abre las manos

Years ago I bought what I considered to be THE camera. I made the choice with my heart and completely ignored my head which I am sure would have made a guy named Ramsey cast judgment upon me.

I had earned the money from a project that took everything from me creatively and left me in doubt of my skillset - one I had cultivated for my entire young adulthood which left a chink in my armor that I still wear to this day.

Since that purchase, I have spent countless hours behind the lens, thousands of dollars on film and developing and have taken my fair share of bad shots that left me frustrated yet undeterred.

I remember as a child I wanted a pair of Jordans though I knew it we could not afford them. However, my mom put them on layaway and paid little by little every week until the day she brought them home and gave them to me - stating they better make me run faster and jump higher.

They didn’t and THE camera wasn’t going to make me create better pictures either but I wouldn’t hesitate to make both purchases all over again any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

I would be remiss not to mention another reason for the purchase. I wanted to buy something meaningful that would be passed down to my future child - an heirloom and a reminder of me long after I am gone with hopes he will capture his children with it one day as I have.

devendra

Devendra is playing as I try to collect my thoughts. I think I saw him driving the other day on Sunset, perhaps. Black Audi? I took him for more of an old Benz kind of guy - you know the boxy kind.

Splish, splash. My son is taking a bath and my thoughts are broken. The joy of him pretending to be at sea as the master and commander of his brigade. He’s a lover but don’t discount the fighter in him when the opportunity arises.

Speaking of, but not entirely, I’m reminded of a gentleman and his companion, Sara with a (h). We sat outside a broken window as we learned about one another. From Malaysia, to Australia and L.A., he embodied the essence of the city - transient yet grounded in the here and now. Maybe we’ll continue the conversation at Millie’s one day - we’re friends on the gram, you know.

Devandra is still spinning as I continue to meander through my thoughts. I need to make do on a promise or is it a desire to follow through with an acquaintance that once said to me, “keep in touch.”  He’s there every Wednesday at nine. For now.

“Five minutes,” I tell my son. “Time to bring the ships in,” as he asks “what are we eating?”

A quiet day, lost in my thoughts with my son. “What a life,” I think. Always moving, yet grounded swaying to the rhythms of a guy I think I saw driving on Sunset the other day.

It’s L.A., anything can happen.

the year of didion

There was a span of a week in January where rain fell on the city to the point where pundits declared the drought over. Whether that was the truth-or-not was another story - the culture of our day lends itself to skepticism on all things news related.

Either way as my son and wife scurried towards our car, we wore the remnants of the storm as it clung to our bodies as ripples appeared on the ground with each step.

Rain doesn’t bother me per se but it can be annoying as it taps, taps, taps, incessantly on my head like a woodpecker on a tree.

Enough is enough, I often think. I get it. It’s raining in a land that more often than not revels in the glow of the California sun - which truthfully is just as petulant as the rain.

I’m a London fog or overcast kinda guy. It makes me happy. One, because I can dress in layers and two layers again - it’s all vanity, really. Malibu mornings is the sine qua non I long for.

On one such glorious overcast day as the rain stopped, I layered up, camera in tow loaded with Tri-X, because Bresson and the light was even, and I walked to the Hammer.

It was the final days of the Joan Didion exhibit and though I had known of her, we were strangers in the night. But as the shutter clicked, I was destined to slouch towards her writings.

In the vein of Hemingway, clear and precise, with selection of word usage and structure, Didion became the conduit to a Los Angeles I have grown nostalgic for over the years - a muse of the written word, and a voice of the things we go through in life and how we deal with them as we age - a truth I am seeking as I am planted in the soils of middle age.

In The Year of Magical Thinking, she writes, “Time is the school in which we learn.” I believe I was only prepared to read her works in the time I was set to - not too early and not too late.

On an overcast day in Los Angeles with my camera in tow, in a season of life that we all succumb to, Joan Didion arrived right on time.

south

I forgot what it felt like to be on the soil of another man’s land where the signs are legible but comprehension just out of reach. A place where my routine is replaced with apprehension. A place where home exists only in my head.

Yet, as I settled in, my anxiety dissipated as a new routine took shape. The land started to feel firm, though I was standing on sand. The off shore wind gave life to my lungs. And my family gave me a home anywhere they were. 

I had all that I needed. 

craft

It would be presumptuous to think that I could add any more to the conversation on what makes a good photographer. Aside from composition, lighting, and gear, learning how to become one these days is as simple as calling yourself one. Which is what I have done. 

I am a trained classical guitarist who spent a majority of my young adult life practicing, performing, and finishing school. The rigors of being taught the correct way made me realize I was not bound for Carnegie—I would be nothing more than a competent guitarist.

translation: it means you weren’t good enough. 

So I graduated, got a job teaching and the rest is history. 

Photography came about as an escape from music. Self taught, I searched out books by the masters of yesteryear, Robert Frank and Cartier-Bresson, and tried to imitate their style. Did I succeed? Not really, but I found the trial and error process invigorating and humbling. It motivated me to pursue the art of photography further without expectation and to appreciate the art as a process. 

Dedicating myself to this craft has been one of the many joys of my life. It has served as an extension of myself and has given me moments of bliss.

el ay

In this day-and-age, an opinion is as common as a penny. And, it’s it hold as much value as you give it. Some days I need an extra penny. Other days it’s just taking up space in my pocket. 

In conversation, many have expressed their displeasure for the city of Los Angeles—knowing full well the love and admiration I have for el ay. I’ll forgo the specifics and just let google be your guide to the op-eds, blogs, and media that cover the sprawling metropolis. 

To keep things simple, it is home.

It took a chance on a kid with a guitar, gave him lessons and gave him his livelihood. It found a guy walking the streets with a camera and a phone and offered him a view inside the culinary world. It allowed this guy to listen from the pew and hear His word. 

The city is a cast of characters that makes me feel that I am not alone. That dreaming is not a youthful activity. That an adventure is a simple walk down Wilshire. 

I understand Los Angeles is not for everyone. 

And, that’s okay with me.

priceless

Value is an arbitrary term. 

What we deem important in our lives determines the overall worth of an idea, object, and/or philosophy.

Though, not all sees the same value as the eye of the beholder.

On the subject of art, how do we continue to cultivate our craft if no one adds the necessary currency that gives it credence?

Validation. 

The expectation one puts on others in order to feel worth or value.

Remove the expectation. Continue to hone one’s craft. And, let the rest take care of itself. 

Priceless. 

19

Time has passed. It’s most present in his fingers and toes. His stance is upright and his eyes dance with life. In my hair, there is gray. Below my eyes, there is wear. 

I cling to this hourglass. Nineteen months and counting.

What a beautiful journey we’re on. 

fragile

There is strength in the word immunity. It holds a power that many hope to possess. One that frees you from fear, anxiety, and the unknown. But as strong as the word seems to be on the outside, we’ve learned that on the inside it is fragile and the result is uncertainty. 

Life. 

Arguably the most uncertain and most fluid word that exists. While strong from the get go, it meanders in unexpected ways despite preparations to offset deviations - c'est la vie as they say. 

I thought I had an immunity to life and it’s many strains, yet sand is currently seeping between my fingers. My mind races like Jeff Gordon while my heart’s tempo is bebop.

No longer can I carry the cloak of invincibility over my shoulder. I am vulnerable.

But, that’s okay.

It’s a story even Homer would have been proud to write.  

radiohead

To the best of my knowledge, the intention of a lullaby is to coerce one to sleep. The soundscape is delicate in nature and chooses the instrumentation precisely to achieve its desired result - activating or evoking, whichever you fancy, melatonin. 

One then can only assume that a lullaby is playing the role of puppeteer seducing the listener.

Radiohead. Not necessarily a band that creates lullabies, yet one I would often listen to before bed. And as I became intoxicated by the sound I would slowly drift into the abyss of REM cycles until...

a distorted sound, a high pitch, or shrill would enter and awaken me from my slumber leaving me disoriented. Yet, I would continue to listen to them night after night acknowledging that my sleep pattern would be interrupted. 

A slight imperfection that added body and depth to an otherwise mundane ritual. 

Bliss. 

Los Angeles, CA