Late afternoons when I’m feeling at loose ends, I often drive down to Venice to take pictures at the local skate park. It’s beautiful in the waning light, with the sun setting over the ocean, casting long shadows across the smooth concrete surfaces of the park. On a good day, it’s filled with skaters of all levels, all ages, genders, races… Saying “all levels” is probably misleading. I’m not a skater myself and in order to drop into even one of the mellowest bowls at Venice skate park, I’d imagine that one has to be a pretty good skater. There are some real superstars at the park, skaters who can do the most amazing acrobatics. I’d say they’re world class. But, at least to this outsider, there doesn’t seem to be a hierarchy within the park. Everyone gets a turn. The older skaters, support the younger ones. There’s a camaraderie that transcends skill level. Women are seen as fellow skaters, not sex objects. I’m sure I’m projecting, but the Venice skaters seem to be building a kind of utopian society on their little patch of the beach, one which a love of skating, bringing a level of seriousness to it all, is the only thing that really counts. Me, I’ll always be on the outside with the tourists, wondering what it would be like to be part of their squad.
San Pedro
I don’t know shit about San Pedro. I know that the heroic punk bass player Mike Watt birthed the Minute Men from the loins of San Pedro. I know there’s a port there. I know that people have thrown themselves off The Vincent Thomas Bridge from time to time. But one early morning I decided to go down there to explore and take some photographs. I didn’t have a plan. I heard there was an open air fish market there, but they didn’t allow photographers inside.
I lucked out anyway. At 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning, San Pedro was socked in with fog, deserted, no traffic of any kind. The whole industrial landscape took on a dystopian air. I spent a couple of hours exploring and got some of the best shots of my life.
Early morning L.A.
Going out to take pictures wards off depression for me. It makes me feel like I’m contributing to the world. But like everyone else, I’m busy with work and other responsibilities, and sometimes I’m just lazy. So I haven’t been getting out there and it’s showing up in negative ways in my psyche.
For the last few weeks, I’ve getting up early on Sundays and going out on photographic adventures — Olvera Street, freeway overpasses, Venice, San Pedro, the downtown flower mart, anywhere really that I think I can find something interesting to shoot. I’ve always been a morning person — I had a paper route when I was 11 or 12 and delivered newspapers in Reno before school. I loved seeing the morning people, the bread delivery guy, milkman, etc… There’s an entire early morning world out there. It’s secret and special.
Leimert Park Topiary
I’ve always loved the Leimert Park area of Los Angeles. It sits below Exposition Blvd. with Crenshaw to the west and Western to the east. Like most old neighborhoods in Los Angeles, it’s been through lots of changes over the years. Leimert Park is predominantly an African American neighborhood — although that too is changing, with gentrification looming. It’s filled with modest single family homes, wide streets. It’s tidy.
I was always kind of curious about the amount of topiary in Leimert Park. I’d asked around a lot why so many of the houses had such ornately trimmed shrubbery, but never really got an answer. I wanted to know why Black people were so into the art form. I could’ve googled, but I’m lazy. I finally asked the right person who told me that at one point the area was home to the largest concentration of Japanese Americans in the continental United States. Apparently a local Japanese realtor set up shop there in 1947, one year before the landmark Shelley v. Kraemer ruled state enforcement of racial covenants unlawful. Leimert Park became a safe place for Japanese families to settle down. All these years later, there might be a few Japanese folks still in the neighborhood, but mostly it’s just the topiary that serves as a reminder of their presence in historic Leimert Park.
Iceland
Late last year, one of my oldest friends, a guy not known for being an outdoorsman, sent me a link to this epic trek in Iceland and said “I’m going on this and I want you to come.” Probably because this idea to undertake a five day hiking trip in Iceland was coming from such an unlikely source, I just said “Yes.” I barely looked at the trip’s website.
Anyway, we headed out this July with another friend from college. There were five total in our group, plus an incredible guide, Dagni (rocking the red hat). The journey was a life changing experience. Iceland is such a beautiful contradiction. Wet and desolate, black volcanic rocks and fluorescent green hillsides, snow and ice and water, Iceland is one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places that I’ve ever been to.
Chris Buck Photo Workshop
Chris Buck is one of the best portrait photographers in the world. His photos are usually funny, often awkward, always provocative. He shoots a lot of celebrities and politicians, putting them in situations that somehow strip them of their famous veneer, revealing the humanity behind their public exteriors. He’s shot several of my former clients - Willie Nelson, Dave Matthews, Live Nation CEO Michael Rapino - and the results have been extraordinary.
He seldom does workshops. In fact the last one I saw was years and years ago in Santa Fe and I didn’t have the means (and probably the skill) to seriously contemplate enrolling. But earlier this year I noticed he was teaching another workshop in NYC and I signed up immediately. As the months clicked by running up to the workshop I thought often of cancelling. I didn’t think I was good enough.
But this past weekend, I brushed off my insecurity and showed up, the only non-pro among about 10 incredibly talented photographers. Chris was great. I learned a lot. I learned how to be present in the moment of shooting. I learned to have a plan, but keep my mind and eyes open to other possibilities. I worked hard and I loved the results. I also learned, I’ll never be Chris Buck!
Widelux
A number of years ago I picked up a Widelux camera. It's Japanese and mine is from the 70s. It's a totally manual film camera in which the lens slowly turns to give a panoramic effect. I first discovered its existence after becoming obsessed with a book of photographs taken by Jeff Bridges, the actor, on the sets of many of the great movies he has starred in.
The camera gives everything a kind of soft movie star glow, and you never know exactly what you're going to get, resulting in many happy surprises.
Christmas
I love Christmas. I love having everybody all under one roof, the late night wrapping sessions, Christmas eve dinner, the calm right after opening presents. I'm a very, very lucky guy, surrounded by lots of love, by the objects of my affection. This year has been particularly kind to me. Happy Holidays!
West Adams
My girlfriend Tracy and I moved in together last month along with her 13 year old daughter and my away at college 21 year old beauty. We ended up in the West Adams district of Los Angeles, just below the 10 freeway around Crenshaw Blvd. It's where the silent film stars lived back in the 20s, so lots of the houses are big, about half have been turned into apartment buildings. Craftsmen houses abound. The streets are big and wide. I've wanted to live in this neighborhood as long as I can remember. It has a deep historic vibe, lived in and warm and comfy. Most neighborhoods in L.A. feel temporary, but not West Adams. This place is here to stay.
Santa Anita
The first time I went to the horse track was in the year 2000 with my dad and stepmother, my brother Willy, my wife at the time Lisa and our daughter who was 4 years old. I can't be sure, but it may have been the last time we were all together before my father's death in 2001. We were at Hollywood Park in Inglewood, just a few miles south of Los Angeles and it was literally magic. After seeing all the horses in the paddock, our toddler Imogen picked the first place horse in the opening race, winning the family a couple $20s on a long shot. Hollywood Park is closed now, torn down to make way for a new football stadium, so Los Angelenos are forced to travel to Arcadia to the more upscale and gorgeous Santa Anita Park if they want to go to the races.
Hollywood Park was more my style -- low rent, working class and gritty. But even at Santa Anita, characters abound. The cost is very low -- I was given a coupon that got me in for free with a program to boot. And I'm guessing because the entrance fee is minimal, that it draws a lot of seniors, mostly men and men and their wives, who make a day (or half a day) of it to play the ponies, betting $1 on a couple of races and just enjoying the environment.
I went this time with my buddy Bob who is a very disciplined and studied bettor. But even he walked out after 10 races with $3 less than he came with. But it's not about the gambling. It's about the people, the culture and the singular beauty of the place.
21mm
Another way the Leica Akademie workshop influenced me was that the instructor, Harvey Stein, said his first teacher told him to go out and get a 21mm lens and shoot solely with that. Now I have to admit, I'm a sucker for gear. I'm the kind of guy that thinks if I buy an expensive guitar, my playing is going to automatically improve. But trading in my 28mm for a 21mm seemed like a huge risk, a very big commitment. So what was the end result?
It's actually totally remarkable. A couple of nights ago my girlfriend Tracy and I were downtown, walking through China Town and the Grand Central Market and working with the 21mm lens was really exciting. I have a feeling it's going to open my aesthetic up in surprising ways. Harvey was right!
Photo Workshop
I went to a talk by one of the world's best music photographers, Danny Clinch, gave a couple of months ago at the Leica Gallery in Los Angeles. Danny said that when he decided he wanted to pursue a career in photography, he went off and took a couple of workshops - The Ansel Adams Workshop and one other. He said it changed his life. So, being a fanboy, I started to look into a workshop that would fit in with my work schedule. This past weekend I flew to San Francisco to do three days of intense shooting with Harvey Stein, a super talented street photographer (and very good teacher it turns out) from New York City.
The main goal of the workshop was to learn how to approach strangers and take their picture. To do it in a collaborative way. Asking a stranger to take their photo seemed so invasive. Even the idea of it made me want to stay in bed all day, so that's why I took the class. What did I learn? I now realize that the same ability I have to make friends with strangers in business, or while I'm shopping or waiting in line, is the same skill set I need to leverage to get strangers to say "yes." A little eye contact, a smile, a compliment, then pop the question. It seems so obvious now. Thanks, Harvey for changing my life!
Portraits
I want to become a good portrait photographer. My idols -- Chris Buck, Seydou Keita, Danny Clinch -- make a lot of pictures in natural light. I'm attracted to that because, well, lights scare me. I need more practice with them. There really is no better light than muted natural light. These portraits, of artist/writer Lisa Teasley, who happens to be my ex and the mother of our beautiful child, are really a straight ripoff (maybe I should say homage) to Keita. He was the master of creating distinctive portraits with textile backgrounds. Simple and beautiful.
Holga
I got my first Holga more than 20 years ago. It was a trip -- I think it was about $20 and the instructions that came with it said that the first thing one should do is throw away the lens cap. Everything is plastic and the back leaks like a sieve and doesn't stay on very well, so I took to taping the back on with electrical tape.
But the Holga (like the Diana that came way before it) takes 120 film which creates big beautiful negatives. Additionally the Holga is incredibly unpredictable, you never know what you'll end up getting. So that same excitement one gets when getting film back from the processor is tripled with the Holga. I have many more expensive cameras, but I can honestly say that some of the pictures I'm most proud of were shot with the Holga. Pick one up.
Dogs of Sayulita, Nayarit
For many years when I was a kid, every Spring my father would take the family (my stepmother, step brother and step sister and my brother and me) down to Sayulita, Mexico. This was in the 70s and Sayulita was a sleepy little town with cobblestone streets, and a restaurant on the beach where we'd drink orange Fantas and try and work the locals for a connection for fireworks. The house we stayed in was my step grandmother's and it was a mile from town, on the opposite side of the long sandy beach. The house had no electricity, but it had running water, and a propane stove and fridge. We lit our way at night with kerosene lanterns. The entire place was open on one side to the ocean, so we'd fall asleep listening to the waves crash onto the shore. It was like a very happy dream.
Years later I went with my friend Wayne back to Sayulita and while the town had grown considerably, it hadn't lost an ounce of its charm. I went one other time, with my daughter when she was about 7 and we had a blast. The town - like lots of Mexican villages I suppose - has a little cadre of dogs who may or not be stray. They pretty much keep to themselves, not afraid of people, but not exactly craving affection from them either. So I took my Holga and shot a bunch of pictures on that last trip of some of the local perritos. They represent one of the happiest places on earth for me.
Kids
I'm a very lucky man. I'm lucky for lots and lots of reasons, way too many to catalog here. But if I had to pick the thing I'm most lucky for, it's this girl right here. This is my daughter Imogen. For more than 20 years now, she has been my favorite person on earth. Unfortunately for her, when you're the child of a photographer, you get your picture taken an awful lot. I took her picture when she was crying, when she was angry, on the day her mom and I split up, basically nearly every single day for so many years.
The good news is, after a while, Imogen got used to having me make her stand still right over there, while I practiced, using her as an unpaid model to help me figure out all kinds of technical aspects of photography. And so to her I owe any modicum knowledge I've amassed about taking pictures. The thing is, once the camera becomes a constant in a kid's life, it disappears from their view. Kids become natural, open. They are by far the best subjects in my opinion. And this one right here? Well she's the best of all.
People
I'm scare shitless of taking pictures of strangers. I have no balls, no guts. Like mostly everybody I guess, my fear holds me back. The only problem is that I want to become a good portrait photographer. So I have to face the fear.
I've been walking my dogs by Victor's Hair Salon in Van Nuys a few nights a week for about three years now and when it is slow, this one hairdresser, always dressed for a party, kills the time by sitting in his client chair, kicking up his feet and staring off into the mirror. I swore to myself the other night that if I walked by and he was there and striking his pose, I'd run home and grab my camera and find the courage to ask him if I could take his portrait.
His name is Jose. He was happy to sit for me, although he was a little self conscious because of the ribbing he took from his co-workers. I rushed home and made a couple of prints for him and returned with them within an hour or so and the look on his face was priceless. They asked me in Spanish if I'd do the whole salon next time.
I went to bed that night feeling like I had just conquered Everest.
Union, OR
During the fall of 2016 my brother Willy and I took a road trip, driving from Portland, Oregon, about three hours east. Our destination was Union for the annual Eastern Oregon Livestock Show. It's the kind of America you see in 50s movies, filled with, 4-H kids and Future Farmers of America, assembled in their blue corduroy jackets with the brilliant yellow patches on the back. They raise their hogs and sheep all year, and if they're lucky they win a ribbon. Then they auction them off to the highest bidder, sometimes a mom, dad or uncle, sometimes a stranger. There are horse races, a rodeo, a carnival with rides, and a parade, where the Veterans of Foreign Wars, church groups, fire trucks and the local propane company throw candy from flatbed trucks and out of car windows, while fiending kids scramble around the street to pick it up, stuffing their pockets and mouths with their hard earned bounty.
It's peaceful and wholesome and 100% homogeneous. Racism is not evident Union, but there is only one race. It's white. I felt like I was undercover - white male who is pro-Black, pro-Brown, pro-Gay, pro-Trans, values I can only suspect aren't shared by the general population in this part of the country. The only hint was a slogan on the Mormon parade float - "Rule #1: be American."
That said, it was an incredible place to take pictures, and people were welcoming and generous. And I was with Willy which was the best part of all.
Salton Sea, CA
The first time I went to the Salton Sea, an other worldly body of water about 60 miles southeast of Palm Springs, it was 1992 and I was with my ex-wife. We were in our fifth year of marriage and we had established a tradition of heading north from L.A. a little further on each of our wedding anniversaries. This particular year we were broke, so we went south. We may have camped in Anza-Borrego desert. But on this particular night we ended up in the Salton Sea and checked in to a motel with sagging ceilings and a musty bedspread. It was a real horror show. I shut the motel room door and she immediately broke into uncontrollable sobs. I got our money back from the surly front desk clerk and we drove to Palm Springs, spending money we didn't have on a decent room.
But I was hooked on the Salton Sea. It's too salty and polluted to maintain much life. Fish skeletons litter the shoreline, as do crumbling mobile homes and cardboard-like houses, remainders of a time when the area promised to be some sort of desert lakeside resort town. But now it's the land of half-submerged swing sets, rusted out trucks, and one room convenience stores selling dusty trinkets, motor oil and cold drinks. I've never seen a human in the lake. But the surface of the Salton Sea is often glassy, the atmosphere is hazy, and altogether it looks like some kind of social-geological ghost. It's great for taking pictures.
In more recent years, I've explored the lake again a number of times with my daughter, a talented photographer and an amazing travel companion. We both find the decay of the Salton Sea inspiring. It's like the end of the world is just a few hours away from L.A.
St. Elisabeth Festival
Every spring and fall the church around the corner from my place in Van Nuys hosts a fundraiser. The St. Elisabeth Festival runs over four nights and they bring in typical traveling carny-operated rides. In my hometown, these kind of street fairs always had a creepy undertone. Like the carnies might snatch you up and steel you away, or malevolent attendees with pedophiliac tendencies would lure you into their van in the parking lot.
Not so with St. Elisabeth. At this fair, the parishioners make and sell amazing food, pupusas, tacos, churros, homemade drinks. They host loteria games. There are amazing ranchera bands where the musicians dress in matching outfits and the lead singers sport outsized belt buckles and boots with brazenly augmented toes that point upward to the sky. Families come together and eat at large tables with cheap plastic tablecloths. And the teenagers ebb and flow with each other on the dusty ground, exploding with the excitement of unsupervised flirting amongst the loud, rickety rides and the screams of the passengers. Lovers, dressed to the nines, go on the Sizzler, where the centrifugal force presses their bodies together, the ladies scream and the men try and look tough. Even the two neighborhood drunks, dance slowly in a passionate embrace in the middle of the dance floor, welcomed by the love in the atmosphere.
It's one of the most magical experiences I've had in my 36 years in Los Angeles and I just can't get enough of it.