(on an adventure with my friend Bradley, Orange County, CA)

So far as I can remember, I’ve never written an ode to this season. I’ve never been its most ardent follower, its peppiest cheerleader, its Number One Fan. I mean, summer is great and all, but give me spring or autumn any day, with more moderate temperatures and those beautiful tones and colors. You know, colors that are more than just of the bright sun-shiny primary variety.

Yes, summer did often mean amzing things like camp when I was younger – and thus an escape from the small-town mean girls who made the other nine months of the year seem an eternity. Or, in high school, the odd jobs were certainly odd, but they were often an odd sort of fun too. And my birthday is in summer! But summer? As a my favorite season? I just can’t remember a time that my heart called out for it: Summer! You! Are! The! One?

I think there’s a reason I’ve lived in Southern California on and off for nearly five years and can count the number of times I’ve been to the beach on both hands.

But oh. Summer. This summer. Has been different.

Summer is about sunshine and good times, about endless days and ice cream, about friendship and warmth. Or it’s supposed to be, right? But when things are turbulent or sad, then summer is hot and hard and frustrating. The big difference is that this summer, there’s happiness. So much happiness.

Sure, there are problems too but they don’t seem so tough when you’re standing on a beach in Laguna, with your friend Bradley and his Mamiya, taking a photo of the setting sun glinting off the choppy ocean with your cellphone so you can send it to your true love who is in San Francisco and who will be here to visit you next week.

When you’re filled with sunshine and sand and ocean water, clutching cameras lent to you and given to you, watching the sky as it turns shades of hazy pastel you never knew were possible in red, white, & blue July. The churning waves a pale silvery aqua tinged with the last baby blues and violets of the sky, a nearly improbably metallic sheen, constantly heaving in an irregular rhythm. The sun showing its last rays of gold and yellow, then suddenly deep burnt orange, the legendary sky of California, setting off rocky bluffs with palm trees and an endless ocean that travels all the way to the other side of the world. And you try to remember every detail, every moment as best you can because you can’t capture any of this perfection  because you’ve already run out of film and your phone battery is dead and you didn’t bring a digital, and you laugh and laugh, your pants soaked by sudden waves and your hair full of salt and wind.

Summer. Is love.

(with Pablo, Albany, CA)

xoxo

There is an ocean called the Pacific. It’s a very, very big ocean. So big you don’t often think about how big it is, how very wide, or how very deep. So big that you don’t realize it goes all the way around to the other side of the world. That somewhere there is another side of it, and that on that other side of it, the same sun you see set behind your ocean is very busy rising above it.

On the other side of the great big giant Pacific Ocean are a lot of countries. In them live quite a lot of people. But of all those countries and of all those people, it so happened that two of them looked at that sun, the one that was doing its daily business rising and setting, in much the same way. They kept chasing after it, trying to capture it and collect it.

It was through this odd little endeavor that these two people – a lady named Ashley and a lady named Leah – bumped into each other one day. They waved a friendly hello and kept on their respective ways, collecting and chasing and wrangling. Then another day, another sun, another wave hello.

And that’s how a friendship began.

Some months later, the lady named Ashley found herself on a plane crossing that very big ocean. She learned just how big that ocean is and just how long it takes to cross it and just how tired you can become sitting and doing nothing for that many hours. Her friend Leah picked her up on the other side of the ocean, the side where the sun sets.

They went on some mad adventures. Driving up the coast in a dash. Nearly plummeting off cliffs and bridges marked very poorly by the California Transit Authority. Eating chilaquiles and sushi. Finding strawberries and chocolate. Remembering what it was like to be 5 years old in an underwater kingdom. Laughing and crying and crying from laughing.

And always, always collecting light.

Thank you, Ashley, for being the best kind of friend the lady on this side of the Pacific ever imagined having. xoxox

This past weekend, I had a series of wholly unexpected adventures. I can’t remember the last time I felt so inspired, or wanted so much for a weekend never to end.

Here is a secret: You can find magic where you least expect it. You don’t have to go very far, to an exotic land and see people who speak another language. You can go to a town you thought was boring or pointless, a way-station to a bigger city. A regular burgh full of people who are living day by day, and their stores and their lives and their stories.

Really, you can find magic anywhere. Sometimes you can find so much, in fact, that it makes your heart explode a little.

xoxox

Last year, I fell in love. He wasn’t someone I’d ever imagined liking, certainly not the Prince Charming of my dreams. But there he was: unassuming in the looks department, kind of square around the edges and chunky, a little temperamental at times. But the second we locked eyes, we clicked. And we both knew, that little Polaroid Spectra System SE and I, we just knew it: It was meant to be.

If you know me at all, you know a few things about me.

One: photography is a fairly new pursuit. I’m still learning the ins and outs of this, Polaroid included. Most of the world fills me with wonder on a daily basis, but photography does in particular, and Polaroid most of all. It’s a mixture of science and art, with a dash of magic thrown in right at the end, the way those chemicals mix to create your image. And of course the magic is the best part. Not just the way it develops before your eyes, which we all love. But the way it develops and creates colors and landscapes and seascapes and dreamscapes – some of which we’ve lived through in decades past, some of which we’ve never visited, even in our wildest dreams.

Two: I kind of like to be in control. Just a little bit. Polaroid takes the control away from you. It’s the ultimate in WYSIWYG. Yeah, I can scan the image and fuss with it in Photoshop but why do that? Why not just shoot with film or digital? Polaroid just is. Sometimes if I don’t like a shot, I’ll have to re-take it until I like it. And sometimes that will teach me – over and over – that the first shot was the best. It almost always is.

Three: I have a very short attention span. Three minutes! Polaroid is the Motown of photography. It’s the punk rock. It’s the early Beatles. It’s the Sesame Street and the Electric Company and the Monty Python’s Flying Circus. It’s everything I grew up listening to and watching and loving. Three minutes or less, and you’ve got something! Maybe even something you love! Maybe not! Who cares! Onto the next one! ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR! LET’S GO!

Today is the last day of Polaroid Week on Flickr. The images I’ve shown you here are the some of the shots I’ve posted there. There are so, so many more in the group – incredible shots from enormously talented photographers. Go check them out. You won’t be sorry you did. And we’ll see soon, Polaroid Week. Thanks for giving us a home.

xoxox

When I was in elementary school, I had a sticker collection that rivaled those of most of my classmates. We all vied for first place sticker collector, seeing who could out-do the others in terms of unicorns and glitter and puffiness and, occasionally, scratch-n-sniff.

And then, one day, my mom came home with the sticker that would trump them all. The sticker that became the centerpiece of my collection, the ultimate, the most desirable, the one that catapulted me to Numero Uno Sticker Star.

It had neither glitter nor unicorns, puffiness nor scent. It was simple, large, round, white, with text, and it read, very clearly:

I ♥ BOYS

Well. Every girl in my fifth grade class wanted it, you can bet on that. And I wouldn’t trade, not even for entire collections. Because when it’s right, it’s right. You don’t need bells and whistles and sparkles when you’re that totally awesome.

(Taken with a Nikon FM2)

Years passed, and the sticker collection disappeared, and with it went the beloved sticker. Of course, the sentiment stayed – I do heart boys. But along with hearting boys, I’ve grown to love something else: boys’ toys. Yes, I know, the world has changed, and women can do anything, and just ask Barbie who has had 50-some odd careers now that she is 50 and featuring some hot Botox injections in her brows.

But be honest. There may be way more women doing photography than ever before – and there may be more women into stuff like cars, too – but being a gearhead is still a kind of a sausage-fest. Yes, the ladies are getting more and more involved, but it’s the gents who are more likely to be found geeking out over some form of equipment or other at a gathering near you.

Whenever this happens – this geeking out business – I find myself wishing I could participate, and eyeing the equipment (ahem) enviously from outside the inner sanctum. Before now I haven’t felt comfortable injecting myself into any major discussions; not having much (or any) knowledge makes me feel like a Big Dumb Girl standing there Looking Pretty while the boys all talk about their toys. And y’all know that’s not how I roll.

(taken with a Hasselblad 500 C/M)

I’m both a researcher and a bit of a geek at heart, so I’ve been trying to learn more about all this incredibly cool equipment we see around us all the time. I’ve learned more, sure, but it’s also done something terrible: Now I’m the girl who wants the sticker I don’t have.

That’s the thing about equipment and toys, isn’t it? There’s just never an end to what you can get. I’m beside myself here, falling in absolute panting lust with the Hasselblad SWC (oh dear lord, the red one?) and the Leica M6 and the Rolleiflex 2.8f and the Nikon FE and the Nikon 700. And lenses? Forget it, I definitely want more lenses. Yep, you all predicted it: further down the spiral.

But shut up a second, Leah.

I know very well that it’s not the camera that makes the shot great, it’s the photographer – the equipment just enables you to do different things (if you know how to use it). Who needs all this stuff? You can do a lot with what you have, and with what you ‘re offered.

So in an effort to reel myself in – and to get real – a little while ago I decided it was time to choose a camera and work with it as much as possible. Get to know it intimately, become best friends, know exactly what it could produce when, where, why, and with what film (if I stayed with film).

(Taken with a Yashica Lynx-1000)

Luckily for me, I have a few cameras I already love. And even luckier, I have wonderful parents who have decided for this birthday to get me a camera. The budget is generous (although not so generous as to allow for a full-frame digital or a Hasselblad SWC, so unless you’re prepared to help pitch in, just forget it). So the question is: which to choose?

I mean, we all know about my love of Polaroid, and I do use a Polaroid 195 which has a decent variety of film options.  I do love 35mm, and with the Pentax K1000 and the Nikon FM2, I feel comfortable. Recently too I got a little steamy with a rangefinder for the first time, a Yashica Lynx-1000, and ooh.

And medium format – it calls me like nothing else. Borrowing that Yashica Mat 124 was just the beginning. Then came the trial on the Hasselblad 500 C/M.

But of course, there’s always the possibility I could switch it up altogether and turn to digital.

Oh, decisions! I’ll figure it out eventually.

What’s your favorite camera, and why?

I don’t know why it surprised me. It shouldn’t have. But when shots of cars started appearing on roll after roll, and when Polaroid photos of cars first started dotting my desk, I found it curious. I’d always liked cars well enough, sure, but not enough to be a gearhead or (I’m ashamed to admit) to really even know the first thing about maintenance. I even had a list of favorites that had remained the same for years, including a dark green 1951 Hudson Hornet coupe. Long before the Franklin Mint magically came out with a miniature version. Long before the Hudson made its appearance in the animated movie Cars. A movie I’ve even never seen, by the way.

But why shouldn’t I love cars? What a shocker, I must have more than one side. Me! Gentle flowers, yes, but powerful big muscle cars too. And really, it makes perfect sense. I’m already in love with windows, as you know if you’ve spent any time looking at my photos. Cars have their share of them. I love light too, and the way cars capture light – don’t you love it? Especially old cars, sculptured and scooped, like sleek and sexy bodies, waiting to have you run your hands down their proud flanks and find where the light pools, so you can dip your hands in it.

Then of course, there are road trips. Perhaps my favorite way to travel – and surprisingly, I prefer to go as a passenger. Hours spent staring out the window, the ability to stop whenever, wherever. The food you eat along the way, the people you see, the miles you spend in comfortable (and sometimes uncomfortable) silence.

Most of all, though, it finally occured to me that at the end of that trip, a car has to have a final destination. A car has to come home, wherever it is. Don’t we all?

Here is something you may not know about me: I’m not very bright.

I know what you’re going to say (and not because I’m full of myself, believe me). “Leah,” you’re going to say. “What do you mean you’re not very bright? You’re getting your PhD! You’re a smart lady!”

So look. I’m intelligent. I can’t argue with that because I’ll look like a jerk who’s fishing for compliments – hey! look at me and my false modesty! I can do things like research, and I can write and teach and work hard, and I can read big books and use fancy words and have super great discussions on health care and organizations and 1960s soul and the importance of grammar and manners in a civilized society. I can sell pointy hats to the Pope. And I can win debates. Oh boy, can I.

(Potential employers? Hi!)

But y’see, intelligent and smart are two different things. And sometimes I am dumb as a box of rocks with the clever ones on lunch break.

If you want to be in my life, you should probably be someone with a sense of humor and a healthy dose of patience. Because when I’m not hyper focused on whatever task is at hand, there’s a small chance I will have jet-packed off to Clouds 9, 10, and 11. For instance:

It was a sunny, albeit slightly blustery day in February. The very last day of February, to be exact. I had been invited on a great adventure by someone I was excited to meet – the fabulous Chinako, who many of you will know from her incredible photos on flickr. It wasn’t just any adventure either. Oh no.

We were going to the Polaroid House.

Chinako had been before, but it was my maiden voyage. She was bringing two other first timers with her as well, Amanda and Andre. Because I was coming up from Orange County, and they were driving from Los Angeles, I decided it would be better for me to meet them there. This is where the stupid begins.

Have you ever looked at a place on a road you drive with some frequency, but because it’s a new destination, your brain doesn’t comprehend what’s going on and decides: THIS IS A TOTALLY NEW WORLD!! And you have to drive there as if you’ve never driven to such a location before?

No? Then you are smart.

Even though I very clearly knew where this location was, based on the map, and had basically driven by it many times, my brain didn’t get it. My brain said: This is somewhere far, far inland! A place you’ve never been! You must be cautious and careful. You must take the freeway you loathe.

You must drive… the 5.

Oh, it started out well. There were balloons on both sides of the freeway, and I was singing along to Brendan Benson and AC/DC and Jean Wells. But then it happened, like it always does. Traffic. And traffic. And traffic.

Over two hours of traffic later, I was finally on the other side of Los Angeles, and realized my mistake. My first mistake, I mean, which was taking the 5 in the first place. Because just up ahead the freeway split. The 5 continued to the left, and to the right, the 14.

Now, my directions were very clear. They were about four lines long, direct from the internet. Stay. On. The. 5. Nowhere had I written down “take the 14.” But somewhere, in the recesses of my brain, there was this panicky voice:

WHAT IF YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO TAKE THE 14 LOOK!! IT HAS THE SAME NAME AS THE PLACE YOU’RE GOING

Five minutes later, I’m on the phone with Chinako. “Am I supposed to take the 14? I’m not, am I.”

“No! Don’t take the 14″ I could hear her say through the phone.

“Um. Okay. I won’t. I mean, I’ll turn around. If I can.” Three miles later, I did just that. And zoomed back down to the 5, up over the hills and down to the unassuming exit I’d passed without a second thought so many times before.

While driving between Orange County and the Bay Area. Same freeway, same area, same everything. Just a different exit a few hundred miles south of my usual. My brain is so easily confused.

But I forgive it, because it does eventually get me to my destination, and it allows me to meet wonderful people. And it allows me to do more stupid things, like almost put my eyeball out while trying to help a friend get fabulous shots.

And it helps me think about the strangeness of sitting in a ramshackle abandoned house – almost no longer a house, the structural elements crumbling down around you as you gingerly walk through doorways and almost fall through porch floorboards – and feeling a sense of being “at home.” At home because you feel right being in the middle of nowhere. Being in an abandoned place. Being with people who are eager to explore and drift off into their own “hold on… I have to take a shot” reverie. Being inside something that was cast off – perhaps unwillingly – and has been resurrected. Being a part of something that feels like creation. Or creativity. Or maybe even art, if that’s how you’d like to see it.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the drive home took about half as long as the drive there. Including traffic. I may be dumb, but I learn right quick.

xoxo

PS – there are more of my shots of the Polaroid House on my flickr stream. I also have a few more I have yet to upload, so if you’d like to see them, please let me know. Or heck, I can go back (you know I will), take more, and put them all together in a Blurb book.

Hi everyone!

You may have noticed that sometimes I’m compelled to write a little more than people normally do on flickr. I’ve decided to move the words here, to a proper blog, in order to give the photos a little room to breathe. The photos will still be at flickr but they’ll make appearances here as well.

I hope you’ll grab a cup of coffee and join me in both places.

xoxo