Sunday Ms Dowd of the NYT did a column on the oddity that Iowa with it’s gay marriage acceptance was usurping the coolness of places like California and New York…and noted howObama may be behind the curve on all things cool in Des Moines, perhaps in need of more gays around the oval office….or better said:“If more homosexuals were in the Obamas’ lives, there is no way Michelle would have worn a twin set when she met the queen.”
I ran across some hunters in a parking lot just inside Murfreesboro. They had a deer tied up in the back of the truck and a small gathering of admirers (it was a 10-pointer). I made a quick decision to stop and pulled through the lot, parked close by and pulled the camera out of the back. No problem taking a picture, they said, and the shooter jumped up on the truck and posed. I drove to Fayetteville and back this weekend. Picked up Herb at the farm on the way down, and told him my story. “I hate that,” he said. “I don’t have anything against the hunting, but they don’t have to tie them to the hood of their car or hang em over the back and parade em through town. They could put em in the back and cover em with a tarp or something.”
All the way down, I saw one dead deer after another on the side of the road, and thought how big and needy this herd must be. And how petrifying it must be to be caught on a highway.I dropped Herb off on the way home, came around a curve and a medium-sized dog walked in front of my car. It seemed to be slow motion in an instant. But I remember making the decision to hit him. I was doing 60, there was oncoming traffic, two cars on my bumper, and a ditch three feet off the shoulder. If I had hit the brakes, I would have still hit him, only they would have locked and I’d be rolling across a field. Swerving would be a similar story. So I gripped the wheel harder, and then came the thud.My air was sucked out, and I can’t remember feeling that sad in a long time. I put the car on cruise control, and was shaken the rest of the way. I’d killed a dog.
Test with friend and stylist Trish Martinez. She brought clothes from NY designer Allison Paris and model Kendra sorry I don’t know your last name to the Eastern Shore for a shoot this past summer. We shot in the yard at the Onancock house. Thanks Trish and Kendra.
It’s funny what you keep. We throw away a lot of things that would still have purpose for many, and we hang on to seemingly useless things, often only because of some sentiment somewhere along the line. My father died when I was 17, and more than 30 years later I have an odd assortment of his belongings, that I don’t pay much attention to. Most are in boxes in the attic. An assortment of military hats and belts and clothing from his marine days and time in Korea. Some books, often pen and ink art tombs on rendering techniques. Some of his drawings from engineering school at NC State. I have an old Fayetteville High School T-shirt from his school days. It is not in the attic. It’s in my chest of drawers along with all the other clothes I really wear. When Walker was young, I draped it over him, when he was so small it hit the floor. I don’t even know why it was important to hang onto the shirt, or take my son’s picture in it. But I did and I have it. The picture and the tee shirt. It’s too fragile to be worn, but it still lives in the drawer, like my life’s paper weight. And one pair of shoes I’ve kept. I think my father loved shoes. And I think he loved the idea of looking dapper. He had good ties, dress shirts in nice colors, and seersucker suits in summer. But always good shoes. So I hung on to this pair of black and white wing tips. I don’t know why other than they appealed to me. I couldn’t wear them, surprisingly too small. And I’m sure I was early on my way to becoming a shooter and thought somehow they’d be something to shoot someday. Evidence to be captured that my dad was alive and well and stylish, though I remember so little of him now.
So I pulled one out of the studio closet the other day when I was working a Tank watch shot for a magazine. Here’s to new memories.
I spent two days shooting children in a public school program in Harlem. Jayvon is one of the children. If you click on the link below, you can see a short (4 min) documentary.
Just moved into September and what must be the Fall around the corner. We’ve tried to get the dogs to the beach everyday. On the weekends in the mornings, weekdays mostly in the evening. Sometimes Walker takes the younger Henry by himself. Sometimes he and I take Henry and Lucky. And then sometimes, like tonight I go with both of them on my on. This is the most harrowing. I spend the one block journey to the beach trying to hold on for all our lives (on the return they are gentlemanly, tired and enjoyable). But once across Atlantic Ave and free of tether, they bound off nipping at each other racing toward the sea. Sometimes I have a camera, and sometimes they give me one perfect formation. The single mindedness of a Lab and a tennis ball. Two neighbor dogs join Henry and Lucky and the chase is on. But the great gift they give, they couldn’t realize. Without these two dogs cajoling us as the afternoon gets long, we might not go to the beach everyday. And we’d deprive ourselves of the very reason we came here. Crashing water and sand and dunes with waving grasses, breezes that give way to perfect endings and dreamy skies.