Knie einer Biene.

Over the pass and into the valley, and to the lake we went. Here is what dem woods made us done do! Es ist, aber wie ein preiswerter scan einer Kontaktseite jedoch I Liebe es noch. Lieben Sie es auch? Will there be more little Holzfällers...?

"What's so funny about life, death and misunderstandings..."

Last Sunday, Charlie, Mitch and I drove to the Sierras. We found a beautiful meadow.

Sat in a creek and shot 12 sheets because 8x10 ain't too cheap.

Fuck....!

Fuck, fuck, fuck....today is one of those fucking days...!

Das Kinder Blob....

Back in May, I reluctantly picked up blogging because my friend Steve, at Robyn, kept on needling me; and I kept on telling him to "blow me". And then, my mother mentioned that I should write more regularly; I listened politely. Maren kept harassing me too but what else is new. So, Thing One led to Thing Two, and Thing Three led me to reading other people's diaries; or as they say "bloggentries". In the world of photography, Alec Soth's blog is high up on the people's list, but frankly, anyone who regularly posts "Friday Poetry" is a little too Garisson Keillor-ish for me. I'll have to go back and read more of it, but so far I glaze over quickly. Maybe, Ritalin and me have our very own theory about Alec's poetry: Maybe, he is to photography what John Philip Sousa is to infantry; but more twenty first century. If you don't know what I mean, that's okay, I'm already knee deep in shit with this entry. So nevermind poetry....

Meanwhile, back in May and in New york City, I spent one night in Brooklyn. Raul, Jenn and I had finished eating dinner when I began to contemplate the long trip back to New Jersey so I begged them to let me stay and play.

The very next day, I tearfully went back to the City, leaving them to potty train and spoon feed purée; rode back to New Jersey and back again to the City. Later, I got on a plane, landed, drove home and waited. Later, after a few days, during those hours between night and day I had a dream about Raul, Jenn and Raul Andres. It was one of those dream within a dream, a personal favorite I must say. A dream within a dream; how fucking great? Like Turducken*, but meatless, guey...!

I don't really remember the dream within the dream, just the dream about waking up from the dream within the dream, and it went like this: Raul and Jenn had since become "Yurt-parents" and had once again let me stay and play, presumably to save me from the long overnight trip back to Alma-Ati.

Upon waking, I noticed that two of Jenn's Korean relatives were covered in frost; the kind of frost you might see ruining a farmer's crop. I too seemed frosty but felt perfectly dandy underneath my flowery quilt. They just told me that this was the best way to keep your cheeks rosy and stay healthy, so, why not me! Next thing I know, Raul Andres saunters over to proudly sit on his potty, right next to me; releasing quite a stink and waking me back to reality.

I have had every possible dreamable dream there is to dream, but smelling shit, in a dream, while dreaming about waking from a dream within a dream, was positively, weirdly dreamy. There is something to be said for waking up to a toddler's feces; I've lived it, but to dream it...and survive it? NOW, that's a blog entry, if I've ever smelled it.

* A Dreamdrucken.

Climates change.

Back in 1995, I was in Guangzhou, P.R China, on assignment. It must have been around midnight and I had just stopped working. I took it upon myself to stop by a favorite restaurant within shouting distance of the White Swan. I was gnawing on crispy pigeon, I love pigeon, when a young woman came up to me and asked if I was interested in modeling. When I answered that I was not, she sweetened the deal by offering me a couple hundred bucks. I greedily and promptly agreed, a date was set, and the next morning I was on set, smashingly dressed in "Vincent's" finest.

The shoot went by quickly and the photographer was remarkably swift, shooting less that a roll of 120 per outfit. We were done before lunch. I pocketed my Remembies and took her out for tasty treats. We talked about her family and all I remember was that her father happened to be China's most famous sports journalist. There you have it.

It's raining rats.

Yesterday morning, and for no apparent reason, I was feeling rather agitated. After-all, it's easy to do these days. Once you reach marriageable age and have pills to pay, these twin curses focus their hideous gaze and swiftly cheat you of your hard earned money. So, as previously noted, I was feeling agitated, which in this great ape, tends to rattle his lavishly appointed cage. Maybe, now that I have reached a certain age and have participated in said "Rat Race" for a couple of decades, I can, at times, bounce off the walls and nervously pace .

But help was on its way. I picked up a freshly painted copy of The New Yorker and turned to page 68: "In 1943, when I was a fifteen-year-old schoolboy in Danzig, I volunteered for active duty". I went back to bed and read "How I spent the war", by Günter Grass.

Just the same, when I saw the "Tin Drum" in 1979, at a Paris matinee, I remember feeling similarly oppressed and agitated. The theater was Parisian small, and packed with the unemployed and the disenchanted, or was it a Saturday?

For lack of a better day, I had gone to see the "Drum" with a classmate I had just befriended. I can't remember his name as we did not remain friendly for long; after-all I was on my way upstate. On his being the pompous spawn of old Parisian money, I remember going to dinner at his parents' well appointed hotel particulier, where less than public servants served us dinner in white gloves and tails; on silver plates.

What struck me most was that Grass's Oscar (our tiny protagonist) had remembered his birth date. Not long before seeing the movie, I had had a dream where my only and very still view of the world consisted of a grey metal dresser, pale yellow walls, an open window and in the distance, a reddish-grey-brick mural, upon which a faded ad had long ago been painted. A sunny day.....

I remember waking up and feeling that this was the room where I had spent my first uterus free day. I walked downstairs to talk my mother and described this fuzzy dreamscape and this is what she said: " That's where you were born Olivier". She looked a little dazed and our conversation quickly ended, which seemed a little strange given my mother's more than garrulous ways. May be she remembered that day, as if in a postpartum haze. Unfortunately, my first earthly day had almost resulted in making it: Her last day. She had bled profusely while her attending was away, delivering someone else's birthday cake. She was close to death when my father finally came in and alerted the ward's nurses. They managed to stop the hemorrhage and someone else's blood saved her from her impending fate.

When we walked out, it was one of those dark and dreary French winter days. My schoolboy date wanted to chatter in a Montparnasse cafe but I felt irritated and only listened to him halfway. I finally came up with an excuse to run the hell away . He, no doubt, followed his golden crumbs back to his well appointed home and pontificated.

When I finished reading Mr.Grass's essay on his days as a Waffen S.S, I was, magically; no longer agitated. So, if your mother lives ten thousand miles away, and you don't want to wake her up to help you sooth your nervous ways; read a little Grass in the middle of the day.

It's Gabriel's birthday.

Today is Gabriel's birthday. In the process, a loot of major league proportion was duly acquired. An avid soccer fan and its associated fashions he was showered with some of his favorite team jerseys, as well as a Key-tar courtesy of Koichi. I made Shabu-Shabu, Korean fish fry and spicy tofu treats, washed down with ice cold water and sparkly cup cakes for dessert, decorated with nine candles. In preparation for these festivities Raphael and I went shopping in Japantown, ate candy and sat in massage chairs to kill some precious time. After this birthday feast, we retreated to the parlor and watched DVDs to further hone in our already encyclopedic knowledge of FIFA's history. Gabriel fell asleep a happy man, clutching his size four Chelsea ball; woke up at six for a hug and promptly resumed watching the world cup greatest' hits. Happy Birthday Gaby.....!

Artist Statement?

There is a great quote by Fellini: "Don't tell me what I am doing, I don't want to know". Consequently, don't ask me what I am doing, I don't want to know. But it just so happens that everyone wants to know, present company excluded. Me don't need to know. Experience trumps reason. I like standing on a summer day in the San Joaquin valley and feeling the sun's rays; the way I loved light when I was six years old but did not need to think about it or profit from it.

I am often accused of being a portrait photographer. A bit like accusing your reflection of being a mirror. My people may be staring at the camera but they are not portraits. They are not staring at you, I am.

"Yossef's Buck."

For up to the minute updates on what I am doing, this blog will serve as the perfect platform to freshen up the official website of the other "Our Dear", "Dear leader"; the political arm of Olivier Laude dot com. Think of it as its under-secretary of public relations and imoticons. I shot this yesterday in the Sacramanto river delta, a favorite haunt. This image will further garnish Charlie's* cult of personality; until one day the world will recognize his image as readily as any other dictator worth his salt. Once this image is properly scanned and color corrected to my exact specifications, it will be called "Yossef's Buck", a cultural reference to a now long deceased German artist better know for his obsessive compulsive use of felt and bees wax.

Besides this superficial reference to our afore mentioned German Artist, I am, as I often like to do, referencing other images of mine. The redwood bark palette was used in a previous photograph; the now infamous "Mikkel Sønafenlillepigemedsvovlstikker, from the "Autobahnüberfal, the Danes" series (see below). I have good reasons to do so, so please trust me on this one.....as you might a beloved father.

*our compliant and charismatic model.

Afghanistan et Al....

Kabul Back in 2003 I traveled to afghanistan for Time Magazine. Besides Afghanistan I also went to Hong Kong, better described as a giant repository of shopping malls, the Philippines, Japan and India, in that order. Afghanistan left the deepest impression because it truly felt like a country in flux. I have always been attracted to countries which are somehow trying to make something of themselves, however poorly or half hazzard-ly. I feel at home in such places because they obviously reflect on my own personal peregrinations as a person. Adding to the mix is the sheer beauty and anvil like strength of the surroundings and Afghanistan becomes hypnotic in its quiet chaos. I generally do not feel the need to videotape anything, outside of my boys, as any proud parent should, but Afghanistan was the exception to the rule. I borrowed a video camera from an AP photographer and drove around with my fixer for a day; in between shoots. This video is unedited apart from removing my fixer's face from the mix. Given recent events in that country and in Iraq, involving anyone perceived to have been somehow associated with Americans I do not want his identity to be revealed online, and have him suffer the possible consequences. I chose not to edit it partly because to do so seems unnecessary. The running sound track is from my fixer's musical collection, Kabul radio, or our conversations throughout the day(yes we communicated by singing to one another). You can download it to your Ipod or your desktop and look at Kabul and its surroundings as I saw it and felt it, without any further intervention on my part.

Suggested reading if you are interested in the history of Central Asia: "The Great Game", by Peter Hopkirk.

Dear Diary. Let me begin with an introduction.

Born:In France, in Lille, France, October 2nd, 1964. Wild ass is slaughtered and turned into sausage to celebrate afore mentioned nativity. Quadruped's name withheld from public records. I shared this date, but not the sausage, with Mahatma Ghandi, Sting, Charlie Chaplin and umpteen other bitches.

Important dates: Summer 1970: Buggers first goat as rite of passage in Milaria; a leper colony bathed several hundred nautical miles in the Mediterranean sea. Goat is subsequently butchered and polished off by villagers in bacchanalian feast reminiscent of Pliny the Elder: A roman historian whose claim to fame was his pyroclastic entombment in Pompei; not to be confused by the " Pyro-Classics", Virgil's first poem -a four books lyrical odyssey, ostensibly about farming, which he wrote during the terrible civil war following Julius Caesar's untimely death in the BC (that's hip hop, for Before Christ).

1968 to 1979: Suffers the wrath of God in numerous Jesuit schools but survives with personality cult intact, besides his being easily medicated and plagued by minor neuroses. Psychosis avoided by vacationing with fairy grandparents, herds of Bovidae, honey bees and like minded urchins; in pastoral mountainous ranges.

1979: Ships to the United states as wretched human cargo in container ship from Le Havre, France, to Brooklyn shipyards; escapes from said metal box with mini blow torch, like creme brulee, but harder. High School in Millbrook, New York. Enjoyed Physics, Biology and rearranging ice flows on frozen Hudson in failed attempts to communicate with clouds that looked like hamsters. Became very cross country runner, masturbation a must. Great loss of DNA. English language mastered; further DNA disbanded.

Education: Skidmore College BS in Art History Class of 1986. Graduated Magma Cum Laude in Art History, but dem bitches did not award a prize for that, so no cigar for this record. Magma cum MaryJane. I'd like to thank the Otis elevator company for providing me with a safe and secure place to smoke between classes. Je voudrai m'excuser aupres des handicapes. Failed philosophy twice, some photography classes.... Graduate with a 1.7 GPA; I tried to do better but my subsequent corporate sponsorship with the Otis elevator company conflicted with regularly scheduled classes. Ate large amounts of cream of wheat; cause: no money. It's nutritious and nourishious. Bring water to a boil, dump in stomach size lump of cream of wheat, cook until good enough to consummate, flavor with glucose heaps, eat 3 times a day. Ruminate. Lived in the woods in turquoise 1978 VW van but sometimes parked on school property. Showered irregularly.

Employment:

1986-1993

Managing Editor.

Ax Grinding Quarterly: A Journal dedicated to the use of hand-held implements used for felling trees or chopping wood.

1993-1993 and a half: Publius Ovidius Naso biannual festival coordinator and CEO:

Duties included discussing Ebonics with or without Bernard Henry Lévy, french philosopher and noted intellectual. Often referred today as BHL, Lévy was born in Béni-Saf, Algeria on 5 November 1949. He became part of a group of French intellectuals who were disenchanted with communist and socialist responses to the near revolutionary upheavals in the France of May 1968. It articulated a fierce and uncompromising moral critique of Marxist and socialist dogmas years prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Frequent and often epistemological arguments lead to a palace coup and to his forced removal as Chairman and CEO of Publius Ovidius Naso. Publius Ovidius Naso filed for bankruptcy in 1994 under a cloud of suspicious financial wrong doings, money laundering, and naive realism; itself a phenomenalist aberration rooted in empirical relativism.

1993 and a half- 1995

Special economic adviser and compliant side kick to his Majesty King Taufa'ahau™ (since 1965). The Friendly Republic of Tonga™.

Duties included shouting down Samoans, berating Tahitians and belittling those fools on Easter Island. Could have gone as far as deriding the "Good People of the Galapagos"™ but there is some kind of sanctuary there, crawling with leaf eaters. Adroitly advised the King to stick to bipeds, a euphemism, of course. My position was terminated after a vicious, all out, tropical food and flotsam fight during Sunday service at " Our Lady of Perpetual Desalination". I was mercilessly set adrift on a jute raft from Nuku'alofa as punishment for my crimes but was picked up by a drunken Russian freighter plying the Cook Islands, trawling for signs of desperation. Due to their severe inhibriation I was mistakenly identified for a wahine but once again managed to escape their advances by leaping onto a nearby Korean shrimp farmer. Those years with the traveling circus finally paid off as I became their favorite pet monkey; a perfect leap into the unknown but a brilliant career move.

1995-2001

Executive Pet Monkey to the Korean Ship farmer " Atlantic Platypus", a semi-aquatic bottom trawler with Liberian plates.

Duties included, pretending to be a coconut, peeling plantains, curling both lips to reveal a set of comedic brown teeth, massaging a wary crew with fish oil, collecting algae for the tender, which housed a magnificent exclusive spa and retreat. Other duties included translating "in screeches"™ what the lookout thought he was spotting, far off on the horizon, as well as delivering much needed supplies to Afghan refugees marooned on Christmas island (unfortunately, the irony was lost on our mostly Buddhist Kampuchean crew).

2001-Present

Managing Editor: " Punjabi Represent"™,The Cole Valley Middle Aged Men's Secret Society Magazine.

Duties include: Mixing bleach with ammonia, befriending pigeons to further my communication skills, shouting liftoff to my avian friends all the while encouraging them to reach for the sky, trampling underfoot and marching with penguins.

Special Skills: Using agricultural metaphors in political speeches for the advancement of the hard of hearing and the Bisexual, Gay, Lesbian and Transgender community. Making life deliberately hard for friends and family, so that they can redeem themselves through labor. Legal latin. Try this at home: "Ab Initio, it should be said that there is a good prima facie case for my decision to forgo this curriculum vitae".