El señor Martin...

I am going to quickly take advantage of this unique opportunity. Timothy has me on his blog and I know I'm gonna get some hits so I figured I'd say something nasty about Martin Parr, quick! Martin Parr was first brought to my attention after I did a story on "Windows of the World", back in 1995, just before my son Raphael was born. I thought to myself, "I got it, I am going shoot a body of work on global tourists. They are so fucking funny, how can I miss"? I like shooting social conflicts and all that shit but I really like a good bit of ridicule in between bludgeonings.

Mind you, this was back in the days when if you were not a "concerned photojournalist" it was hard to be taken seriously. You know you had to be concerned and care deeply. Care about your subjects while you trampled them underfeet.Anyway, my friend Ed Kashi, I think it was him, mentioned: "you should look at Martin Parr's work, you'll like him". I did and I was pissed, that motherfucker had stolen my ideas back in the early nineties. I had to give up on it and go back to being a concerned photojournalist. My one and only chance to be funny, and I blew it..... no, "HE" blew it.

As I was saying Martin Parr is one of my all time favorite photographers but lately his work has severely diminished in quality. His Mexico work sucks and so does most of his recent work. Check out his other work, from let's say 1990 to 2000 and you'll see what I mean. May be he is just going thru a shallow period or the lecture circuit has got him thinking he's the shit. Eyes on the prize baby.

See what I mean go to his site and click on recent work and if you happen to disagree, tough shit. More weight to my bullshitt.

And BTW, I really don't like Radio Head either, so be it!

Anonymous....

It seems that, as of late, many bloggers have decided to do so anonymously. This prompted me to think about anonymity as the act of expressing ones thoughts and ideas without revealing ones identity seems rather cowardly. At the end of the day, there are very few reasons for anonymity, unless your life or those of your friends of family are imminently threatened by the powers that be.If your clients or your boss look at you sideways because you have opinions and would like the world to know how you feel but need to do so secretly, you'd better be running for your life on a daily basis. Otherwise, don't bother, we are not interested, especially since for all we know, suspending disbelief, in your case, would only be worth it if you are exceedingly talented, comedic or excentric. Photographers, editors, art directors and all other trumpeting prophets of the creative classes shouldn't have to hide behind super secret cloaks to speak their piece.

If you fear that your job or your reputation might be compromised by what you have to say, I would rather you remain silent instead of rambling on about the mundane. Unfortunately, that's often what it amounts to: Opinions devoid of any information which for purely economic reasons need be protected by a vail of secrecy. Do I really need to anonymously know what photographer turns you on or wether digital is better than film? If you are going to wear a magical mantle of clandestinity, you'd better have something earth shattering to say, or shut it. Are you really, who you seem to say you is, or aunt Wilma masquerading for kicks. If it's adrenaline you seek, try freelancing......

In the meantime, I did a little research on Anonymity and came up with a few links which I found worth mentioning. Anonymous Photo Editor. Anonymous Photographer. And why often times a lawyer's brief turns out be more interesting than those less than stimulating anonymous bloggies.

"On a bag of frozen peas".

I had originally posted this poem last June about my friend Steve, who I assure you, is nothing but an entirely fictionally character and in no way bares any resemblance to himself or anyone else. I had appropriate his name and relative likeness to allow me to post the original poem below, which had been crafted to reflect my uninformed and entirely fictional views and opinions of the Art World; of which I am not a bona fide, plenipotentiary and recognizably known member. Nevertheless, since it was one of my best poems "ever", it really needed to be re-posted in its original form, devoid of potentially and offensively injurious references meant to humiliate, denigrate or disparage Steve's character, honor or person.

I shall post it first, before the perniciously ironic rant directly following this short, yet lyrical narrative epic sonnet(!). Furthermore, should you decamp and choose to browse greener, less obscure pastures, I shan't blame it entirely on you, but rather on the interminably long vituperations which follows this decidedly and purposely rank poetic odyssey. It is, I admit, long and tortuous even to those of you who might have by now become better accustomed to my professional and personal sense for self-ridicule. Those of you who may not have taken the time to ease into these mindful peregrinations might find it pretentious, offensive and bitterly pompous :

The Poem:

The Art World ; it’s like….

It’s like snatch; but sweeter It’s got swatch; but sooner It’s got stash; but bigger

It’s like smack but stronger It’s like you; but better It’s like Yak; but butter

It’s like; nice but later…. It’s got racks; like “Hooters” It’s got back; like looters

It’s like grass and fiddlers… It’s like ass, and fingers It’s like mass but longer….

Next:

I decide to remove the second part of this entry and will probably not be reposting it. I am a big fan of my own ramblings but finally decided against it.

"Ken, Alec, with this ring, I wed thee"....

One fantastic advantage of keeping a blog which nobody reads, is that freedom of expression, is just another word for nothing left to fear. Having said that, this fantastic voyage would not feel complete if I did not stick one in the ribs and shoot me in both feet while I am at it ; especially so, since I am so blatantly expropriating the language, if not the groovy feelings of the sixties. A few months back I got to thinking that I could not, for the life of me, figure out why Alec Soth is such the darling of photography's establishment, so beloved by the photographically minded masses. Granted, the man is a perfectly competent, if not a capably bearded photographer; but beyond that I can't tell him apart from his large format documentary brethrens, which are, as we now know, all the rage.

Knowing full well that my present choice of words are remiss, I can't help but believe that if you were to blind test his pics for originality, to the uncognoscenti, they might have a hard time telling him apart from the rest of the large forma-tees. And then it hit me, "Americana", he's got that all American thing going, that home town, hand on heart quality. I get it, he documents, in a Fine and Arty way, the hearts and minds of the beast; like Geographic used to when they drank Martinis.

You can hang it in a gallery, without attracting the kind of shame and contempt otherwise reserved for idiot savants and country bumpkins. After-all, who wants to wax poetic about the place you have so desperately and recently escaped from last week, and expect a gallery to take you under its clean, white and downey wings. Like telling mommy she's the best thing that ever happened to me, but without being overheard, mocked and ridiculed by the literati, like getting in touch with your feelings for free, play little league, or vote libertarian when no one's looking.

I could not, for the life of me, write an entry about this intuitive and ever so fleeting feeling until good old Ken Burns, the Lawrence Welk of documentary film making, premiered "The War" nationally, all across the country. There you have it, the perfect twins.... I couldn't believe it, I finally had that critically acclaimed hook, so desperately needed, to knock those two birds with one teeny tiny stick.

Ken Burns is to Alec Soth what Alec Soth is to documentary. It's Americana, but very still. Pan right, pan left, pick a universality and stick to it, squeeze in in a few tears and some scratch and sniff, and there you have it, success; where there was none, now there is. A little heartstring made that fat lady sing. For my money, Alec Soth should have stuck to Bogota and the shadows, where his work might have actually blossomed quite nicely. Nice timing though, I must admit. All the power to both of them, they deserve it.

"Skakespians".

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As promised, I will now attempt to dissect the killer formula behind these starlets' photographic replicas. The power, the éminence grise, behind these two pixies, I so generously posted in today's and last Tuesday's entries. BTW, I have no idea who Josie Maran is, but I am familiar with Jessica Alba and of the ongoing struggle for cultural hegemony, between hers truly, and Miss Jessica Biel. If I am not mistaken, these two young women are being currently toted as America's hottest shakespians, or rather, "best in show", in a supporting role as a bathing beauty.

Notwithstanding this aside, and in order to properly complete this task, I undertook to partner with a literary companion to search the internet and settled with a symbols dictionary, so as to remain as objective and un-lascivious as might be expected of a male of this specie. One who could infuse this entry with credibility and referential certitude, as oppose to vaguely self referential ineptitude.

Without much thought or premeditation, I briefly transcribed into words what I was seeing on screen. Also, and as previously mentioned, least we forget; I stumbled upon these screen saving beauties, on the same website where as lady luck would have it, I also found a very atonal, Middle Eastern version of Nokia's iconic ring tune. (Furthermore, and as you may already know, cell phone manufacturers are forced to devote a lot of their precious, and limited global resources, to transcribing their "flagship" ring tones into other languages, and craft multi-culturally appropriate Pavlovian melodies, to win, the hearts and minds of the masses).

Josie Maran(Tuesday the 18th): Image includes three obvious and visible references.

Sunset :

As the orbit of Venus, is closer to the sun than is the earth's, it is never seen more than 48 degrees from the sun. This means that Venus is visible as the Morning star or Evening star in the immediate vicinity of the Sun. Thus Venus can only be seen from earth just before sunrise in the morning or just after sunset in the evening. As you can see, the use of the sunset, as a background for the Josie Maran image, wether, conscious or unconscious can be easily associated with Venus, the goddess of beauty, love and fertility.

Rocky Seashore (Ocean scape included)*:

As for the rocky seashore behind her, I will have to subjectively interpret its meaning, as a quick search on the internet did not reveal any interesting references, or reasons why the creatives, behind this image, decided to incorporate it in the shot. Based on my knowledge of classical texts, and secure in the knowledge that water is supposed to represent nature's passive element and is the ultimate solvent, I may be correct in presuming that the viewer is to feel non-threatened by this beauty but not so much so as to render her bland and unexciting.

The rocky shore line, is, I presume, meant to spice it up so to speak, infuse the scene with a bit of danger and mystery. Josie wants to be remembered as the girl next door, who might also, just as well spank you if you misbehave. She wants to pack enough of a punch so that you'll keep a close but admiring distance. She's just out of your reach, someone else's treat. Unless, that is, you can in turn prove that, you are indeed equal to her needs. A task, not so easily achieved, as the competition for such a beauty is stiff. In order to join her archetype on these rocky shores, you will have to earn it, and prove to this Aphrodite, that you can swim.

And what about that autograph, which also happens to be our third and final peek: After-all, she may seem unapproachable and beyond reach, but still, she is a human being and would not want you to think that she does not appreciate her legions of teenage fans. Think of it as a kiss on the cheek, a smile, a look back and a wink as she steps into the limousine.

As for Ms. Alba, I would venture to think that the image above is meant to have you believe that she'd be a better mother to your kids than Josie, who, if you're not jealously careful, might run off with Neptune, when you're not looking. Frankly who would blame her, have you seen how well hung Neptune is? and from the looks of you, all you've got going; besides that hair piece, is a few moles and that gun you're holding.**

* To separate these two, into distinct symbolic representations, seems at this point in time, inappropriate. **A Corsican Welcome.

Ring Toons.........................................................................

[display_podcast] A quick note please: To experience this entry, as it was meant to be, it would be best to click the MP3 above. A pop up will appear, which you will need to forcibly shove aside, so as not to obscure your reading pleasure. Until such a time as I can figure out how to play it automatically, you will need to comply with this directive. Thank you, the management....

Begin:

On a whim, I undertook to search for Arabic ring tones and in the process of expanding my search, as is so often the case, I quickly became mired in a tangled web of baroque web pages, MP3s, MIDIs, pop ups, Dubai mortgages and Arabian real estate.

To my here disbeliefs, the Muezzin's MIDIs is, if well intoned, not a bad way to shake off some dream sleep and double check, how red delicious, Kabul's sunsets might look to the Almighty™, after a long day. In the meantime, while browsing afore mentioned website I nearly picked up my pen to sign these dotted lines: "Allah is defined as the ONE who ALONE, without partners or helpers created all that IS created in creation, either known or unknown." Sounds like an all rights grab to me; and because we should be so lucky, his excellency, rimes with intellectual property...... How's about 72 attorneys.....?

While desperately trying to extirpate myself from a dozen web pages, I inadvertently followed a link and came upon afore posted, Kafir beauties; which, to my manly delights, featured scantily clad celebrities. Cell phone mementoes, that to many a teenage dream screams: "Call me...!". Afterall, it does not hurt to dream a little, every time you hear that ring tone and pick up the phone; like snacking between meals, sneaking a peek, or coping a flat screen, when no one's looking..... If only that damn LCD didn't fade to black, with such annoying regularity.

As an aside, later today, I shall also explore why we primates find such images so compelling, and how they are, ever so deftly constructed to lure so many fishes with nothing but a hook and no bait. Why is it that images of such enticing and classically trained young ladies, always seem to say: Why isn't she calling.? Some day, I promess, I shall reveal, lay bare and peel back, the many layers of this cake. Trust me, nothing but good things awaits us in this future and upcoming journey.

Saturday Night Lite.

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I had forgotten how much fun it is to shoot what's on broadcast TV. In the seventies and the early eighties, a lot of photographers built their entire careers on taking pictures of what was on the telly. The resulting images are somewhat gimmicky and never that interesting, but undeniably fun and entertaining. At the end of the day, the appropriative ease and speed with which you can take pictures of television screens is just too much of a no brainer; which is not to say that ease and speed are not photographically good things. I make enough sweeping generalizations as it is already. Come to think of it, TV stills are to photography, what comic books were to Pop Art in the sixties, it's seen better days. Nevertheless, I am sure that somewhere, somehow, a lone genius is reviving the genre, and is being ignored because of flippantly opinionated people like me.

Still, I would not mind seeing a new wave emerge from that Phoenix' ashes. Problem is, flat screens don't flicker, which is unfortunate since half the fun is working with and around the cathode's flickering rays. On top of it all, to add insults to injury, digital cameras are making the process ever cheaper, quicker and easier.

Case in point, last saturday night, after returning from Slideluck Potshow, which included my work in the mix, I sat in from of my TV, with my girlfriend's new point and shoot and captured "digitally", close to six hundred pics while she slept next to me. Out of those six hundreds, I'd venture to say that almost half turned out nicely, even if they are, in my mind, devoid of value. The other three hundreds fell victim to flicker and delay.

So, out of guilt and shame, I further combined some of them into diptychs to feel like I was actually being creative, as opposed to some late nite fingering perv, pleasuring the trigger for leisure. As for screen stills, the ones I like the most are those where the photographer steps back to include the TV dinner, a fork and a spoon. Something I did not do. In order to make this photographic sub-specie more interesting one would need to create a story board and hunt down images* that best fit the script to create "cathodovelas" using found images available on TV, Youtube or DVDs. If I feel like it some day, I might experiment with it, as for now, I'll stick with large format. Nevertheless, it wouldn't be a bad way to spend an idle saturday night.

*which I am sure has already been attempted.

What's that sound in your eye?

# Since all we get these days are data files and images, is it too much to ask to get to know what Mars sounds like....?

Like any self respecting fan of all things celestial, I take great pleasure in reveling in the facts that no matter how self-obsessed or delusional I may get, there is always a place, far from where I dwell, where I can go and marvel at the unmentionable vastness of the known universe.

A few weeks back, in early July, I went camping in the Sierra Nevadas where, as luck would have it, this god fearing, prostate packing, 42 year old's tool, made him get up and take a mid-summer's night piss on the closest evergreen he could see. Not too close to my tent as one might suffer the consequences..... le lendemain.....but not too far either, as to not fall, and off that precipitous cliff he might have imagined. Being that it was the middle of a dark and moonless night, it seemed reasonable to assume that a precipice might be harder to anticipate if your neck is cranked way back, looking up and away.

I like to wonder as much as the next guey**, but plunging to my death while relieving myself, is a stunt I'd rather wait to taste just before I finally take my last steps and kiss The Little Prince's cape...... But when I do, we'll kiss and greet on both cheeks, and I'll finally get to piss on that snake, the one that looks like those hats men used to wear, before JFK caught a bullet with the back of his head (if he had worn a hat, that fateful day in Dallas, instead of baring his head to an assassin's rifled gaze, he might have lived out a more lead free and prosperous presidency).

There's nothing like looking up at the sky and pissing on the ground beneath it. There's still nothing like reminding the forest and the beasts that a man will pay twenty bucks to stay the night, eat a steak and drive home the next day. It's not every day that he gets to piss on a stump beneath the Milky way......Just another way to further remind this here Universe, that free will and a tank of gasoline brought me here, while 'they', will spend the rest of their natural living days trying to open garbage pales or chase down four legged protein shakes....... At the very least, not bothering to treck on over to the latrines, at three o'clock in the morning, feels better than splitting open my chin on the bathroom sink.......and it's good way to keep my feminine side humming.........since whatever estrogen I have coursing through my veins needs as much tending, as the peaches in Voltaire's silk breeches; those same treatises where Buddha meets Plato meets Rousseau meets snow globes or the cold wet steel of a French Guillotine (I have a hard time believing that Voltaire did much gardening and will presume that he meant it metaphorically).

As I stood there, I thought about the fact that there are millions of great images of Mars, Saturn and the Moon***, but that galactic sound files are not that easily found or downloaded on the information super highway. I understand, but regret that because there are no molecules for sound waves to travel within the vacuum of space, that there is no sweet celestial music for us to hear. Nevertheless, Mars has an atmosphere and that ought to be worth at least an MP3.

The only space recording I have ever heard came from what the Cassini/Huygens probe sent back and recorded while descending into Titan's atmosphere. That was sweet... but in the future, can I please listen to other atmospheres.

In other news, landslide and meteor strikes; how on earth are we supposed to get out of the way if there is not a sound to be heard on either side of the Moon.

* Multi-year mission to Saturn and it's moons. ** Guey. That would loosely translate as "dude", in Spanish. *** Hell, as we speak, they are sending a giant camera to Pluto which will reach the icy body in a little more than a decade. # Also commonly known as the Red Eye nebula.

Fantasy photography leagues....

My friend Raul posted an image by Peter Henry Emerson who "was one of the first vocal proponents of "naturalistic" art photography (photography done out in the field) at a time when most art photographers worked exclusively in the studio" and it got me all thinking and shit.

Looking at these photographs reminded me of how great it would have been if photography had been invented by amphibians, in a Cambrian swamp the size of Switzerland. I'd kill to see some pics, of the first flowering plants, Napoleon and Josephine or Polynesia, circa 1465.

Emerson(1856-1936) quoted*: "I have...I regret it deeply, compared photographs to great works of art, and photographers to great artists. It was rash and thoughtless, and my punishment is having to acknowledge it now... In short, I throw my lot in with those who say that Photography is a very limited art. I deeply regret that I have come to this conclusion..."

History proved him wrong, even if it took far too long. After him came the throngs who blissfully ignored the ruminations of a man who lacked the imagination to understand that, given time, any new form of self expression will eventually blossom.

Over time, artistic expression accrues and grows like those interest rates your bank charges. Despite what he thought, there is nothing like traveling back in time and seeing what it really looked like; at least through someone else's eyes. To my eyes, it's actually more interesting, than any thought he might have ever had in his lifetime.

*Via Raul Gutierrez.

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

If I am not mistaken, I think I first saw "The treasure of the Sierra Madre", the 1948 John Huston film by the same name, in January or February of dos mil tres. I might rank it as my all time favorite, not just because it is a film fantastic, but because it so closely matches my own aesthetics. Anyway, I have little to say besides professing my love and admiration for such a great movie. Rent it, buy it, steal it, do whatever best suits your spirit, but see it before you meet, "The" Great Spirit; which, as you may already know, can happen, quite suddenly, to you and me. Please to admire the scouting, the light on the cacti, the cinematography, and the acting, if you fancy that sort of thing.

I do not own a copy of the film and have only seen it once but I remember watching it soon after having a psychedelic black and white dream, which found me skinny dipping, under the keels of World War II battleships. Bathed in moonlight, the great ships were being shelled by unseen and murderous aerial bomb attacks. Thankfully, they seemed to always miss the mark, their blind and angry marksmanship resulting only in creating beautifully lavish underwater vortices. To my submarined eyes it looked like mixing galaxies with egg whites, sea salt and half and half. My dream had matched the mood and contrast of the Sierra Madre's black and whites; if not for my bit parts.

Hiroshi Sugimoto.

Way way back when, so far back in time that I can't remember exactly when, someone mentioned in passing, that if you were going to be a poet that you should never use abstract words or concepts to express yourself. May be they/he/she said something else but overtime this is what I remember hearing somewheres in my head...So remember, if you are an artist, an amateur artist, a curator, a critic, an amateur critic or a gallerist please keep big words far from your nimble and feverish mind and snuggly tucked somewheres in inaccessable body parts. Otherwise, you'll sound like a tool and will only impress those of you who are dumber than you; the rest of us will be forced to ignore you.

Steer clear of Art speaks like these: Narrative(!), resonant(!), dissonant(!) meditative(!), discourse(!); cathartic(!), organic(!), dialectic(!); mediate(!); appropriate(!), gender-based(!), textured(!), imbued(!), fractured(!), manufactured(!); pioneering(!); fractious(!), contentious(!), heterogeneous(!)....

They may not have the heart to tell you but when you write like this, you sound like a fucking prick. Construct(!) phrases others might like to read, instead of making the rest of us skip your entreaties(!)groaningly.

Take Hiroshi Sugimoto for example, whose show I just saw at the De Young, in San Francisco. Try him on for size and see if this is a paragraph you might be able to craft. Lo and behold, it's actually interesting and informative(!)....After reading what he has to say I find myself liking him and his work even more. Go to his site for more.

Portraits: "In the sixteenth century, Flemish court painter to the British Crown Hans Holbein the Younger (1497-1543) gave us the imposingly regal portrait of Henry VIII now kept in London's Royal Portrait Gallery. Based on this Holbein portrait, the wax figure artisans of Madame Tussaud's in their consummate skill recreated an absolutely faithful likeness of the king. Which allowed me—based on my own studies into the Renaissance lighting Holbein might have painted by—to re-do the Royal Portrait, substituting photography for painting, the sole recording medium available at the time. If this photograph now appears lifelike to you, you had better reconsider what it means to be alive here and now." (see portraits above). You see it's not that hard, just come out with it and stop giving the Arts and your fellow artists or critics a bad name.

So, yesterday I went to the De Young in San Francisco's Golden Gate and saw Hiroshi Sugimoto's. I have always liked his work. Let me re-phrase that, I have always really liked half his work. I like his Portraits, his Dioramas, his blur-chitecture, theaters and Chambers of horrors. The rest of it, the conceptual forms, Joe and in Praise of Shadows are less interesting to me personaly. I may not appreciate his more "cerebral"(!) works, but at least when he writes about it, I respect it and understand it. I am interested in what he has to say, and do not, as I often do, find myself wishing I could strangle him, or you, with a shoe lace. Check it.

Photography is a beautiful lady.

For the past fifteen years, I have had the pleasure of seeing the photography industry transformed into more of the same. One thing by now is certain, it's that, if anything, necessity is the mother of invention and invention is the bastard chump of imitation. Consequently, and if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery it might just so happen that flattery is to photography what imitation is to its means of production.Categorizing is by no means one of my strongest points. Generally, any attempts at organizing my thoughts rapidly lead to roam. So, if you, out of boredom, have decided to read on, you will surely come across my inner curmudgeons. No need to point them out, they are already known. I was born with an extra helping of curmudgeon; making any agreement to provisionally suspend judgement, in exchange for the promise of entertainment; a cantankerous proposition . So here it is, Photography as I see it, it's all the buzz, and yet, I can barely hear it:

1- Nombrilism (fancy for navel gazing):

Historically speaking, these folks would have done well in the British Navy, given their love of uniforms, square meals and the sea's deep blue immensity. Practitioners of this dark and thoughtful art are beloved, the world over, by sadists, MTV and non-profits. Naturally, they generally remain unseen when your cabin needs a good sweeping.

2- Fetishism:

Itself a great sin, Fetishism is undergoing a revival of sorts as an offshoot of afore mentioned category. Modern Fetishism is a daftly concocted reduction designed to cleverly shift attention from the navel gazer and his/her reflection to the relationship between them and their material possessions. This is the cult of the "Casual observation". It is devised to bring attention to the everyday travails of inanimate objects.

Casuallity, as it is also known, is defined as the relationship between one object (the casual) and another object (the casualette); itself the consequence of the first object casually informing, suffice it to say, the narrative* tension of their respective and repetitive daily usage. In other words, if said "Casual" cannot be easily defined by its relationship with its afore mention "Casualette", an observation may become delightfully and casually complex. Nevertheless, should such an unfortunate object occur, quickly turn lone object North North West and chant: " I don't know you that way".

To be continued....maybe...! * I'll get to that later.

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...!

Pumpkin Paradise.

Today is a beautiful day. No hurricane fog winds, just sun shinning, which got me to thinking about them "Friendlies", bible thumpin', door knocking, ape hatin', door slamming, sun settin', watch tickin', bright lighting, two timin', book burning, run screamin'..... So I did a little googlin' for Jehovah imagery but came up with nothin' like I remember seein'.

I was about to give up when I eventually came upon what looked like prize winning, lip smacking, eye catching, toe tappin' Jehovah landscape pornography.

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.

What would Trotsky do?

I had originally thought that I would not discuss photography, or photographers, for that matter, but it seems that I am unfortunately and inexorably drawn to it. Rather than point out photographers I actually do like, I'll stick, for the most part to photographers I either do not like or flat out dislike (there is a difference). I am sure there will be the occasional photographer who's work I enjoy but those I do not dig, do not get, or am simply dumbfounded by, make for better entertainment. So without further ado and without naming names or pointing a dirty finger at anyone in particular I will first begin with two photographers whom I believe should promptly submit self criticisms to the people and lick its collective boot; come to think of it they might already be. Anyway, and the winners are: The running dog, Loretta Lux, and the capitalist roader Jeff Wall.

Now for the difficult part; as I sit..... desperately hoping for a thought to cross my mind. May be that's my problem; I am dumb as a post (no pun intended).... I might be able to string something together to justify my utter disinterest in Loretta's work (sounds country doesn't it) but Jeff Wall will certainly be more of a challenge. I actually like children, a lot, especially when they are alive. As for her images if you lay them flat, do their eyes roll back into their heads and do their eyelids close? Don't get me wrong I sorta like Julia Margaret Cameron, at least in passing, but at the end of the day I don't think she needs any disciples. One Julia Margaret Cameron is more than enough for both the 19th and 20th century. I might also be inclined to give her more credit if she was suffering from consumption and had to live strapped to an iron lung, but as far as I know she lives and works in Monaco, kicking it on the French Riviera; so close to royalty, I could squeal.... Aargh...What can I say, her work feels dead. "You're dead to me Loretta....Don't ever call me again".(door slams)- cut to freshly cut lemon - camera pans left and settles on the opened kitchen window - blue sky, vapor trails, it's April 1943; what a pickle...! In the distance, you can hear a child's drum roll.

When the revolution comes I'll make sure they are reassigned to drier pastures and forced to properly atone for their sins; may be Santa needs new reindeers. As for Jeff Wall I'll let his own work and words work their magic on a yet unimagined and unimaginable scale; and it's back lit to boot. People, please, take a moment to glimpse deep into the inner works of the creative mind: "Wall described the 'event' of this work as 'a moment in a cemetery. The viewer might imagine a walk on a rainy day. He or she stops before a flooded hole and gazes into it and for some reason imagines the ocean bottom. We see the instant of that fantasy, and in another instant it will be gone. The Flooded Grave was completed over a two-year period, and photographed at two different cemeteries in Vancouver as well as on a set in the artist's studio. It was constructed as a digital montage from around 75 different images". Are we suppose to be more impressed by the process than we are by the resulting image; fuck....! train spotting is more fun, and just as time consuming. Jeff, please stand back for a moment and step off the cliff if you please.

You can review his musings here, the intro is a masterful piece of work, you can smell how hard they worked to put one word in front of the other. May be another, actually great Canadian photographer, Edward Burtynsky, can give him a spanky, on location, in his studio, for a tableau. Come to think of it, I'll do it....

"I thought at the very beginning that all my different directions would all be connected by means of working with that truth claim. But never in the same way"*. Throw in a few obscure greek philosophers, 17th century Italian philologers and a professed love for deconstructivist opera and you might even get laid by that pretty little receptionnist at the gallery; she's still young and impresionable and only eats celery sticks and cottage cheese.

* "The traditional claim that photography represents 'truth' is highly contested, and it is this interface between truth and fiction, actuality and fantasy that Wall has chosen to explore."

I don't think this blog is going to further my carreer....Dammit...!

PS: "Fervens ex afar , tamen recedentia ex fervens.!", which actually means, translated from Latin into English "Glowing out of afar , not withstanding retreat out of glowing!, which suspiciously sounds like Japanese barbecue but which really means " Hot from afar, but far from hot". It's that sinking feeling you get when you scope out a hot looking chick with long blond hair and a tight ass to subsequently realize, to your homophobic horror; when she turns around, that HE is nothing but a "crystal-hick".....Dammit....!

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.....!