Sometime in the mid 80s I drove out to the legendary Doc Watson’s home in western NC to photograph him for a state pub. Blind from eye infection before his second birthday, he later bought his first $10 Stella guitar with money saved from chores with his brother. In the kitchen on the morning I showed up, he offered coffee, pulled out a cup and poured the dark brew to the very top of cup, stopping perfectly before it would spill over the top. He smiled as he slid it across the counter to me. “Know how I did that?” he asked, feeling the question on my face. “I can hear it,” he offered. “I can hear it reach the top.” He won Grammy’s, played with the best and his music festival still draws tens of thousands - except this year. He might have been blind, but he could hear all right. All the good notes.
(These were originally 35mm Kodachrome transparencies we scanned and converted.)
Looking
Luna, #02
when luck wins
When great light and generous color and a creature of most elegant design come together, it can be beautiful to behold. I walked out of the studio late one night last week and beneath the outdoor light a luna moth sat. It was huge and beautiful and rare to see. Their populations have dimminished over the years and the moths themselves only live a week. A week to reproduce and die with flare. With nearly a 5-inch wingspan, their size is show stopping. To see something truly stunning could be called religious, though I’d hate to hurt feelings. I paced the studio for a few minutes, found an appropriate container, and gathered luna up. I rationalized, for sure he was later part of his week and in a sense would be donating his completeness to my incomplete science. I stored him in the fridge and took him to the shore, the studio in the bedroom upstairs. Sure enough the light showed up. Now luna gets to show off.
A boy and a man and a pick-up truck
I don’t remember a thing about this photograph, except that I shot it when I worked for the Raleigh New & Observer in the 80s. Not part of an assignment I’m sure, but likely some grab shot when I was grabbing anything and everything trying to figure out if I was gonna be good at this work. I found the print in the attic recently while cleaning out old stuff, throwing things away. What I like about this shot is that I still like this shot. After 30 some years. Maybe more so now. Now that my vision has cleared a bit. Creative people are tough on themselves, and I’m no different. Was that story any good? Are my paintings important? Is this photograph worth a damn? It is the punishment added to the struggle to be better, that we always question. So there was something joyful about seeing a photo I hadn’t seen in years, and thinking to myself - that’s a nice image - glad You kept at it.
A lesson in turning around
When I was a newspaper shooter years back I was sent out to cover a motor cross event one weekend somewhere in Wake County (NC). Kids on hyped up scooters jumping moguls and trying to speed their way around a course carved out of a spit of land that used to be a farm. I’m sure I got what I was asked, the action shots and sliding wipe outs, but my favorite image came when I looked away, turned around and saw this mom. Folding chairs, a pickup, great sunglasses and an umbrella through her legs. It’s always about showing up, but it’s also about looking around.
toy truck, mine.
toy truck, circa 1962 (still life series, the things we keep)
I don’t know why I still have this, though the short answer is I’ve somehow failed to throw it away. I certainly haven’t carried it around since I was a kid for some sentimental reason. It was likely “regifted” along with other personal things when my mother sold her house - to move closer to her grandson - and redistributed boxes of her children’s stuff back to said children to have and to hold, to toss or keep. I kept this truck, set it on my desk, told my boy this was your dad’s toy. He was unmoved I’m sure. It was simple, rolled awkwardly with a couple of missing wheels, didn’t light up, or make great noise. I have no recollection of playing with it, or that it was even special to me as a child. But once I had one - a child - it brought a little joy just seeing it, knowing where it’d been. What had been an object of affection as a child now realized a second life in the last 20 years sitting on my desk. Just maybe, during this time, we can appreciate even embrace simple things that may not have much value but bring joy in the memories they conjure. Joy is a good thing to have around.
#21 | still life series
She stopped telling me her secrets and her dreams. Before I knew it, her dreams became her secrets.
And I was no longer a part of her dreams.
#23 | still life series
Tourists, Heidelberg Castle
Walker in Iceland
Magnolia Series, June 2019
The Light in the Bedroom
For much of my career I’ve shot in places that I’ve never returned. Foreign countries, unfamiliar streets - markets filled with activity and people - where countless visuals are there to be taken in or missed. Mostly, I have no opportunity to return and perhaps refine my gaze or interest. But here at the home on the shore, my bedroom becomes resplendent with light that filters through the old glass in these windows. I came to the shore often in the run up to the Hermitage show, to work on the edits and angst over the words that would open the book and ponder whether anyone would come. In the mornings I’d drink coffee and read in the bedroom to begin the day, later moving downstairs to the computer and bike rides, lunches outside. On sunny days, as the afternoon lengthens, the bedroom comes to life again. It’s as though the “studio” is opened. And at the foot of the bed, I work this canvas shooting still lifes of one sort or another. Strange and beautiful things I’ve kept or gathered. Playing with the arrangements, the focus or lack of - enjoying what comes to life. The light of course moves as the day heads to over, and I follow it’s path, rearranging whatever I’m shooting to the pools I’ve been given. And then it’s gone. A perfect party, finished. It’s different now as spring moves to summer. The big trees are leafing out and the light more mottled than the stripped down winter beams. Different certainly, still beautiful.
Remembering My Sister
THINGS WE KEEP: The old china plate, long separated from it’s set, lived for years as a saucer beneath a clay pot of summer geraniums on the porch of my sister’s house, having migrated with her from Richmond to Raleigh. When friends later came to divvy up her plants, it was left on the steps, it’s lovely earthen patina revealed. I wrapped it in newspaper and stuffed it in a box of other things I would haul away, careful not to disturb the evidence of its aging. If inanimate objects have a soul, and why not really, I imagined this plate thinking, why me?, placed in a box with other “special” things. I’ve asked myself that, later going through things I’ve kept. And all these boxed up items, sitting patiently wondering if maybe someday I’d come back to them and find purpose for them once again. “Shoot me, please....” they say. And eventually I do.
Something in the Water, Virginia Beach
Noelle, Beecroft & Bull Spring 2019
Holly pregnant
My Father's Wallet
Mom as she appeared in my father’s wallet circa 1972. There were 8 photographs of her in his wallet, all fabulous and pics of all four children (one of each). She turned 90 on April 1st, 2019, an April fool to no one. The best mom and the best friend to all who know her. No one has dealt with adversity with more strength and grace, always full of love and support. She remains a testament to the inspiration of a life well lived. Happy bday mom, so many love you, so lucky we all are.