Sunday, March 24, 2019

Black and White


Margaret Bourke-White

From where I sit the most memorable photographs are decidedly photojournalistic. That they are predominantly black and white is certain. When I asked in a recent blog, “Do you prefer the color of black and white version of the same image” your responses were all over the map. Most of you leaned toward black and white but preferred one or two of the photographs in color. One respondent was ambivalent. How is that possible I ask you.


Margaret Bourke-White

August Sander


My take-away is that people either prefer black and white or prefer color and that’s that. It’s about as polarized as American politics. In fact, during Friday’s Spanish group our peerless leader Linda Thompson said. “I just prefer color.” Whether that’s a function of living with an outstanding color photographer, her husband Terry Thompson, or a deeper-seated affliction I can but wonder.


Gary Winogrand

Lewis Hine


Linda asked me, “Why do you like black and white?”


“Well, I said, “Black and white strips the image down to its essentials and reveals the design of the picture. And black and white lends gravitas and importance to a photograph. It’s richer and timeless.”


Chuck Fawns across the table nodded his agreement and added, “That’s especially so if there’s an historic element to the image.”


Elliot Erwitt

Dorothea Lange


Since I was in the throes of deciding what to post this week, and also needed a subject for the next issue of Shadow and Light magazine I began examining the photographs that resonate with me. In revisiting the images I’ve revered over the decades I found that they are in the photojournalistic vein and hew to environmental portraiture and street photography. When an image makes the leap from reportage to “Art” it joins the pantheon of giants. Just how that happens is a mystery. It simply does.


W. Eugene Smith



Here are but a few. In a few hours, I identified dozens that are unforgettable. Many you will recognize though I left out the most obvious examples. And, yes students, they are all black and white.
Andre Kertesz


All are about people in places. All tell a story. All are beautifully framed. All have or will stand the test of time. There were worthy images so dark I couldn’t bear to display them. So grim they’d send you down the rabbit hole of despair and into a lifetime of therapy.

All capture human emotion. They are of people. They are of the human condition. They illuminate. They are forever.


Walker Evans


Lewis Hine aimed his lens at the depravity of child labor. Margaret Bourke White, Dorothea Lange, W. Eugene Smith, Walker Evans and others captured the Depression era in wrenching human terms. August Sander photographed workers in Germany between the World Wars. All of them and many more who are equally worthy told us their stories.

All capture the human condition with insight and precision. They illuminate. They are forever.

And finally,


Martin Parr. And to think I said all black and white

All but Elliott Erwitt, now ninety, and Martin Parr have departed. 

Sunday, March 17, 2019

Comparative Religion




I post to Instagram most days though it’s been spotty the last couple of weeks. Taxes are a bitch. When I post on Instagram I share through Facebook, too. On back to back days I posted photographs of an ancient gas pump that I spotted at the Overland Sheepskin complex just north of Taos. To my surprise there was a lot of feedback in favor of the color image and being a committed back and white shooter that piqued my interest. First, I agree this time that the color image is better and that made me want to look back at my various portfolios to see how side by sides of color and black and white photographs would look. While I remain devoted monochrome, sometimes even I might prefer the color shot. The look back was not quite as easy as you might think since the vast majority of the images are black and white and often I didn’t save the color original at all. That's something I need to change.


So, for your viewing pleasure here some side-by-sides that I could find. Up top is the rusty gas pump. It’s not the exact same shot but you get the drift.





There's something for every taste: landscape, still life, portraiture and street. Give me some feedback. It's time for me to learn something.

Sunday, March 10, 2019

No Tomorrow


This darling is 24 hours old. Gotta lead with a heart tugger.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve reconnected with the Abeytas of Mogote, Colorado. I might want to collaborate with Aaron Abeyta, a college professor, author and poet, to complete and publish the long gestating book, The Last Shepherd. I’ve begun to think I’m not going to make it happen without a partner in crime, though I’m not fully committed to that direction. I would still prefer to write the book myself. Then again maybe he’s a better writer and the project would be leant luster with his name attached. To paraphrase, we might be able to get the book published at no cost to me if he's aboard. The University of Texas Press and the Trinity University Press are thought to be players right now. The University of New Mexico Press is out of the game.


This one is five minutes old. Mom is licking off the afterbirth


Anyway, one thing led to another and I found myself with Andrew Abeyta at the Abeyta Ranch Saturday to photograph another day of lambing. It had been three years. As I edit the images, I’m not convinced I added anything to the story. One can hope. 


Hay is the only option till the sheep head to the prairie for free forage
Andrew Abeyta pulling off flakes of hay. Each monster bail has 45 flakes.


I did however see and photograph elements of the process that I missed in the six years I’ve been working on the sheep story. And, more importantly, I clarified some facts like when Victor “Cuba” Hernandez really came to the United States. I’ve been off by 8 to 13 years depending on who I believed at the time. I’ve been reporting that Cuba fled Cuba in either 1967 or 1972 but Andrew set me straight. Victor sailed to Florida from Mariel sometime between April 15 and November 31 of 1980. He’s confident that’s the case because it happened when he was graduating from high school and Jimmy Carter was president. It also tracks with Victor’s story of picking oranges in central Florida before picking fruit in California and finally making his way to the San Luis Valley of southern Colorado and his nearly forty years with the Abeytas.

As far as I know everybody who subscribes to this blog will remember the Mariel Boatlift in which 125,000 Cubans arrived in Florida during 1980's onslaught of refugees. Although some were imprisoned when arrived, and indeed some had been prisoners in Cuba, they were granted legal status in 1984.


I'm delighted to report that Victor is still herding the Abeyta sheep despite annual threats to retire. But he turns 80 this year and Andrew is painfully aware that Victor’s run can’t continue forever. Already he’s having a hard time walking ten miles a day and has finally started riding a horse part of the time. And he may be losing a cognitive step, as well. Andrew estimates that he lost thirty sheep last season and that it may be due to Victor’s inattention. Whatever the cause it’s painful hit to the bottom line. Thirty sheep at 100 pounds per lamb times $1.50 is a big loss to a small operation. $4,500 in fact.


I asked Andrew if plan B is still to hire a foreign herder since nobody in the Valley will do the job. He said that’s the case but it’s really expensive for a small operation. By law he’d have to pay the worker $1,500 per month for the whole year while he only needs one for seven months. And he’d have to provide housing and travel expenses to and from South America.


It’s prohibitively expensive and he’d have to increase the size of the herd from about 350 to 600 just to cover the additional costs. I asked if he could increase the herd to 1,000 head and make out on the deal. I thought I saw a dawning in his eyes. But his grazing permit is for 350 sheep. He’d have to buy somebody’s permit. Oh, and now he’s being taxed $10,000 a year for well water for his sprinkler system. That’s a new cost of doing business. Ranching isn't for sissies.


I’m afraid Andrew is hoping that tomorrow never comes. He's denying the inevitable. He’ll do what he has to do when the time comes. Go big, get a herder from Peru and grow his herd or downsize and keep 200 head at the ranch. But that means buying hay. And that means there are no easy choices.

Sunday, March 03, 2019

Something less than forgiveness



Friday night we ran into The Epsteins at a favorite restaurant. Actually, it would be more of a story if we didn’t run into them since nobody eats out more than Jules and Georgia. We’re a poor second. I didn’t notice them till I turned to the door to look for Peggy. She had stopped to visit their table, so I walked back to say hello. Jules apologized for not asking us to join them saying, “My dad’s been in the hospital in Albuquerque the last three days and I haven’t really seen Georgia.” I said, “No problem. I understand completely.” I said that I was sorry about his father and that I hoped he was getting better.


Later as Peggy and I were polishing off our steak frites at the bar Jules and Georgia came to say good-bye. Jules expanded on his dad’s ordeal. “His blood pressure was off the charts, but they have it stabilized now and he’s back home. The man’s 99 after all so there are going to be setbacks.” I told him how fortunate he is to have his dad in his life. And just because it’s a platitude doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it. Quite the contrary.


With advancing age, my own, comes a measure of introspection. For a guy like me whose relationships don’t extend past immediate family and friends and who barely knew his parents, never mind his grandparents, these long-lived connections are a wondrous fiction. I can’t relate. It occurs to me that I have no memory of my maternal grandparents. I left Ohio for California when I was too young to remember. And I recall seeing my father’s father and mother on just one occasion at the age of seven. Nothing before and nothing after. That’s the whole enchilada. That’s quite a void I suppose but deep and broad family ties reaching into the past are beyond me. I can appreciate them in the abstract at best. It may be that you can’t miss what you never had.


Because my estrangements from my mother and father date back sixty years and almost fifty years respectively my son will not have known his grandparents either. Just for different reasons. “Like father like son.” A somber symmetry.


In fairness, and I have never thought or said this before, my parents died without their only child being part of their lives for half a century. My mother never met her grandson. My father last saw him when he was four. They left this planet alone, one in a Masonic Home in Ohio and the other in an assisted living complex in California. I learned the former from my Aunt Ruth, my father’s sister, who died surrounded by her loving family at the age of 101. The latter came from a death notice I found on the internet many years ago.


For the first time I have grudging sympathy for Glenn and Rachel Immel. Sympathy, I have to note, doesn’t equal forgiveness but it’s something.

Sunday, February 24, 2019

Male Pattern Laziness


Socked In

This Thursday past I wrote a párrafo for my weekly Spanish Grupo as I have done for nearly five years. And I quote, “Hay dos escuelas de pensmiento sobre la mejor moda para hacer los mejores fotografos. Uno dice que los resultos mejores veinen de explorando su vecindad local completamente. Esta teoría mantiene que nunca puede ver todos en su propia casa o propiedad. El otro dice que su impulsos creativos son amplificado por el nuevo, el inesperado o el extranjero. Soy aparentemente de la última persuasión puesto que necesito viajar para fotografiar.”


Fog meet snow

Basically, I’m saying that there are two schools of thought about how to make or find the best photographs. One recommends that you explore your home and neighborhood to a fare the well. It submits that you will never uncover all the mysteries of your homestead in a lifetime. The other contends that you need to explore far and wide so that your creative impulses are awakened by the new, the unexpected and the foreign. I, to the surprise of nobody, fall in the second camp.


Blackbirds Roost #1

Flurries

Essentially, I haven’t photographed with serious intent since our sojourn in Mexico and that was the month of November for heaven’s sake. If it weren’t for my (almost) daily Instagram post of photographs from my handy-dandy iphone 7 I’d be zero for 75 in baseball terms.


Blackbirds Roost #2

And, to the point of getting to know your own backyard, I’ve done that very thing with these posts and readily admit that it stems from inertia and laziness more than anything else. That and the fact that I can get a plastic camera, alternative process look easily. Our very snowy winter, ten inches day before yesterday, lends itself to this ephemeral approach.



Soft, stylized images will float my boat at least until I can hit the road.

Sunday, February 17, 2019

Elbo Room Nights. No Days.




When Walt James and I were opening the Village Inn in 1966 we spent many an evening at the Elbo Room, a legendary and still operating dive bar right across from the beach at the corner of Route One and La Olas in Fort Lauderdale. I knew the joint well since I’d closed it every night of Spring Break 1964. That’s the escapade where I hitchhiked from NYC to South Florida in three rides all of whom wanted me to drive. Are we seeing a pattern here? The second drive was a South Carolina cracker who passed me the moonshine within two minutes and the third was John Hatfield, a real Appalachian Hatfields and McCoys Hatsfield, who drove me from Ocala to Lauderdale. The chilling memory I have of that leg of the trip was passing a chain gang of black prisoners, the operative word is "chain",  along the roadside in Central Florida. John and I hung together for the duration of Spring Break. It was beach all day. Drink till closing time and sleep in the bed of his ‘54 Jimmy. Then I hitched back to Arizona as if it was nothing. I like to think I was getting it out of my system.


Yeah. I've used it before. John Hatfield and Mr. Flip Flops in a camera store in 1964. Note the Kodak boxes in the background.

Walt had some mouth on him and that mouth often got him into trouble and on one notable night me. One dark o'clock he got into it with some hulk across the bar at the Elbo Room. They took it outside and the next thing I knew they were trading punches right in the middle of the intersection of Main and Main. Trading punches may be a stretch. The big guy was punching and Walt was catching every blow with his substantial jaw. The best he could do was to paw at the air unable to reach the bigger man. Without thinking I pulled the dude from Walt and wound up on my back on Route One watching his fists meet my face.


After a few direct hits I heard the welcome sound of sirens getting closer. I told my assailant. “The cops. We better get the hell out of here.” He got off me and we all ran to our cars.


The next night I was back at the Elbo Room and so was my sparing partner. I nodded in his direction. He nodded back. That was it.


According to Walt his mouth talked him into the clink several months later. During another blurry episode at a different bar the police were called to escort him out of the building. He laced into them with a “Do you know who I am? I’m a business owner. I pay your salaries. You can’t do this to me.” He told me they took him to jail, put him a private cell and drove him head first into the concrete wall. When he came to he was in the drunk tank with a bump like a baseball on his forehead and dried blood caked in his hair. His wife Mandy bailed him out at dawn. It wouldn't be the last time.

Sunday, February 10, 2019

Bad Dad


Walt James always had a get rich scheme. After 1967 I don’t remember him holding a real job, meaning one where he collected a paycheck. His last legitimate gig was probably opening a Village Inn Pizza Parlor in Plantation, Florida, a suburb of Fort Lauderdale. I don’t know where he got the bucks to build and equip a restaurant, even modest operation like the VI. Probably from his mom. Anyway, being between semesters and a stint teaching guitar in Upstate New York in the summer of 1966, I needed a steady job and a new adventure, so I jumped at the chance when Walt asked me to help him open his Village Inn franchise. It would be my first restaurant opening. Little did know I’d open 50 more before I folded my tent in 2003.


This meant I had to find my way to Dayton, Ohio for a bit of training. All I needed was a refresher since I’d worked for Walt at the original Village Inn in Tempe, AZ in 1962 and 1963. The VI years are a story unto themselves. There was the animal house Chuck Friedenmaker and I rented from the adjacent restaurant and an unexpurgated novel’s worth of bacchanalia to be recounted. But that’s a story for another time if ever.


I borrowed my roommate’s ASU letter jacket so I looked as preppy and unthreatening as possible while hitchhiking.  Vance, my roommate, had used his brother Rex’s colors to good advantage with the ladies and now I was repurposing the garment for more august purposes. Vance dropped me off north of Phoenix and I stuck out my thumb. It took me just two rides to make the 1,700-mile trip. One dude took me to Route 66 in Flagstaff and Pat Conley, a star linebacker at Purdue, got me to Fort Wayne. Pat told me he wouldn’t have stopped if I hadn’t been wearing the ASU letter jacket. A genius stroke on my part. I took just under 24 hours at 80mph and without stopping or sleep. Pat and I knocked back a couple of beers at a dive bar in Fort Wayne and he left me in front of a Shell station where Walt picked me up for the last 132 miles.


The training was forgettable and when it was completed Walt, his wife Mandy, his sons and I drove to Fort Lauderdale to build out and open the restaurant. I had a snug little studio apartment a block from the beach and, importantly, near the Bikini Lounge. I commuted to Plantation for the night shift six nights a week. Once the restaurant was up and running, I returned to Tempe just before Christmas to complete my last class at ASU. Knowing me I would be three credits shy of graduating. Shortly after getting back Peggy and an unforgettable Christmas eve, we got married in Phoenix, had our son Garrett in Tucson and my career began in earnest. That’s the truncated version to be sure.



On the first day of January 1968 I went to work for Baskin-Robbins Ice Cream and so began a dozen years of abated growth. When I co-founded Four n’ 10 Pies with Kurt Kornreich in 1969 I hired Mike James, Walt’s kid brother, to be the assistant manager of our third location in Studio City. So, Walt had the occasion to visit our hovel in Van Nuys and that’s where his son Walt Junior told me, “You’re always safe when there’s a cowboy around.” I was headlong into my boots and buckle phase. The poor child actually thought I was a buckaroo. “All hat. No cattle” is the saying about posers like me.


By the time the mid-seventies arrived, Peggy, Garrett and now Peggy’s sister Kim whom we kidnapped were living the quintessential New England life in Ipswich, Massachusetts. Walt who was hawking ersatz Indian jewelry at shows across the country and had just finished events in Philly and Boston visited us for a few days. He arrived all white shoes and belt. It was too cliché.  He gave us turquoise tokens made in China. I still have a couple. Jim’s jewelry adventure was hot on the heels of promoting Monster Truck extravaganzas and before he became a bail bondsman and Libertarian candidate for Governor in Arizona.


It wasn’t till 1979 that I saw Jim again. I attended my one and only high school reunion in Tempe, the twentieth, and ate Mexican food with him in Chandler. On the ride to the restaurant I learned about Jim’s true calling throughout the seventies.


He picked me up in his pick-up at the Sands Hotel in Tempe. The first thing he did was light a half smoked joint on the dash. He told me he’d stopped drinking and that grass took the edge off. 
                        

“Steve” he said, I want to tell you what I was really doing when I saw you in Ipswich.”


“I’m all ears.” I responded.


“That Indian tchotchke I showed you was all a front. I was a drug smuggler, pal. I had planes and trucks. Big time stuff. I bought the coke in Chiapas and Guatemala. We flew the stuff into Arizona and landed the shipments in the middle of the desert at night. Jack helped me sometimes.


God, I loved it. It was such a rush, I’d be in the middle of the jungle with guards with machine guns surrounding the camp. There were hot and cold running chicas, plenty of nose candy and stacks of hundreds everywhere.


One time we crash landed in Chihuahua and got picked up by the Federales. They roughed us up, but we gave them the shipment and they let us go.


Later when I had my trucks at my house in Carefree, we got raided by the DEA. We were all arrested. My two partners and me. They both got sent away, but I got off because the Feds didn’t have a proper warrant for my place. My one partner was a tennis coach at ASU and wound up playing tennis for four years in minimum security out by Safford.”


But Walt James was more than a cheat ‘em and beat ‘em character. He turned me on to jazz and read Thurber to us from the armchair in the little apartment he shared with his wife Mandy and the boys Walt Jr. and Charlie. The sweet sounds of Cannonball and Nat Adderley, Ahmad Jamal and Mose Allison filled the living room. Walt, his buddy the very militant Monkey D from Brooklyn and I watched Muhammed Ali KO Sonny Liston at Saint Domenic’s Arena in Lewiston, Maine on May 25, 1965. Or more correctly they heard the count while I repaired to the bathroom having no idea the fight would be over in the first round. I guess you could call it a one beer fight. All I remember was the triumphant Ali standing over the KO’d Liston. A lot of people say it was a mystery punch, but I’ve watched the replay a dozen times and saw him deck the big man.



When Mandy died in the mid-seventies Walt lost his anchor. It was clear that she kept him tethered. She was the moral compass of the outfit. He dove deeper into drugs and then the drug business. Without Mandy who was an engaged parent who took the job seriously he became more of a co-conspirator than a parent to the boys. He wanted to their buddy with disastrous results. He spoke with too much pride about drugging and whoring with the Walt Jr. who was barely twenty. His unthinking and selfish example led junior to multiple arrests and finally hard time for a drug fueled rape. Charlie, whom a last saw fifteen years ago in Dardanelle, Arkansas was a long-haul trucker with a life partner and her three teenagers who were living with Jim in Dardanelle. It was a loving family but about as Tobacco Road as it gets. The septic was on the fritz, the preternaturally youthful Walter O. James had become a white bearded Jobba the Hut and our family meal together was free but cold Grand Opening burgers from the new Piggly Wiggly in town. He told me he could tell I was appalled. I really tried hide it.


Walt James was full of promise. He was handsome. He was charming. He was funny and smart. I have fond memories of the giddy days that began almost sixty years ago. But how he remained a cult leader father figure to them and their families mystifies me. The mess he made of his life is one thing. That he gave them no guide posts and no aspirations is criminal.


But still I care about the guy and would love to see him of he’s still above ground. Yesterday I searched for Walter O. James as I do from time to time. I lost him in Cordell, Oklahoma five years ago when our Christmas card came back as undeliverable. This time I got a hit in Tempe, Arizona where the tear jerker started in 1962. Then I found what may be his younger brother Rick in Colorado. I sent him an email today. We’ll see.


Fingers crossed that I can find Walt so I can flesh out his story and see if he feels any responsibility.

Sunday, February 03, 2019

Choices


I’ve never been so conflicted about choosing a subject for a post. As a matter of fact, I’ve written three entries so far and have another two on deck. My lack of commitment stems from, well, my inability to commit, the fact that there’s no photograph to prompt me and that I’m basically ADHD. The contenders are stories from friends, parenting missteps, things that move us and realizing you’re old. Give me four minutes and I’ll come up with four more.


Early in the week, prompted by the oral history of a friend, I started a vignette that might launch a series called Some Story. “Everybody has a story” I often say. Everybody does in fact have an important history even if they don’t think they do. This nascent series would tell those stories. Even if I don’t go with it this time it will happen sooner or later. Interviews will play a key role in the series.


Often the “story” is about a course altering experience in our own lives and sometimes it’s about a third party, usually a family member, whose path and condition casts a shadow over our own existence. It seems like everybody has a someone in their life who shades their days with dread. Any number of friends have a brother, sister, son or daughter flailing against mental illness or addiction. Each has plunged headlong into the Victim-Perpetrator-Rescuer tar baby before choosing self over the circle of co-dependence that never ends.


And all of us has had a transformative experience which defines who we become. I had several but being disowned by my mother at 21 was numero uno. Being fired from half my jobs and almost going bankrupt are close behind. Ultimately, it’s how we surmount the tough lessons that is our measure.


Earlier this week I began writing the inspirational story told to me by the aforementioned friend. It was destined for this post but as much as I changed the names and locations it still seems like a betrayal to share it. I can see that this will be problematic going forward. I really want to tell these stories. Until I figure how to tell these personal tales safely here’s this:


It’s a wonder our kids survived our missteps as parents. Some of ours were so egregious they beg reality.

Garrett and Kim in South Pasadena

There was the time in the mid-seventies when we took a canoe trip in Northern Maine. That entailed paddling our Mohawk canoe across Lake Repogenus to a tiny island where we camped for two nights. Garrett was seven and Kim was thirteen. Our stay on the 50 yard by 20 yard speck was idyllic. We had plenty of stores, a stove, tent, sleeping bags and fishing rods. We were geared up for almost anything. We swam in a warm July water, toasted marshmallows over an open fire and slept to the sound of crickets and the lake lapping at our private beach. It was a quintessential New England interlude.


On the day we left the island things went seriously south. We were feckless city slickers. We lazed around till after lunch. That was a major mistake. By midafternoon the chop on Repogenus had grown to 3-foot swells. That’s what happens on lakes. Then our navigator who shall be nameless set the wrong course and we realized in mid-lake that we were in mortal danger. We had two adults one of whom could swim, two children and no life jackets. It never occurred to us. We were beyond petrified and after two hours of abject fear pulled onto a beach on the mainland and camped for the night. At least we’d live the day and would set out at dawn for our put in location and waiting vehicle. According to reports we survived.


This is the event that we recognize as the nadir of our parenting adventure, the one by which all others are measured.


Even earlier when we lived in South Pasadena we bought matching Raleigh bicycles that we’d ride through toney San Marino to the LA County Arboretum in Arcadia. Kim had her own wheels but we installed a kiddie seat on Peggy’s bike so she could tote Garrett. Not my bicycle I emphasize. That would be uncool, and image is after all key. I was a callow jerk from the Eisenhower fifties. But I digress. Did Garrett wear a helmet you ask. Uh, no. Our mindlessness was epic. We are embarrassed and mortified by our ineptness to this very day.

Sunday, January 27, 2019

Indulgence



Today we re-visit the service guy and inveterate restaurant critic, namely me. This weekend has been one of wanton indulgence, indulgence that included two fine dining meals, a hot tub and a custom massage. It’s not the way we conduct our lives most weekends but, courtesy of a gift certificate we bought at a benefit auction for the Taos Historic Museums we found ourselves at Sunrise Springs Spa Resort in La Cienega just south of Santa Fe for the weekend. Think of it as $650 of goodness (room and breakfast for two days) for the winning bid of auction price of $400. Not cheap to be sure but quite fair considering the amenities.


Because Peggy had to have her windshield replaced, we suffered through two-hour wait and an unremarkable New Mexican fast food meal at El Parasol a couple of blocks from Safelite. Peggy was unimpressed whereas I was relieved that didn’t have to eat my shoe.

With amazing foresight, we had made reservations at our current favorite restaurant Martin at the corner of Galisteo and Paseo de Peralta. In 2017, the last time I reported on the place, Martin and it’s owner Martin Rios had been nominated as Best Chef Southwest by the James Beard Foundation, the only restaurant in New Mexico to receive the honor. In 2018 Restaurante Martin took home First Place. Saludos to Chef Martin and his wife and partner Jennifer.

On this occasion Jennifer was a warm presence throughout the evening as she delivered food and touched tables. Touching tables is the waning practice of the owner or manager visiting every table to show appreciation for your patronage. It matters. A lot.

Julian from Chihuahua was our engaging and skillful server. And to that subject I must proselytize on the importance of casting servers and bartenders. I call it casting because the great ones walk in with the tools and attitude they need. You can help them with rote knowledge like using the cash register and knowing the menu but the great ones are born with IT.

I observed that Julien was serving the entire dining room which as active but not full. It’s not a staffing call I would make but with Jennifer delivering the food as needed, he never broke a sweat. I also calculated that he was going to walk with $300 or more for his efforts. Maybe much more if he turned the tables another time.




We were blessed by a total pro at Sunrise Springs on Saturday night, too. Chris, a native New Mexican was affable, knew the menu cold and could proudly describe the food and the ingredients and tell us where they were sourced. The greens and vegetables come Ojo Caliente’s farm and garden. Sunrise Springs is the sister property to Ojo Caliente. I ordered the Filet of Ribeye despite having never heard of that cut of meat. If the cut was anywhere in proximity to my beloved ribeye it had to be good. It was flavorful and cooked rare as ordered but as tough as the aforementioned shoe. I did not complain but asked Chris, “What the heck is a Filet of Ribeye. He explained that it’s the cut of that that covers the ribs. Methinks that Chef Rocky Durham has taken liberties in renaming the lean, fatless, firm flap steak that is often sliced for fajitas. Nice try, Rocky. I like a low food cost as well as the next person, but I needed chain saw to cut the thing.

At speaking of near misses, Sunrise Springs was full of shortcomings big and small. It clearly aspires to lofty things but falls short here and there. On the conceptual level, it needs a lobby and a gathering place to have a glass of wine. Ideally, that would be adjacent to the restaurant though it’s not clear how they can pull that off. We were disappointed not to be able to have a beverage before dinner and were relegated to opening a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in our room. The house lost the sale and we didn’t have the social scene we would have preferred. In fairness the resort does have al fresco drinking in the warm months but it’s serious oversight when the high is 30.

Then there are small things like not serving a soup spoon with porridge. One assumes they would provide a larger spoon with soup. What not oatmeal?

Then back to the big picture. Being different for its own sake is not enough. It only works if different is better. How is it even possible that breakfast menu doesn’t have a single omelet and when it did it was ham and cheese? Is it breakfast if you can’t get bacon and eggs? Really? Does the porridge have to come with coconut milk? Does the green chile have to be so hot only a fire-eater can swallow it?

Our Sunday breakfast, the one with the porridge, was marred by a spilled ramekin of maple syrup that ran all over Peggy’s coat, chair and table top. The bus boy made a middling effort to clean up his mess. But the mishap was deftly handled by Ben, the manager, who gave us his heartfelt apology and offered to make it right, hinting at a free meal down the road. We told him it was very much appreciated but unnecessary. Moments later we saw Ben walking toward the front desk where we deduced that something was afoot. When we checked out some five minutes later, he had comped the previous night’s dinner.

We were so surprised and impressed that we went back to the restaurant to express our thanks. I told Ben that I had been in the business and that he had gone above and beyond in handling the awkward situation. I offered the theory that “You can’t lose a customer if you give a damn.” and he was evidence of that. Further, I suggested that dealing sympathetically and genuinely with an aggrieved guest can make a guest for life. That's called ending on an up note and we will return. 

Sunday, January 20, 2019

Wonderland 87571



This winter has been a gift. The best early snow year anybody can remember promises a hefty snow pack, a great ski season and a wonderland of photographic opportunities. Here are the latest.


It's often been said that artists of all stripes should favor the subjects and environments closest to them. Advice taker that I am, all of these are from the remarkable Immel Rancho just 1.5 miles from the corner of Main and Main in beautiful Taos, NM.



Sunday, January 13, 2019

The mother of all winters



Mother winter has made a bold return Taos after years of scant snow. Within ten days we’ve had two 12” snows and a -19 morning. The curator at the Millicent Rogers Museum told us it’s the most snow she’s seen in decades. What is this Maine?







Saturday the snow abated in early afternoon by which time we’d photographed at the Immel Rancho, the historic Torreon and at the Overland Sheepskin complex in El Prado. Add those to a somewhat abstract image of the frozen ice shot Friday at the Millicent Rogers and I have a disparate bunch for this post. I even threw you a color number. This one is all photographs and little text. Is that applause I hear or a massive sigh of relief?