What you can do

So you’re sitting at home or killing time at work, and you’re thinking, “Wow, Liz sure seems up on Barack Obama—maybe she’s on to something there. But I have, like, zero free time and I’m completely broke . . . what can I do to help?”

I’m glad you asked, because I’ve got the answer: You can go to http://www.barackobama.com and click on Make Calls. If you haven’t already registered at the site, you’ll have to do that (it’s quick and easy), and then, if you’re at the site between the hours of 9 a.m. and 9 p.m. in the time zone you’re calling, you’ll be given a list of people’s first names. Click on the first name on the list, a phone number appears, and make the call. You’re given a script to read, and you click on the person’s response to move on to the next bit of the script. Kind of like Choose Your Own Adventure, except the person you’re calling is doing the choosing and the stakes are much higher.

I made a handful of calls today, and it took me just a few minutes. You can literally make just one call if you want. It couldn’t be easier.

I’m in Flak Photo today!

Check it out.

Copyright © Flak Photo

Tierney Gearon: The Mother Project

Tonight at UCSB I saw The Mother Project, a documentary about Tierney Gearon and her photo project of the same name, and heard a Q&A with Tierney afterward. I’d known of her work and was happy to have the chance to see her in person. The thing is, I don’t know what to make of her—not just based on the documentary but based on her Q&A, which was incredibly honest and yet tortuous, much like the film—and that’s affecting my perception of her work in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

The inspiration of Zoe Strauss

When I feel like I can’t quite figure out where I’m going or what I’m doing or why, I turn to the people I respect and admire, reading their words, listening to their music, looking at their photographs, hearing their voices. One of the people at the top of my list is Zoe Strauss, and I was really happy to find this little piece from NY Arts magazine.

Overheard outside Paul Kopeikin Gallery

“Oh, I just love a big dog. They’re so bourgeois!”

How do you know when it’s over?

In yet another analogy between photography and relationships, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about photo projects and how the photographer can tell when they’re over. There comes a point when you’ve invested so much time, so much energy, and so many dreams in something that the thought of walking away from it and closing the door is hard to wrap your mind around. And yet walking away may be the best thing you could possibly do.

I’ve been lucky enough to have only one truly awful relationship in my life, and I knew it was awful about three months after we moved in together. I stayed in the relationship another nine months after that. For all nine of those months, I agonized over what to do. What if things get better? What if he stops drinking? I prided myself on my loyalty and devotion and stick-to-itiveness. (Right around the time this was going on, I was listening to a lot of Tracy Chapman, and her song “Devotion”* really summed it up. I remember listening to that in the car and crying at the realization that I was that person. I stayed in it another six months.)

I never actually did get the strength to break free. Our lease expired, he bought a house, I rented a separate house, and one day he didn’t return my call. I scraped up enough pride not to call him back and two months went by. Nothing. Finally, I called him and said we needed to talk. We met at a small park. He let me say the lines of the person doing the breaking up, even though he was clearly the one who’d closed the door on the relationship first. I sobbed, he stared off in the distance. And then in the end, I stood on the sidewalk clinging to him and he had to peel me off of him and straight-arm me away.

That experience changed me in several ways, I’m sure, but the one that has always been the most obvious to me is my newfound unwillingness to stick with things that aren’t working. Whether it’s a class in grad school or a friendship or a trip, where before I would’ve stuck it out, tried to make it work, now I walk away, without regret. Obviously, it’s not all or nothing—there are still plenty of things that I stick with through difficult times, and I don’t expect things to be perfect. But I’m much more attuned now to things that have begun that permanent downward spiral, as opposed to those that are just temporarily amok.

Though there are many aspects of my In Store project that I like, it’s not working for me anymore. The problem is, I’m not sure if it’s permanent or temporary. I’m pleased with some of the work I did on it, and I feel like I cut my teeth on the experience. But I just don’t care about it the way I once did. Recently, I tried to infuse it with some enthusiasm by sending out an e-mail to friends letting them know that I was looking to photograph people who had stuff in storage, with their stored stuff, and I’ve gotten over a dozen responses from people all over the country who are eager to be part of the project, but I haven’t scheduled anything with any of them. I photographed my friend Shannon’s husband with some of his stuff, and it was okay, but nothing special.

I’m not afraid to push through things that are difficult, to work hard, to struggle. But I’ve always known, with my photography, when I was on the right path. Sometimes I’ve come back from a shoot and not been pleased with any of the photographs, but I’ve still felt excited about the project. I don’t feel that excitement anymore. I’m looking at other projects, considering the possibilities, thinking they’re more interesting. And yet, I’ve really spent a lot of time on In Store, and I don’t feel like it’s done. The question is, am I?

The solution I’ve come up with in the past thirty seconds is to choose one of my other ideas and start working on it. Maybe force myself not to do anything In Store related for a couple months. And then revisit it in April or May and see if I’ve moved on or if it grabs me again.

I appreciate the encouragement I’ve gotten from people. They say I should keep going with it, not give up. And that’s good to hear, for sure. But it doesn’t really matter if it’s a good project or if people are interested in it if I’m not passionate about the project myself. The photographs will suck if I don’t care, and I care too much to let that happen.

* “Devotion,” by Tracy Chapman

If I am right
If I can be
Constant and faithful
You’ll find me

In my devotion
In my devotion

What if you find a fault
Between my purpose and my deeds
And deem me beyond salvation
Judge me to be unworthy

Of your devotion
Of your devotion

If this be obsession deliver me
A passing infatuation deliver me
A feeling lacking in purity deliver me
A test of fidelity deliver me
Deliver me
Deliver me

What if I should find
You’re no good for me
What if I can’t be strong enough
What if I can’t break free

Of my devotion
Of my devotion

Domesticated, contemporary art, and Indian food

Amy’s opening was amazing and beautiful and all the things that you would hope an opening would be. Her work is simply incredible.

On my way into L.A., the photo shoot I had lined up fell through when the subject’s wife went into labor, so I had way more time down there than I had planned. That gave me a chance to stop in quickly and see Amy and then walk down to LACMA where I discovered that admission was free because of the opening of the Broad Contemporary Art Museum. I scored one of the last available tickets (free, but you still needed a ticket) to get into the BCAM, and I did a whirlwind walk-through of the place. The building is great, and then there’s the art. Say what you will about what’s missing, there are Basquiat and Lichtenstein and Warhol and Kruger and Sherman and Serra and way, way more. I need to go back when I have more time.

After about 45 minutes in the museum, I walked back to the gallery where Amy introduced me to photographer Patrick Romero, who reads my blog and has commented here and who should really, really get his own blog or Web site because his work is too good not to be seen by a big audience. Then off for dinner (Indian food, very good) on Paul Kopeikin. I was lucky enough to be assigned the seat (yes, we were told where to sit by Mr. Kopeikin himself) next to Amy’s husband, John, who is ridiculously fun to talk to. All in all, a great night.

Oh, in case I didn’t already mention it, the show, it was fantastic.

Amy Stein opening

If you’re in Southern California tonight, get yourself to Paul Kopeikin Gallery, 6150 Wilshire Boulevard (at Fairfax), between 6 and 8 p.m. for the opening of Amy Stein’s first solo show, Domesticated. It’s a show you really don’t want to miss. (Look for me in blue jeans, a blue sweater, and a camel corduroy peacoat, and say hi.)

Reality

I couldn’t seem to work today. Spent several hours making iTunes playlists and sorting through my music. I hadn’t realized it before, but when I was in my teens and twenties, everything was all about escape for me. I played music and daydreamed about the future. Somewhere around the time I moved to Los Angeles, in my late twenties, the future arrived, and music wasn’t about daydreaming anymore. There used to be another universe going on in my mind. Make-believe or fairy tales. I like reality better now, even with Bush in the White House.

Listening to “Rehab” by Amy Winehouse.

What happens in Vegas . . . oh, who cares?

I was in Las Vegas this week at a self-storage trade show and expo, and the scene was surreal. I’d never been to Vegas before, and I was looking forward to the kitsch of it all, sure that I’d have a photographic field day with the place. As Boo Radley and I pulled into Vegas Wednesday night, I actually said aloud, “Oh god, the excess.” I don’t think I’m a prude (I’m the same person who thinks Los Angeles is about the closest thing to heaven on earth), but every time I stepped outside in that town, I felt like I needed to take a shower.

Though the trade show was being held at the Sands Expo Center, which is attached to the Venetian, I opted for the lower-cost Westin, about a mile away. Still a nice hotel. (I grew up staying in places like the Four Seasons, the Ritz-Carlton, and the Drake—my mom’s idea of camping was the Holiday Inn—but the past ten or fifteen years it’s been Motel 6 and the Best Western all the way.) I checked in, got my luggage, and on the way to the elevators, Boo shit on the lobby’s marble floor. Apparently, his opinion of Vegas was in line with my own.

I walked the mile to the Sands on Thursday morning, toting a luggage cart with two boxes of prints, plus my portfolio box and my computer bag. Not a smart move. When I got there, I stood around for about forty-five minutes while people tried to figure out where to find the table, chair, and easels that I had been promised. As soon as they arrived, I reached into my box to pull out my first framed print and sliced open my finger on the metal of the picture frame. It’s not like I’ve never cut myself before, and I wasn’t too concerned, but as I wandered around trying to find something, anything, to wrap around my finger (paper towel, rag), the blood eventually covered my hand and started running down my arm. I finally found the bathroom, where three or four ladies gasped when I walked in looking as though I’d just botched a suicide attempt.

Band-Aid in place, I was back at my skirted table with the white plastic table cover, fielding questions from trade-show attendees about my work. Several people took photos of my photos with their cellphones, and when I stopped the first one, he said, “Oh, I was just really admiring the paneling on the side of that building there.” This was the tone of the remainder of the event, and from there on out, I didn’t question people who took photographs. To be fair, they were there to gather practical advice about building and running a self-storage facility, so anything even resembling art was as out of place at the Sands as Boo Radley was on the Strip. I talked to several people who were really interested in having me photograph their places and were enthusiastic about the project. Truly nice people. One guy from L.A. wanted to let me photograph his place in exchange for my providing him with the negatives for him to use in advertising. (Don’t worry, John Harrington. I didn’t bite.) Two guys who were obviously brothers, if not twins, read my project statement, laughed, and said, “Good luck with that.”

You can’t really take yourself too seriously in Vegas.

Thursday afternoon I spent an hour in an urgent-care place to get the tetanus shot that I was due to get anyway this year. (Better safe than sorry.) And that night, Boo and I walked down to the Bellagio and back, just to see the famous water display out front. He was amazingly good there on the Strip and only tried to herd people (i.e., bite their ankles) a few times.

Friday morning I walked through the Venetian on the way to the Sands, past the “Grand Canal” and by a group of singing “gondoliers.” If I’d chosen to stay in the Venetian, I’d have paid $259 per night (that was the reduced rate for conference attendees), or a total of $518 before taxes and fees. I stayed in Venice, Italy, for a few nights and paid less than that for a lovely little room in a pensione. What the hell is wrong with Americans? That’s all I could think—and that’s when I knew it was time I got back to California. (And they say Los Angeles is fake.)

I cut out a little early on Friday and though I wasn’t back in Santa Barbara until 9:30 p.m., I started to feel at home once I got past Pasadena and into Glendale and Burbank and Studio City. My mood picked up markedly when I saw the ocean, and I don’t think there’s any danger of my hitting Vegas again anytime soon.

The reason behind the inspiration

This video, by Larry Lessig, perfectly sums up why I voted for Barack Obama and why I urge everyone—those who’ve already voted, those who’ve not yet had that chance, and those of you around the world (hey, you can lobby your American friends, can’t you?)—to support his candidacy.

via Personism

Yes, we can

There has never been anything false about hope.

—Barack Obama