Bob’s Photo Diary
Becoming a birder.
I remember the day this bird arrived on the scene at Lake Ralphine. I can honestly say I’d never seen a Common Merganser before. I posted a picture that evening called “new kid on the block.” Of course that was after I emailed the photo to Joy Ryan for identification. This bird provided lots of excellent poses. I was amazed at the seemingly erratic energy he displayed when fishing, but it was offset by the unusual act of napping while floating in the middle of the lake. I can honestly say that my lifelong love of photography turned me into a birder!
Attitude.
Seeing the beauty in life boils down to attitude. If one chooses to dwell on negatives, one gets negatives. But if one consciously searches for the positive, for the beauty in life, it’s always there. Chances are, if you’re steeped in negativity, you’re walking right past the beautiful gifts being offered.
Living Among Nature (photo July 18, 2016).
This picture exemplifies what I loved best about my home on Stone Bridge Road. This is from my kitchen window while I was preparing breakfast. Even if I chose to stay home, inside, instead of hiking the trails of Valley of the Moon, nature would often come to me.
On rainy days I could sometimes sit at the dining room table, capturing photos of birds feeding on berries in the holly tree. If I was aware of deer resting under the bushes beneath my kitchen window, I would tip-toe around as to not disturb them. When a family of deer were feeding from the bushes in the common area, I would stand at the fence talking to them in a soft voice to let them know I meant no harm. When turkeys were doing their mating displays, I watched with amazement at the beauty of their dances.
On Stone Bridge Road I had the privilege of living at the edge of nature where we had not yet succeeded in destroying all their habitat. I tried to be conscious of the fact that it is we who have invaded their space, not the other way around.
My Calling.
It was after I bought my new Canon camera for my 64th birthday, that I finally accepted that I’m truly a photographer. The symptoms became very overt, impossible to deny. Everywhere I went, I noticed missed opportunities for “the perfect photograph.” I started to recognize birds in flight, by their wingspan. The windshield of my car became a virtual Cinerama, where I scanned left to right, looking for the next photo opportunity.
I had found my calling. Not for profit. Not for recognition. It was just something I had to do. I needed to freeze these moments in time to satisfy a fear of losing them forever. It’s not the destination, it’s the journey. This journey led me into a world that lives parallel to our illusion. We call the other world wild, but I found more order and more sense in that world than the wild chaotic illusion I left behind each day.
Hidden Treasures.
Whenever we would get more than a few inches of rain in one storm, I would bundle myself up in waterproof coats and boots, then make my way to the waterfall on Adobe Canyon Road. Of course the obvious attraction is the waterfall and the overflowing creek. While everyone else would turn left at the bottom of the hill, I would turn right on the path less traveled. My dog Zoe taught me how to see things from the perspective of a dog, but I believe the photos I took in Adobe Canyon were more of the Leprechaun variety.
In the 1960s my husband Larry and I knew a secret place in rural Indiana where Morel mushrooms grew in abundance. We would sneak off early in the morning after a rainstorm, to gather the delicacy before others found them. Perhaps that’s why I kept my Leprechaun photo shoots so private. I’ve always viewed the ability of mushrooms to grow so rapidly, as a feat of nature’s magic. In my quest to get photos, I felt a sense of privilege, to see things others walked past without notice. It’s like the opposite of star gazing through a telescope. This is more like standing at the door of the world that exists under a microscope.
Nature is absolute perfection.
My 8 year vision quest in Valley of the Moon accelerated my evolution. I’ve been communing with nature since I was a teenager. Spending time in this virtual garden of Eden was a gift that heightened my ability to see. When I see a bird, I do not see “just a bird!” I see the intricate design that inspired the first men to strive for the ability for humans to take flight. I see the detailed construction that allows feathers and wings to fold upon each other until needed for the next flight. I see the shadows and colors that inspire artists and suitors.
Most of all I see how love and respect are the elements that create a peaceful world.
Remembering.
When I took photos over the years, I never imagined they would be as important to me as they are now. Whenever I pick one to share, I never know what emotions or revelations they will evoke. This photo of San Pablo Bay National Wildlife Refuge in May 2017, has a lot to say. First of all, I was always surprised at how few people go there. I guess it has something to do with the difficult access. I say that’s a good thing, because the birds have great access. And it’s their refuge. I always cringe when I hear gunshots nearby where hunting is allowed.
On this particular trip I made the same observation I had made in other parts of the San Francisco North Bay that spring. After one of the wettest winters on record, the grasses and other foliage were higher than I had ever seen them. Walking down the road to San Pablo Bay, I could not see beyond the overgrowth. As beautiful as it was, there was a part of me that knew it would also become the biggest fuel for wildfires after the dry summer. The October 2017 wildfire would come up to the western edge of the refuge.
Summer of 2013.
I was still experimenting with my new digital Canon camera. I put the camera strap around my neck, put the leash on Zoe’s collar, then opened the door to my house on Stone Bridge Road. I hadn’t even stepped off the landing in front of the door before realizing that my first photo of the day was right in front of my nose. In the time it took to open the lens, the Smart Car had centered itself for the perfect Mercedes advertisement. But the Smart Car was just an acceptable photo bomb. The real star of this photo was the early morning sunlight!
The process.
Each time I find a picture, I go through a process. I have no idea what I will say until I see the photo. This photo brings back memories of jumping into my car while most everyone else was still sleeping. I would drive to the Catholic Church at the end of the polo field, waiting patiently to see what kind of sunrise would be presented. On winter mornings my hands would be frozen to the extent of transporting me back to my childhood in Illinois. Back then I didn’t mind that my hands were in pain, because building a snowman or getting in a snowball fight were worth the pain. On this morning at the Polo Field, catching the sunrise on a field dusted with frost was also worth the pain. For a few hours in the morning, the seasons were evident in a place where it is often difficult to know exactly what month it is. On this day, it was definitely Christmas time.
Living in Valley of the Moon.
… is sometimes like living on the pages of a fairy tale, or being a character in a fantasy novel. There are portals everywhere if you know where to find them. You can slip into a rabbit hole like Alice, where you leave that other world behind. It’s like being in an organic amusement park for adults, where you meditate with your eyes open, because that imaginary go to place is no longer imaginary. You have arrived.
Healing with photographs.
As I scrolled through my photographs this morning, I couldn’t help but feel gratitude for the time I spent in Valley Of The Moon. Every photograph is a testament to the unique beauty of the area. That beauty is not superficial. These organic experiences are portals into a natural world that exists beside, (in spite of), the technological world humans have created.
When you look at this picture you see four deer frozen in time. I see the moments before and the moments after I took this picture. The deer were actually frozen in that moment because I had Zoe bedside me on a leash. We were walking in a remote part of Howarth Park that most people don’t even know exists. There are places in Sonoma parks where the hills provide enough buffer on all sides to silence the sounds of automobiles, leaf blowers and other man-made sources of noise pollution. Those are the places where one can hear the songs of birds, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the buzz of a bee or the crunch of the footsteps of an escaping squirrel.
Before I had this daily dose of nature as contrast, I had accepted the sirens, the motorcycles, the traffic, the garbage trucks, the leaf blowers, the airplanes, the blaring radios, televisions as normal. But now I hear all of them, and I long to get away to another place where I know I’m alive because I can hear my own heartbeat.
Intimacy.
I am constantly touched by the ease with which animals share intimacy. They are superior in living life intuitively, while we often think things into oblivion. I guess my wonder comes from being raised in a culture where men are taught that intimacy between men is forbidden.
Valley of the Moon in Autumn.
What I felt when I took this photo in 2013:
There’s something very special about autumn in Sonoma County. It begins with the annual crushing of the grapes. The aroma in the air reminds me of my childhood at the Covered Bridge Festival in Indiana, when the smell of fresh brewed apple cider gave the promise of a hot mug for warming cold hands. As the grape leaves begin to turn vibrant colors after the first frost, the trees follow with brilliant reds and yellows.
There’s always a day in September when we walk outside to suddenly discover that summer is over, because the air, humidity and light have changed dramatically overnight. That’s when people say, “fall is in the air.”
From my 2013 Sonoma Barn Collection.
I love that the farm equipment looks like it’s painted on the barn as a mural.
Many times I would drive by barns with potential, only to learn there were no places to pull over.
Cows.
On my 67th birthday, I spent hours in a cow pasture doing a photo shoot. I got along so well with the cows, I came back two more days that week. I got hundreds of excellent photos, but I also had fun learning about cows. They are smart, they are mostly gentle and if you come often, they remember who you are. On the last day these cows finally sat down for a portrait, even without my asking.
The Beauty of Wine Country.
Like everything that is constant and repetitive, we eventually become used to it, forgetting its specialness. As I search the photos of my 8 years in Valley of the Moon, I can see how I had taken it for granted. Being in the city again reminds me that not everyone can wake up each morning with a guarantee of unparalleled beauty at every turn. I am grateful that 6 of my 8 years were before the fires.
Getting My Attention.
Sometimes there are beings that just need to be preserved for posterity, because they are so beautiful, unique and full of character. For this one I parked my car far away and hiked back along the narrow road to get the photo. Somebody was happy to see me, greeting me with a long and soulful baa!
On the way to Zoe’s table.
This is the path to my dog Zoe’s memorial table. This path has defined much of my life in my 8 years in Sonoma. I walked it with Zoe, I pulled her there in a red wagon when she could no longer walk, I walked the path to heal the grief of losing her, I struggled to make it to her table when I was so sick I could barely stand up, I made my way through the ashes after the 2017 fire, dealing with another kind of grief, and I lusted for all those times as I lay in the hospital and nursing home for 14 months. I have only been back to Zoe’s table twice since 2018, the second time for the 7th annual Pet Memorial Weekend at Zoe’s table.
Every photo has a story.
In the autumn of 2012, I was determined to climb every mountain in Sonoma County. I went on solo hikes that often took from 5 to 6 hours. On this particular day I set my sights on Gunsight Rock on Hood Mountain. When I finally reached my destination I had gone through two serious episodes of vertigo. I was happy to chronicle those who were braver and more able bodied than me, from a distance of course. I was most impressed by this woman who had positioned herself on the edge of the rock to read a book.
Good Speed Trail.
Sugarloaf. This is the creek at Good Speed Trail the morning after a hard freeze in 2014. The trailhead was exactly an 8 minute drive from my house in Oakmont. I came here frequently to unwind, often sitting on stones in the creek, listening to the sound of the water.
Hope Springs Eternal. 2018 in Fountaingrove
I was in so much physical pain everyday when I took photos after the 2017 Santa Rosa fire. After all we had been through, I was driven by the need to find that elusive light at the end of the tunnel. I can see now that I was also driven to find out how to survive the physical pain of bone cancer, which was undiagnosed at the time. My distraction, photographing the rebirth of Santa Rosa, seemed much bigger than my struggle with chronic pain. I believe that’s what made it work. Whenever I had the notion to feel sorry for myself, I thought of the people who lost everything. I felt so lucky that I didn’t have to deal with physical pain as well as unbearable loss. My camera served me well in so many ways.
Close friends.
I first met this friend on a rainy day when I noticed him standing in a field of tall green grass, among the twisted winter oak trees. He reminded me of the 1946, movie Black Beauty, that I watched on TV as a child. His coat shimmered from the rain making him look even darker than usual. He stood in the middle of the field, motionless, like the bronze sculpture on my fireplace mantel. I pulled to the side of the road and walked up to the fence, not even caring that I was getting drenched. I had just lost my dog Zoe a few months before. I think I identified with this horse because I felt as lonely as he looked standing there in the pouring rain.
When I reached the fence I finally saw the first sign of life from the middle of the field. He very carefully turned his head to check out the movement at the edge of his solitary internment. Then he suddenly transformed into a giant puppy, wagging his tail as he eagerly bounced toward me. He stopped just far enough away from the fence, so his head could be easily scratched. As my fingers lovingly made their way down the snout, between those lovely puppy dog brown eyes, he let out a soft neigh of approval.
For the following three years I stopped often when I saw him standing alone in the field. Each time he greeted me with the same enthusiasm as the first time. In the summer when the horse flies tortured him, I would stay longer, fanning them away from his head so he could enjoy a brief respite. Then, in 2017, after the Tubbs fire, I returned to the edge of the field to find everything in ruins, including the barn.
It was just a fraction of the grief I experienced from that horrible fire. I had seen a video of the night of the fire showing that section of Highway 12 with red embers blowing across the road like snow drifts. So naturally my mind imagined my friend on that fateful night, hopefully being rescued to a safer place. But like many of my friends in nature, I could only imagine what they went through or where they were now. It all seemed familiar from my days living in San Francisco in the 1980s. Was the cost of getting too close, of loving so many, worth the pain of losing them. The answer is always the same. Yes!
A Beautiful story of paternal love.
In my travels through Sonoma parks I often met the regulars, people walking dogs, people walking for health, etc. In Howarth I met a man who fed the swans to help keep them healthy because he worried about the amount of bread fed to them by tourists, in spite of signs warning of the dangers. He knew their feeding spots, where he carefully submerged appropriate food below the surface near the shoreline. In the spring of 2015, he and I watched with wonder as a family of newly hatched swans glided across the lake together, mother, father and six siblings. Each day we spoke of how rapidly the young swans were growing. It was such a wonderful celebration of springtime.
Then one morning I noticed there was only one adult swan with the six cygnets. I hiked along the fishermen’s path where I found the man who fed the swans each day. Earlier that morning he had found the body of the Pen, the mother, apparently the victim of another hungry animal. Don’t worry, he cautioned me, the Cob, the father has taken over the duties of both parents. Indeed he had, and it was a pleasure to watch. I made it a point to tell the story to each person who would listen. And here I am telling it again.
May 4, 2018.
This photo was taken seven months after the Tubbs fire. The fire was still the thing we all lived with in the backdrop of the lives we were trying desperately to reclaim. Immediately after the fire, it was not possible to openly acknowledge beauty in the ruins. Many were not yet prepared to hear such truth. But I had seen from the beginning that finding that beauty in the ashes was absolutely necessary for healing.
Seasons.
Growing up in the Midwest, I had a very clear understanding of the seasons, but that got blown away when I moved to California. After nearly 40 years I think I’m finally understanding the seasons of Northern California. This photo was obviously taken in January, because the grape leaves are gone, the grass is green and the new leaves have not begun to show. I prefer this type of seasonal change over the unrelenting winters of my childhood where it was possible to have the ground covered in snow for months at a time. we always rationalized by say that the hard winter made us appreciate springtime even more.
A magical place.
This is the path to my dog Zoe’s memorial table in Sonoma Valley Regional Park. For most of eight years this was my spirit home. It wasn’t a place I simply passed each day on the way to work. It was never someplace I was forced to go, out of commitment or necessity. It was where I wanted to be! On this path I experienced joy, friendship, love, loss, grief, healing and awakening. I could be tempted to let my ego convince me it was of my doing, but the other travelers down this road are proof it was not. It’s not simply a perception, it’s the place. It’s magical, like a page out of a fairy tale.
April 26, 2018
What I know now. I understand the difference between my chronic physical problems and the things everyone suffers from time to time. Like leg cramps after doing exercise I haven’t done in a while. The trip up the hill was difficult because of breathing issues. But I brought my inhaler and stopped frequently. The trip down hill was difficult because of my spine, my right knee and my lower back. But I brought a cane, an upper body brace and a knee brace. And I stopped frequently.
I was amazed at how much of Oakmont I could see as I walked through burnt forest. As I stood among blackened trees I could see the entrance to Oakmont Drive at Highway 12 very clearly. I could see the beginning of Stone Bridge Road. I realized both, how lucky we were and how vulnerable we are. As I walked among very tall green grasses, I thought about how resilient nature is and how this cycle of life and rebirth also includes next autumn’s wildfire fuel.
But my biggest lesson is a lesson I learn often and forget often. An idea in your head is nothing more than an idea until you put it into action. If you believe you can’t do something, then you most likely won’t even try. But if you try something you have believed was impossible, you may be happy to find you were wrong.
I also understand that this was a progression. There was a time when the limitations were very physical. But chronic pain has a way of becoming normal after a while. I’d say one of my biggest revelations is, if it hurts, that doesn’t necessarily mean I can’t do it. The important thing is knowing the difference of whether you are hurting yourself physically or simply enduring pain. I used to tell people in yoga classes to go to the edge of the discomfort and hang out there, careful not to hurt yourself. In healing, the edge of the pain keeps moving further away and your ability to function (flexibility) expands.
This was my last hike before being hospitalized with bone cancer.
I was startled by this deer, because he looked scorched like the trees around him.
Sunrises are like snowflakes.
No two sunrises are alike. There were times when I spent an entire hour waiting for a spectacular moment that melted away as fast as it came. I don’t remember ever being disappointed. But as you can see, there are some that just blow away the competition.
Foggy Sunrises.
It is not uncommon to witness foggy sunrises on the Oakmont Golf Course. I was always amazed at how many people came for early tee offs in spite of the weather.
Being There.
Someone once asked me if I ever get tired of photographing the same birds over and over. My immediate answer was no! Take this female mallard for example. The accepted idea is that the male birds are more colorful, more beautiful. But the female has colorful aspects she keeps under her wings. Given the right spotlight, she’s a serious contender in the mallard beauty contest. Besides, most photographers understand that the first rule of capturing the perfect photo is to be there when it happens. That means being there everyday all the time!
Quarryhill Botanical Garden.
I took advantage of many Senior Tuesdays at Quarryhill. Sometimes it simply offered an opportunity to take photos. Sometimes it provided a challenge to overcoming lingering health problems. Many times it was a meditative retreat from the world beyond Highway 12. Other times it was a classroom or a laboratory, but always it was a healing experience.
Majestic Redwood Tree.
By the 1960s commercial logging had destroyed 85% of the redwood trees in California. As I knelt at the roots of this gentle giant, I asked myself, what kind of person believed it was okay to destroy something that had survived thousands of years? What kind of “civilization” allows such heartless disregard for life that is such an important part of our ecosystem? Many of these trees are older than the United States itself.
Adobe Canyon
As I watched my house on Stone Bridge Road disappear through the back window of an ambulance in February 2019, I knew instinctively that I would never return. When they hooked up the IV and placed a nitroglycerin tablet under my tongue, I wondered if I would even live through the trip to the hospital. I remember that moment as I now sort through my photos. In that brief time when my heart was breaking, I understood what I was leaving behind. So each time I find another photo, I get to relive those magnificent, but sometimes scary 2,765 days of life in Valley of the Moon.
My time in Oakmont was about connecting with as much of Sonoma life as I could. One thing I enjoyed immensely was going to the Adobe Canyon waterfall each time we had substantial rain. I was often allowed inside the park when others were turned away. Sometimes I balanced an umbrella in one hand and my camera in the other, as the torrential rainfall continued. Many times I would get on my knees to discover the incredible forests of mushrooms that pushed up through the wet leaves and needles overnight. Perhaps my subconscious mind knew I had to preserve as much as I could for this day when it would bring so much pleasure to me and to others.
An Intimate Picture Of Spring
When I saw this robin in a tree, one week after receiving my new camera for my 64th birthday, I decided to experiment with the powerful zoom lens. I was amazed at the ability to get so intimate from so far away. This was the beginning of a new relationship with nature photography. By zooming in, I was able to observe without disturbing. The unforeseen reward was the deeper heart connection I was able to make with my subjects. The irony was that I was able to get closer by being farther away.
April
That means nesting time for Egrets and Herons at the 9th street Rookery
Like A Dog.
The most important gift my dog Zoe gave me on our walks, was to teach me how to be aware of my surroundings. I believe this fits in the category of things you can’t unlearn. Of course I will never have Zoe’s incredible sense of smell, but I compensate by understanding that I must avoid distraction. When I’m in nature I need to be totally present. That’s not possible if I have plugs in my ears blasting music. That’s not possible if my attention is focused on what happened this morning, or what’s going to happen later. When I go into nature now, it’s like I’m walking through an imaginary door that I can shut behind me, where everything in that crazy human manufactured world gets left behind. If I were a mouse, someone’s potential lunch, this awareness might just save my life!
Awareness
The wonderful thing about awareness is, once you discover it, it keeps expanding. I wonder how many hundreds of thousands of spider webs I’ve missed in my lifetime. They are an absolutely beautiful representation of the art and complexity of nature.
BARNS
I got my first car and my first dog around the same time, in the late 1960s early 1970s. I took my dog Cinnamon everywhere I went. So when Zoe came to stay with me in 2012, I also took her everywhere I went. In October we had started to do a collection of Sonoma County Barns. I would park the car along country roads, put Zoe on leash and walk along the road to get better shots of barns that I could not otherwise shoot. On one of my early morning trips shuttling Zoe between Oakmont and San Francisco, I was distracted by the incredible sunrise to the east of Highway 121. I kept pulling over to take more photos, pulling over again as the sunrise became even more spectacular. When we were headed west on Highway 37, I recognized a familiar phenomenon. Often sunrises and sunsets provide even more spectacular events in the opposite direction because of the refracted light.
I saw it early enough to slow down and pull over. On the north side of the highway was a barn that in all my other trips had seemed very unremarkable. I knew it was there, had noticed it enough to acknowledge its existence, but had never needed to pull over to photograph it. But on that morning, November 15, 2012, the light from the sunrise had managed to amplify the pigments from the faded peeling paints enough to give it a few moments of its former glory before returning it once again to just another old Sonoma County barn.
Beauty Is Everywhere
November 27, 2017 was the Monday after Thanksgiving and exactly seven weeks after the great firestorm. We were looking for hope anywhere we could find it. I was returning from Sonoma Valley Regional Park where I had photographed the newly greening meadows after the first rains. I had just rounded the curve on Highway 12, where Kunde Vineyards are visible on the right, with Sugarloaf in the background. The sun was sinking in the west, bathing the vineyards in an orange glow. The charred slopes of Sugarloaf no longer looked menacing as the setting sun turned them into a rich coffee colored brown. In my search for hope and renewal, I discovered there was also beauty among the ashes.
Bees
Photography forces the photographer into a heightened sense of awareness. After years of practice we find ourselves in constant search of the next shot. Our eyes become trained to see possibilities rushing by in our peripheral vision as we drive down highways. We have to learn to temper our disappointment at all the missed opportunities. My best canine companion trained me to hear, smell and see things that went unnoticed before. She also pulled me down to her level, on my hands and knees, to discover a whole new world of perspective. There is nothing off limits in my search to document life, whether it’s moon craters or a bee gathering honey.
Bellissima Casa
It happens to all of us. We are excited about new experiences or new environments in the beginning, but then we incorporate them into our daily routines, and they become routine. We remember them when guests come to visit, so we relive those first days vicariously through the eyes of others. Being a photographer gives us a chance to avoid taking things for granted. We try to see everyday like it’s the first day. To be fair though, it’s harder to take things for granted when you live in one of the most beautiful places on earth.
Every time I took the road to Sugarloaf, for a brief moment I imagined I was on a road in Italy!
BIRDS
In my first days in Sonoma people would ask if I was a birder. I would reply no, I’m a photographer. But then I realized it was impossible to spend up to 8 hours everyday roaming the hills of state and county parks without being a birder. The only difference between me and bird watchers was the fact that they have binoculars and I have a camera.
Bluebird Of Happiness
I have hundreds of photos of western bluebirds. One day I arrived at Sonoma Valley Regional Park while huge flocks of bluebirds circled the pathways. In this particular photo I simply zoomed in on a bright blue spot in a tree far away. From my vantage point with the naked eye, all I saw was blue. I had no idea of the colors and composition that awaited me. This was the perfect example of what we mean when we say “through my lens.” The camera allows us to see the world in a more intense, vibrant way. It allows us to document a single moment in time, making that moment and everything in it live forever.
CARS
Occasionally I will snap a picture that captures the image of California I developed watching movies and television in the 1950s and 1960s. Sonoma is a vintage car enthusiast’s dream.
Clouds
I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now.
Sorry. Sometimes photos bring out songs.
Sugarloaf with clouds
Cornerstone
Of course most people know Cornerstone in Sonoma because of the giant blue chair. I was a frequent visitor to the sculpture gardens, taking many photos on different days with different light and weather conditions. On March 30, 2013, I was determined to capture one sculpture in particular. It was a garden sculpture built around a piece of highway drainage pipe. Before posting this, I was tempted to show the photos before and after this one, to give an example of what goes into the process of getting the right lighting and framing. But I’ve decided that would detract from the final piece. So you’ll just have to take my word that it was not easy. In the background are the Mayacama Mountains that separate Sonoma County from Napa County.
Crimson Tree
On November 11, 2013, I was on the way home after a disappointing morning in search of a photo. The vineyards were all brown and most of the trees had already lost their leaves. As I passed the turnoff to Adobe Canyon Rd on Highway 12, I noticed a flash of red in my peripheral vision. It stood out like lightning striking against a dark black sky. I turned the car around and drove back to the parking lot of Landmark Vineyards where I spent an hour walking around the red tree, trying to find the best position to give it the attention it deserved. In subsequent autumns I watched this tree carefully to see if it would once again reveal its crimson beauty. But in that autumn of 2013, it seems to have been at its best. I am grateful I captured it then. So many times I had forfeited those special moments because of time restrictions or inability to turn the car around. That’s the fate of a photographer. Always wondering about the lightning moments we have sacrificed, wondering how they would have looked through our lenses
Dragonflies and Butterflies
In the beginning I believed photographing dragonflies and butterflies was simply a stroke of luck. My first few were exactly that. I’d be photographing a flower and a butterfly would land nearby, then click, I’d have a great photo. But after I got “the bug” I became obsessed. I would see them flying through the air and I would go running after them. When they would fly over a fence or into someone’s back yard, I convinced myself I had given it my all, and that was enough. But every now and then my obsession would pay off, like with this dragonfly. I chased him down the fisherman’s path at Spring Lake for a few hundred yards before he landed.
Feast or Famine
We certainly get our share of everything weather-wise. This is Spring Lake Park doing what it was intended to do after heavy rains. My dog friend Beso and I knew all the upper trails to get us to positions to document these weather events. It was fascinating to witness the clean-up when the water finally receded. We owe a lot of respect and gratitude to the employees of the County Parks.
Fence
Over the years, repeatedly traveling the same county roads, I became accustomed to pulling off road at prime spots to see “if this is the day” when all the gods would smile on my camera. This was one of those days for a great portrait of a fence.
Friends come in varied sizes
When I started walking without a dog at my side, I realized I had entered a different reality. Sitting on a bench overlooking Lake Ralphine, I was amused by the ground squirrels popping in and out of their burrows. I was already well into my experiment of connecting with wildlife through meditation. I simply began having conversations with the squirrels in a calm soft voice, the way I would talk to a dog.
At first I thought it was cute the way they seemed to gather round me as if they were an attentive audience at a Ted Talk. But I always wondered in these situations, if I was anthropomorphizing. But who cares, really? They had their experience, for whatever reason, and I got to have mine. Then one day one of the squirrels climbed up my pant leg and sat on my lap. I was delighted, but that was tempered by the realization that this squirrel was exhibiting the same characteristics all my dogs had displayed. He was begging for food. Consequently, at every other visit I coincidentally found peanuts in my pocket. I wonder if there is a word like anthropomorphizing that describes attributing characteristics of a dog to a squirrel. Once again, who cares?
Same place, different times
It’s fascinating to see photos of the same spot over many years. The first time I saw the broken gate at the edge of the horse meadow near Sonoma Valley Regional Park, I felt it was both a natural work of art as well as a storyteller. I imagined a storm brought a limb from the oak tree crashing down upon the gate one windy winter night. It became a landmark on my daily walks with Zoe, as well as a remembrance of her after she died. I found it difficult to just walk on by without snapping another picture. It became a measure of the seasons and a barometer of the weather. But then one day in October 2017, it told its last story, of fire that ravaged the meadow sending the horses fleeing for their lives. The pages of its storybook would have been erased forever had I not inadvertently saved them on my hard drive.
Giant Dogs
As I sift through 200,000 photos in an attempt to organize them, I’m coming to terms with the fallibility of my memory with respect to time. At this juncture in my life, everything seems like it happened just yesterday. One of the hard things about being a wildlife or animal photographer is knowing how short the life spans of my subjects are. I have no idea how many of my friends are still around, but since they are now out of reach anyway, I miss them just the same.
These Clydesdales at Beltane Ranch are some of my favorites. If I had to choose one word to describe them, it would be affectionate. Every time I visited them, they seemed like giant dogs, wagging their tails, running to greet their human coming home from work at the end of the day. Whenever I was in their presence, I felt calm and safe, like the whole world was as beautiful and kind as they were.
HIGHWAY 12
Living in Oakmont, Highway 12, is like a major artery that pumps blood to the heart. It’s the only access to the rest of the world. I eventually got to a point where I dreaded riding in a car with someone else driving. They couldn’t anticipate the moments when I needed to make a quick about face because of a photo opportunity that could possibly disappear within minutes or seconds. They couldn’t possibly understand my need to make dozens of pullovers to shoot hundreds of photos of landscapes, wildlife, wild flowers and sunrises. They were focused on the destination, while I was focused on the journey. Although it sounds antithetical, my life was serendipitous by design.
Horses
I first learned of the connection of horses to healing when my nephew’s son was born with down syndrome. It is probably one of the most recognized acknowledgements of the healing power of horses. In all of my interactions with horses over the years, I always remember a feeling of calmness when in their presence. I never wanted to leave. There was a palpable bond that left me with a feeling of respect and love. When I got out of my car they would all run to the fence to greet me, very appreciative of my fingers scratching their foreheads down to the snout. This photo is a perfect representation of the intuitive intimacy of horses.
HWY 121
In order to catch the perfect moment I must arrive at least 30 minutes before the official sunrise. Forty five minutes would be optimal. Each sunrise photo shoot lasts at least an hour. But sometimes the sunrise just presents itself while I’m driving down the road, like this one on Highway 121 in 2012.
In Search Of Barns
I’m German/American. What can I say? I’m Obsessive Compulsive. But I’ve always tried to direct it into positive projects. So in 2012/13, I went in search of Sonoma County Barns. It was so much fun. I believe this one speaks for itself.
Komorebi
Komorebi is a Japanese term to describe the special effect of sunlight filtered through trees. Anyone who has walked in forests understands the undeniable effect this has on one’s mental state. As a photographer, I learned the value of komorebi in the color, light and composition of photographs. I cannot explain the complex details of why, but can only offer examples.
Landscapes
I’ve probably seen Valley of the Moon from more perspectives than most. I’ve driven down narrow roads where I’ve had to carefully navigate past huge trucks going the opposite direction loaded with grapes. We would both hang our heads out the windows as we crept forward with just inches between us. I’ve also learned how to back up without falling into a ravine, because I had no other choice. But it was always worth the struggle.
Lavender and Sunflowers
I had a very special relationship with Matanzas Creek Winery on Bennett Valley Rd. I used to take my dog Zoe there for lunches overlooking the fields of lavender. In June 2016, I returned for another solitary lunch, as I had often done during the two years since Zoe died. It was like a pilgrimage honoring a cherished part of my life. As I walked through the lavender, the memory of Zoe walking beside me could not be avoided. I think that was the draw that kept me coming back. In my mind, those lunches were not solitary. Zoe was always there beside me.
On this particular day, June 29, the lavender was in bloom. As I attempted to find the right angle for an image that would be true to what I witnessed with my naked eye, I could hear the soft, persistent buzz of the thousands of bees who had come to pollinate the lavender. Focusing on the sound of the bees, I closed my eyes to imagine the hills above my village Loutro, in the Greek islands, covered with thyme in the early spring. Perhaps it was the fragrance of lavender that took me out of my body, sending me to cozy memories that massaged my soul.
It didn’t take long to realize that the kind of photo of lavender I desired could not be had in the midday sun. It would happen in the early morning light when everything was still covered in mist from the fog. I had learned it’s possible to save a shoot like this by looking around for an alternative subject. At the far end of the field I noticed sunflowers. I spent an hour photographing the different species from every angle and direction, hoping at least one would jump out at me when I loaded them into my computer.
Learning as I Go
Long, long time ago, I would think, I’ve photographed too many mallards already. That was a mistake. As a photographer there is no such thing as photographing too many of any subject. As much as you may think you have already captured the perfect photo, there is always another right around the corner that may just be better. The main subject is just a part of the whole picture. There are a lot of other things going on in every individual picture.
Secrets.
I remember this day very well. It was December 13, 2015, and it would have been my mom’s 99th birthday. It was raining. Nothing very serious, but enough I thought, to send water over the Adobe Creek Waterfall. When I arrived I went directly to the waterfall to see if there was anything worth photographing. There was just enough water to send it cascading over the rocks and to swell the creek enough to send water downstream, but nothing really worth a picture. This triggered the implementation of the default Plan B, to search for a photo unrelated to my original intent.
Instead of turning right, up the stairs to Adobe Canyon Road, I went straight down the less traveled path along the north side of the creek. There I found a few mushrooms peeking out among the leaves and wood chips that had provided the necessary nutrients needed for their existence. Their placement was so perfect it seemed planned instead of random. But isn’t that the truth of nature, that even the randomness is planned. This photo embodies everything I look for in the perfect photo because it tells a story even without my text. Every time I returned to the waterfall after this visit, my intent was to photograph both the waterfall and the mushrooms. But I was never so delusional to believe that was all there was. I knew there were other secrets of the canyon yet to be discovered.
Lunch
This photo came as a result of my habit of following subjects through hours and hundreds if not thousands of shots. It’s a double fold benefit, because I learn valuable information about the behavior of wildlife as well as guaranteeing at least one awesome picture.
Not Just Another Duck
I had seen this guy hanging around with his mate in the same spot at Spring Lake day after day. Something told me to keep an eye on him, so I took pictures of him and his partner day after day. He was in this pose, with a small ray of sunshine illuminating his head, for about two minutes. When he stood up he looked like all the other male mallards again. Another example of the magnificent effect of Komorebi, sunlight filtered through trees.
Oakmont Wildlife
One of the things I truly miss about Oakmont is the fact that my connection to nature, (wildlife) was always just out my window or over the fence in my garden.
Patience
Sometimes it pays to just stay with a subject for hours. When this mallard finally climbed onto a rock in Howarth Park, it was worth the wait! I remember when I was a young amateur photographer, my model friend Sharron Wright would share her contact sheets with me. I was amazed at how many photos the photographer had to take before getting that perfect image. I am grateful I took that to heart. With digital photos, the process has been kicked up a notch, as Emerile Lugassi would say.
Peaceful
These are moments photographers smile upon. This picture is simple but full of stories. The light is the light of early morning. That’s when the vertical sunlight catches cobwebs and spider webs that become invisible in the noonday sun. The disheveled feathers bring questions. Is he a juvenile or just back from a quick dip in a nearby birdbath? The peeling and cracking of the perch indicate the end of the life of a branch of a tree. We have all learned to appreciate its beauty in the context of French country distressed furniture. But the most appealing aspect of this particular photo is its ability to pull us out of our stressful 21st century lives. Namaste!
Pelicans
A photographer friend, Diane Askew, flagged me down in the Highway 12 parking lot for Sonoma Valley Regional Park. She had just witnessed a flock of White Pelicans landing on Lake Suttonfield above the Sonoma Developmental Center. I drove to the lake entrance near the Arnold Drive bridge and quickly made my way up the hill. Another moment in Valley of the Moon history secured for future generations.
The Pink House
This is one of those moments that just falls into one’s lap. The light was perfect, the humidity was exactly right for deepening the pink pigment of the exterior. White smoke rose from the chimney to indicate life inside. The early morning sun illuminated the moss dripping from the trees. I had passed this small cottage many times before thinking it in need of repair, the lawn littered with various items. But on this morning in January 2012, it had put on it’s make-up ready for its close-up.
Poppies
On April 16, 2013, I was obsessed with getting the perfect shot of poppies in a vineyard. I drove through Sonoma and over the hill to Napa and back, frequently stopping along the way. But nothing satisfied me. Then on the way back I stopped along Highway 12 at Kunde Winery, determined to find that perfect shot before going home. I walked along the side of the road stopping at each row of vines, trying as many angles as possible. Then later, at my computer, I found this one photo that fit the bill. In that moment I was grateful for my three month old camera and even more grateful for the invention of digital photography.
PTSD
This is what PTSD looks like. Over the past two years, during my struggle with cancer, I’ve been involved in a project of sorting my 200,000 digital photos. I’ve been going through each day of photos in chronological order. Just days before reaching the October 8, 2017 photos, my PTSD started to become apparent. It’s like my life was now divided into two categories, before the Santa Rosa fire and after the fire. As I approached that fateful date among my photos, my stomach started to get queasy and I contemplated whether I really wanted to go further. The answer was yes. I knew it was part of the healing. The last pre-fire picture I took was of my equine friends on my way to Spring Lake Park early in the morning of October 8, 2017. When I took it that morning it represented a peaceful morning. But as I revisited that morning I had the urge to go back to warn them of what is about to transpire, to tell them nothing would ever be the same.
RESPECT
When I was a child growing up in Central Illinois, my father would drive us to the entrance of the cemetery where members of my family were buried. We would sit in the car beside a small pond where a pair of swans lived. I was fascinated with these magnificent waterfowl. My father had unknowingly triggered something inside me that I would carry throughout my life. In those brief encounters I developed an undeniable love for these graceful birds. During my travels around the world, I would sit quietly at the edges of lakes and ponds, observing from a distance, as I had in my childhood. But living in Sonoma County brought me head to head with these large powerful creatures.
Being in close proximity with swans brought up all the unfair myths about them being overly aggressive. I saw it in the same vein as the unfair generalizations about certain breeds of dogs. It’s often the human’s ignorance that creates the problem. So I read all the data I could find about the behavior of swans, so I could co-exist in harmony. I learned to respect their boundaries and they soon learned that I was not a threat. After years and thousands of photos, this is my favorite.
ROUTINES
One thing I noticed early on was that being in nature on a regular basis put me in touch with the routines or intuitive behavior of wildlife, especially birds. I had to constantly resist the urge to name my fine-feathered friends. When a passerby would scare one of my birds, I knew exactly where they would land on the other side of the lake. I came to know the best logs to fish from, the best perch to see mice scurrying across the field or the most dangerous path for turkeys who wanted to avoid becoming a coyote’s lunch. I learned to identify the songs of different birds or the frantic screeching calls warning of the flight of a hawk.
Rusty Vehicles
My fascination with old rusty vehicles is definitely a hold over from my childhood. My grandmother’s house was near an industrial area, so as kids we played in abandoned trucks, imagining we were Chicago gangsters during prohibition, or driving all our belongings to California because of the Dust Bowl. To some, these rusty vehicles are an eyesore, but to me they are tangible, hands on links to the past, to our history.
The rust is like grey hair on a senior human, connoting wisdom from experience. The peeling leather seats speak of decades of hot sun beating down upon the metal frame. The door handles remind me of riding to the corner on the running board of my dad’s basic black 1940s sedan. I see beauty and pride, from a time when things were built strong to last. There it sits, speaking the same truth to everyone who passes. “Many things and beings have come and gone, but I’m still here. I may be tattered and worn, but my beauty is not superficial, it’s internal.”
Scottish Highland Cow
What could I possible say about this photo that it doesn’t already say for itself? On the road to Jack London Park.
Sonoma Wildlife
This green heron was just one of my children. Walking the same paths daily for eight years allowed me to become part of the nature community. We had all accepted the presence of each other, determining that we meant no harm to each other. If one of my feathered friends was frightened by an unaware intruder, I knew exactly the escape flight plan. I could walk through a gaggle of sleeping Canada Geese without any of them being disturbed. I made it a point to talk to them regularly in a soft reassuring voice so they would know I meant them no harm. It all just became a part of my normal daily routine. I had no idea how much it would hurt, when I became separated from such a perfect life.
Spring Lake
One of the most important aspects of being a nature photographer is to be “in the room where it happens.” I had the advantage of being there for hours everyday at different times of the day. This photo was truly a gift. What I saw with my naked eyes was exactly what I was able to capture with my camera. This is the epitome of the expression “a picture is worth a thousand words.” This picture says so much.
Spring Lake Boat Dog
There are different ways to get perfect photos. One way is hard work, standing in one place for hours shooting hundreds, if not thousands of photos. Then of course there is always chance. But in order for chance to kick in, you have to be there. It doesn’t hurt when everyday of your life is spent walking through the parks of Sonoma with a camera around your neck.
I saw these two on Spring Lake several times in the previous weeks. I never miss the chance to photograph a dog, so I was delighted to witness this duo in the fishing boat. The boat reminded me of my father’s fishing boat back in Illinois. The moment I saw the duo on this particular day, I knew my perfect photo was just minutes away.
SQUIRRELS
When I was 16 years old, the nextdoor neighbor to my sister Pat was preparing to move to a senior home. Mr. Wright’s family was in the process of selling most of his belongings. I volunteered to help him, because I already had experience helping other seniors since I was 14. My experience with Ruth Villars, an elderly woman on Tennessee Avenue, taught me the value of the lives and experiences of my elders. Ruth had such an interesting life, I wanted to emulate her and her husband’s life. As Mr. Wright laid out the details of his own memories, I was caught again in the desire to emulate the most interesting aspects of his life.
So what does this have to do with squirrels? Fair question. Mr. Wright would stand at his backdoor in the mornings feeding peanuts to the squirrels. This was a revelation to me, that a man who displayed many of the most masculine attributes of other men in my life, could have a gentle side that allowed squirrels to crawl up his legs to sit on his shoulders! Mr. Wright gave me permission to be who I already was.
Stone Bridge Moon
I saw the moon from my kitchen window. It hung below a thin cloud layer that gave a golden glow to the bottom portion. I grabbed my tripod and set it up in the street facing the tree in Marilyn’s side yard. It was one of those moments when I frantically attempted to capture a gift that was never meant to last more than a moment in time. But I had the ability to make it last forever. I had accepted that as my purpose in life.
SUNFLOWERS
In 2015, I was obsessed with sunflowers. I knew the location of every sunflower on all my travel routes. I stopped occasionally to document the different stages of growth. It was a combination of learning as well as searching for the perfect photo in the perfect light. The position of the flowers in relation to the sun was also very important. Most of the time it’s good to have the sun behind you, instead of in front of you. On October 15, 2015, I did a shoot in the organic garden at St. Francis Winery on Highway 12. This is my favorite picture from that shoot.
The Polo Field
There are some subjects that beg to be photographed over and over. The horse sculptures on the Wild Oak Polo Field were right up there with the Golden Gate Bridge at sunrise. I spent many cold mornings sitting in my car in front of the Star Of The Valley Catholic Church waiting for the sun to illuminate the east end of the polo field. There was no chance of any of my shoots being repetitive. Every sunrise was as individual as a snowflake.
The Sacred Lotus Flower
When you walk the same paths everyday for nearly eight years, you become intimate with the environment. It allows you to understand the intricacies of nature like the changing of the seasons and the intuitive qualities of those who live in nature. A human with a camera is another creature entirely. Our agenda is to witness and document beauty that sometimes lasts no more than a minute or even a few seconds, as well as others that may last a few days or weeks.
I followed the life of this Lotus flower in the gardens of Quarryhill for months, watching the leaves push their ways from the muddy water into the light. The buds soon turned into beautiful flowers that only live for three days, but a lotus plant can live for more than a thousand years. On this morning in September 2015, I was pleased to be able to preserve the image of this sacred flower anointed with dew.
THE WATERFALL
If I knew absolutely nothing about science, I’d still understand that something special was in the air in Adobe Canyon after each substantial rainfall. The combination of rainfall and currents crashing on rocks electrifies the air with negative ions. Those negative ions are a major mood changer. Every one of my visits to the falls is a memory of being enveloped in peace.
I would often arrive at the path to the waterfall in pain, knowing that my slow descent into the canyon would deliver me to a short respite from the struggles outside the canyon. I wonder how many others have experienced the same healing without understanding it. This photo triggers many senses. I feel the moist air that soothes my lungs. I hear the rushing water as it throws out negative ions. I see the shimmering green that was one day before dull and dusty. I smell the after shower freshness. I experience an inner peace that always comes when I remove myself from all the trappings of a modern world. I understand that I have come home.
A trip to Sugarloaf, March 26, 2013
Good Speed Trail was exactly an 8 minute drive from my front door in Oakmont. Many afternoons were spent sitting on the rocks in the creek, listening to the sound of water running between my feet.
Unforgettable Faces
Some faces have so much character, you want to study them closely in order to understand what they have been through. This one came to the fence as I was photographing an old barn on the other side of the road. When I turned around, there he was begging to be captured.
Vineyard In The Rain
I waited until the weather radar showed a break in the rain. On the way to Sonoma Valley Regional Park, I passed Kenwood Vineyards as I did each morning on Highway 12. On November 20, 2013, it was “the perfect storm.” Just the right number of cold mornings with Jack Frost’s paintbrush, combined with the perfect amount of rain, created what I call “Vineyard in the Rain.” I went back each consecutive year only to learn what a treasure my 2013 capture was.
Vineyards
In every season, in every state of being, the vineyards are beautiful to behold. I feel lucky to have had this canvas to work with.
Acorn Woodpeckers
When I first started hiking the trails of Sonoma Valley Regional Park I still had a lot to learn. Many of the birds were new to me, especially the acorn woodpeckers. I heard them in the background for many months before I actually saw one to attach the song to a body. But they were still pretty hard to photograph. But then one day they had a woodpecker convention in a tree at the top of the hill beside the water tower. After that I knew how to find them, developing a successful strategy that led to thousands of photos of these colorful birds over the next few years.
Sunrise on the Polo Field
There is nothing like the adrenaline rush of a perfect sunrise. You know it’s coming even before the officially designated time on the clock. It lasts for 45 minutes to an hour, ever changing, surprising you with its ability to offer one breathtaking view after another. Then comes the daunting task of choosing the right one to represent the joy you experienced first hand.
THE ACCIDENTAL PHOTOGRAPHER
When I was 24 years old, I accepted a job as model for a 70-year-old art instructor at the Fort Lauderdale Art Institute. On my first day of modeling for Michael Angelo DiVincenzo, I assumed I was just picking up a little extra pocket change. I was picking up change all right. He changed the way I see the world! I was lucky that my first day on the job was for a portrait class where Mr. Di was explaining that human flesh consists of a combination of reds, yellows and blues. For someone who had never contemplated anything beyond choosing a flesh colored Crayon, this was a revolutionary idea. In Mr. Di’s class I learned about art, color, meditation and yoga. After the first day I always felt the small payment I received for modeling was somehow cheating on my part. Everyone else had to pay tuition to attend.
When I moved to Washington, DC in the late 1970s I got a job as an artist’s model at the Corcoran School of Art. By this time I understood the perks of modeling. I perfected my practice of meditation and holding poses while taking in more information about the world of art and the perspective of artists. While I found it all fascinating, I always knew I could never draw a stick figure that could compete with a three year old. But I still obtained a knowledge of light, form, texture, color, composition and proportion that changed the way I saw the world.
In the early 1980s I played around with a Canon AE1, as an amateur photographer. When I started to travel the world, I opted for a simple camera that was lighter to carry. My focus soon turned to other things, so I lost interest in taking pictures. But my vision of the world around me was still influenced by the perspective I learned in Mr. Di’s portrait classes.
My fascination with photography was put aside for almost two decades, but my involvement in the art world continued. During a twenty year relationship with artists Beth Van Hoesen and Mark Adams, my inadvertent art education continued. Beth’s work was the perfect example of how an artist’s love of her subject brings spirit and life into her work. Especially her animals. In working with Mark, I learned to see and feel texture, color, light and perspective. By witnessing the unfolding of the artistic abilities of my late partner Rob, I was able to understand how to allow natural talent to develop unobstructed.
When I took up permanent residence in Sonoma County California in 2011, I was unable to ignore the influence of my 34-year friendship with artist Jack Stuppin. Even before making the permanent move from San Francisco, I always imagined Jack’s golden landscapes as I gazed through the windshield coming down the Highway 101 grade at Marin Civic Center. Watching Jack’s development through the 1980s gave me a good sense of how to embrace my own passion as a natural achievable goal. For me, Jack was the first example of the California spirit that allows us to believe anything is possible. When I point my camera at a late summer Sonoma landscape, it’s impossible not to think, “there’s another Jack Stuppin moment.”
As a former world traveler, I often worried about becoming a bitter old man wallowing in memories of better days. But my move to Sonoma County very quickly allayed those fears. Living among more than 12,000 acres of protected public lands gives me the feeling of being blessed to live in paradise. I wake up each morning looking forward to the healing aspects of beautiful nature and wildlife.
Last but not least, I owe a great debt of gratitude to our beloved dog Zoe who taught me how to stop to smell the roses. She took me down paths I would not have taken, teaching me the perspective of a dog, reminding me of the value of loving my subjects the way Beth loved her animals. Zoe awakened an awareness of my connection to all other living beings. Through my lens I am able to capture the spirit of my subjects because I love and respect them the way I loved Zoe. Zoe taught me how to be a part of nature instead of just an observer. Today I carry Zoe in my heart. She guides me through the fields and forests, reminding me to pay attention to all my senses. Each time I capture another rare moment in nature, I have Zoe to thank for my special perspective.
In October, 2013, Zoe introduced me to a wood duck in Santa Rosa’s Spring Lake Park. On the third day of five days with the duck, I realized I had gained his trust. I was able to get close enough to capture his spirit the way I was able to capture Zoe’s spirit. In the intimate piece I call Lucky Duck, the fact that he keeps his beak tucked under his feathers illustrates his trust for me. I was able to create a close bond with the duck that laid the foundation for the way I take photos of wildlife. I do not use a powerful telephoto lens to capture wildlife. I believe in getting up close and personal. I believe the personal relationship I established with my subjects is reflected in my photos.
