When One Door Closes, Another Opens.

The business of art is unlike anything else in the open market. Painters, ceramicists, photographers, glass workers, weavers, et.al., put a little of their soul or passion into their work. This right brain DNA is infused into every painting, pot or image, to the point that every piece is akin to the artist’s offspring. So when an artist gets his/her work into a gallery, is invited to a venue or a private showing, it’s a big deal, like being picked to be prom king or queen, and an incredible opportunity to “show off” your kids to the masses. The flip side of the coin is that one variable in life that we humans have never been able to openly embrace:  Change.

Gallery directors and owners change, either by moving on, or every so often the theme of the gallery will alter. Venues come and venues go, sometimes the latter includes the artist’s work vanishing with the gallery. There are also times when the artists decide to change things up, by introducing a new line of work, or removing art from venues that don’t perform.

Artists, being the creative types that we are, don’t like change. Especially when we are not the instigators. I oftentimes chat with fellow brethren who have just lost gallery representation, or a long-time venue has shut down. Usually, they’re in a panic, wondering how they’ll find another place to show their work, or what they can do to supplement their income. The one thing I always share with them is something my father told me many years (or tears, depending on the circumstance) ago, “When one door closes, another usually opens.”

I just experienced this sort of thing a few weeks ago: I had sprained a tendon in my hand (Becoming a Lefty in a Righty World), and after splinting/wrapping the hand, the orthopedist laid down the law – no lifting anything over three pounds, unless you want Russian Roulette with permanent nerve damage. Do you have any idea how much stuff weight more than three pounds? A heck of a lot!

That weekend, I was scheduled to participate in an art fair, and my orthopedist had me quickly realize that loading or un-loading my Toyota – or even setting up my display – was out of the question. As soon as I got back into my truck, I called the Pit Boss of the group, and let them know that I wouldn’t be there – doctor’s orders. That Sunday, with hand submerged in a bowl of ice, I got the call of, “You didn’t show up. You’re out.”

It took me about a week to go through the Kübler-Ross’ Five Stages of Grief (denial, anger, depression, bargaining and acceptance). My dad called, just as I entered stage five. I filled him in on what had transpired, and his words of wisdom rolled forth: “You know, when one door closes, another door opens.” I chuckled that those were the same words of advice I gave to friends when they were in my current situation, though I never thought I’d find myself there again.

“That’s the miracle of change,” he noted.

“Yes,” I agreed. “But the key is to embrace it, and come out better on the other side.”

“I know you,” he said laughing, “You’ll never back down from a challenge, and I wouldn’t be surprised if more than one door opens for you.”

As if on cue, a door opened the following day. Actually, it was several doors, over several days, but the cumulative effect was about the size of a Hoover Dam Jet Flow Gate in full-flow mode. While I now have double the work compared to what I was putting into the departed venue (be careful what you wish for), we’re already seeing five-times the results, with massive potential for growth.

Now, where do I find a prop for this door this big…?

Becoming a Lefty in a Righty World.

So there I was, sitting on the examination table in the orthopedist office, the doctor manipulating my right hand and digits. He asks, “Does it hurt when I put pressure here?” A “yeow” escapes from my lips a nanosecond later. A few days earlier, I had been in the process of loading my truck for a weekend show, when I felt a “snap” in the palm of my hand, followed by a searing pain that registered somewhere near child birth or licking a high tension power line.

The doc looks at the images of my hand’s inner working and says, “It looks like you’ve sprained a tendon that runs down your finger and into your hand. We’re going to have to immobilize this for a while. No mousing or texting.” Reaching for a brace and tape, he adds, “… And you shouldn’t lift anything heavy for another week or so.”

“So, what exactly do you mean by heavy,” I asked.

“Nothing over three pounds,” he replied.

My mind immediately went into gear, trying to come up with household items that were about that weight. My doctor, recognizing my next obvious question, noted, “Nothing heavier than a half-gallon of milk.”

With my mental melon skipping directly to top gear, and creating a no-no list, I started sweating, as I entered freak-out mode: I couldn’t hold a camera, let alone with a lens attached; stretching canvas orders were out of the question; and forget about lifting any of my larger display pieces or pint bins at a show. Plus, I’m right dominant – my left hand has only known supporting roles. How the heck was I supposed to brush my teeth?

Driving back from the medial center, my hand bound like a zip-tied burrito, I called my wife (yes, using a hands-free Bluetooth device), who was away on business. “So, what’s the news?” Her voice crackled over the speaker. As I filled her in on the prognosis, I could hear her chuckling.

“What’s so funny?” I inquired.

“I get to turn you into a lefty!” She laughed. “Now you get to feel my pain.”

If you haven’t guessed, she’s a lefty, and a Virgo, so I knew I was screwed. I was going to have to start living lefty in a righty world. It’s a process, and it isn’t easy. Besides writing like a cave man and eating like I did some 44 years ago (thank goodness for sippy cups and splat mats), I’ve reset my Wacom tablet for left-handed function, typing with one hand is a tedious process, and I’ve gotten really good at running a straight line of ATG tape when mounting prints.

The downer is taking pictures. With about 10% of the world’s population being left-handed, there are no factory-made, left-handed DSLR cameras in production. However, there are several third party adapters (essentially allowing you to hold the camera upside-down with the left hand) available, but nothing that replicates a common DSLR, right-hand grip.

Thank goodness for tripods and cable releases.

So while hand-holding my cameras is truly a pain, my trusty Gitzo tripod replaces my right hand, while the left does double duty making adjustments and triggering the shutter. The adjustment isn’t easy, but it’s a challenge I’ve embraced. So for all the years I’ve watched lefty’s struggle with righty scissors, cameras and un-ergonomic can openers, I feel your pain. Literally.

Fire on the Water

I felt like I’d been hiking for days, although according to my watch, it had only been 40-minutes and the sun wasn’t due to rise for another hour and change. Off in the distance, you could see the glow of our destination: The Kupapa’u ocean entry, where molten lava from Kilauea exits lava tubes, slowly enlarging the Big Island of Hawai’i.

It had been nearly seven years since I had trekked out across the flow from the Pu’u O’o vent – GPS in hand – to get up close and personal with Madam Pele’s molten creation. At the time, it was a four-plus-mile trek to the official viewing area, plus another mile and change to get to the lava entry… after sneaking past Mr. Ranger.

Make no mistake, fresh flowing lava is mesmerizing, but it’s also extremely hot (as in over 1,100-degrees F) and dangerous to boot: On that trip, I came across a skylight – basically a crack in the lava tube where you can see the lava flowing. I walked up as close as I dared (about 10-feet) and shot away, unaware that lava, due to its viscosity, flows in waves. Soon enough, portions of the ground beneath me started to glow, and it got very hot very fast. It was Pele’s way of giving me a hot foot.

This trip was a whole different ball game. Hooking up with Bruce Omori and Tom Kuali’i, owners of Extreme Exposure (an incredible lava-centric gallery in Hilo), and a couple of the coolest guys on the planet, we hiked out from the back side – Kalapana – to shoot the lava entering the ocean and a couple of breakouts a bit inland.

Bruce and Tom can best be described as lava junkies. Their passion for the molten earth flows as hot as yellow/orange-hot stuff flows in a well-insulated lava tube. And they’re pretty much out on a weekly basis. Tom knows the route so well; he never even consulted his GPS unit.

Getting to the lava entry point well before sunrise, we had lots of time to find the best (and safest) shooting location on the bench, allowing me to setup my Canon 5D MARK III for shooting a time lapse with a 24-105mm lens, and the 7D with my Sigma 70-200mm lens mounted in the gimbal slot of my Acratech GV2 ballhead for detail shots. We spent the next two hours listening to the hiss and watching the explosions, as ocean waves clashed with the temperature differential of the lava. Cameras clicked away as rivers of lava made their way towards the sea, the top layer crusting over, then tearing away as the flow fell over the edge of the bench.

With the sun rapidly rising, and the battle of refracted light through the steam clouds increased, we packed up our gear and headed inland in search of breakouts: lava that literally breaks through a lava tube, flows and crusts over, then breaks out again, slowly covering the terrain in its relentless march towards the ocean.

It wasn’t long before we came across a breakout, with fresh pahoehoe oozing from small breaks, inching over a previous flow and slowing building the island. I grabbed the MARK III, clamped on the Sigma 70-200 and shot the ever changing formation – the initial burst of lava from the weak point; capturing the extrusion as it changed shape rolling downward before pooling in a crevice – all the while continually retreating from the heat of Pele’s forward march.

Eventually, with over 100GB of images shot, it was time to pack the gear for the long hike out. Slinging my 45-lb pack onto my shoulders, I looked across the vast black terrain, noting the heat waves coming of the landscape where lava lay underfoot. We began our journey out, following a trail from Bruce and Tom’s memory. With a few breaks to rest and rehydrate ourselves, we finally returned to civilization, sore, exhausted, and a little dehydrated, but with lots of photos, and even more memories, courtesy of Madam Pele. I can’t wait or the next trip.

Preflight Checklist

A good friend of mine is a private pilot, and getting into the air is his escape – a freedom – from gravity and everyday life. It’s also a weekend ritual (weather and family permitting): Arrive at the airport at O’ dark-30. Pull plane out of the hanger. Check fluid levels. Inspect all control surfaces… and that’s before buckling up in the cockpit.

Once in the plane, he pulls out a printed checklist, and every item it dutifully inspected, checked or put into place prior to starting the engine. As he says, “I’d rather check and double check, ‘cause you can’t just pull a plane over to the side of the sky and lift the hood.”

Good point.

He went on to tell me that being a pilot has influenced him to create checklists for other things in life. There’s one for towing a boat, packing the car for a vacation, winterizing the pool, etc. So while I’m listening to him call out, “circuit breakers in,” and reach for the panel, I start a mental checklist of my gear: Power on. Selector dial set to Time Value. Shutter speed at 1/800^th. Memory cards…

Crap

The SDXC card was seated in its slot, but there was a gaping hole where the CF card should be. In my haste to grab gear, I had forgotten to pluck the card from the card reader in the studio when I completed the previous day’s download. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my spare 32GB card, slid it into the slot and shut the memory card door. I breathed a sigh of relief, told my heart to slow down a few hundred beats per minute, and then cursed myself for being an idiot.

“You okay?” He asked, looking at the beads of sweat on my brow.

“Yeah, just had my heart fall into my left pinky toe,” I noted. “I forgot to put one of the memory cards into the camera. Glad I brought a spare, or I’d be in deep kimchee.”

Checklist complete, a couple of switches flicked into position, and the turbocharged Continental engine rotated, then coughed to life. As the fluids came to temperature, he scanned the gauges and I scanned the camera again to ensure I had everything set. Soon we were in the air, both of us getting our “fix” of being in the air and capturing great images.

A couple of hours later, we were back on terra firma, another checklist in hand. With engine and electronics off, the Cessna was rolled back into the hanger. My friend glanced my way, and with a wink said, “I have a feeling you’re gonna write up a checklist for your gear.”

With a laugh, I replied, “Just one?”

Later that day, I pulled out my laptop and wrote my first checklist. It was pretty basic – one for use when I had to travel inter-island, but it covered darn near everything, from cameras and lenses to chargers and cables. I’ve since developed several checklists that are specific to what I’m going to shoot. I have one for aerials, whales, traveling to the mainland, macros… Heck, you name it, I probably have it. The checklists really come in handy when I’m short on time, and need to be sure I have the right equipment with me to accomplish a particular shoot. And it sure beats getting to a remote location, then realizing you left a particular lens behind.

Last night, I pulled out my Big Island checklist, which has grown to include everything I might need to shoot Kilauea erupting to star trails on Mauna Loa. Some items are piled on the “to be packed” table, and notes written of things to get before I depart. By tomorrow afternoon, I’ll have everything checked of, ready to go and I won’t have to worry about my heart plummeting into my left pinky toe.

The Future Photographer

Participating in art shows and gallery exhibits provides me with an interesting opportunity: Photographer watching. No, I’m not dressed in Real Tree camo, lurking behind trees or lying in thickets of bamboo. I’m not taking notes or talking to an agent through a wrist mic. I’m a casual observer of people with cameras, how they use them and what they shoot. Once in a while, I’ll strike up a conversation with them, and glean a little more information. In the last year or so, I’ve noticed:

1. Why carry a big camera, when an iPhone (or iPad) will do: By far, this is the biggest trend. It seems people in droves are leaving their DSLRs, and in many cases, point and shoot cameras at home in favor of smart phones ant tablets. In a way, you can’t blame them – we’re not getting 4X6 prints made or putting images into photo albums anymore collect dust on our coffee tables (except for a select few). The majority of our shots nowadays are being housed on computers, phones, tablets or in the Cloud. Plus, the cameras built into the latest generation Apple or Samsung products are absolutely outstanding (note to Motorola: The camera in your Razr series is worthless). And there’s another benefit: they’re light weight. Why carry a pack full of photo gear, when you can carry a phone that’s a shade less than four ounces?

2. I want it all, but in a small and affordable package: Bridge cameras – the cross between the ease of a small point and shoot, coupled with a mongo lens (like 24-1200mm range) that’s wrapped in a compact body. Mostly carried by people who used to haul around an SLR and a couple of lenses, the bridge camera provides everything their kit used to, in a compact, lightweight package. Bridges are a jack of all trades, giving you a nice wide angle view for landscapes, and an extreme telephoto for capturing the kids down field at a soccer game. But they’re a master of none, meaning that you’ll get good images, but shutter lag is generally an issue, the telephoto drives are imprecise and they’re slow to focus. You can do a whole lot better with a DSLR and a couple of lenses.

3. Yeah, my camera bag weight 30-pounds, but my images will look great: These are my peeps, their numbers are small, compared to SPSers (Smart Phone Shooters), but they’re a dedicated bunch. They’re the ones with the Lowepro backpack strapped to their backs, carrying a Canon 5D MARK III or a Nikon D800 with a 24-70mm or 16-35mm attached. During the Humpback Whale season, you’ll see a fair share of 70-200 f/2.8 lenses bayoneted to a 1D MARK IV, or a 100-400 f/3.5-5.6 if more range is desired. Once in a while, there are the whale paparazzi with a couple 1Dx bodies, which shoot at a photo Gatling gun speed of 13 fps. One carrying a 400mm DO lens, the other with a 70-200. These select few solidly believe in the “no pain, no gain” ideal – you’ll come back with great shots, but it’ll cost a couple hundred bucks in massage therapy back at the resort, which a small price to pay if you come back with killer images.

So what does it all mean? Well, nothing, yet everything. Photography has moved from silver-smeared glass plates and tin, to all sorts of film, and now we’re capturing images as a mass of ones and zeros. Our darkrooms have transformed from a wet process (with a myriad of chemicals) to one of computers and desktop printers. Our cameras have shrunk from 8X10 film plane to cell phones with a quarter-inch lens.

We’ve seen a transformation of photography that’s unprecedented: From manually mastering the nuances of capturing light, to miniature computers that eliminate the thought process of making images. Our cameras have progressively gotten smaller, yet richer in functionality. Photography’s evolution has brought photography to the masses, albeit today, in-between sending a text or posting to your Facebook page.

What will we be shooting with tomorrow, a year, or five years? Almost anything you can possibly imaging. There will be one thing that will remain constant: The capture of light.

Analog in a Digital World

Lately, I’ve been feeling nostalgic.  I’ve been sorting my latest images while listening to some of my vinyl collection that I spin on an old Technics turntable. Sunsets to Pat Metheny’s 1977 Watercolors; Humpback Whales seemingly fit to Rush’s Hemispheres (vintage 1978), and crashing waves at Keanae to Synchronicity, released in 1983 by the Police. The fidelity isn’t nearly as crisp as a re-mastered digital download – there’s a decent amount of pop and hiss as the disc turns on the platter – but there’s no mistaking the smooth notes picked up by the needle, which would only be smoother if I were running the tunes through a tube amplifier. 

Definitely old school.

After flipping to the B-side of Chubby Checker’s Let’s Twist Again (an original 1961 pressing), I went to my camera locker and pulled out a torn and assignment-weary camera bag. Unzipping the top, I removed the Domke wrapped body and took a seat at my work bench. As I unwrapped the camera, I couldn’t help but smile, as looking at my Canon EOS-3 opened a floodgate of memories: Film – Vinyl’s analog equivalent.

The EOS-3 was my last major film camera purchase, and it was a helluva workhorse, shooting at 7 fps with the power booster attached, a 45-point auto focus system and it was darn rugged – surviving rain, mud, and a few accidental drops. It’s literally traveled the world (at least three times), and I hate to think how many thousands of rolls of film that have passed through the shutter plane. Yet I can pop in a 2CR5 battery, grab a roll of Fuji Velvia 100 out of the ‘fridge and shoot like a mad man, and still get great images, albeit 36 at a shot.

Ten years ago, I thought nothing of buying a brick or two of Velvia at Samy’s Camera in Los Angeles (per assignment), as I was a faithful bracketer, and multiple setups were the norm, so art directors had choices (and I had a better chance of getting more images published, which translated into bigger pay checks). I used to wear two over-sized fanny packs (OK. You can stop giggling), one carrying fresh film, the other with exposed cartridges. It was always a challenge to change rolls in a helicopter, or out in an ever-moving boat. Inevitably, the camera would be rewinding a spent roll, and a whale would breach right in front of me, or a car would go spinning off the track.

Damn.

Then there’s the processing, which had its plusses and minuses. One of the things I miss about the wet darkroom is the anticipation – exposing the paper, placing it into the developer and waiting for the image to magically appear – a process that gave you gratification if you exposed well, or a reason to recite the George Carlin Nasty Seven if a sheet of 11x14 sheet of Ilford paper were wasted. For the most part (as long as your equipment is properly profiled), it’s pretty hard to radically screw up a digital print, as what you see is what you get. Of course, if you’re printing on glossy paper, and you’ve selected a fine-art textured paper, the prints will look decidedly weird.

But I digress…

I pulled a roll of Velvia from the reefer, placed it on the kitchen counter and let it warm to room temperature for an hour. Tearing open the box, I loaded the roll into the A-3, shut the back, and the familiar whir of the motor drive winding the film to the first frame ignited my appetite for some macros.

I took my time, composing the shot, double checking the meter, and bracketing straight up, a third under and a half-stop under. After 12 setups, the drive went into action, rewinding the spent roll back into its light-tight cassette. I left the spent film on my desk for a few days, before deciding to send it off to A&I color. I should have it back in a few days, but in the meantime, I’ll be busy cleaning off the old light table and looking for my 10X loupe. Now, where did I put that box of Print File slide sleeves?

Put on Your Big Boy Pants and Deal with It

Weather.

If there’s one thing that outdoor photographers have, a love/hate relationship with, it’s Mother Nature. Sometimes, she’ll provide some much appreciated clouds, creating a magnificent soft box for shooting botanicals or to provide just enough of a neutral density effect at sunset. Other times, she provides amazing challenges with stream-swelling downpours or gale-force winds. No matter the weather, we can still come back with amazing shots, as long as you’re properly prepared.

Preparing for my annual Day with the Whales workshop last week, I received numerous calls from participants, who were tracking the weather radar north of Hawaii. This time of year, it’s not uncommon for weather to develop to the north-east, and then drop into the Islands, and several people were wondering if the workshop would be rained out.

I too kept a close eye on the weather. Not to worry about rain, but big swells that would turn into a small craft advisory, which would mean the boat would stay in the harbor. Fortunately, the day proved calm, bright and beautiful, but even if it was rainy, it doesn’t mean you can’t shoot.

A few weeks ago, I was shooting with a client in Kula. The day started with scattered cloudy skies. As we progressed through our macro flora workshop, the skies darkened, and my student expressed concern about the weather. I told her not to worry, pulled a few clear wastebasket bags from my Lowepro backpack, along with a 32-gallon monster for his camera bag.

A few minutes later, a few rain drops appeared. My client asked, “Should we start packing up before the rain really starts?”

“Naw,” I smiled. “Dunno about you, but I don’t melt in the rain.”

“But what about our gear?” He said, a bit of tremor in his voice.

“I’ve got you covered,” I said, and proceeded to poke a hole in the bottom of the clear waste bag, gently stretching the plastic over the end of his lens, then draping the rest over the camera. “Okay, now your camera’s ready for the rain. You can still shoot and see your controls.”

I then grabbed his camera bag, and placed it inside the outdoor waste bag. “All set.” I noted.

A few moments later, I had plastic over my lens 5D MARK III and 50mm Macro, then I deployed the integrated rain cover over the Pro Trekker 400, just as the skies opened up.

“Really, we’re going to shoot in this?” my pupil asked as he donned a poncho.

“You bet we are, and I’m hoping it gets a bit heavier,” I noted.

“Whaaaaaa?”

I took my student’s arm, and pulled him towards a throng of blooming Black Mink Protea. His eyes flew open at the sight of the delicate hairs on the petals, holding onto the rain droplets and reflecting other parts of the flower.

“Now, point your 100mm macro into the bowl of the bloom, and focus on that droplet,” I said, pointing into the flower.

For the next thirty-some-odd minutes, he shot a variety of protea in the rain, sloshing through soggy grass, while I shielded the business end of his lens from the elements.

“This is great,” he exclaimed!  I would have never thought to shoot macros in the rain.”

“Our first instinct is to get out of the elements.” I told him. “But if you use the inclement weather to your advantage, most of the time you’ll come back with even better images that if it were a bright sunny day.”

I went on to tell him about a trip I did to Hana many years ago with my Hanai Mom, Wendy. Like that day at the arboretum, it had been raining, and I wasn’t about to get my camera wet. She finally turned to me and told me to put on my big boy pants and deal with it. So I covered my camera and shot some amazing images. Since then, whenever the weather’s bad, I remember her big boy pants comment, and I happily trudge into the rain.

We shared a laugh, and agreed that although our big boy pants (and the rest of us) were wet, our gear was not, and our images captured that day were special, with the water enhancing the colors and water droplets reflecting the inner beauty of the blooms. We were thankful for the rain, and I was even more thankful for the waterproof seat covers in my truck.