes as you can find, little friend.

(Click the thumbnail above to see a larger version of the image (800×600). If you want a wallpaper-sized version (1024×768), click here.)

Today we sent our little boy to school for the first time. Nobody wept. There was no gnashing of teeth, wailing, or sack-cloth and ashes. On our part, anyhow. Instead, we were excited to see AJ off to a new adventure in his life, one that promises whole new rafts of friends, future sleepovers, new books to read, realms of knowledge to acquire, and numerous — I repeat … numerous — parent-teacher conferences down the road.

He’s not angry, just surprised and squinting into the Sun. Or maybe he’s just part Ferengi.

Every parent believes their child to be the brightest bulb in the firmament — with the possible exception of overachieving, insecure parents who vicariously live through their childen, ever suspecting and fearing that their child will prove to be as colossal a failure as they imagine themselves to be.

Not us. AJ is not only bright, he is certifiably bright, even if nobody believes us the first time we warn them — err — inform them. My Bride and are enomously proud of our son (when we’re not enormously vexed by his impulse-control), and I’ve already been justifiably corrected by my son on many observations I’ve made. The days are few until he truly knows more about things than I do and I become the student. Nevertheless, I hope to remain in service as his father, mentor, and guide — even through High School.

More sun. Less Ferengi

Last night we all went to AJ’s new school to meet with the principal and the teachers, to visit his classroom, and to enjoy a bit of ice-cream while dozens of other kids worked out their sugar-frenzy in the cafeteria. After listening to AJ’s teacher’s first presentation to her incoming class of kindergarteners and the milling parents, Jennifer and I hung around till we were the last ones in the class (we didn’t want to seem to brag in front of the other parents — we tend to keep that kind of outrageousness on my weblog). We introduced AJ, introduced ourselves, and got to work on sounding her out — and setting expectations.

“I know every parent says this, but AJ is very bright,” I said. “He already meets or exceeds almost every one of the goals in your curriculum except for maybe social skills and social studies.” She nodded and looked to AJ. Of course, he was tight-lipped. No showing off on cue — too bad we didn’t rehearse this. We let her know that AJ is currently on medication for ADHD and that he’s reading at the 2nd or 3rd grade level at least, and that his hyperactivity, curiosity, and intellectual development might wreak havoc in her class due to boredom. She assured us that this was no problem, and she told us her strategy for teaching exceptional students. We liked it. We liked her. We were assured. After a couple minutes small-talk, we wandered down to the cafeteria for our ice-cream, then beat a hasty retreat to put the kids in bed.

The long walk to academia.

Now, today. We take AJ to school and escort him to the cafeteria. We do the hugs and kisses thing, I remind him to be good for the teacher, and to obey everything she says to do, and we send him off.

Within seconds, we became mere background. There were kids! Kids everywhere! Soon enough, AJ is edging his way to the front of the line as Mrs. Russell marches her new brood off to the classroom, where the government does its parenting best.

Our role has now officially diminished. Or, at least, changed. It’s final. We have the paperwork (and a quieter house) to prove it.

Three hours later, we’re back to pick him up. And what do you know? First thing out of the gate: “Oh, you’re AJ’s mom! We … uh … need to talk.”

Getting a head start, already.

So it seems AJ’s first day in class was a raging success. He even got the Special Ed teacher involved. What with his interrogating the teacher (”What happens if the filament breaks?”), correcting her use of language (”It’s a ‘backpack,’ not a ‘book-bag!’”), instructing other students (”Hey, that ‘Z’ is backward!”), spilling the puzzle-pieces (”We all had to help clean it up.”), and a minor territorial skimish (”Some kid stole my seat!”), the teacher and support staff are guaranteed to already know his name. I’m not even sure we need to send him off with his name-tag tomorrow. “Oh, you have somebody bouncing off the padded walls in the gymnasium? That would be AJ Tatum.”

:: sigh ::

But, don’t take my word for it. I have a 24-minute (16-megabyte) podcast interview with AJ that I recorded just this afternoon, while the events were still fresh in his memory. Sure, it’s no theological treatise, and it won’t win any Grammy awards for best audio interview, and it’s not up to NPR-snuff. But I found myself giggling like a silly dad when listening to it all over again this evening. This is totally unscripted and only lightly edited from the original.

If you’re up for that sort of thing download it here. Or you can listen online.

If you have any encouragement or words of wisdom for AJ, post ‘em here. I’ll be sure to pass it along.

Notes on the music used in this podcast:

• Intro: James Hersch, “On the Bus,” from Cow, Bugs & Aardvarks
• Outro: Gunnar Madsen, “Ants in my Pants!” from Ants in my Pants!

And I got tired of the wind, having to carry a comb everywhere, and just generally tired of managing dying hair.

So, I shaved. Not all the way, just enough to feel like I was shaved. I left a wee little bit of hair behind. I wasn’t totally serious about baldness yet—besides, it’s still cold here in Chicago. I need a little bit of warmth left.

A week later, AJ followed suit.

“Dad, I like your hair.”

“Really? Do you want me to shave your head?”

Now, notice how quickly the conversation went from AJ just generally appreciating how “crunchy” my hair feels, to me offering to lop off his mane. My wife is in the corner shaking her head.

“Sure!”

After talking it over with me, and with plenty of rounds of me saying, “But it’s just hair. It’ll grow back. He’ll be in soccer this summer, he’ll need to keep cool.” And so on. She relented. The “It’s just hair, it’ll grow back” argument helped. Mostly, she just didn’t want hair to be the battlefield she died on.

That’ll probably be bows and arrows or target pistols or something silly like that.

Click the picture to see our glorious baldness!

Ellie’s Tresses, if you’re wondering, are still intact.

Before Jennifer and I married, we discussed what we would do about Christmas, Halloween, Easter, and other childhood stories. I was adamant: no myths. No lies. No Santa.

No. Tooth. Fairy.

I would not lie to my children for the sake of entertainment or shielding them from the uncomfortable truths of life. There is no grab-bag toting, velour-sporting grandpa dumping presents under the tree. These gifts come out of the hard-earned cash in my wallet! There is no winged woman with a wand trading hapless teeth for cash. What would I say when they ask me what she does with the teeth anyhow? What is the Tooth Fairy, some benign sort of Hannibal Lecter collecting discarded body parts for fun and profit?

No. No way am I layering my children’s minds with fanciful lies and fables.

Then we had AJ. And now Elisabeth.

:: sigh ::

Now nearly every night I lay down by my son’s side and what do I do? I spin a yarn. I tell a tale. I fabricate entertaining lies that quiet my child, make his eyes widen, and maybe teach him some truths. I’m a fairy taler. I’ve told stories about flying magical beds, runaway cars with a mind of their own, boys that engineer trains, children who save the space stations from evil pirates. I’ve described little men in UFOs that talk to boys in their bedrooms, children who escape slavering Tyannosarus Rexs, children with special powers, children with handicaps, fears, and phobias.

And yes, we’ve included Santa Claus in our repertoire of fables. And now, the Tooth Fairy.

I’m a great big, fat liar.

Nevertheless, knowing my formerly trenchant opinion on the matter, my bride asked what I thought about a service a friend of hers now offers. She proposed, “How would you feel about spending $8 so a friend of mine could send AJ a customized letter from the Tooth Fairy.” What, you say? Eight bucks for a letter I could very well write myself and send on my way to work? Eight bucks to send my son a letter from a magical being that does not exist (as far as I know) and who, presumably, would not need to use US Postal Service if she did? I’m already out $0.71 for my theft of his tooth from under his pillow last night, and now I’m supposed to seal the deal with another eight Washingtons?

“It’s a new business my friend started up. Give her eight bucks and she’ll write a custom letter to AJ about losing his latest tooth and he’ll love it. She also does Santa Claus, and other characters.”

To send a letter I could send myself?

That got me The Look. You know, the one that says, “Right, like you’re going to stoop to actually writing letters from fairies and sending it in the mail when you haven’t written a letter or licked a stamp in ten years.”

Without a word, she had me there.

“Okay, sure.”

So, there you have it. Letters from Fairyland. AJ’s head is going to be so messed up. What’s next? Instant Messages from the Easter Bunny?

By the way, if you’re interested in sending your kid (or some other impressionable minor) a similar character letter, head on over to Donna Rushing’s new enterprise: Duckels Designs Kid’s Mail. You can order custom letters to suit every theological and mythological persuasion including Santa, Frosty, Rudolph, Cupid, the Easter Bunny, a “friendly” Ghost (no poltergeists were harmed in the making of these letters, though, I’m sure), the Tooth Fairy, and a “Friendship Letter.”

Stick around for another 10 years or so and I’ll tell you what effect this has on AJ.

Boy, was it cold. Ice had already started forming on the lighthouse and the pier leading up to it. We couldn’t get any closer than what you see in this picture because the concrete was far too icy and slippery. There were three hardy fishermen out there with us and AJ stopped and inquired of each one if they’d caught any fishies. Nobody had.

I was glad we happened to have Jen’s digital camera handy, so I could catch a couple snapshots. Enjoy the coldness.

Oh, and on the way back we stopped by a church with some of the most unusual architecture I’ve ever seen. St. Francis de Sales church is a monumental concrete structure that is simultaneously imposing and inviting, disturbing and refreshing. It is a favorite for foto bugs in town—but photos simply cannot do it justice.

(The “Unprocessed” link below each image will lead you to the original, out-of-the-camera, unprocessed shot, if you’re interested in seeing what a little work in Photoshop or Paint Shop Pro will do. I generally just played with the histogram and made slight cropping corrections. However, the lighthouse required a little extra work to preserve the red color, AJ’s pants required rescuing from becoming black holes, and the church photos were turned to grayscale before I made histogram adjustments.)

(Click the  button if you’re interested in seeing the original, raw photo.)

I had a great Thanksgiving, by the way!

Jennifer and I visited Seattle, Washington, to enjoy our honeymoon eight years ago. We fell in love with the Pacific Northwest. I think we’d move there in a heartbeat if there was a job offer. At least, that’s what we used to say before we had kids. Now, however, moving away from Gramma and Grampa would be a tough decision.

As is required on all seaside vacations, I took the requisite scenic postcard shots. There was your sunset over water picture, your commonplace urban objects like drinking fountains and lamp posts, a few varieties of graying beachwood, and a “would-you-take-this-picture-of-us” tourist shot.

But what trip to Elliot Bay would be complete without a lighthouse photo?

Rich. 

While AJ is distracting us with legerdemain, Elisabeth quietly follows AJ’s lead with her very first somersault. Wow! I almost didn’t catch it. Jen missed it, so I grabbed the camera and we encouraged a few more rolls. We proudly caught snapshots on digital media for your own childlike vicarious thrills.

Next week: Tae-Kwon-Do classes for Elisabeth. She’ll need ‘em.

I don’t know what I’m going to do when boys start taking an interest in her.

Relocate to Montana.

Then I saw a haggardly waving plasticine hand gesturing for my attention from behind the rider. (Click the thumbnail to see the whole blurry, shaky, awful pic.)

Oh, no. Woody’s been kidnapped!

I had to smile, and I thought of my 4–1/2–year-old son and the identical hand-made Woody he still likes to snuggle with once in a while.

Maybe Woody wasn’t kidnapped, after all. Maybe he was sent on a mission. I could so easily see a little boy strapping Woody on Daddy’s bike for no other reason than love. That’s exactly the kind of thing AJ would do.

But he would’ve forced Woody to wear a helmet. I’m sure.