Oh Brother

I have two brothers. Virgil who is two and a half years younger than I am and Dexter who is 15 years younger than myself. Yes, to answer your question, same parents. The other day someone asked me if I was my brother's mom. I know they weren't talking about Dexter because he wasn't even there. It's that damed gray hair. Making me look like I'm 69 years old. Funny thing is my brother Dexter, who is 32 years old has about as much gray as I do.

The Photographless Photographer

For the past few years I've been interested in an aspect of photography that has fascinated photographers since its inception. Photographing the Invisible. The Unphotographable. There are shows and books on the subject. From attempting to capture ghosts on film to trying to represent Jesus. I am working on putting together a class on the subject. Then there is the Photographless Photographer. This is something completely different. This is me. My tax form says I'm a photographer but I'm not quite sure about that anymore. Recently I went on a whale site seeing trip and I was the only person on the boat that didn't take any pictures as well as the only photographer on board. But I didn't want to put a camera or a phone in between me and my experience just so that I could experience it again later. Those pictures of the whales will be in my head forever. There is a title some artists give themselves that most photographers can't stand. It's when someone calls themselves "an artist who uses photography." It usually applies to someone who wasn't formally trained in photography but who uses the medium as their primary form of expression. I have to admit that this type of work is sometimes refreshing because the individual is not caught up relying on unspoken rules that photographers abide by. Maybe I should start calling myself "a photographer who uses art." I used to leave my images untitled. I wanted to leave them open to interpretation. Eventually I started titling works to direct the viewer and in my last show the title of each work ended up being half of the piece. One could not exist without the other. I wondered if eventually the work would go away and only the words would be left and, sure enough, recently I started writing a book. It's fiction. I see the characters and events in my mind's eye. If someone read it they would have their own. These are pictures I don't have to print, or frame, or store. Other people can't copy them. They float around like images on the internet but nobody else gets to see them.

Things Keep Coming Up Roses

There is a big, beautiful red rose blooming in the back yard right now. Too bad it smells so strongly of cat piss and shit back there that you can't smell the rose. That reminds me of my trip back from NYC in February. My flight was delayed about 5 hours and I got bored and decided I needed some chocolate to entertain me and keep me awake. I picked out a four pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups(I guess that is the standard size now) at the airport News Stand and got in line behind a very well kept looking young woman in a fur shawl. She looked like a Saudi princess. She had her arms full of items to purchase and a pile at the counter. She spent almost $300 there. I know the airport is over priced but, really. She handed the checker $400 and the checker handed her back a hundred spot. It took forever to get to the front of the line because the checker had to wrap ceramic mugs and trinkets individually and fold a bunch of t-shirts. She should have kept the 100 bucks for the extra work. I found a place to sit and ate two of the Reese's before handing the remaining two over to a friend who I happened to run into on her way back to SF as well. She was on a later flight than mine but hers ended up leaving before mine. I asked my friend if she could watch my luggage while I visited the ladies room. I walked into the restroom and pushed a stall door open. I have a knack for finding the most disturbing sites in bathrooms. The toilet was filled to the brim with paper, a seat cover, and a huge shit. Sprinkled on the floor around the toilet were the petals of a red rose. I have a feeling I know whose crap that was.