Brown Trucks and Pictures

The UPS guy has become part of the family. His brown truck, looking like something retro from the 50’s, lumbers up and down our street daily. Wearing similarly colored garb, including short shorts even in cold weather, he emerges from his vehicle and, like Santa, delivers packages to brighten our day. The recycle container overflows with evidence of his frequent visits.

His boxes and padded envelopes usually appear at our front door, or in our mailbox, where they are least expected. Like kids, we tear open the package, and are sometimes surprised by its contents. “Did I order that?” The efficiency with which the whole system works, delivering stuff on time and to the correct location, always astounds me.

I have become accustomed to deliveries occurring more than once a day. Sometimes they appear at our door in the dark of night. On my trips through the house, I often turn my head and look through the glass panel on the side of the front door; it’s just to be sure that I haven’t missed a delivery and left a package in purgatory limbo.

I was surprised this morning as I instinctively looked through the panel and found a medium sized paper bag with fancy handles sitting on the stoop. Devoid of the usual Amazon Prime markings, I went into level 10 curiosity mode.

Lifting the bag, I noted its high quality. Its thickness and construction went well beyond anything that might be found at Westridge Market, or even at Whole Foods. It was so well made that I immediately regretted the image of its passage to our blue recycle bin, its unceremonious dumping into the puke green E.J. Harrison garbage truck, and its eventual life ending compression as though it was just another piece of paper.

I took the precious bag into the house, placed it lovingly on the kitchen counter, and looked deeply into its contents. It was a book.

Not just any book. It was heavy and a foot square, like a book that you might display on a coffee table in your living room. Called Our Ojai, it was authored by the Ojai Valley Defense Fund. The front cover looked familiar; a view of the Topa Topas in their pink moment grandeur. It was a photo taken by me years ago. The bottom left corner showed a darkened oak covered hill on my former Sulphur Mountain property.

I was elated. The photo was better than I remembered; I searched for the photo credit just to be sure it was really mine. It was, and I recalled the work I had done photographing the hills, the oil wells and the faces of those who had hiked the dense oak acreage during my twenty years of being part of it.

I was reminded of how prolific I had been, taking and displaying photos in any number of settings, both on the property and throughout Ojai. This was before I had fallen into disrepair and begun a retreat from an avocation that consumed much of my time; one that had given me such pleasure.

The book is filled with wonderful photos, some drawn from Ojai’s earliest days. Fifteen photographers contributed works that commemorate Ojai’s desire to remain relatively free of the big city trappings that plague other communities. The Defense Fund receives donations from people who value protecting Ojai’s unique character. The fund is used for legal fees and related items…or simply to indicate a capability of doing so in the face of attempts to destroy the Valley.

Thumbing through Our Ojai excites me as I glimpse my work and that of more talented photographers. It’s similar to the feeling I get walking through a photo exhibit, attending a competition, or going to the monthly meeting of the Ojai photo club.

In all these venues I often silently compare my imagined work to the real work of others. I find that I am critical of some of the work, and then remind myself that at least my peers are working at it, contributing and learning. I soak up ideas and wonder, “Why didn’t I think of that.” I mentally pledge to, “Get back into it.” But at a deeper level, I fear that this apogee and nadir has happened before, and is likely to repeat itself.

Like the moon landing, maybe I need to take one small step at a time. Do it daily (except when I don’t want to) and give myself a passing grade whenever I just make the attempt. Sort of like my college mandatory weight-lifting class; I passed the course with a half-point to spare because I got that much just for trying a lift. I’m certain I became a CPA because, in large part, the partners liked my pecs.

Along the way I’ve given up heavy SLRs because I tire of carrying them; I’ve replaced it with a much lighter mirrorless camera. I’m taking more photos with my tiny iPhone and have begun a course on making the most of it. Jackie encourages me daily.

A breakthrough occurred because of Covid during which I took a series of photos of masked people, and shop windows bearing ominous virus warnings. But that was weeks ago. Since then, nothing.

Maybe the UPS guy will bring me a motivation-filled package…or another natural disaster.

…and while we’re waiting, you might like to see more of the Our Ojai book by visiting this web page…

Our Ojai – 12" x 12" Hardcover

Photographic Doldrums

My first camera was a Kodak Brownie. Introduced in 1900 and still available as a curiosity on eBay and at swap meets, it’s one of the few things older than me.

Its original list price was a dollar. My dad got me one when I was about twelve at the budget busting price of about ten dollars. Fond of bringing me used toys on Hanukkah, I think the camera may have had a prior owner.

A basic cardboard or plastic box with a handle on top, it had a viewfinder that you held up to your eye and a single fixed focal length lens that didn’t zoom. You were stuck with an unalterable lens opening and a fixed focus. The camera lens blinked in a fiftieth of a second, making it almost impossible to photograph anything that moved, including my usually stationary Uncle Max.

Using a roll of 120 film, you could take sixteen photos before you had to rewind the film, remove it from the camera and insert a new roll. I remember being very selective before popping off a shot in order to conserve the precious film and avoid the developing charges at the local photo shop. It was a far cry from today’s digital disks that have a nearly unlimited capacity that invites haphazard shooting in the hope that one will be a keeper.

In the early sixties, the next phase of my hobby included a Canon F1 single lens reflex camera. A good deal more expensive than the old Brownie, it was still a film camera capable of thirty-six exposures using interchangeable lenses, variable shutter speeds and adjustable apertures. My friend Harry opted for a Nikon camera and we soon became embroiled in extensive comparisons of the virtues of Canon versus Nikon. In retrospect, the quality of our photos had little if anything to do with our equipment.

A darkroom entered my life with its red safelight, bulky Durst enlarger, pans of chemicals and my perpetually stained fingers. I became relatively adept at developing film and producing black and white prints. I bulk loaded my own film rolls that became a badge of excellence in conversations with friends. I doubt that I saved much money, but I never ran out of film. The darkroom also offered a quiet, unassailable fortress where I warned my kids of the dire consequences of entering it and exposing daddy’s stuff to the perils of white light.

I entered the digital age years ago and quickly discarded the darkroom. I became conversant with the advances in the new technology, megapixels and ISO ratings. I purchased the next generation camera when it became available. Owning several Canon digital SLRs, I traded time in the darkroom for a seat in front of my computer monitor, editing my masterpieces with the latest version of Photoshop. Time moved rapidly and my sweetheart, Ila, often had to drag me kicking and screaming into the real world.

My passion extended to taking hundreds of photos of my kids. I’d often pose Nancy, David and Steven and, instead of requiring the traditional “say cheese”, I’d substitute “say gonorrhea.” It always resulted in blank stares from passersby and a smile on the kids’ faces.

Throughout the years, I regularly took photos. I’d occasionally take short breaks but always returned to my avocation. My photos were well received, and I’d often be asked to shoot an event for some of the non-profits in our town. My images are currently available for viewing in several locations. I thrived on the recognition.

A change occurred when Ila became ill. My zeal waned as her condition worsened. In her last years, I backed away from photography. My cameras began to age along with me. I tried to overcome my lethargy by keeping a camera in the car. By taking it on walks as though it were a dog. Snapping only a few shots, they soon became resident in rarely visited file folders on my computer’s hard drive. I gave away my large format photo printer that had been a constant companion. I don’t keep my camera batteries charged nor do I clean my camera lenses. My visits to photo websites are infrequent. As I tried to regain my former self, I’d seek out photo workshops on the web but never complete the enrollment process.

I renewed my membership in the local photo club in order to gain incentive from exposure to others. But I found myself unable to submit images for critiquing. I took little pleasure in seeing others show their very credible work. I was envious but unable to participate. I’d be depressed at the close of the usual monthly meeting, yearning for what seemed unattainable.

Jackie’s encouragement is boundless. She urges me to re-enter my once adored milieu. She seeks out opportunities for me, but I leave them languishing. I promise myself to do better, but nothing happens. I try to think of subject matter, something with long term viability, but I draw a blank. I fall back on other things to fill my time.

Maybe it’s a phase. Something that will end. Before I do.

Coffee with Norm

I hadn’t seen Norm in almost two years. And then on Wednesday I bumped into him in the dairy aisle at Vons.

I had to look twice to be sure it was him. Older and grayer, he carried himself with a bit of a stoop and a little shuffle in his gait. Always kind-hearted and sensitive, his somewhat older persona fit his indelible character.

We had once been very active in the Ojai photography milieu but both of us had mostly abandoned that activity for reasons that could not be clearly enunciated by either of us. Norm had a creative streak that produced some clever and cutting-edge photos. He was one of the first to create photos without the benefit of a camera. This novel idea led to a discussion some ten years ago about whether his artwork was truly a “photo” that met the requirements for submission to the annual Ojai Art Center photo contest. It did, and it won.

Norm was kind enough to send me an email the day after our Von’s tryst that told me how much he enjoyed our brief conversation surrounded by the milk, butter and sour cream. I wrote back and, with some hesitancy, asked him if he’d like to have a cup of coffee. I knew that the death of his wife, Phyllis, nearly three years ago coincided with his withdrawal from the art scene and I wondered if he might not respond to my invitation. But he did, quickly, and we settled on Java and Joe at nine o’clock two days later.

I was already sipping my usual dark roast coffee with Splenda and cream when Norm arrived, right on time. No surprise, since he was always punctual. A lot like me, Norm did not crave the center of attention and tended to cede the podium to those more verbose than he. I hoped we’d have enough to talk about before my coffee cup was empty.

I felt a bit awkward when I told him of my engagement to Jackie. Due to what seemed a reclusive demeanor, I had assumed that Norm had not fully recovered from the death of his wife, dear Phyllis. Also talented, she had been both a prolific artist and an art teacher. Conducting classes at the Art Center, she had a large following. Her illness had gradually robbed Phyllis of her ability to continue in her usual mode. So, she moved the classes to their home. Then, as she became frailer, she employed the computer and on-line instruction. Norm told me about the last year of her life when they would combine trips to Santa Barbara hospitals and doctors with lunch at favorite restaurants, walks on the beach and much conversation. It was a happy second honeymoon for them even though the outcome was ordained.

I need not have worried about Norm’s anticipated discomfort as I talked about “my Jackie.” For he had some time ago taken up with a woman in Camarillo. Introducing her to his family led to serious consideration of their relationship. However, it was not to be and their togetherness ended short of any more formal binding. Currently happy, it was like he had attended my bereavement group when he spoke of feeling guilty while enjoying himself when Phyllis could not.

We had a bit of an organ recital and lamented on those parts of our body that did not respond as quickly as they did years ago. About five years older than me, Norm had some physical setbacks but is able to work in his garden and be entertained by his children who show up regularly to check on him. He commented on my activities with “You seem to have a full schedule.” Funny, since I often don’t feel that way. Maybe it’s my lifelong need, sometimes a curse, to stay busy.

I looked up from our conversation and saw Jackie bounce into the coffee shop. Her appearance, complete with a certain impish demeanor, immediately brightened my day. Introducing her to Norm added to my enjoyment. Her hand lovingly rubbing my shoulder completed the unexpected treat. Jackie shared some words with Norm and, knowing the right time to depart, did so with an infectious smile. When she was gone, Norm looked at me and said, “She’s just like you described her, only more so.”

We spoke of photography and the increasing difficulty of aging muscles to bear the weight of the usual assortment of professional level camera equipment. Smart phones and their increasing ability to emulate the photos taken with traditional cameras occupied the next few minutes. Norm’s visits to hospitals and doctors with Phyllis had generated an interest in watching others as they sat in waiting rooms. Using his smart phone, he shared with me some of the photos he had taken of these kindred spirits. I remarked on both the unique concept and his ability to capture the moment that showed their pain, boredom or exhilaration. I was both enthralled and jealous of his art. But probably not enough to ignite my own juices.

Norm reminisced about the time we had once spent every June, hanging selected photos on the Art Center walls in anticipation of the annual show. He and I sometimes were a team, measuring, nailing, hanging and leveling the submissions. In the midst of our thoughts he said “I remember you and Ila sitting on the couch during a break. You held hands and sang together. The sight was something so warm that I wished we could have hung it on the wall. You seemed so happy.” I couldn’t remember the occasion, but he was so pumped about it that I didn’t want to break the spell. “Yes, we did that a lot.”, I said.

Like a lot of things that grow fuzzy with age, we tend to alter their true story in ways that satisfy a need, improve its reception by the listener, or we simply forget. Some stories are told so many times that they become real. I sometimes start them with the preface “I’ve told this story so many times that I’m not sure what’s real and what’s made up.” But it doesn’t matter, so long as I can tell it.

Time passed and the extended silence between our sentences signaled the end of our conversation. I asked Norm to call me if he wanted to do this again. Wondering if we would, we deposited our coffee cups in the trash and walked to our cars. At our age, tomorrow is a lifetime.

More than weeds

I don’t usually take candid photos. I’d rather focus on a project that’s several months in duration.

About ten years ago, Ila and I had the pleasure of producing a book called The Faces of Help of Ojai. With the cooperation of the Help staff, we chose about twenty people who volunteered there. Our objective was to take their photos, interview them and publish a book that had their pictures and their words. We hoped the book would tell the reader why people volunteer and would encourage them to follow in their footsteps.

We set up in a small room at Help and blocked out the light coming through the windows. Each subject seated themselves comfortably in front of artificial lighting. I snapped photos while Ila asked the volunteer a series of predetermined questions. We recorded the conversation and extracted a couple of paragraphs that became part of the volunteer’s book page along with a photo.

We published and distributed about five thousand copies of the thirty-page book. I still get a charge whenever it pops up unexpectedly and I remember how much Ila and I enjoyed working together on the project. I was especially pleased to see it displayed today at my bereavement group session. Sadly, many of the book’s featured volunteers have passed away.

Another project involved photographing oil wells. I used unusual angles and close-ups. I enhanced the faded colors of the rigs and emphasized their graininess. Ila was my sous-chef, carried some of my equipment and was welcome company. The project took about four months. When we finished, I took the portfolio to the Union Oil Museum in Santa Paula thinking they might like to exhibit some of them. The response from the museum administrator was “Why would we display pictures of oil wells?” Scratching my head, I went home, put a couple of photos on the wall and deemed the project completed.

About seven years ago I became fixated on the wild flowers that a perfect rainy season had brought to the area around our home in the Upper Ojai. The vistas were filled with plants whose names were a mystery to me. These plants and their flowers must be photographed and identified, I thought. Arming ourselves with a clipper and a bucket of water, Ila and I spent the next few weeks collecting samples of the best they had to offer. Placed in the bucket, Ila nurtured them as though a bouquet of the finest roses.

Each of the plants was quite small, about a foot high. Its blossoms no larger than a quarter. I used a very small vise to stand the plant erect. A black background was placed behind the plant. Using a macro lens, I photographed about thirty of the tiny plants from about eighteen inches away. The plants in the photos could have easily been assumed to be much larger than reality.

We printed the photos as large as my printer would allow. The resulting fourteen by twenty-one-inch prints revealed the intricacies of the stalk, the leaves and, most of all, the flowers. Veins in the leaves were easily distinguishable, much like the avenues though which our blood flows. Tiny hairs on the stalks reminded me of the hair on the back of my neck. Flowers revealed the uniform structures that supported them. Lacy filaments cascaded throughout. The colors were vibrant.

And all the while I thought of these little beauties as weeds. Interlopers that would normally be viewed as pests in an otherwise manicured landscape or garden. So that’s what we called our collection…Weeds. I posted them on my website, produced brochures that we sent to friends and framed a few.

Years passed and the Weed collection remained dormant. I went on to other things, but continued to wonder what would happen to Weeds. Just another project that absorbed part of my life seemed too little. Yet I did little to promote its resurrection. Ila passed away. So, it seemed, had Weeds.

My friend, Barbara, had been working on developing a collection of art for the new Community Memorial Hospital in Ventura. Devoting over six years to the project, she and her committee had accumulated more than six hundred pieces that would grace the rooms and corridors of the new facility. Barbara had seen Weeds and asked if I wanted to see them on the hospital walls. Would I? It was the opportunity I had been looking for.

The new emergency department has twenty-five examining rooms. I had twenty-five weed photos. A match made in heaven. I printed the photos and Barbara had them framed. They were hung.

A week ago, the new hospital opened its arms and invited the public to see the six hundred pieces now housed permanently on its walls. Jackie and I got there an hour after the affair began. We listened to some speeches and, when the formalities were completed, we went directly to the emergency department. Greeted by a security officer, we were told that the department was closed for the evening.

Closed? After seven years was I to be denied entry? Would I need to be injured or ill to visit the emergency department to see Weeds? Mercifully, my guardian angel appeared in the form of Haady Lashkari, the administrator of the Ojai Valley Community Hospital. With just a little bit of sugar delivered by Jackie, he graciously interceded with security and we were admitted to the emergency department for a guided tour. The framed photos were there, reminding me of the winding path we had taken to get here. I thought of all the patients who might be comforted by the photos.

Ila would have been pleased.

She is Woman

When I was a young man I took a photography course at UCLA. Part of that adventure involved the hiring of three lovely women who agreed to pose for us in the all-together. Stay with me, it gets better.

One of my classmates had a large home and an empty swimming pool that was then being decorated with a rather gaudy mural. Although other parts of his garden beckoned us, the pool became the favorite spot to photograph the models. A dozen of us, intent on producing lovely images of the young women, crowded into the pool and shoved each other out-of-the-way as we all tried to get the best view.

It was too early in the Earth’s history for digital cameras to be even a glimmer in one’s imagination. Kodak still ruled the day and we had what we thought was an ample supply of rolls of Ektachrome, Kodachrome and Verichrome each with a whopping thirty-six exposure payload.

We weren’t twenty minutes into the shoot when I had run through all six of my rolls of film. I was desperate to remain an active shooter rather than a voyeur. So I reloaded one of my spent film spools and proceeded to double expose the entire roll.

When I got home and developed the film, I was shocked by the crude photographs. More like stag film outtakes than elegant female figures, they screamed profanities at me. Visions of being the next Edward Weston, Alfred Stieglitz or Man Ray went up in smoke…until I looked at the double-exposed film. Beautiful I thought. Perfectly composed. Female figures intertwined in loving repose. Not a hint of crudeness. Really lovely. And then I stopped and realized that this was nothing but an accident caused by poor planning, a rush to judgment, and then maniacally executed without any real thought.

Could I do it again? Maybe, but we’ll never know for I have let the years pass without attempting a repeat performance. As evidence of my prowess with the camera, one of those double-exposed photos taken on that sunny day in the Hollywood Hills was good enough to be hung in a UCLA hallway where, some weeks later, it was stolen by some unknown admirer. Rather than being upset, I felt honored.

My appreciation of the difficulty in properly photographing the female body went up several notches after my experience in that empty swimming pool. Posing, lighting and the demeanor of both the photographer and the model are critical to the success of the adventure.

But something else stuck in my mind that day and since. The beauty of the female body and its transfer to either photographic paper, a painter’s canvas or a sculptor’s bronze is a gift that should not be wasted. And if one is not proficient enough to execute any of those art forms, the human eye is another option. One that I have made full use of as I approach my eightieth decade.

I find myself continually drawn to the beauty encapsulated in every woman. Looking but not leering. Appreciating but not lusting. Well, maybe a little.

I’m fortunate. The woman dear to me is lovely. Body proportions designed to complement each other. Petite but not tiny. A derriere that leaves you hoping it does not pass too quickly. Breasts that demand a second look. Legs that reach to heaven and beyond. And lips that say “kiss me…again.”

And she knows it. Her mind is constantly at work, planning and enticing. I sometimes think I’ve been drugged. So blissful that I want to remain in that state of euphoria forever. Reveling in her presence and sharing her essence. For she is truly woman, doubly exposed and beautiful.