all moved in, and feeling tingly....

So, as long as I have to work at a "serious" kind of day job, it's nice to have pleasant surroundings in which to do so. My new office is not only the largest one I've ever had as a manager, it's also the only one I've been able to design. Well, re-design, as it was more than a little bit used when I first walked through it several months ago. I walked through and started a list of everything I wanted to see done to it, and plotted the course. This kind of thing is entertaining for me. I liked knocking out walls (on paper of course), picking out floor tiles and carpet and paint schemes. It's all come together quite beautifully and my own office, as I've said, is BIG - with 2 windows that actually open, with old-style hand cranks! yowza. So I've lined the faux marble windowsills with plants and unabashedly hung eight of my own pieces of framed artwork along the walls. (Some of my stuff that's not straightforward photography confuses people - another source of entertainment. I explain my processes much more thoroughly than the inquirer really wants me to.)

Work is work, and I really do yearn for the day when the alarm clock goes off only because I have an early class or maybe an early flight to someplace fun. But as long as it goes off every morning, forcing me out the door to work in health care management, I can think of worse places I've hung my coat. I like it here. No, really.

Busy, crazy times - on more levels than work, of course. Life is suddenly interesting in many new ways. I'm digging it, along with some of the new people I've met.

Shine on, you crazy diamond

I met him when he walked into the doctor's office where I was working as a medical assistant. Later, we both would swear to recognizing the phenomena of love at first sight; those first few meetings, however, were all business - and the business at hand was ridding him of his abdominal ailment. We were both in our mid-20's and each of us had already accumulated some baggage. He was recently divorced and meeting me apparently shot to hell his resolve to never marry again. I was married at the time we first met - 2 years in and, already realizing I had made a terrible mistake, I was in the process of getting pep talks from my friends while casting about for the cheapest apartment I could find, so I could move out. Needless to say, neither of us needed the automatic complication of having laid eyes on each other at this particular point in time; suddenly, all bets were off.

Though it took a couple of years, which were full of angst and distasteful drama that doesn't belong in this post, we eventually found our way to a small, non-denominational chapel - very old, with a gray stone exterior and a bright red door. We liked the door. It looked good in the wedding pictures, too.

It's been 22 years since then. Today (well, Friday, November 30th) is another anniversary marking a long romance that we periodically marvel over - knowing we're among the few who really are living "happily ever after". We've been through many highs, many lows. One of the high points is taking place on this very day, as he is officially retiring from the GA state DOT, where he has worn many hats over the years. He was a young, hot photographer when I met him. He didn't make much money, which seemed to matter to him more than it did me, since he seemed to want to impress upon me that he did have a good retirement plan, and how he could arrange it so his pension would take care of me for life - should I follow my heart and go with him. The pension didn't matter, or course. For me, it was more the realization that I had somehow met this person who was sincerely offering to give all he had - and this, while I was fresh from leaving a marriage that had come to seem more like a joint venture, where each party kept his own bank account and expenses were shared fifty/fifty (each month I was presented a list, detailing what I owed). To be presented with this tender, giving heart, with this simple "but of course" attitude towards sharing everything we had - maybe I wasn't so bright in my twenties, but I did recognize my soul mate.

It's been a long journey, getting to this day. There were times we were scared his job would vanish - being the aerial photographer for the state's Office of Location was quite the tiny niche, subject to repeated scrutiny by each new governor looking for ways to say he had slashed state expenses by outsourcing anything that seemed frivolous. However, the aerial photo lab performed such a variety of functions that somehow it escaped the red line; term after term, it proved its relevance. So my husband Brad is retiring now, in a management position, as someone who can turn and look back over a long, fruitful career with the same outfit - a growing rarity in these shifting times.

I couldn't be more proud of and happy for him. He's one of those people who should have good things come his way. I've been disappointed in many people over the years - people I thought I knew, who ultimately proved my judgment wrong. That's never a good feeling, of course. Brad has never been among them.

I wanted this to be some kind of tribute, but listing his good qualities seems so trite. I'd rather just say: animals instinctively gravitate to him. That tells a lot, you know. Our horse used to follow him around like an oversized hound dog; Brad rarely needed a lead rope with old Dana. And when I would periodically bring home feral kittens, rescued from a drainage ditch by my office that was inhabited by a cat colony, he was always up for the challenge of helping me foster them until they were ready for adoption. Peering into the cardboard boxes I had swept the tiny demons into, he was met with baleful stares from tiny eyes, accompanied by much hissing and spitting. None of them could have been more than 6 weeks old, which probably accounts for why I was able to snatch them. When Brad decided to befriend them, within hours they went from five ounces of feline ferocity to purring under his gentle touch, secure in their new knowledge that human hands could be kind. Our adopted pug, Odin, was inherited from his former owners through a broken relationship that led to separate moves to places animals weren't allowed. He was a frightened little dog the first night he came to us. We tried to relax with him out on the patio, giving him the run of his new back yard. Feeling the acute anxiety of the newly separated, Odin wasn't interested in exploring. He was unable to relax until he decided to crawl up Brad's chair and settle his fat little body square on Brad's chest, where he remained for the next couple of hours. He wasn't exactly the type of puppy you'd want to cuddle - he was crawling with fleas, sorely in need of a bath and we still couldn't quite believe our eyes when we looked at that tongue. But Brad welcomed him as if he were a prize, did not shoo him away but scratched his ears and talked to him - and Odin has worshipped him ever since.

See, this is just part of who Brad is.

Now, Brad - if you ever read this - you should know, babe, that I'm very aware of the excess of wine you have stashed in that cellar. I know who your mistress is, and we actually get along just fine. I accept her presence in every bottle you think you've smuggled in. I just wanted to say: it's okay, baby. I like wine. Just, maybe ease up on the French stuff now, will ya? I happen to like what's coming out of Tuscany right now. Just a suggestion.

This is a picture I took of Brad with Odin (aka: the O-dog) last summer, when I was testing a new lens. I decided to hand color it, since I will probably always remember our patio and back yard like this, in high summer.

Happy retirement, my love - and happy anniversary!

Quick update....

It appears all the information for the March 2008 workshop has now been added to the Spruill website.

This means the supply list is now available to view!

Hope to see you there.

Ye Olde Thanksgiving holiday

Being one of those tiresome sorts of people who are always acutely aware of how lucky we are in life, I don’t become particularly misty-eyed around the holidays. However, this IS a blog – as such, it would seem an oversight of sorts not to comment on a holiday that, at its very soul, was inspired only as an occasion for people to pause and reflect on all of life’s goodness – even when it might seem that the good stuff is outweighed by the bad.

The news is always full of stories about horrific things that happen around the globe. There is never a shortage of war, famine, floods, drought, stupid politicians, animal cruelty and basic human injustice on a wide scale. When you catch yourself thinking, “The world’s gone mad”, that’s as good a time as any to clutch closer the nearness of beloved things or people that keep us sane. It should be a daily event.

My best friend is my amazing husband – who I really think of more as a boyfriend, even after 21 years of marriage. I am still humbly grateful for the combined circumstances that led to my crossing the country during my 20’s to land in the same town he grew up in, so I could meet him, marry him, and have this amazing relationship. Those were some very long odds that I beat - I don’t see myself taking that lightly. That’s the main thing I’m grateful for.

I can roll out of my bed every day with two feet to hit the floor, and I have a job to go to every day. Okay, sometimes my aging legs feel tired, my back hurts, I’m grumpy, sleepy, and feeling the hate of working full time – but it’s a momentary indulgence to what are actually minor annoyances, since if any of that were to be lost, I’d be one sad sack.

So, hurray for everything that’s good in my life, feel the bliss of knowing my family and friends are alive and well - and I have nothing more pressing to do today than start mixing the dough for my delicious crescent rolls. I made the cherry pie last night at 11:30 – late start because I remembered at 9:00 PM that I was out of shortening, so my best friend made a little store run to help out. After finally settling the top crust over the cherries, I thought about making my vent slits into a giant smiley face, but instead made a little round center hole and slashed sunrays all around it. Yeah, I’m living in Georgia during a 100-year drought, but what the hell. It’s actually raining at the moment. So hurray for the sun, too.

Hope you all have a lot to feel thankful for, too. Enjoy the day.

The smell of books (and why I always follow my nose)

Ever since I can recall, the notion of a musty old attic filled with musty old books that no one read or wanted anymore has been my ideal of the best place to hide out from the world. I was a bookworm as a kid – I spent so many hours curled up with a book I'm surprised my spine didn't curve. Of course, reading curled up on my bed or a living room armchair left me vulnerable to interruption: my mother's call to do my homework, practice the piano, or my sister's imperious suggestions that I pick up my dirty clothes or comb my hair - all were assailants upon my peace.

A visit to my uncle's farm house in the countryside of southern Missouri one summer made a fantasy come true: just off the kitchen was a narrow door with a wobbly glass handle. "Oh, that leads to the attic," was my aunt's disinterested reply to my query. "Nothing up there now, but old furniture and a buncha books." She did not react to the sudden bursting rendition of the Alleluia Chorus that filled her sunny, gingham-checked kitchen, so I guessed she didn't hear it. But it was ringing in my ears as I opened the creaking, whitewashed door and peered up the dim stairway. At the top of the stairway was a bookcase filled, as she had promised, with dusty books. I climbed the narrow stairs and entered my new domain with the soft footsteps of reverence. For hours I was enchanted with both my discovery and the realization that my heretofore vague notions of the tranquility of book-filled attics were now suddenly and irrevocably replaced by the real thing. A fantasy come to life, with the turn of a rickety doorknob! There were stacks of cast-off paperbacks and faded comic books mixed in with gilt-edged volumes of poetry and history, some boasting print dates from the 1940's. There was an odd book of 12th century torture techniques, complete with carefully wrought etchings, printed in a strange typeset with page borders 2 inches wide, browning with age.

It was here, watching with solemn pleasure as kicked-up dust swirled in the sunlight that filtered in from a high, dirty window, that I first breathed in that incomparable smell of aged books. In a lesser location, the incessant buzz from the dirt devils that were crawling busily in and out of a bent air vent overhead would have sent me scurrying; here, they were merely my tiny sentries, guaranteed to frighten off unworthy invaders – my cousins. No one bothered me in my hot, airless kingdom. It was Nirvana!

Back in those days, I could read hour after hour without ill effects. My, but things do change. Since becoming a regular working stiff, coming home in the evenings and picking up a book after dinner gradually turned into little more than a sure-fire fast track to being asleep by 8 PM. I've grown progressively more jealous of my time away from work; demanding more from those waking hours – so, eventually, and almost without my noticing, the act of reading for pleasure simply became something to avoid.

But a bookworm never changes her spots (yeah, I typed that out and I'm sticking to it) – so there came a period of compromise – I discovered I could skim through what I loosely thought of as "lighter fare" without falling asleep. For a time, I read nothing so intricate that I couldn't have the ending pegged before I was halfway through. It was like having a steady diet of fast food: I knew I wasn't starving, but couldn't remember the last time I'd had a meal that had really left me with the sense of well-being that comes only from having been well sated. Reading a wide assortment of books on alternative photographic techniques was informative entertainment - but nothing can beat having a book that lights a spark, as well as amuse and delight you. So, I vowed to return to the old-fashioned pleasure of reading. Stumbling across the like-minded folks over at Library Thing has been all I needed as a final push.

They recently gave me the welcome occasion to go on a book hunt, having come up with another "group read" suggestion. It fell on me to find a copy of Sinclair Lewis' Elmer Gantry. No luck at the usual brick-and-mortar booksellers; so, it was off to search on Amazon. I found a used copy for six bucks, and paid slightly more than that to get express delivery. Nothing could have prepared me for what I received: a 1960 Dell paperback edition, complete with yellowed edges and the undeniable smell of my former book-laden lair. A highly pixelated B&W image of Burt Lancaster clutching a Bible adorns the front cover, under the words: "The book that shook the nation!" A nugget from my former trove had been mailed to me!

It's old news that our memories seem hotwired to our sense of smell. The fact that I am thoroughly enjoying this old chestnut is secondary to my gratitude at having had the rush of memories of my wondrous attic hideaway flooding my brain. By its release date, its slightly tattered appearance and, especially, by its distinctive browning-page smell - the book could have come from there.

I am finding some strange comfort now, amusing myself by pretending that it did.

More on the hand coloring workshop...

Hey all - the March hand coloring workshop is now officially listed (as are all the spring 2008 classes) at the Spruill Center for the Arts website. Under Adult Courses, click Photography to sign up.

The Instructor and Supply List pages aren't yet complete. You can still sign up to reserve your spot. I'll keep checking and post here when all the information is uploaded.

Hope to see you there!

As an aside...I am so grateful to my mother for having the foresight to get a copy negative made of this image of my grandparents. They were out tooling around with some friends, and stopped to make a few pictures. This was taken before they were married, circa 1920. This is the way I like to think about them the most - before war and the Great Depression stole their carefree look.

Photographer: an unknown friend, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude

Happy Halloween!

One of my favorite times of year!

I'd love to post something that fit the mood, but I just realized I don't have anything even remotely "Halloween-ish" in my online portfolio.

I'll have to drop back and punt with a picture of Odin - or, as he is more commonly called, the O-dog.

Admit it - he's kinda scary.

Stay safe and have a great Halloween, everyone!

Cleanliness is next to boredom

bah! Festival season is officially over for me for 2007. We spent most of the weekend packing stuff up. Last night was getting the last of the print boxes back up into the attic. As much as I appreciate the illusion of neatness and order, there is always part of me that misses the ruckus. I like seeing the smooth white walls of my studio, empty but for the tiny glitter of unused picture hooks. They are like a challenge to put up something new. My drafting table is no longer a mess of contracts, slides and stacks of prints that have yet to be matted and bagged.



So....I'm neat, I'm tidy, it looks pretty sterile in my studio right now.... and the best way to get over it is to make a new mess.



Thanks to all who made it out to Candler Park this year!

Bromoil 101 - or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love to Bomb

Bromoils are at once the most fun, and the most frustrating, of the prints I make. Like any strict mistress, they demand your undivided time and attention. And lately I know I am letting the bromoil mistress down – in fact, she’s probably not going to return my next phone call.

I have had early successes and recent failures with this process. This piece above is my last marginal success, one I managed to ink up on a matrix that somehow was the last to get through the tanning/bleaching process before my chemicals rolled over and died. After inking this print with some minor difficulty, subsequent matrices from the same tanning/bleaching session went straight into the garbage – nine of them, in fact. I had bombed - completely! Once the shock of sudden failure wore off, I held the wake for their dead little souls. They looked ugly in death, smeared black ink gone gray and pasty, obliterating the latent image in the paper.



Bromoil 101: When the bleaching/tanning chemistry goes off, the gelatin in the emulsion of a silver-gelatin darkroom paper will neither swell nor harden – a reaction needed in order for the inks to either be repelled off, thus showing the image’s lighter areas, or to be absorbed proportionately, in keeping with the darker tonal ranges of the image. The beauty of bromoil is watching the bleached-away image reappear by the brushed application of lithographic inks. In my case, even using exhausted chemistry, the images still bleached away normally, thus no clue was given that I was about to sit down and turn these matrices into a pile of indistinguishable blobs of goo.

Pretending to have pulled myself up by the bootstraps from this lesson, I went straight out and bought new chemistry, determined to get right back in the saddle, as it were. The chemicals arrived within days, glittering at me through their plastic jugs and waiting for the moment I would mix them up and begin again.

That was last January, and the jugs are now on the shelf in the closet of my darkroom.

I’ve been blaming my busy year on this procrastination, whenever a bromoil-related discussion, sale or comment occurred, and I would needlessly defend my slackness to people who had no clue of the trauma that had secretly frozen me, by babbling on about the workshops I had planned or the backed up film canisters awaiting development. No one knew, and no one cared.

Except for the mistress, of course.

I still am not ready to satisfy her and now I am running out of excuses. My last arts festival of the year is a week or so off, and my last workshop was over a month ago – what stretches ahead for me after the arts fest are the “down” months of winter, when I can hole up and work contentedly for a few months. I always look forward to this time of year, so this stage fright is a weird thing to be facing.

I know the reason I bombed was due to exhausted chemistry, so I have every reason to expect my next session will turn out something good. I still need the benevolence of the bromoil mistress on my side, though. I hope when I get around to making that call to her, she’ll be home.

Hello, at last.

I know - I should have started this blog many months ago. Thanks to those of you who continued to berate me for procrastinating: I knew you were really only encouraging me. And now look! I finally did it! So back off!

It has been a busy year, which is good in some ways but not so good in others. Things like starting the blog were easily kept on the back burner. I’ve always found it extremely hard to spend much time at a computer when I get away from work; this is one of the reasons I know I could never “go digital”. Aside from that, I think I will always prefer the darkroom, or my drafting table, to the PC for working on my images. I just don’t see a time when I’d be ready to say goodbye to the unique pleasures of the darkroom: the glow of the safelights….the excitement of seeing an image bursting onto what was a blank piece of paper… the developer stains on the floor….all of these things that mark the thrills and spills of analog photography.

So, here I am, and I promise to use this space to keep you all up to date as best I can.

The recent College Park Arts Festival was wonderful this year. It’s always fun despite the extra work involved in doing a one-day show. Thanks to all of you for coming out. I apologize again for running out of the updated business cards – that was lame.

I scaled back the festivals this year; the only one left is at Candler Park in Atlanta, October 13-14th. There is always good food, great music and, of course, wonderful art and crafts from my fellow artists on display – so come on out!

For those of you who asked, I do plan on the hand coloring workshop at the Spruill Center of the Arts early next year- tentatively scheduled for March 8-9th. Watch this space for details!