Lost Nuts and Found Bolts

  Why make images? Why hope that somewhere, someplace, there will be a response of some kind. I've been making images of one sort or another for about 56 years. Some days I think, I hit that one out of the park, and then on others it's STEE RIKE THREE. Sometimes these feelings can happen in rapid succession, leaving me either exhilarated or thrashing around in a dark hole.  But still I persist, thinking that the next image will be the one that expresses what I think, or see, or feel. Apparently, I am not there yet.  But still I persist. The following images were created using a program I developed using MAX. Images continually morph using random chance operations built into the program. Think of it like using several slide projectors simultaneously to project images on top of one another.  "CliffHanger" 9/2025 mono print w/ handcoloring Cliffhanger was taken from the YouTube  piece of the same name. https://youtu.be/SVtTBeKd7r0?si=kE22dj6zqYuH9VY_   This gi...

I slipped a roll of film into the camera, loaded the leader onto the spool, and clicked the camera back shut. Then, I called my dog Zack to hop into the VW bus. We were going to San Francisco. I rarely went to San Francisco to photograph, but the day seemed as good as any other, so north to the city we went. The bus rolled to a stop on an unfamiliar street in the city. Zack waited while I got out and wandered around, taking photos of kids, trees, and city detritus. I remember the sky being bright but overcast, as it often was.  As I looked around at all the possibilities, a young woman rode by on her bike. Swoosh—she was gone in an instant. I didn’t think much of it at the time, and then returned to the bus to drive to a different area. Zack, it turned out, loved going for rides in the bus. In fact, when I left him at home for any length of time, he would howl and tear things up.  A few blocks later, I parked and got out to explore. Once again, the same woman zipped by, her h...

Revisiting 1984, by George Orwell- A book I read years ago. I had forgotten that within the pages, a love story emerges, hidden from the constant monitoring of Big Brother. There is a yearning to understand how things got that way. It is of a society splintered, constantly at war, disparate groups isolated and suspicious of one another. There is the longing for touch, intimacy, and emotion, that becomes a reminder of our shared humanity.  There is the  erasure of history one sentence at a time, one experience at a time. Even now in 2025, there are attempts to rewrite(erase)history. What are we afraid of? Is it the acknowledgment of our own brutality and inhumanity? Until we can look at the underlying motives we will watch everything around us unravel. What happened to caring for one another, to offering help, and to showing compassion? Today, anyone different is seen as the "other". One's lack of empathy leads to fear of anything unfamiliar, and t hen fear directs the res...

It's below freezing, The tires feel harder than normal.  The roadbed seems dense, knowing of the comings and goings of humanity.  Noticing only the reflections  in their own windows as they  are passed by someone in more of a hurry than the ones passed. Walking Man One   Walking Man Two

Found this image on my computer.  Not sure how, but it feels like  home This blog will likely be discovered someday- perhaps when I am no longer around. It will be erased or appreciated by someone. who knows? But it makes sense to create knowing that  I must respond to the things, moments, and narratives that matter to me.  So where to start?  I have heard and believe the more someone does something and puts in the time and effort. Good will come from it. But, it mustn't be the only reason. As I was falling asleep I asked myself what the earliest memory was.  I vaguely recall being outside, perhaps not even walking yet crawling around on my belly. the texture of dried grass and dirt- warm sun, a swing set silhouetted by the light - looking into the brightness of the metal from the frame and chain link, the empty saddles. A brother or my twin (I don't know about that.) Could I have held onto my brother in the womb -  a loving embrace of our oneness?...