in the kitchen

A lifetime ago, I worked in a restaurant. A couple to be exact, though one was short lived. Another story for another day. 

Anyhow, I started as a busser then worked my way up to a waiter, a position where the real money was made - though my wage was $2.15/hour. So, yeah. 

Throughout my time in the industry, one position always eluded me; the kitchen. I admired the fashion in which they cooked. They seemed to make magic happen on the grill - a modern day alchemist in my opinion. 

But since I was FOH, I was never really welcomed. I was the pretty boy that didn’t get his hands dirty. They were the purveyors of taste that worked in the trenches. 

As I got older, I got into photography. My first gig was covering restaurants, chefs, and their kitchens for a food magazine.

I had finally made it to the kitchen!

And, ever since then I can’t get enough of it. 

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.  

sage

Weathered, tattered, worn in like your favorite pair of Chucks, life seems to get better with age. But, there is something to be said about a new crispy pair that resemble an innocence that speaks to an idealistic view of a life waiting to be chartered. 

To the old regime, I am young. To the youth biting at my heels, I am old. 

Forty, to be exact. And instead of the fanfare of some big shindig, I settled on something more suited to my personality—a trip filled with coffee, food, and camera in tow. 

Next to LA, Portland is my second creative home— a city that bustles at the seams with life with weather biting you with a chill to subtly remind one to stay alert. To be present. 

To Just do it despite the ostinato rhythms of life. 

So I drank, ate, and indulged in all that Portland had to offer. Nothing weird, just enjoying the passage of time with a sense of nostalgia while spending it with the people I love—my wife and son. 

Sage advice? None. My life has been an adventure that has blessed me beyond belief—a life filled with gratitude. 

And a reminder that I need a new pair of crispy shoes. 

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

good side

I tend to walk the streets of Los Angeles as a form of therapy. Being present in my life on a daily takes its toll on me and I find it hard to decompress or to process all that has been thrown my way. I admit, though, my life isn’t bad at all. It's the normal run-of-the-mill life—bills, budget, work, family. A life of privilege, some would say. 

As I walk, I tend to photograph places that I and others have done hundreds, if not, thousands of times. I think to myself what if the light was wrong the last time, the angle was skewed, or the focus was not quite right. 

A self-proclaimed perfectionist, I want the photograph to embody the subject in its grandeur. I want to feel that I captured its good side. 

Recently, mom was in town spending time with my son. Snapping away, she captured pictures of him to remember him by. As I looked through them all the lighting wasn’t perfect, the angles were skewed, and the focus was not quite right but she captured my son in all his grandeur. She captured his good side. The side she remembered.

How we see the image through the lens is exactly how we want it to be. It’s perfect to us. 

And sometimes that’s enough. 

imperfectly perfect

Two months. Or eights weeks to be exact.

The amount time that has gone by since my son was born and the tidal wave of responsibility washed over me. Not a bad responsibility, but one that made me say to him, “I got you, kid. Whatever you need. I am there.” 

Love. Yes, I felt love. But, I realized time was life’s Miracle-Grow and my love for him has grown rapidly.  

Speaking of time, they say enjoy the time with my son because it goes by fast—I am finding it to be true. Though, the older he gets means I am getting older too.

So much to do. So much to say. So little time.  

The intention is to remember each moment clearly. Each smile with clarity and each sound with joy. But, sometimes it doesn’t happen that way. 

And all you’re left with is a fleeting moment—just out of focus, just beyond reach, yet leaving an impression none-the-less. 

This is fatherhood at two months or eight weeks to be exact. 

chasing

Years ago I was chasing the wind. I tried to capture the ethos of the current. The world where crowd sourcing your self esteem created a dopamine surge that made one feel accepted. Double tap here. A filter there. A trendy spot that definitely would have given me curbside appeal on my page.

Regardless of the intentions there was one benefit to the madness. It created opportunities to photograph. And some were good, some were bad, and some looked like everyone else’s captured bliss.

The flip side? Insecurity. Comparison. Jealousy.

Feelings that I can only attribute to myself from experience, not a generalization of others and their feelings.

I was chasing a wind that I couldn’t capture.

I was running next to the Jones’. I was the hare.

May my next forty-years resemble the tortoise—slow with intent of realizing the moment before it’s gone.

beyond

They say that to travel beyond the confines of one's comfortability will lead to growth and wisdom—but only if one seeks out the accepted normal boundaries that society has set. The first question one must ask though is who are “they?” And the next question is even if one goes against the grain, doesn’t growth and wisdom prevail anyways?

For me traveling is my classroom, the unknown is my test, and the memories are my classmates. 

I realize this can only happen if I leave the great indoors and lift my head away from the ethereal cosmos radiating from my phone.   

Because if I do I’ll know what it feels like to connect with a bygone era—man made relics along side natural wonders.  

A state of mind that has no line or flag but whose borders are as open as the space it crosses. 

And growth and wisdom that manifest itself days, weeks, and years down the road leaving me with insight that life is best enjoyed when you are in the process of living it.  

So why not travel to infinity and beyond?

a thousand words

Or so they say.

To those who know me, I have an extensive collection of tattoos. Each tattoo reflects a personal story, belief, and/or value in my life. There are some that are easy to talk about, while others are in a safe, with no key, that house memories from another era.

They were selected not for the consumption of others but entirely for me as an outward expression of what was percolating internally.

The same could be said about the subjects I choose to photograph.

I carry my camera as an extension of my heart. An extension of my thoughts.

And as a form of meditation.

Slowly observing the now. Intentionally pursuing. Quietly listening.

And maybe each shot reads like prose revealing who I am to others.

Or maybe it reads like a confession only to me.

Butte, Montana

Los Angeles, CA

Town Enclosure | Jackson Hole, WY

The Getty Villa |Los Angeles, CA

the moving image

I fell in love with the moving image as a child. I saw it as an escape from the world of the mundane rigors of school, homework, and bedtimes.

It was everything that my youth wanted to explore. From a man named Indiana, to a story that never ended, each frame acted as a window into a world far far away.

To say that I always wanted to make films though would be a farce. I loved the idea of expression more. Whether it was music, writing, or photography, I saw each medium as a way to channel my internal need to speak through my art.

Though, my need to speak didn’t necessarily mean I needed to be heard. To create was suffice.

In world where the norm is to be known as a multi-hyphenated artist of sorts, my film offering is nothing more than a mode of human expression and an opportunity to escape.

A series of videos accompanying visual artist James McClung's latest exhibit, Low Land, at Preacher Gallery in Austin, TX.

Film photographer Dusty Ferguson in the dark room as he prepares for his show at Preacher Gallery in Austin, TX along side artist James McClung.

Artist Profile on Los Angeles based tattoo artist Jose Menendez. Credits: Director: Jaime Valdovino Colorist: Daniel Straub Music: "A Timid Malice" by A. Taylor