My Refrigerator Door

Each member of my newspaper’s photography staff is required to contribute at least one photo column a month about any topic of their choosing. I think we all enjoy completing them, and during the past few months, readers have responded positively. Photo columns provide us with an opportunity to practice our writing skills. They also allow us to publish feature photographs for which inclusion in the newspaper might be otherwise difficult to justify. It is a creative outlet very similar to my blog entries. The only difference is more people than just my mother and girlfriend enjoy them. Some members of our staff have a harder time than others choosing a photo column topic. Often, while we’re sitting at our desks, we’ll help each other out by brainstorming possible ideas. Last week, one of my coworkers was looking for an idea for his next column. I suggested he tell readers how to take photographs of the fog that hovers above local lakes and rivers. I always wondered about the science behind this occurrence, and I thought he would be the perfect person to explain it to readers (or more truthfully, to me). He didn’t seem interested in following through on my idea. However, he did appease me, not only by sharing the secret behind the fog, but also by pointing me in the direction of where in the Ozarks it happens best. When warm, moist air travels over a much colder surface (like a body of water, snow, or even a frosty patch of dirt), fog will form. This is because warm, moist air is cooled by the colder surface below. If the air is near its saturation dew point, moisture will condense out of the air and form fog. This phenomenon is called advection fog, and nowhere in these parts is it more prominent than Lake Taneycomo on the eastern side of Table Rock Dam in Branson. The Taneycomo is a cold lake, because its water, which was pushed through Table Rock Dam, originated from the deeper, cooler portions of the adjacent Table Rock Lake. Every morning, shortly after sunrise, visitors are treated to an ethereal scene complete with flowing water, thick fog and anglers, who rarely speak, as they fish for Rainbow and Brown trout. This lake is a joy for anyone to visit. For a photographer, it is a wonderland of visual opportunity. Just remember to pack an extra pair of shoes and socks. Cold, wet feet are the only price you’ll pay for a marvelous set of images you can appreciate many years into the future when your memory grows foggy.

Don Parsons, an angler from Huntington Beach, California, enjoys an early morning of fishing for Rainbow and Brown Trout at Taneycomo Lake in Branson, Missouri, Tuesday, August 17, 2010.

There is electricity in the air as more fans than usual walk along the main concourse of a minor league stadium en route to their seats. It is about twenty minutes before game time, and everyone is abuzz about the 31-year-old major league pitcher who will be making a rehab start tonight after having forearm surgery a few months ago. Members of the local press are nearly as excited as the fans below, while acting as if they have “been there before.” A rumor begins to circulate throughout the press box that the major leaguer arrived to the stadium in a flashy sports car worth four or five times what the average AA player earns in an entire season. The major league pitcher begins to warm up in the sunken bullpen beside right field. Overhead, dozens of fans and photographers crowd along the metal rail in hopes of securing a close up view of the action. When the pitcher is warm, he grabs his coat, slings it over his pitching arm, and walks with the starting catcher in the direction of the hometown dugout near the first base line. Children wearing baseball caps and jerseys with his name on the back lean over the railing along the first row of seats while holding clean, white baseballs and black markers in his direction. Graciously, he drifts into foul territory and signs a few autographs. The luckiest of children beam with smiles while running up the aisles with signed baseballs in hand. The major leaguer enters the hometown dugout, and minor league teammates greet him with high fives and words of encouragement. They, like the press overhead, act as if this is just another game. The first pitch is thrown and the contest is underway. The crowd cheers wildly at the first called strike. Suddenly, the unexpected occurs and the opposing lead off batter hits a double into right field. Two batters later, he scores off a single to left. At the end of the top of the first inning, the pitcher walks stoically off the mound in the direction of the hometown dugout. He only surrendered one run, but his confident opponents know he lacks control of his fastball. After a scoreless bottom of the first inning, he trots to the mound and readies himself for another half inning of work. The first batter he faces pops out deep into left field, and the crowd lets out a collective sigh. Then, he surrenders a single to center field, a double to right field, and with two runners in scoring position, he gives up another double to right, allowing two more runs. The score is 3-0 in the bottom of the second inning, and in a brief moment of frustration, he winces while looking toward the sky. Members of the press, and fans in the stadium, begin looking toward right field foul territory to see if there is any action in the bullpen. There is not. It has become clear that no matter the score, this pitcher is going to get in his work. In three more unimpressive innings of pitching, he is pounded by opposing batters – surrendering 12 hits and 5 runs. In the top of the sixth inning, he is pulled mercifully from the game. He sits in solitude inside his dugout without expressing a hint of emotion. Finally, during the middle of the inning, he slings his coat over his shoulder, grabs his mitt and exits the dugout. Calmly, with his head held high, he takes the long walk in fair territory of right field toward the clubhouse beyond the home run fence. Fans in the first row watch him exit, while leaning back in their seats.

A major league baseball player walks stoically from the pitchers mound in the direction of the hometown dugout in Sprinfield, Missouri, August 5, 2010.

I have a special place in my heart for the state of Arkansas. Next to Montana, the “Natural State” might be the most beautiful place I’ve had the pleasure of visiting. One month ago, four of my rowdy friends, including: Nate, Jonny, Jesse, Kevin and I, packed two cars full of camping equipment, food and beer, and drove two and half hours south of Springfield to a rock climbing hot spot called Sam’s Throne. To our surprise, the campsite was completely empty when we arrived. We picked out the very best spot, loaded our packs with gear, and headed in the direction of the hiking trail. The hike to the rock climbing wall was more challenging than I had anticipated. Not only were the trails overgrown with brush, but we also had to make a cautious descent down a variety of rock formations capped with Atoka sandstone. It was tough, but our spirits were high as we engaged in raucous conversation. We spent the next three hours climbing rock within a stone’s throw from a coiled copperhead snake. The excessive heat and humidity was beginning to wear on us, and we were running short of water. We decided to make the trek back to our campsite. After a brief dinner break, we pitched our tents, set up hammocks and created a fire. Then, as the sun began to set, we hiked to a nearby cliff overlooking the Ozarks landscape.  As the day made way for night, the sky was filled with a rainbow of color. For a few brief minutes, five foul-mouthed young men, with chiggers in their shoes, sat silently while admiring the majesty of the Boston Mountains.

Jonny Miller enjoys a beautiful Arkansas sunset after an afternoon of rock climbing near Sam's Throne in Northern Arkansas, Saturday, July 10, 2010.

A few weeks ago, I described in an online forum how happy it makes me to shoot with my rangefinder film camera. A day later, someone sent me a message telling me that I am living in the past. He suggested, earnestly I believe, that digital photography is the wave of the future. I replied kindly by thanking him for his thoughts and promising that I would begin to explore this digital photography about which he was so enthusiastic. It was not the first time that I have been accused of living in the past. Perhaps, in some respects, I am guilty as charged. I prefer to think of my zeal for film photography as a respectful nod to the way things used to be when masters like Helen Levitt and Arnold Newman created works of art without the aid of an LCD screen. Don’t even get me started on how challenging it must have been to shoot sports on film without the aid of autofocus. You wouldn’t know it from this post, but I am not enough of a fuddy-duddy to ignore the importance of creating technology that mirrors the efficiency of the modern news gathering business, and the immediacy of the public’s appetite for information. When I am shooting for pleasure, I just enjoy the simple act of slowing down. In the late 1990s, when I was first discovering the craft of taking photographs, I remember standing in the rear of Faultline Photographics, in Hayward, California, trying to build up the courage to go inside to inquire about learning the process of making prints from negatives. It was a rainy, winter evening, and I remember using my coat to shield a sleeve of black and white negatives from getting wet. The fear I experienced seems pretty silly in retrospect, but professional photographers often forget how intimidating it can be for an average person to enter a photography store without a good handle of a language that makes sense of mysterious terms like SLR, ISO and depth-of-field. At the time, I had no idea of what to ask, let alone the meaning of a darkroom. I was incredibly fortunate to have been greeted at the door by the great Mark Silva. He was patient with me as I stammered through a line of questions that were shaped by images that I saw in movies. These included red light bulbs, trays half-filled with mysterious liquid, and prints secured on wire by clothespins. People will sometimes describe how at a pivotal moment, their life took an unexpected turn. This was certainly mine. For the cost of a 25-sheet pack of resin-coated paper, I was treated to a complete, hands-on lesson in black and white darkroom printing. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. For the next couple of years, I spent much of my free time at Faultline Photographics. I have fond memories of our community of young, eager shooters, and how we used to order pizza and print into the early morning hours of the following day – all to the music of Bob Dylan. I often think of how different my life would have been had Mark turned me away. For anyone who has had the pleasure of meeting him, they would tell you it just isn’t in his nature. A few years later, Mark moved away from California to work for the outstanding Michael Kenna, and I started on my nomadic journey in search of a professional photography career. Sadly, I live in a city that does not offer a public darkroom facility. That has not stopped me from continuing to shoot dozens of rolls of film that accumulate inside a drawer in my apartment. On special occasions, I treat myself by picking out random rolls and having them processed. I scan my negatives, view photos on my monitor with the lights turned low, and imagine how well they’d be received by Mark and the old Faultline gang.  Who says I’m living in the past?

Cows surround and explore the interior of an upright automobile in the early morning hours of January 4, 2010 at the Cadillac Ranch in Amarillo, Texas.

When I was a child, I could not wait for the school year to end and for summer vacation to begin. The conclusion of school meant that I could travel with my mother to Shiprock, New Mexico to spend the summer on the Navajo Reservation playing with my older cousins. I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area of California. Although they were as nurturing and caring as could be, the geographical and cultural difference did make me a bit of an outsider to my family on the Rez. I was considered a city kid, and because I am half Japanese and half Navajo, my cousins began referring to me as the “Japajo.” I always wanted to prove to my older cousins that I could be tough like them. Shiprock was not a place for the feeble and my cousins were no exception to the rule. Every single one of them, including my female cousins, were amazing athletes who were standouts in either wrestling, football, volleyball or baseball. I was not a bad athlete myself. I wrestled, played little league baseball, CYO basketball and even a little bit of soccer. However, when I stepped foot onto the reservation, I knew I had to do something special to win the respect of my cousins. Like Lane Frost, I had to ride bareback for eight seconds on a bucking ram owned by my aunt. Bull riding was something my entire family revered. Bull riders, like Ted Nuce and Tuff Hedemann, were bigger celebrities to my older cousins than Joe Montana. It may not seem very tough to ride on the back of a ram for eight seconds. However, for a ten-year-old Japajo from the Golden State, it required all the courage I could muster to mount the diminutive sheep. I don’t remember ever lasting on the back of a ram for more than eight seconds. I like to think that a certain level of respect was paid when I fell face-first on the clumpy dirt to the deafening sound of my extended family’s laughter.

Bull rider Ryan Nutt, of Malvern, Arkansas, sits quietly on top of a bucking chute as the bulls are sorted behind him just minutes before the start of the Ozark Boosters Club Bull Ride Spectacular at the Ozark Boosters Club Arena in Ozark, Missouri, Friday, June 4, 2010.

When I was an undergraduate student of political science, I took an elective course in documentary photography. Back then, photography was merely a hobby of mine. In my spare time, I used to walk around the streets of Berkeley and San Francisco taking pictures of rainbows, sunsets and skyscrapers. At that time, photography was a way of capturing beauty. It hadn’t occurred to me that cameras could be used as a tool for telling stories about people and the issues that affect their daily lives. This changed when I studied documentary photography under the guidance of Ken Light. One morning, we were introduced to a body of work entitled, “The Americans” by Swiss-born photographer, Robert Frank. Today, it is often described as one of the most important photographic bodies of work of all time. When it was first released in book-form in 1959, it was received coldly by critics and the public at large. Frank’s portrayal of the United States was decidedly different than the idealistic and upbeat works of photography that were published in the optimistic 1950s. He pointed his camera in the direction of the common, working man and did not shy away from controversial subject matter such as racial discrimination. Sitting at my desk while viewing “The Americans” for the very first time, I was mesmerized by Frank’s black and white photographs that were projected on a large screen hanging from the ceiling. They were dark, confrontational, and so far removed from the tranquil photographs I shot and had developed at Looking Glass on Telegraph Avenue. They challenged the social norms of their time, and it is probably for that reason that Frank’s work continues to be discussed and honored to this day . There was one particular photograph from Frank’s body of work that troubled me enough to prompt the raising of my hand. It is an image entitled, “Parade – Hoboken, New Jersey,” and it features two women peering out adjacent windows of a brick building overlooking the street. Positioned between the two windows is a United States flag that flaps in the wind, completely obscuring the face of the woman on the right side of the frame. I asked Light what he thought about a photo that had the face of one of its central subjects hidden from sight, creating a mysterious and uncomfortable tension. What he replied, I will never forget, and his words continues to motivate me thirteen years later as I search for an interpretive voice. “I think the flag covering the woman’s face is what makes the image so brilliant,” he said, “Often the best photographs are the ones that do not provide all the answers.”

Charlie Short, left, and Larry Skidmore, right, Dixie Stampede riders dressed as U.S. Civil War soldiers, parade along the center field warning track of Hammons Field before the start of the Arkansas Travelers versus Springfield Cardinals AA minor league baseball game in Springfield, Missouri, May 17, 2010.

A few weeks ago, I was on a photography-related website and I clicked on a link taking me to 50 beautiful examples of tilt-shift photography. I was highly impressed with the work. I thought about how much fun it would be to rent a tilt-shift lens to capture some of my surroundings in the Ozarks. I contacted my good friend, Lauren Pond, who shared a photo internship with me a few years back in Miami. She is an amazing photographer, a terrific person, and as luck would have it, she completed a major project incorporating tilt-shift photography while a student at Northwestern University. I told her about my interest in exploring tilt-shift photography and she offered to let me borrow her 24mm tilt-shift lens for a period of one month. A few days later, a box arrived in the mail containing the lens and I was off and running. It has been an amazing journey ever since. I tried as best as I could to capture different parts of my city in a fresh way. Although I have not always been very successful, the process itself and the challenge has been a lot of fun. One thing I really like about photography is there is always something new to learn and a fresh way to express yourself. For those who are not familiar, tilt-shift photography is a method, where by using a tilt-shift lens, a picture-taker can overcome the limitations of perspective and depth of field. It is hardly a new art form. In fact, tilt-shift photography has been around since the days of view cameras where users could alter the movement of lenses to get their desired look. Traditionally, the tilt-shift lens has been a mainstay in architectural and landscape photography. However, in recent decades, art photographers and photojournalists have taken an interest in the tool to take advantage of its selective focus, which can create the illusion of miniaturization when using a narrow depth of field from an overhead angle. Admittedly, this is all a little too cerebral for me. For the purposes of this post, what I really want to say is that tilt-shift photography looks cool. For those who are interested in the science of it all, there are plenty of articles online that discuss why and how it works. From my experience, attractive women in bars are never more impressed than when you brandish your knowledge of the Scheimpflug Principle.

The calm waters of the James River is interrupted briefly by a family enjoying an early evening jaunt inside a small boat just south of Springfield, Missouri, Sunday, May 30, 2010.

On the night before last, I was nestled in the corner of the Hammons Field press box with my face buried deep into the screen of my laptop computer. I was completely disengaged with the action taking place on field level as the Arkansas Travelers were battling the Springfield Cardinals in the final contest of their four-game series. Sometimes, after I am finished with my eight-hour shift at work, I like to go to the local ballpark to challenge myself by capturing feature photographs of the unique atmosphere of minor league baseball. On this particular evening, stormy weather forced a half hour rain delay. I decided to pass the time by working on a computer project. I became so focused on my work, I did not notice the removal of the tarp or the players taking the field for the start of the game. I also failed to notice that light from the setting sun painted billowy storm clouds amber creating the most beautiful of skies. Suddenly, the telephone in my pocket began to vibrate. I received a text message from my coworker, Nate, who was working in the first base press well as the primary shooter for our newspaper that evening. “Right field sunset is lookin’ pretty sexy,” it read. I looked up from my telephone and peered out the press box window in the direction of right field. He was absolutely right. I figured the sun was just a few minutes shy of disappearing beneath the horizon; I needed to act fast. I grabbed my camera and ran down two flights of stairs leading from the third level press area and onto the main concourse. Like a game of Frogger, I maneuvered quickly in the direction of the third base plaza level, while avoiding fans that were either walking or waiting in snack bar lines to buy $1 bratwursts. “Please do not run!” a female usher screamed in my direction. My jog immediately slowed to more of a straight-legged power walk like the one you see in the early morning hours at shopping malls. The entire sequence was a bit silly, especially if viewed by someone not in the photography business. For those who are, however, I am willing to bet there has been a time or two in their career when they, too, acted foolishly in search of that fleeting single photograph. I probably do it more than I should, but few things are sweeter than when everything works out. Nate returned to the press box later that evening to edit and transmit his game photos to the sports department of our newspaper. I showed him the photograph his text message helped to create, and he gave me a compliment I won’t soon forget. “Jerome always takes the pretty pictures,” he said. This conversation reaffirmed how special it is to have friends who take notice, and who cover me when I fail to do the same.

Stormy weather created the perfect conditions for the most beautiful of sunsets during the Arkansas Travelers versus Springfield Cardinals baseball game at Hammons Field in Springfield, Missouri, Thursday, May 20, 2010.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting at a desk inside a motel room in downtown Columbia, Missouri. I was in town on an assignment for my newspaper covering high school championship basketball that was taking place at Mizzou Arena on the University of Missouri campus. My thirty-third birthday was only two days away, and I planned to spend it in Omaha, Nebraska. During the planning stages of my trip, my photo editor was kind enough to arrange my schedule so I could work in Columbia on Thursday, enjoy a free day on Friday, and on Saturday I could travel to Omaha by car. I have not spent a lot of time in the Columbia area, so I read a list of local attractions for ideas of how to spend my Friday. What intrigued me most was a short description about a small town just thirteen miles north of Columbia called Clark. It has an Old Order Amish Settlement and I decided to pay the town a visit the following afternoon. It took me a while to locate the settlement because I was traveling along paved roads. I did not realize that most of the community was nestled along dusty, rocky pathways east of town. When I finally did locate the settlement, I was rewarded with a wonderful visit full of beautiful scenery and gregarious conversation. I hope any readers of this post will understand why I did not take a single photograph. While driving back through town on my way toward Highway 63, I drove past the front yard of a home where children were frolicking in the mud. It was a scene too interesting to pass. I parked my car and walked toward the house where they were playing. I must have looked as foreign as an alien as I exited my car, complete with California plates, with cameras draped around my neck. I asked the children if I could speak with their Mom or Dad, assuming they were members of one family. I could not be more wrong. They scattered in all directions of the street and just a few seconds later, they returned from their neighboring homes hand-in-hand with wary adults who were most interested to learn who I was. I asked the family members if they would mind if I took photographs of the children playing. They were all kind enough to oblige. A few minutes later, South Morris Avenue was filled with laughter and screams as a small community of adults circled around children who played unabashedly in the mud. It was a heart-warming scene, so dissimilar to the stoicism I observed just a few minutes earlier east of town, that reminded me a lot of my own childhood friends in South Hayward, California including: Andrew, Tim, Anthony, Jeremy, Frank, Steve, Kyle, Chico, David, Boo, Ray and even, Nostrils (yes, Nostrils). I miss those guys a lot and I laughed during the entire drive back to Columbia remembering our high jinks of decades past. It did not bother me one bit that my jeans and white collared shirt were drenched with puddle water and mud.

Sarah Templeton, 8, from right to left, Ethan Lewis, 6, Thomas Klooz, 5, Dylan Dotson, 6, Chasity Walden, 10, Jessica Howard, 9, and Austin Hontz, 6, enjoy an afternoon frolicking in a small mudpit along South Morris Avenue in Clark, Missouri, Friday, March 19, 2010.

One of my favorite things to do is to wander through the aisles of large bookstores. I go pretty frequently, usually three to five times a week, and I think the sales associates at the local Barnes and Noble are starting to recognize me as the guy who visits often and never buys a thing. My routine is always the same. I enter through the front door, make a bee-line for the magazine racks, stop for a few minutes in the DVD/music department, and then I spend the bulk of my time in the photography section in the back-corner of the store flipping through monographs featuring other photographers work. The photography section is not large, and because I visit as often as I do, I have become familiar with the selection of books on the shelf. I can close my eyes right now and visualize where each book is located. Steve McCurry’s “The Unguarded Moment” seems to be on permanent display near the top of the shelf beside a worn copy of “American Farmer: The Heart of Our Country.” “Hotel Lachapelle,” Sam Abell’s “The Life of a Photograph,” and “National Geographic Image Collection” are positioned on the second shelf from the bottom. Near the floor is “Domestic Vacations,” from Springfield’s own Julie Blackmon, “Vanity Fair: The Portraits,” and numerous copies of Annie Leibovitz’s “At Work.” It has been this way for months, so imagine my surprise when I visited tonight and saw a brand new book on the shelf, William Eggleston’s “Democratic Camera: Photographs and Video 1961-2008.” I have a special place in my heart for the work of William Eggleston, not only because he is truly a brilliant artist, but also because he reminds me of my older brother, Todd. A few years ago on Christmas Day, my brother introduced me to Eggleston’s work when he surprised me with a bootlegged copy of the award-winning documentary “William Eggleston in the Real World” by Michael Almereyda. I viewed it with my mother, and while she enjoyed it because she was amused by Eggleston’s lively personality, I still remember the exhilaration I felt after seeing his photographs. Eggleston has spent an entire lifetime taking artful photographs of scenes and details that are often overlooked by people living their everyday lives. One of his most famous photographs is of a light bulb hanging from a crimson colored ceiling with white wires extending from its base in three different directions. In a July 25, 2004 article in the Observer, Sean O’Hagan describes Eggleston well when he suggests that his “extraordinary ability to find beauty in the banal has transformed the way we look at the world.” When my brother, Todd, decided to provide me with a Christmas gift of this documentary, he probably had no idea that he was helping to unlock a photographic philosophy for his little brother that locating beauty is never far from where one stands. The challenge is seeking it out, and being open to a fresh way of seeing, especially when the bookshelf of one’s everyday surroundings seems to be unchanged and familiar.

Four brightly colored gowns are on display in the second-floor front window of a Glenstone Avenue clothing shop in Springfield, Missouri, Sunday, March 28, 2010.