Soldier and dogs

This video is titled, “My dogs greeting me after returning from 14 months in Iraq.” Seems like a good way to end a bad week.

via AC360°

Jack, 199?–2008

I had to put down Jack today. He’s been with me since August 1995, my entire adult life, through snowstorms and boystorms and a cross-country move. And though it’s hard to throw a Kong Ball to Boo Radley through tears, I’m so glad I have him. He doesn’t replace Jack, of course, but life goes on, and that’s never more apparent than when Boo jumps on me and wants to play.

Love your dog a little more tonight.

Copyright © 2005 Liz Kuball

Copyright © 2005 Liz Kuball

Copyright © 2005 Liz Kuball

Day at a time, I suppose

Where I am right now—in terms of my frame of mind—is the result of influences that read like the recipe for school-cafeteria goulash. The stock, the foundation of this recipe, is all about 2007 being a year of intense, exponential growth for me photographically. So much happened, in such a short period of time, that I wrote at the end of the year about it having felt longer than 12 months, and it did. So with that as the foundation, it’d be pretty hard for 2008 to come close. And so far, it hasn’t. Throw in some Dara Torres and Michael Phelps, some good old-fashioned politics, and a heaping dose of my recent viewing of The Wire, and that’s where I’m at. An intense passion for things as they are, for complex characters, for beauty in unlikely places, for never giving up and turning naysayers into fuel for the fire.

A project I’ve been dancing around for six months or so crystallized for me in two moments last week: a phone call with my mother in which I described where I live, and a walk down the street with Boo, where what I saw before me—the person, the car, the light, the scene—cut right to the heart of this place. And suddenly I knew what the project was about, why I was interested in it, what I was looking for.

I’m starting to see a path in the woods, starting to see where I want to go, and it’s making sense in a way that—despite all the joy that was 2007—I didn’t feel last year. It’s not as easy as all that, not as simple. But I think there’s more substance to it, more staying power. It’ll stick to the ribs.

Now is the time

A while ago, I turned off comments on my blog. I was sick of them, frankly. Sick of the reminder that people were out there reading my words. That seems naïve, I know. You publish a blog, you post regularly, and you get readers—that’s the way it works. But nevertheless, I started finding even the most innocuous comments an intrusion, as awful as that sounds. (I should be so lucky to have readers—how could I turn on them in this way?)

I realized yesterday—or maybe the realization finally crystallized—that my desire to turn off the comments was less about turning off the comments and more about stepping away from the blog and the world of blogs.

It is so easy, when your Google Reader is always full of excellent photographs, to feel as though the rest of the world is producing constantly, consistently, at a level you’re simply incapable of. It’s almost as if all the photographers whose blogs I read have become one photographer in my mind, and that one photographer never stops, never has to work, never gets sick or lacks inspiration. I know this isn’t true, of course—know that they all have their own struggles, that they all work hard to produce the work they do. But when all you see are the beautiful photographs, it’s hard to keep that in mind.

When S. and I were first together, I clung to him. Not literally, but so figuratively that it was almost literal. I was afraid that if I passed up one opportunity to spend time with him, one of two things would happen: (1) He would find someone else, or (2) he would die, and the last memory I would have would be of my saying no. The first fear came from years of insecurity, plus a cheating boyfriend or two for good measure. The second came from early losses in my life, as well as the very real fact that he’s simply an age at which people die without eliciting shocked gasps from those who read their obituaries. The why—on both counts—is less important than the what, and the what is less important than the effect it had on me, and on our relationship.

At some point in the past couple years, and honestly it’s been more of an evolution than the result of some turning point, I realized he loved me, and that I didn’t have to hold on so tight, that if he found someone else, well, that would be his loss, and if he died, well, that would be mine, but either way, I can’t control it. And it’s been so much better, in every way, since.

All of which is a way of saying that I’m feeling clingy with the blog. Feeling lucky to have drawn in some readers, and not wanting to lose them by not posting regularly. Feeling lucky to have gotten a tiny bit of attention for my work, and not wanting to lose that by not producing more. And not only that, but what if I don’t read all the other blogs out there? What if I miss out on something brilliant, something important, something crucial to my education as a photographer?

It’s time to let go. To stop focusing on the quantity of work that’s out there and focus on the work that matters to me. (Thanks, Ben, for that reminder.) To have faith that, if and when I start back up—whether that’s a week from now, a month from now, or longer—you’ll find me again. And if you don’t, I can’t control that. It’s time to focus on what I can control—my work—and nothing more.

I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Keep me in your Google Reader (or add me if I’m not already there), and chances are, my name will be bold all over again someday, and I’ll have something new to add to the conversation, some new light to shed, some new work to share. Until then, I’ll make like Alec and leave you with some words—Eastman, though, not Whitman:

Now it is day.
The sun is up.
Now is the time
for all dogs to get up.

“Get up!”
It is day.
Time to get going.
Go, dogs. Go!

—P. D. Eastman (from Go, Dog. Go!)

Timothy Briner in the house

Well, not in the house actually, but in town. Tim was on his way up to Boonville, California, and he stopped in Santa Barbara for breakfast Monday. In between my keeping Boo occupied and away from other people’s food, we had a great conversation about photography and traveling and projects and school. I wish I’d had my camera with me to get a shot of the back deck of his car: an Ilford box, Susan Sontag’s On Photography, and sundry other photo-related items.

Thanks for stopping by, Tim! Come back any time.

Overheard outside Paul Kopeikin Gallery

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

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 10 or 15 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 45 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 cell phones, 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.

Felipe

After I took Felipe’s picture, I told S., who was patiently waiting in my illegally parked Jeep with Sally and Boo, that although I’m often excited when I’ve taken a picture of a building or a storage facility or some inanimate object that really grabs me, I don’t think it compares to having gotten a picture (that I really like) of a stranger. Photographing people is much harder, but the payoff, for me at least, is exponentially greater.

Copyright © 2007 Liz Kuball

The girl in the gold Jaguar

Much harder to get a portrait on a weekday than it was over the weekend—that pesky day job got in the way. Plus, Boo Radley, the coolest dog in the world, tested positive for roundworms today. Disgusting. And how the hell can you make a decent portrait when you’re mired in Internet research about roundworms and worrying that you’ve caught it and will go blind, despite the fact that you’d pretty much have to be eating dirt to get it, and last you checked, though you do have the palate of a kindergartener, dirt is not on the menu? (S. says I remind him of the Anthony Edwards character from Northern Exposure. I’ve never seen the show, but I have a pretty good idea what a hypochondriac he must’ve been.)

I asked four people and got rejections before I found this girl, who talked on the phone while I took her picture and while her mother waited for her in their gold Jaguar. Nice girl, but not such a great picture.

Copyright © 2007 Liz Kuball

The picture I didn’t get was of two teenagers making out. (Do people still say “making out,” or have I just made myself sound as bad as my mom does when she refers to people “necking”? Necking? Jesus.) They were leaned up against a car, and they were interesting to look at and would’ve made a wonderful photograph, but there was no way to get them without asking, and when I asked, the boy said yes and the girl said no, and 50-50 doesn’t cut it.

Meet Boo Radley

Copyright © 2007 Liz Kuball

This just in: JPG rejects Sally; Sally says WTF

Word just in from JPG that my photograph of Sally has not been included in the latest issue. Damn. There goes our plan to set her up outside of Borders with a little card table, a stack of magazines, and an ink pad for paw prints. When I told her, she grumbled something about the fucking magazine editors and who did they think they were.

Copyright © 2007 Liz Kuball

I started to tell her she’d best get used to this kind of thing if she’s going to consort with a photographer, but before I could finish the sentence, she caught a whiff of something and was gone, raising hell with the wildlife and showing the world who’s boss. If Sally were a human, I’m confident she’d be Zoe Strauss.

I can only hope to be half as cool.

Hey, Hot Shot! featured me!

Hey, so I was featured on the Hey, Hot Shot! blog today! (Greg Wasserstrom broke the news to me in his comment on my last post. I would’ve seen it anyway—I love checking out all the work of the HHS contenders and winners—but how cool that I got the word from such a great photographer instead.)

If you don’t know about HHS, definitely check it out—and enter your own work! It’s one of the best outlets for emerging photographers. Getting your work in front of those jurors is a big deal in and of itself, and if you win, well come on. The deadline is August 7 at 11:59 p.m. (Psst! I’ve been following the HHS blog for a while now and they seem to extend the deadline every time. No guarantees they’ll do it this time, though. All the more reason to get your stuff in early.)

P.S. When I got out of bed this morning, this was what my bed looked like. Jack did not move. He was like that nearly all night. See that tiny little strip between his head and the edge of the mattress? That’s where I spent most of the night, seriously considering getting down on the floor and onto his dog bed that I paid an arm and a leg for. Where is the justice in this? Let’s not get into the fact that the first thing I did after getting out of bed was take this picture.

$200 for a memory-foam dog bed

And Jack still prefers my bed to his.

Copyright © 2007 Liz Kuball

Waiting room

Waiting for word on Sally, arguably the most amazing dog in the world, who had a run-in with a car this afternoon and whose yowling scared me so much I threw down my camera (which I usually guard with my life) and ran to her. My memories are choppy, literally like still images instead of moving ones. (I’ve always seen that way in times of crisis. Maybe we all do.) Word is, she’ll be fine. No broken bones. No internal injuries. Just terrified. That goes for me, too.

Copyright © 2007 Liz Kuball

Shelly and Sally

He said I’d end up posting these, and he was right. How could I not? (She, by the way, said it was about time.)

Copyright © 2007 Liz Kuball

Copyright © 2007 Liz Kuball