Robb

SUMMER: JULY 2023

THE LEGEND OF THE TECUMSEH CURSE

In the spring of 1841, 9th President William Henry Harrison died. Elected in 1840, he was the first U.S. Chief Executive to perish in office. If his name doesn’t trigger any historic point of reference, it may be because he was only President for one month. What’s stranger still is that Harrison’s death triggered a bizarre 120-year period where all Presidents elected in a zero-year election died in office. Every single one of them.

Long before he became President, Harrison was Governor of the Indiana Territory. His duties included negotiating treaties with the Native American population. America wanted control of tribal lands, and not surprisingly, the Native Americans balked at Harrison’s paltry terms. One particular leader was a persistent thorn in Harrison’s side. His name was Tecumseh.

The two met and tempers flared. Harrison later led his army to Tecumseh’s village and destroyed it. A few years later, after Tecumseh was killed in battle, legend suggests that his brother- called “The Prophet”- put a hex on Harrison by honoring Tecumseh’s memory, and cursed all the Presidents who followed, elected in a zero year- which falls every two decades. The legend of the Tecumseh Curse was born.

Fast forward to 1860, the year Abraham Lincoln was elected 16th President. In his second term, Lincoln became the first President assassinated. If a curse was in play, Abe was the second victim.

In 1880, the next zero year, a Republican from Ohio named James Garfield became the 20th President. Like Harrison, he spent little time in office. Garfield was shot only four months after taking power. He died two months later.

Another twenty years passed, and another Ohio Republican, named William McKinley, became the 25th President. Re-elected in 1900, he went to Buffalo in 1901 and greeted a public crowd. Like Lincoln and Garfield before him, McKinley was assassinated at close range by a lone gunman. But similar to Garfield, McKinley’s gunshot wounds weren’t necessarily fatal. Nevertheless, he died nine days after being wounded.

1920 arrived and if anyone took notice of the creepy bad luck zero-year Presidents were having, Warren G. Harding wasn’t one of them. Sworn into office as the 29th U.S. President, Harding was yet another Republican from Ohio. He survived until the summer of ’23 when he died in San Francisco under mysterious circumstances. His wife, the First Lady, forbid an autopsy and Harding was embalmed within an hour of death.

Eighty years had passed since Harrison died, and all four men elected in a zero year never retired from the White House alive.

Franklin Roosevelt started his presidency in 1933- a full seven years before the dangerous election of 1940. But Roosevelt did something no other President had done before- or since- he was elected four times. Re-elected for the third time in 1940, his last victory was in 1944. FDR died from a stroke in 1945.

In 1960, virile and handsome John F. Kennedy took the reins as the 35th President. He was the youngest man ever elected to high office, and the odds of him dying while President were seemingly low. But Lee Harvey Oswald shot and killed Kennedy in Dallas on November 22nd, 1963.

No man seemed immune to the zero-year curse.

Ronald Reagan became the oldest man ever elected President in 1980. Just two months after taking office, Reagan came face-to-face with destiny when he was shot and seriously wounded outside a Washington hotel. But Reagan did something remarkable- he survived. Did he break the curse? Or were the powers of the evil spell waning?

Enter George W. Bush to the presidency in 2000. Like Kennedy, Bush was young and thoughts of his demise were never on the public’s mind. Still, Bush had his own brush with death in Soviet Georgia in 2005 when a man threw a hand grenade at the podium while Bush was giving a speech. A handkerchief wrapped around the device prevented the detonating pin from release and the bomb fell harmlessly near the stage. Luckily, Bush and all in the crowd were unhurt.

Perhaps George W. Bush was the man who finally killed off the sinister power of the mythical Tecumseh Curse, ending a strange saga in American history.

AUGUST 2023

ICM ADDS ARTISTRY TO ONCE STILL IMAGES

When shooting long exposures, one of the first rules learned in photography is to use a sturdy tripod. Once a camera is anchored to the three-legged contraption, a photographer can create images lasting seconds to hours, all while keeping subjects sharp and in focus. A wise practice in most shooting situations.

But there are exceptions to every rule and the Intentional Camera Movement technique is a wonderful device to deviate from the standard sharp-focus mindset. ICM is a creative way to take images to another realm. A place where still photography meets impressionism, where experimentation breeds unimagined results. Shooting digital images, it’s simple to try a particular movement, like panning up and down as you handhold the camera for longer exposures, and then sample your results. The image above was exposed for one second, with a downward movement following the path of the exploding fireworks.

For most images, it helps to have graphic lines and elements incorporated in your scene- like trees, buildings, or sources of light. Try holding the camera steady on these features for a brief part of the exposure and then you can move freely in any direction you choose.

Another technical aspect to control while shooting is the camera’s ISO setting. In order to get the necessary long exposure times measuring in whole seconds (especially in daylight conditions) it’s advisable to set the ISO to a low number like 100. One more option is to zoom in or out with a lens to create a different type of movement. Finally, I typically overexpose images to achieve a more ethereal feel.

One important point to remember with this technique- there are no rules and so no right or wrong way to achieve results. Shoot what satisfies you and take lots of pictures- sometimes an image on your camera’s viewfinder may not look entrancing, but that could change later when you fiddle with the crop, colors, or contrast of an image.

Shown below are a few samples of my work, along with corresponding shutter speeds and motions I executed while taking each view.

SPRING: APRIL 2023

Blog Posts / By Robb

MASTERING RESPECT

Competition teaches us many valuable lessons, both as individuals and team players. But sports are also a window into the soul of our society, showcasing qualities we choose to celebrate.

Take for example the game of golf. The sport has always been driven by an elevated code of ethics- honor and integrity more important than club-head speed or putting ability. Golfers routinely penalize themselves for breaking rules, even for an accidental offense. Imagine a baseball player correcting an umpire over a call in his favor, or a football wide receiver fessing up to a referee that he didn’t get both feet properly in bounds.

Perhaps that’s why golf, more than any other competitive sport, is held as a gold standard for honesty and fair play.

Within the world of professional golf, there is an event that personifies these lofty ideals, and it continuously pushes to attain even higher standards. The Masters tournament is an annual April competition held in Augusta, Georgia. This event is not only the epitome of major championship golf but it’s also the finest sporting event played on earth.

The beauty of the golf course, built in the 1930’s on an undulating property once home to a botanical nursery, is a logical reason why so many cherish The Masters. Blossoming azaleas and dogwoods color Augusta National’s grounds amid towering pine trees and lush fairways. Even for people who don’t play golf, the scene is an inspiring sight of horticultural wonder. Once seen in person, the enchanted heart will forever recognize the place as the symbolic Eden of springtime.

Despite natural platitudes, the lovely grounds are not The Masters best feature. It is the traditions forged there that have elevated this tournament to a status unrivaled by any other athletic contest.

Many of those traditions are known around the world. The Green Jacket is awarded to The Masters winner, ceremoniously slipped on their shoulders by the prior year’s champion. A Masters badge, worn with pride by the patrons (the event’s spectators) is passed down within families like a priceless heirloom.

On Wednesday afternoon, a day before official play begins, contestants and former champs play a festive Par-3 contest, with their wives, children, or grandchildren caddying. For hungry patrons walking the course a selection of southern fare is served, including delectable pimento cheese sandwiches sold at prices reminiscent of the 1980’s. All these wonderful customs make The Masters memorable, but there is a special tradition that separates this event from all others: respect for elders.

Golf has always been a lifelong sport. A golfer’s first tee shot can occur in toddler years, the last one well into a player’s 80s, or even 90s. Augusta National Golf Club has chosen to remember the latter.

When a player wins The Masters they are immediately enshrined into an exclusive, green-jacketed club. The first perk: an invitation to play the tournament for life. This is an incredible benefit since the rest of the field must qualify by winning other events or earning a high world ranking. To the delight of the golfing world, legends like Jack Nicklaus (a six-time Masters winner), Gary Player, and Tom Watson, return to Augusta year after year; long after their competitive skills have left them. None of those three golfing icons (average age: 81) play in The Masters any longer, but they serve as honorary starters. Other past champions gently fade into Masters lore when they’re no longer capable walking the hilly 18 holes, or they retire from competition to allow younger players a chance to compete.

Past winners are also feted at a grand Champions Dinner each year, with the elders holding court telling stories and passing tips to younger members who dream of another title. When those winners meet to break bread, two-time Masters champ Ben Crenshaw, known among his peers as a distinguished golf historian, serves as honorary host. The prior year’s champion selects the menu- and surprisingly picks up the entire dinner tab.

This year, 2022 winner Scottie Scheffler served ribeye steaks and Texas redfish. On several prior occasions foreign winners rumbled stomachs when they served delicacies from their home turf. In 1989, Scotsman Sandy Lyle chose Haggis as his main course, a dish made from minced Sheep organs. Lyle wore a kilt that evening to celebrate his heritage and some members still shudder at memories of his Scottish meal.

Before competition begins on Thursdays, the elder statemen of golf are sought by younger players for tips on course management. Local knowledge is paramount at Augusta, and no one knows more Masters secrets than a seasoned pro that played the course for thirty or forty years.

Spectators also soak up the nostalgia generated by these ex-champions, despite their expanding waistlines and thinning gray hair. Age isn’t a disability at The Masters, it’s a jacket worn with pride. The deference shown to these former heroes is a beacon to a youth-oriented world that often forgets the relevance of its elder citizens.

The Masters Tournament is not perfect (they’ve finally admitted women as members of the formerly all-male club), but their leadership has striven in recent years to be more inclusive. Masters’ officials now invite golfing champions from Asia and Latin America to compete. They have also created the Augusta National Women’s Amateur tournament to foster greater female interest in their sport. A Drive/Chip/Putt competition for children was started (the finals are played on the Augusta National course) to inspire future generations of golfers.

When one of those talented youngsters ultimately enters a future Masters’ field, rest assured a group of polite golfing elders will be waiting with advice, good cheer, and a gleam in their eye. Their wisdom and maturity will forever be respected at The Masters.

MAY 2023

A MEMORABLE DAY, 1993

I departed for a road trip on a foggy Friday morning in May, thirty years ago. After a three-hour drive, I arrived atop Fort Mountain, a landmark in northern Georgia known for an ancient and mysterious rock wall. Legend said the structure was built by Native Americans and had spiritual qualities. The landscape at that sacred site was rugged and remote.

I was in the infancy of my photographic career and looked forward to using my new Pentax 6×7 camera that day. It was my first foray into medium-format photography. My new camera body was massive- heavy and boxy with a wide-angle lens attached that possessed a glass surface the size of a small coffee-table. I had stretched my start-up budget to purchase the $1200 camera and lens.

Slung over my shoulder was another new piece of gear: a borrowed tripod much larger than the one I owned. I needed its extra sturdiness so my new Pentax would have a stable platform to rest on. Unknown to me, my friend’s three-legged device had a lethal flaw.

As the morning progressed, I photographed a few views that pleased me, and I continued roaming along the crumbling rock wall. The trail was cut into the hillside, with the mountainside falling away to my right in a moderately pitched slope littered with lichen-covered stones. Among these speckled rocks I finally found a perfect spring scene. Enclosed by a group of sturdy hardwoods, an artistic collection of Catawba rhododendrons flowered in the alpine landscape. My working space was cramped, but I had sufficient room to set up the tripod. Brilliant pink-purple blooms colored the foreground of my new composition.

Standing in nature’s glory, I executed my normal pre-shot routine. The tripod was anchored in front of me. My Pentax was attached with a metal ‘quick release’ plate, which snapped onto the tripod’s head. A simple flick of the release lever freed the camera for an easy return to the bag. Normally, this was a safe and convenient system for securing and stabilizing heavy equipment, but this wasn’t a normal day.

As I bent down to retrieve a new roll of film (digital photography not yet invented), I saw a sight in my peripheral vision that made my hair stand on end. The tripod, with the camera still firmly attached, made a sudden lurch to the right. Unknown until that instant, one of the telescoping legs of my photo buddy’s tripod had a random tendency to collapse. In a slow-motion sequence I will always remember, the camera’s weight made the two working legs as useless as toothpicks and the whole contraption crashed into a neighboring oak tree. I made a desperate last-second grasp for the tripod but was too late.

The precise impact angle made a bad situation worse. As fate dictated, the first part of the tripod to strike the tree was the quick-release lever. This tripod feature worked to perfection. Like a jailbird on the run, my Pentax popped off the tripod and began rolling down the mountain at breakneck speed.

At first, I froze. Two or three seconds elapsed. Then the reality of my situation struck. My new expensive cameral was running away from me- I’d better start chasing it. I heard it rolling and crashing through a thick layer of leaves on the forest floor, but quickly lost sight of the Pentax. So I followed the terrible noise, which sounded more like a rambling bear than a black box filled with electronics. I ran as fast as possible down an incline riddled with mossy logs and pointed rocks but couldn’t keep pace. My camera was winning a wicked race.

As I ran, I remember thinking about that big beautiful wide-angle lens- knowing it was now worthless. But I still had a misguided hope that my camera body might be salvageable, so I kept up my pursuit. The trees grew thicker, and the slope became steeper as I chased. I was careful to watch for ankle-breaking obstacles.

Then, the crashing beast stopped. With no sound to guide me, I slowed and scanned the forest for my Pentax. I saw it with plenty of time to spare, but it was still unnerving when I realized why the noise had ceased. I arrived to the edge of a cliff. It wasn’t a thousand-foot drop, but an eighty-foot precipice, nonetheless. In the frantic haze of my wild chase the fog had lifted. Looking out from the clearing I saw distant mountain ridges with no sign of modern civilization. The only sound was the wind rustling overhead in the forest canopy.

In my first moments of shock and sorrow, I considered climbing down the cliff-face to find my dearly departed Pentax. But I came to my senses, realizing it would be a foolish idea. I was alone, with no one to spot me.

To add further insult, an enormous boulder field covered the landing area below, so my Pentax had plummeted to its death unto a pile of camera-crushing rocks. I scanned for several minutes for a glimpse of the hideous carnage, but I never saw that camera again.

The hike back to the car was agonizing, and to further sour my mood, it began to rain. I was numb and dreaded the drive home. The radio was turned on as a diversion, and I heard a DJ playfully warn his audience to “be careful out there today, you KNOW what day this is.” I hadn’t realized until that instant the date in May: Friday the 13th. I’m not a superstitious person, or a believer in curses, but at the time I felt my disaster was caused by an evil hex.

I went out the next week and bought a new Pentax- and a reliable tripod- an expense I could ill afford starting a new business. But with much gratitude, I successfully used that camera for many years before it was officially retired; intact.

Thirty years later, many other Friday the 13th’s have come and gone, thankfully without a return of that awful photographic bad luck.

JUNE 2023

SWIMMING UPSTREAM

You’ve talked about it for years. At first, your friends were encouraging. You want to write a book. Not just any book, but the great American novel.

To begin, you’ll need a catchy title. For a first stab at fiction, the name will need some heft with appropriate mystery attached. To Kill a Mockingbird and In Cold Blood are already taken. Your working title is: The Poisonous Mushrooms that Lurk in the Black Forest. Seems a tad long; it needs work. No worries, you have yet to write your first word. After five years have passed, your friends have stopped asking: “How’s the book coming?”

Every book needs iconic characters. Your male protagonist is a tall, quick-witted, handsome guy- despite an anvil-shaped mole above his right eyebrow. You’ve named him “Leonard Elmore” is homage to your favorite writer. You’ve already decided when the film is adapted from your novel George Clooney will play Leonard. It’s a no-brainer. The female love interest is a bit trickier. You think Meg Ryan would be perfect playing her during her Sleepless in Seattle phase, but before she had the affair with Russell Crowe.

You’ve struggled with the story’s setting. At first, Paris was selected- right after World War II. Too much of a cliche. Then, Berlin was chosen, but you know nothing about German fungi and traveling for research would be pricey. Finally, you settle on Toledo, Ohio.

Before a single word is put to paper, you’ll need a pen name. Your Slavic birthname, without a single vowel, doesn’t roll poetically off the tongue. You once met a real person named Steele Fortune. At first, you thought no one could possibly have a name that cool, but there he was. You will borrow that name and hope the real Steele has not written his own novel. Imagine the confusion on Amazon if two Steele’s are hawking books online.

With those years of prep work behind you, one last step remains before you begin slaving away at the typewriter. You know a a guy named Dalton Diggs. He’s a writer. A published author. He’s written three novels, four if you count the one he plagiarized. Dalton is ancient, probably eighty-five. He’s grown noticeably crabbier recently. But he has the creativity of a master novelist mixed with the practical knowledge of a publishing businessman. This book-whisperer lives only two blocks away.

Eight months later, he greets you in his foyer, which offers the scent of cat urine mixed with red cabbage.

“Good to see you Steele,” he says, being kind to use your new pen name. “I know we’ve talked about your itch to write, but I thought that ship had sailed.”

You’re impressed how he uses slick literary phrases so easily in everyday language. What a genius.

Dalton takes you into his study, crammed with paperbacks and feral cats. You sit in a worn leather chair next to a Siamese with only one eye. What Dalton says next is scarier than the cat’s uni-stare.

“Writing a book is not for the faint of heart,” he says, opening his monologue and a Snickers.

You say you have a strong ticker and encourage him to explain further.

“I compare the process to an almost impossible journey,” Dalton says. “Imagine the life of a Sockeye Salmon. Can you picture that fish in your brain, Steele?”

You start to describe a Steelhead Trout you once caught but he interrupts.

“The Sockeye Salmon is one of nature’s most cursed creatures. Ugly little buggers. Consider its story, at first from the safety of the vast ocean, where it lives most of its life. Floating around, hanging out with other salmon while avoiding the occasional shark or boat propeller. But then, like a writer, that salmon does something completely bonkers. It leaves those soothing waters to travel inland, up miles of river toward a sacred place, and every inch of its journey is upstream. That salmon has an instinct to spawn and create new life. If he knew the pitfalls of his coming trip, he’d surely never attempt it. But like an aspiring writer, he is utterly clueless about what he’s getting himself into.”

How so, you ask.

“First, he’ not swimming in some kiddie pool, but a raging river. The water flows with unbelievable aquatic force, pushing him backward with every wiggle of his streamlined body. The salmon exudes tremendous energy to fight that current. He struggles every second. There are Class-Five rapids along this river, Do you know how powerful those rapids can be?”

Dalton then answers his own question. “Well, let me tell you. Class-Fives have the ability to capsize a boat with a dozen full-size men inside. Then, once in the water, these guys face hydraulics which can hold a man, even one as fat as you Steele, underwater forever. Think about that. You don’t mess with Class-Fives, you understand?”

You stare wide-eyed and ask why the salmon doesn’t turn back or summon Uber.

Dalton points a bony finger. “Maybe it’s because he has incredible faith in his journey. He will create something special that will change the world.”

It’s just a dumb salmon, you say.

“That so-called dumbass has more guts than most men I know,” Dalton says. “Present company excluded. So, are you still with me, Steele?”

You nod your head yes. Dalton wiggles a sprig of catnip from his fingers and the one-eyed feline next to you bolts and curls on his lap. Then, the Siamese hisses in your general direction.

Dalton continues. “Those rapids are just the tip of the iceberg. Above him in the sky, Ospreys soar, staring down with amazing eyesight, looking for traces of movement in the water. When the salmon gets a short break from the churning water, that is when these birds strike. They dive like fighter jets, swooping in low with razor-sharp talons. With their hunting prowess, they pluck the clueless salmon from their watery domain. Can you imagine? One second, you’re swimming, the next, you’re clutched under a raptor’s belly, in sight of snow-capped mountains, and you’re gasping for breath. A fish doesn’t do well in the sky, Steele.”

You’re more of an Eagles fan- not the band or the football team, but the birds- but you nod agreement.

“Next thing he experiences,” Dalton says, “the salmon has a rude landing in a tree, into a nest with a bunch of hungry chicks. As a writer, consider this like your first one-star Goodreads book review, after your manuscript is published. A callous reviewer writes, for the entire world to see, stuff like: ‘I thought the characters were one-dimensional’. Peck. Then another says: ‘the book has really weak sentence structure.’ Peck-Peck. Then a third finishes their diatribe with: ‘The thin plot was so full of holes you could drive a truck through them.’ Peck-Peck-Peck. Like the bird that stole our hard-working salmon, these critics, who, for the record, don’t know diddly about writing, peck at you while you’re helpless. They feast on you. At least the salmon will die of this injustice, while the writer must somehow slog onward, forever damaged.”

You ask how many stars his last novel achieved, and Dalton changes the subject. The feline coughs up a hairball.

“For the salmon still swimming in that river,” Dalton says, “when momentarily safe from dive-bombing birds, other obstacles rush toward them. Far upstream, in the river’s headwaters, looms a massive glacier. Ice chunks calve off that gigantic ice monster, and they contain razor-sharp edges. Like a flotilla of daggers, these missiles rush downstream. Kind of similar to the avalanche of words that face every writer while creating his masterwork. Sometimes there may be a hundred thousand to wrestle with, sometimes more. How does the wordsmith juke and jive around the weak words bombarding his brain, while embracing the strong ones that also have the power to kill?”

You begin to understand this salmon has one scary journey.

“Then there are the bears, Steele. Grizzlies wait further upstream. They guard a small waterfall that the salmon must clear. The bears salivate and wait with open jaws. These beasts can weigh a ton and have massive heads. Grizzlies are good at playing catch. After they snag a flying fish, these bears don’t baste the salmon with pesto, add a squirt of lemon, and cook them gently at 350 degrees. No, they take their sharp claws and rip the flesh off the poor salmon while it’s still alive. They eat the creature raw, leaving its skeleton on a nearby rock, where marauding crows finish off the carcass by picking out the eyeballs with their beaks. It’s awful. Reminds me of signings at bookstores when readers act like vultures, tearing you to shreds for some perceived story flaw. Why don’t you just cut out my heart you gutless bastards and hold it aloft for the whole world to see?”

You ask Dalton if he needs a minute to compose himself, but he grunts and says he’s ok.

“If you survive the Ospreys and the bears, then there’s those damn fisherman,” Dalton says while opening a Milky Way. “They linger close to the salmon’s final destination. These so-called sportsmen stand in their waders and offer tantalizing lures, tricking fish into biting a sharp hook. But then, they sometimes do something even more despicable. After hooking the salmon, they size up the fish, and they often throw it back. Can you believe that Steele? Brings back a terrible memory from one day at the Bookorama. A man came in to return a volume- MY BOOK- and said he was looking for a better author. Said that slur right in front of two loyal fans who came to hear me speak. Never been more embarrassed in my life.”

Dalton tears up and you offer a tissue. You take one too as the salmon’s story starts to depress you.

Dalton straightens his posture and clears dripping snot from his lip. “So, at the end of that river, a few lucky salmon finally reach their Eden, a clear mountain lake where they will culminate their life’s work. It seems like a happy ending. He is one fortunate fish. But imagine its surprise when a state game warden wearing a goofy safari hat appears and snatches the salmon. The fish is taken in big tanker-truck to stock another stream, this one more dangerous than the first. This situation is similar to the writer who has written his first draft. He thinks his journey is complete, but he’s barely at the beginning. That salmon must swim upstream AGAIN, beating those horrible odds once more. And that, Steele, is the awful truth about writing a novel. Your work in NEVER DONE. Editing. Paper jams. Revisions. Fact-checking. Endless rejections. Dialogue. Point-of-View. More revisions. Stale coffee. Marketing. Beta Readers. Glamour shots. Lead poisoning.”

You tear up at the poetry of Dalton’s words and the realization of the task ahead of you. You ask Dalton why he writes. For a moment, he seems at a loss for words. Then he smiles.

“Oh, I gave up writing eons ago. Now, I create instructional YouTube videos telling aspiring writers how to complete their first novel. I’m a much bigger influencer as a coach than I ever was as a writer. Pays better too. You might want to rethink your goal, Steele. Writing the great American novel is a fantasy. Quit while you’re still sane. That’s my advice.”

“But I have this awesome pen name and a riveting tale about poison mushrooms,” you say. “I think the world needs my story.”

“Well, get busy then,” Dalton says with a smirk. “Books don’t write themselves. But with A.I., they soon will. Call me when you finish your first draft. Then I’ll help you find an agent, copyeditor, and a top-notch coffee-grinder. If you want to self-publish, I can recommend a reputable printer, a graphic designer, some focus groups, and most importantly, the number for my shrink.”

WINTER: JANUARY 2023

Blog Posts / By Robb

BEGINNINGS

At the age of ten, I won a trip to California. The politically incorrect contest was called Believe in a Boy, and was sponsored by a local grocery store chain. I had never been away from home, or flown on an airplane.

My excitement for that cross-country voyage was off the charts. With six other mouths to feed, my parents showed zero hesitation sending me off alone with the other contest winners and unknown chaperones.

My father worked in advertising and knew the value of images. He was a skilled photographer and showed me how to load film into my new Kodak Hawkeye Instamatic X, a small box camera. Square flashbulbs went on top. Dad gave me simple instructions for operating the contraption: “Go have fun and show us what you see on your trip.” No lessons on composition or a lecture on picking suitable subjects. Essentially, he told me to point and shoot, wonderful advice.

As I boarded the jetliner, I was too young to be nervous or scared. Luckily, I was assigned a window seat. The drive to Baltimore’s airport had been foggy with poor visibility, and when the plane took off, that dense vapor lingered.

As we ascended, the view out my oval window was a boring blank canvas, gray with specks of white. I figured that drab vista would hold for the entire flight. As a first-time flyer, I had no expectations for anything more.

Then later, like magic, the plane broke through the dense cloud cover and an azure sky was revealed. Tops of clouds resembling cotton balls floated below me like a dreamy blanket. I had never witnessed such a spectacular sight. Sunshine poured into my window. I pulled out the Kodak and clicked the shutter. The film lever was wound, and I took several more views.

I immediately broke a cardinal rule of photography: don’t shoot into the sun. I didn’t know any better and those resulting pictures, five miles high, were dotted with halos and lens flare. Still, they were spiritual and peaceful photographs- mimicking how I felt at the time.

I returned home with a story and pictures. In my immature brain I learned a valuable first lesson about travel. A single experience can change a life; that California trip changed mine. Sharing epic travel memories with others was a blast. An adventurer was born.

Fast forward fifty years, and I’m writing my first blog post. I admit I’m not a fan of social media or promoting myself online. Making connections in my personal and professional life was always done the old-fashioned way- a phone call- a letter, or in the best scenario, a face-to-face chat. Being an outgoing person, those types of interactions worked well for me.

During my thirty years as a professional photographer and writer I kept my circle small, with a faithful pod of long-term clients. So, I come from a world many younger people would not recognize: the realm of photo film and manual typewriters. It’s difficult to imagine a current planet without the wonders of digital cameras or laptops, but that is where my creative life began.

As a creature from that prehistoric era, I managed to hold on to those first lessons on my maiden flight. Three concepts have stuck with me and guided me throughout my adult life. Live simply. Act spiritually. Practice soulfulness. This trio leads me forward like the North Star. There was a time when I thought creativity was an avocation best pursued in solitude.

But now tapping into the infinite resources of kindred spirits around the world, I feel I can become a more complete citizen, writer, photographer, friend, and human. My intention is not to preach views of an artistic mindset, but to share ideas and concepts that might improve my existence, as well as others. I still have much to learn.

It will take all my resolve to avoid going off-topic as I write about creative musings. I’m curious about the world. My zest for knowledge has been a never-ending source of fun and adventure, but it would be a stretch to write about everything. I will strive to keep my posts in the vicinity of writing, photography, and travel. Related to that sacred trinity are my love of art, nature, history, food, and architecture. I have photographed and written about them all, and so those subjects will fit in this forum. A touch of humor will also be added when needed.

Thousands of blogs discuss which camera lens to buy, what editing software to use, or a step-by-step process to write a novel or screenplay. This will not be one of them. I will rarely mention brands I use to perform my work. For me, the end result is more important.

But I will respect all reader’s opinions, and hope to receive the same courtesy in return. I will focus on the experiences that can be found in an artistic life; a pursuit that is simple, spiritual, and soulful. I seek to learn from my fellow creatives and make new friends. I want to improve my work, be inspired by others, and maybe spread some joy and kindness along the path.

Like a ten-year-old boy on a first flight, I don’t know what happens next, but I’m certain it will be a journey worth taking.

FEBRUARY 2023

MAKING CHILI WHILE WRITING A FIRST DRAFT

You find it pleasing to cook for others, but you also like to eat yourself. Not in a cannibalistic way; you’re just omitting a comma.

A favorite culinary challenge is making chili. Before you begin, put the competitive cooking world out of mind. Somewhere, a reality show host wearing a bolo tie is telling a trio of nervous contestants: “We’re supplying you with three basic ingredients: garbanzo beans, chicken gizzards, and crushed almonds. You have free range with the spice rack. Now make chili. You have eighteen minutes. Go!”

It’s also wise to forget that outdoor chili cook-off you attended last summer. There, you dreamed of taking center-stage after the judging, and then basked in the glory of a grand-prize-winning entry. Don’t revisit the past. You’re only making a meal, not seeking a Pulitzer Prize.

Start with a favorite old pot. A red ceramic one is nice, stained with prior efforts colored into the porcelain. Gather your ingredients. Keep in mind these items will fluctuate with your mood. Sure, you’ll need some kind of meat; but your variety is kept secret from first-time diners- you don’t want to create a weird first impression about your chili’s essence. Dark red kidney beans are a staple. When you open those cans, the aroma might offend but don’t worry; they’ll fit in fine. Some form of tomatoes are required, sometimes crushed, other times diced. often both. The spice choices are wide open, but chili powder and red pepper flakes are trusty. Not much more is needed, remind yourself to keep it simple; you’re not Rachel Ray.

Mix your components joyfully. Your first essential task is to achieve the right thickness. Not too runny like soup, but not chunky like beef stew. You’ll know the proper viscosity instinctively after a hundred tries.

The first aroma wafting from the pot won’t impress, but you’re only getting started. Someone will inevitably waltz into the kitchen and ask a seemingly innocent question: “Chili tonight?” You will politely say no- not that evening. “But it smells yummy,” they’ll say, “Why can’t we eat it today?” Hold your ground; you are the chef; you pick the menu.

Don’t be in a hurry to bring your chili to a boil. Take the afternoon; you’ve got the whole day. What you’ve cooked in the past means nada. Be careful with the spices but don’t put them away too soon. Sample your masterpiece. You might think it too bland but will also worry about spicing it up too much for wimpy stomachs. Go slow; you’re in no rush. Let it simmer. Resist any urge to let your significant other taste it. Don’t allow anyone near your chili.

Wander around the house and listen to some music from your childhood. Marvel at how the instruments and voices blend to create that unique sound. Be inspired. Dance if no one is watching; then taste your evolving creation again. Ask yourself, am I feeling playful? Should I get out the nutmeg? Maybe not today, it is only day one.

Some days, the chili pot will sit on the stovetop for hours. Other days, you can’t be bothered babysitting it. That’s alright. Stir it when you feel motivated. The ingredients are already melding and working their magic. You’ll get distracted- you’re human. Don’t burn the chili; that is your sole concern.

The chili’s color will be comforting. Yours is the shade of a red-brick house in late afternoon sun. Kidney beans float peacefully like tiny canoes among blobs of cooked meat and melting tomatoes. Lose yourself in the ladle’s motion as it glides through steaming broth.

Later, turn off the burner. You’ve done enough for one day.

Ignore a temptation to taste your chili on last time as you place it in the fridge. Secure the lid and go about your life. You’ve probably created something extraordinary, but not sure if others will agree. Tomorrow is another day.

Feel free to pre-visualize your chili’s ultimate success as you snack on chips and guac. Whatever you do, don’t turn on the Food Network. Maybe sit and write a few new words for your novel’s first draft.

Perhaps you have a following that enjoys your cooking. Your chili often surprises them but retains a soothingly predictable base flavor. They want to know your secret. Invite your chili fan-club to dinner the next night. Don’t worry about displeasing them, even though you’ve risked your reputation with that pinch of nutmeg.

The next morning, stare at the chili pot as it sits on the second shelf next to leftover pork and sauerkraut. Don’t despair; that two-day-old German meal is securely stored in Tupperware and won’t contaminate your chili. It’s alright to take a cold taste of your first day’s work. It’s probably still undistinguished but heartier than yesterday. It always is. Bring the pot to a bubble in mid-afternoon and continue tinkering. Don’t go overboard; focus on spiciness and your flavor vision. Let the aroma drift around the house.

When dinnertime comes, pull out those rustic ceramic bowls an artist threw on his potter’s wheel. Retrieve the cloth napkins you brought back from Santa Fe for an added splash of southwest atmosphere. Some votive candles are an excellent accompaniment, and a bottle of red is always in order. Don’t expect your chili to be the lone star; make sure sour cream and shredded cheese are on hand.

As your diners arrive, don’t fight it- you’ll be nervous despite past praise. As foodies take their first bite, some of the more discriminating palates might taste your new spice. You serve more wine before you divulge your latest experiment. Your guests will be kind and offer accolades. You’ll secretly question their motivation for being so nice. You may also suspect you’ve gone too far with the red pepper, when water flows like wine.

In the end, it isn’t your chili that makes the meal memorable, but the fellowship and conversation it evokes. You discuss recipes and other topics, and one friend will admit he’s now lactose intolerant. There are plenty of leftovers, and most guests will take your chili home. You’re confident it will taste even better the next day. It always does.

Once everyone has gone, it’s time to clean up and envision your next batch. This wasn’t your perfect pot of chili, but more original than the last one. You dream the next version will be con carne nirvana, which you will share as the creative process begins anew. The first draft is only the beginning.

MARCH 2023

NOW YOU SEE IT

Back in photography’s infancy, circa 1860, a weird style emerged for images taken with the first crude cameras. The ghostly look was unmistakable; a thousand-yard stare in most human subject’s faces. The reason: film speeds were ultra-slow, sometimes as low as 6. This required people to sit or stand for long exposures while the photographer directed: “hold it, don’t blink, stay perfectly still.” At that time, the thought of shooting action of any sort- the Civil War a prime example- was unthinkable. Historical events were mostly recorded after they occurred.

A few years later, as technology advanced and cameras followed, there was still a symbiotic relationship between what a photographer and a camera could see. Human eyes could only observe a limited amount of detail in a fast-moving subject, which is still true today. A flash of lightning is seen as only a brief strobe of light, a jet zooming overhead a mere silhouette of shape and sound. At first, cameras recorded the same limited viewpoint. Then a photographer named Eadweard Muybridge changed the way we look at images.

During the 1870’s, a squabble surfaced about trotting racehorses. Some argued it was impossible for horses to run without at least one leg always being anchored to the ground. But others said it was likely all four legs left the earth simultaneously during a gallop- but they couldn’t prove it conclusively with the naked eye. The average camera exposure time for a single shutter release in that era: two seconds. The low-tech method to start and end that time period was removing, and then replacing, the lens cap. This primitive speed was too glacial to record stopped motion.

Enter Muybridge with his trusty camera. With its advanced mechanical shutter, Muybridge could photograph a horse in action and freeze its movement, thereby proving or disproving if an animal could run while all legs periodically floated in midair. In 1878, Muybridge’s ground-breaking images proved they could. The camera became a scientific tool capable of showing a world beyond what humans knew it to be.

The magic of an image’s frozen motion is still a powerful sight today. Muybridge captured those moving horses at about 1/1000th of a second, but today’s cameras go far beyond that capability. My Nikon has a max freeze-motion shutter speed of 1/8000th of a second, along with an absurd high-range ISO of 25600. This combination provides the capability to stop motion even in low light conditions, and I utilize them to hunt my favorite moving prey: birds.

Birds are a common sight, usually seen high above us and at a distance. As they flap their wings to stay airborne, they appear as a small blur of nervous energy. But if you arrest that action and zoom in closer, you’d see birds perform amazing feats with their wings, ones that would make a fighter pilot envious.

Like anything in nature, flying is a science-based phenomenon, and birds instinctively know all the aerodynamic moves that allow them to take off, gain flight, turn, glide, dive, or land. Some of these maneuvers are visible to average eyesight, but many are done in a such a sliver of time that the details are visible only through high-speed photography.

These moves are fascinating from a technical viewpoint, and also visually mesmerizing. The osprey pictured above illustrates this at 1/2500th of a second as it begins its dive to catch a fish. The bluebird shown below (at 1/2000th of a second) spreads its colorful wings as it ascends near a playful mate. Action you’d have trouble seeing with 20-20 vision, even aided by a pair of binoculars.

Birds in flight are normally going somewhere- they could be in the middle of a thousand-mile migration journey, but they also perform fast-paced local feats commonly viewed. They court, then mate- sometimes while flying. Birds quarrel. They often spar in midair dogfights- which conjures the question: why don’t fighter pilots call their deadly contests birdfights? Nature’s aviators play too, and some seemingly enjoy the simple act of soaring on a windy day.

For photographers and bird lovers, this gift of fast-action shutter speeds is an entry into an unknown world, hidden in plain sight. Recording a bird’s acrobatic moves, and then discovering them after the instant has passed, feels like a sacred peek into a bird’s life. It’s a moment we can never experience firsthand.

Birds show us the mysterious qualities of flight, with the freedom it allows, the wizardry of aerodynamics, and the beauty of a split-second frozen in time.