photography

Edge of Creation

Living in Michigan, no matter where you are in the state, you’re never more than an hour or two away from one of the Great Lakes.

Our proximity to these bodies of water inspires so many of our summer family vacations. This year, we went north to the Traverse City and Leelanau Peninsula region. We love our Door County, Wisconsin vacations so much that we wanted a similar experience this summer. With its apple and cherry orchards, numerous lakes, and varied landscape, the peninsula provided everything we look for in a holiday. 

Despite the rain, we had a great vacation – a great mix of playing outdoors, relaxing by the lake, and exploring M-22 and the Sleeping Bear Dunes.

A funny thing happened at the world-renowned dunes: we visited during a particularly foggy day, where all of Lake Michigan was enshrouded in a heavy vapor. From the top of the dunes, you couldn’t see the lake at all.

We all looked on in amazement. It’s like we were staring at the edge of creation – down the dunes, you would fall off the end of the world.

Luckily, further north along the dunes, we did find a place to sit on the beach and swim in Lake Michigan.

Our state is fairly average in almost every way – except the scenery. If this is the edge of the world, we’re happy to be here. 

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Nostalgiapalooza

What is it about nostalgia that is so attractive?

While it’s a bittersweet emotion, nostalgia can be used to “counteract loneliness, boredom, and anxiety.” Think of that feeling you get when you flip through an old photo album, or listen to a favorite album. Nostalgia, while wistful, helps you think of good memories. It’s grounding, and gives you roots.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been on a nostalgiafest here lately. In the past year, I’ve made a point to relive things from my past that, at one point, I knew I loved. The feeling is especially strong with movies: I watched (and continue to watch) a ton of movies growing up. Now, I’m revisiting those late ’80s and early ’90s films that I watched over and over again (and haven’t watched since), primarily comedy classics like Major League, Funny Farm, and Naked Gun. For one, they’re funny, and those movies brighten my mood.

And two, I have great feelings associated with those 30-year old films. With the pandemic and all the anxiety surrounding it, it’s nice to dip into the past and relive something that’s fun and frivolous. 

It’s the same with classic books – Frog and Toad with the kids, say – and albums. I’m even browsing through my Lightroom catalog from years past and scrolling through my iPhone photo library to remember the times when I took a ton of pictures. Remember that? 

I think about that scene in Inside Out where the memory globes become bi-colored – both joyful and sad. Memories are rarely pure joy or pure sadness. Nostalgic feelings, especially, have twinges of melancholy with the feel-good moments. 

That’s how I feel: a little good, a little crummy. So I’m feeding that with nostalgia in all its forms. 

Right now, I need the familiar. 

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Forty

It’s not so bad, turning 40.

Mostly, I still feel like I’m in my early to mid 30s. Thirty – now THAT birthday felt monumental: buying a new house, switching jobs. A lot changed that year.

This year? We’re still stuck in a pandemic. I’ve felt on hold for the last 12 months. Maybe I can just skip this birthday?

No, of course not. But mentally, I’m not 40. Perhaps it’s denial. Halfway through life, I feel like I’ve done a tremendous amount of things. Knowing me, I’ve got many more projects on the horizon.

Like my “Thirty Six” project. I just remembered I have that one still unfinished. Time to look through some film photos from four years ago…

 

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Michigan On Ice

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Sunshine, a great lake, and lots of fresh air – we needed it.

After Jaime and I took a trip to South Haven a few winters ago, we swore we had to come back. To see that heaved ice hanging onto the shoreline, to see that frost-encrusted lighthouse again. Maybe grab another beloved shot of strangers trudging through the cold.

The lakeshore is like another planet: a mix of sand and ice, and off in the distance an unfrozen lake. The ice in the pier heaved, like the lake was breathing – a living, swelling mass of ice.

I brought along my seldom-used Tamron 24-135mm zoom lens to give it some exercise. I’m usually a prime guy, but with scenery like this, I wanted to be prepared for whatever came up.

We dragged the kids along with the grandparents with us, too. The children were constantly on a precipice: one slip, and we’d lose them to what felt like the void. 

On the ride home, we could’ve all fallen asleep. We were tuckered out. All that cold and fresh air did us good. 

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Show the Work

Show the Work

I love a good, old-fashioned photography blog. Flickr is great, Instagram is mostly trash, Twitter still has some good photography sharing – but a blog? That’s a place I can visit when I want that’s dedicated to the craft.

Take a simple photography blog like Just a Little Patience. Super simple design, minimal text – it’s a place where Johnny Patience shares a lovely picture and a location or a quote. Nothing else. Photos, one after the other. 

Because I’m a writer and a photographer, Patrick LaRoque’s blog appeals to me too: it goes deeper, with updates, thoughts, and (plenty of) opinions on the state of the world, the photography business, and his family. 

My heart goes to blogs like Just a Little Patience because I appreciate its minimalism. It lets the photos speak for themselves. But my head says I have to do the essay-for-every-photo format. My blog has landed somewhere in the middle, but either way, it’s the sharing part that’s important.

Show your work. Talk about it if you want, but above all, put it out there. 

 

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Remodel

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We couldn’t wait any longer.

In March, we planned on remodeling our bedroom. And boy, did it need it: wood paneling, dark, drop ceiling. In all fairness to the previous owners, it used to be a back porch. Then it became a bedroom, but that was decades ago. Now it’s our turn to make it right.

Why not start now? We need something lighter and sunnier in our lives right now. Sure, it means we have to sleep in our breezeway for the time being. It means contractors in the house, with their noise and drywall dust. But we’re considering this project our early Christmas present.

Everything is harder these days. My photography has certainly taken a hit. I feel it in my bones – a kind of creator’s guilt, ever-present. Not much blogging, not much newsletter-ing, not much of anything. With the pandemic and the post-election stress, it’s been hard to wake up in the morning, let alone take photos.

Now we have a new look to our bedroom, and with the light coming in, it felt like a good excuse to get out the camera and document the progress.

So here it is, in all it’s sheetrock glory.

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Autumn Textures

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I’m tired. We’re all tired.

I’m searching for some serenity in all this chaos. Luckily, we have had a pleasant autumn so far, and we take evening walks to shake off the dread and anxiety.

Now daylight savings has changed the light, and we wake up in the sunshine. It’s good, and much-needed, because the sun won’t be around much from now until spring. I’m trying to capture it as much as possible before the darkness comes. 

School has shut down in-person learning until after Thanksgiving. COVID-19 is spreading as usual. The election is over and yet not over. 

So very tired. 

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Grow

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There’s too much death in our world right now. Here in my own country, 150,000 unexcusable, mostly preventable deaths.

Here in our yard, we’ve noticed a lot of life this summer: we have two new skunks roaming our bush edge, a couple of aggressive squirrels that eat our bird seed, and now a gangbuster garden.

My garden memories go as far back as my memory goes: digging potatoes with my grandpa as a toddler, eating fresh green beans my grandma would cook southern-style. As soon as I had a home of my own, I planted a small garden in the back lot.

When we moved, this house had three years of not-great gardens. For one, the neighbors’ mulberry tree shaded the plot too much. And for two, maybe the weather? It’s hard to say.

But this year, it’s the biggest, healthiest garden I’ve ever had. It’s so big, it’s creeping into the neighbors’ yard. I told them whatever grows on their side of the fence, they can keep. 

So I grabbed the macro lens and captured the texture and tendrils of this banner-year garden – the fuzzy stems, the searching vines, and the green and light-thirsty leaves.

Growing a garden has its benefits, of course. It’s good to get your hands dirty. It’s great to eat healthily. And the convenience factor – it’s so great to pick fresh lettuce and make a salad for lunch.

Along with cider, the garden has been my escape from the pandemic. Growing a garden is mostly a passive activity. You just let the water and sunshine do their thing. But I do wander out back to check on its progress, make sure the bugs aren’t eating all the greens, and picking whatever is ripe and ready. 

My other hope is that, someday, the kids will remember eating fresh veggies from the garden – much like I did as a kid – and then want to grow their own. 

It’s not much, but as the plague and politics and craziness gets worse, it’s good to grow something for a change. 

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Adapt

Change of Seasons

When the coronavirus pandemic hit Michigan in March, it threw our situation – like everyone else’s – into chaos: no more office commute for me, no more in-person schooling for the kids, significant changes to my wife’s music therapy practice.

Those early days were a whirlwind. We had to develop new routines just as spring was warming up. We had to adapt to this new reality.

Along the way, I photographed our home and our lives as we lived it, and I have a selection of those photographs on display at Ella Sharp Museum’s new Adapt exhibition, exploring artistic responses to the pandemic. My series, “A Change of Seasons,” looks at our changing home life, changing routines, and changing light as March turned to April and winter turned to spring. 

The exhibition is online for now and features great local artists with exciting work. Next week, starting July 21, I’ll have three photos on display at the physical museum when they open back up. 

I always thought one of my community portrait projects would be my first chance to appear at Ella Sharp Museum, but the pandemic threw everything into the air, including my expectations. Still, I’m proud to be on display in the Adapt exhibition with so many other talented local artists. 

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Door County, Wisconsin

Back to Door County

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We had to get away. We just had to.

So we went back to the spot we loved two years ago: Door County, Wisconsin. Same cabin property, same bay on Lake Michigan, same rustic charm and isolation that we needed so badly then and now.

And socially isolate we did. We rarely left the property, opting instead to hang out by the lake, eat Wisconsin cheese, drink Wisconsin cider and beer, and let the kids play in the water. The few times we did go out to explore the peninsula, we stuck to state parks and little shops. We ate out twice. We played it safe.

It was nice to not think about what was happening elsewhere in the country, or work, or anything else. We made new family memories, enjoyed our solitude, and drove back rested and refreshed.

The weather was perfect: lovely Great Lakes sunsets, never getting hotter than 80 degrees during the day, no rain. We stayed in a new cabin (next door to the one we stayed in last time) so I could explore the summer light. 

Just what we all needed. 

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Fermented

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My pandemic project? More cider making.

It’s easy: grab three bottles of Simply Apple, a bit of yeast, mix them together, and then wait a while. A week or two is enough.

After that, add something else. This spring, I’ve tried blueberries, grapefruit, mixed berries, and now honey. A few reusable bottles, a bit more time to mature in the bottle, and you have yourself a nice summertime drink.

It keeps me busy. I have the process down pretty pat by now. And with all this time on my hands, I’m experimenting with more fruits. Maybe a pineapple, maybe a peach when they come into season, or some tart cherries if the crop survived our late spring snowstorms.

Fruit, yeast, and time. All we have is time.

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Kids These Days

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These days, it’s easy to appreciate whoever came up with, “Children should be seen and not heard.”

It’s barbaric, of course, especially now that we recognize children are miniature people. They have thoughts and feelings. They’re more than field workers or inconveniences.

Still, with every minute of every day spent with the kids, it’s an adjustment. Before, we worked all day, and we spent time with the kids in the evenings or on the weekends. Now it’s all day, every day.

Soon there will be no school work, no Zoom class meetings, no nothing. Just unstructured summertime. Luckily we’re in a nice time of year when staying outside and playing is a possibility. 

Outside also means avoiding social media and the news. The kids don’t have any idea what’s going on in the world today. If they did, it’d be difficult to answer their questions. The virus? They know about that. They know its name. Everything else? Blissfully unaware. 

Working as I do, each day at the kitchen table, I can watch them play in the backyard and live out their own adventures. They are little people, and as much as that old English saying makes me laugh, I don’t believe it. I didn’t get to hear it so much before. It’s good to hear them out there, playing and laughing and crying.

Inside, I can barely work because of my anxiety at the state of the world. Better for them to be outside. 

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Edge of Spring

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We didn’t get much of a spring here in Michigan. After a flurry of snowstorms and chilly days in April, we transferred right into the heat of the summer.

That’s a shame. Spring is my favorite season, but seeing the lack of apple blossoms on the neighborhood trees, plus the pandemic, and some historic rainstorms, it’s feeling like spring never happened.

Except for those few days in April.

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Watching and Waiting

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I may have gone a little far on the snark in my last blog post. It was born out of frustration, and the all-too-human need to correct those we think are wrong.

It’s not like me to do things like that, but then these are weird times, aren’t they? 

I’m facing a summer’s worth of working from home, no school for the kids until the fall (maybe?), and dumb people doing dumb things with little concern for the safety of others.

To stay occupied, I’m trying to pick up my camera more and try little things: taking photos outside while we enjoy the fresh spring air, or grabbing some macro shots of the hyacinths and daffodils sitting on the kitchen table. It’s something. 

Each new day is just a day. We watch and wait for some good news in the world, but we’re more often disappointed. 

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