this weekend....

...is the next hand coloring workshop! Gosh, all this time since it first was scheduled, and now it's suddenly upon me.

I love teaching it almost as much as I love doing it - so I'm really looking forward to this weekend.

Come back, come back and save us, Dr. Land

I haven't even known what to say about the recent announcements regarding the demise of Polaroid film...upon the news, like an idiot I had a knee-jerk reaction and blew $185 to snag 2 boxes of Type 79 from B&H. At least Brad is understanding, and encouraged me to get more if I wanted.

Today, my order arrived and I opened it to see the dreaded "yellow sticker of death" in the upper right corner.

I'm not taking this well.

Polaroid film is just so personal to me. Next to hand coloring, it's what started my fascination with alternative photographic processes. In fact, it was while researching hand coloring years ago that I kept bumping into references to Polaroid image transfers (which accept hand coloring nicely) and emulsion lifts. Whether Edwin Land liked it or not, his film emulsion formulas could produce wonderfully unique things.

Fascinated, I allowed myself to be become sidetracked, and wanted to learn more, culminating in a 6-week course on the various techniques using Polaroid film. My teacher was very encouraging. Eventually, I began entering juried art festivals just for fun. My second time out, I was astonished to be awarded the overall "2nd Place, Best in Show" prize, due mainly because of my Polaroid work. This was as encouraging as it was validating - and it's been a part of me ever since.

So no - I'm not taking it well and it pisses me off that it's all due to the massive, negative impact of the digital revolution. It's a bitter pill to swallow, knowing these corporations I've supported couldn't care less about today's small artist in this new competitive, digitalized, everything-in-a-second world. 90 seconds from shutter click to imagery is no longer fast enough. Call me a luddite, call me backwards - it's probably all true and I don't care. Something special is gone from the world and no one is screaming from the rooftops. I can only sit back and hope some manufacturer "out there" will have the bucks to snag the rights, freely offered up by Polaroid, to produce this film. While they're at it, they can bring back my sacred Time Zero film. I sound like a drug addict when I say I'll pay the price to get what I want.... but I really mean it. I put off trying Type 55 positive/negative film, until the magic hour arrived that I could get out of the rat race and devote more time to my art, and now it's gone and I feel like I've been robbed.

I thought I accepted the recent demise of Kodak's HIE fairly well.....but this one's killing me.

The above image was done with Time Zero film, hand colored. Time Zero....the first to be eliminated. But not the last, as it turns out.

Goodbye, my lovelies. Your passing deserved more respect than it has received.

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.

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