Sunday, November 22, 2015
When I boarded the D train back in 2002 I was heading to Chamonix with my buddy Ian Cruickshank for a ski safari This tale has nothing whatsoever to with skiing but my $8,000 purchase of my Canon 1Ds was prompted by the trip. Surely this camera among cameras would make me a better skier. Either that or I'm confusing my sports.
Upon returning to the states, my first attempt at developing a photographic theme was one I called Studies and Abstractions. They were essentially still lifes, objects photographed close up and that I saw as little design projects. Then, as now, designing the image was the thing. And doing it in the viewfinder was the heart of the craft, no cropping. What I see is what I get.
Maybe ten years ago I took an advanced Photoshop class from John Paul Caponigro who informed me that still life was my milieu and that I was, shall we say, lacking in the landscape department. As you might predict I found recognition as a landscape photographer.
This may last awhile, years even.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
|This elegant number comes from my Sketches of Winter series.|
There aren’t many things more basic and unartful than the thin strands of metal we call wire. The functional material keeps critters out, binds things together and hangs our art from walls. In itself it’s the essence of unimportance. Straight, bent or barbed the stuff is all around us yet pretty much unnoticed, till it is.
|Resting on the sand of the the Topaz Internment Camp near Delta , Utah this coil of rusted wire bears testament to a tragedy.|
|This wire is part of a larger motif, that of fences, gates and corrals. It's an iconic western theme if ever there was one.|
|These twists of wire reside on a fence at Rancho de las Golondrinas southwest of Santa Fe.|
|Some enterprising soul stapled these mattress coils to the side of a building in Rinconada. This was featured in the Singular Image issue of Black and White magazine back in 2010.|
Sunday, November 08, 2015
As I was finishing breakfast on Tuesday the phone rang. It was an Alamosa, Colorado number that I didn’t recognize at first. When I answered it was Andrew Abeyta telling me that the sheep were on the way to San Antonio Mountain from Mogote at that very moment. He said “They’ll be there by noon. The trailer will be on the west side of 285 and on the north side of San Antone.” I tossed it around for about three seconds and said, “I’ll be there.”
I threw together a cheese, salami and apple lunch, poured myself a roadie of coffee and set off, figuring an hour to get there. As I headed north on 285 and came abreast of the mountain I began looking for signs of Andrew, Victor and the sheep. Just across from Victor’s usual site between two hills on the Taos Plateau I saw a shimmering object that I thought was trailer, but no sheep. I proceeded to the Colorado border and still no sheep. I went back to find the trailer and this time found a rutted path to the shoulder of Mount San Antonio, took it toward the mountain and found Andrew setting up the trailer for Cuba.
I parked the Pilot out of the picture and walked to the trailer. He greeted me and predicted, “Cuba should be coming over the hill anytime.” I followed him over the rise and we scanned the horizon for the herder and sheep. After five minutes or so Andrew exclaimed. “There he is. He’s wearing an orange hat.” And, indeed, a single figure and 365 wooly bulges spread across the llano.
The figures came closer and closer as Cuba trailed the sheep around the hill below us. Andrew brought a trough and filled it with salt. “The sheep will really want this after walking eight miles.” The moment they arrived they attacked the salt then wandered down to the pond below for refreshment. Andrew told me, “In the winter they don’t drink much. Maybe every two days. Besides they eat snow. When it’s hot they need a lot of water. Having water already here saves a lot of money. Otherwise I have to bring it every day.”
While the sheep drank their fill, Andrew and Cuba went about setting up the propane generator and connecting electrical to the campo before driving down to the pond so Cuba could be sure every sheep was accounted for.
Sunday, November 01, 2015
I first heard of Ocate during a one person show in Fort Collins back in 2010. Quite by chance the noted equine photographer Tony Stromberg was having an opening the same night. It was a drizzly April evening with very little action so I found myself wandering back and forth between my show and Tony’s. He did the same. In a snippet of conversation Tony described the horse sanctuary that he managed and spoke in spiritual terms about the rescued horses and life lessons they had taught him. He told me that his operation was in Ocate, New Mexico, a place somewhere between nowhere and oblivion. He said he had to drive to Mora for a tank of gas and to Las Vegas to find a real store. It sounded grim but it's lilting moniker stuck with me.
Wowzer! That's a sky.
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Fred Black whom I've written about in the past is an extraordinary weaver. Peggy and I can pick out Fred’s spectacular rugs from across an aircraft hangar. And, as I have said, Fred is a man of many talents, a pilot, an architect, a high level martial artist and a tango dancer, the last two pursuits with his wife, my fellow photographer, writer and dear friend Daryl Black.
A highlight of the fall art season in Taos is the Taos Wool Fest and within it Fred’s booth which reigns supreme among the dozens of stalls and displays. After leaving the Taos Fall Art Festival’s four venues we crossed Paseo del Pueblo Norte and entered Kit Carson Park to see the churro sheep and alpacas, the hordes of wool aficionados and, most of all, Fred’s rugs. They are not shown here except in the blurred background in image number one. Instead here are a couple of candids of the steely eyed weaver himself.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
With mission one aborted I turned back to a nameless wildlife sanctuary I'd spied on the way in, nameless not because it had no name but because I've already forgotten it. It was last month after all. I hopped the locked gate, always a plus, and walked a rutted path to a discarded homestead with two buildings and a concrete foundation with a rusted water tank. Set in a grassy valley running west toward Laguna Larga the ruins whispered intimate histories into my ears.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
All whining aside I did get one dollop of fog during my second annual coastal California safari. By the time I reached for my second breakfast scone in Tomales the soup lifted and another sunny day in paradise reared its lovely head. These came during the five mile drive from my tiny cottage at Canvas Ranch to the nearly as tiny village of Tomales. Apres sconces I drove up the coast to Fort Ross and the towering redwoods of northern Sonoma beneath which I camped as a wee laddie around 1950.