Family Secrets

Memories are the ghosts of our past,

like fugitives they hide from the day, 

only to haunt us at night

when the mind betrays our reality,

altering the history as we have come to know it.

It is we who choose what to remember and what to forget

separating pain from the pleasurable,

gathering the hurt like the fields harvest

and carefully add them to the box, then close the lid.

Yet the pain does not lessen with time,

not until one has learned to forgive

and even then it does not disappear completely,

for the scars have been carved too deep.

Memories are fragile

and are easily lost when not tended to,

though a photograph can capture a moment,

aiding in recalling the past,

it can also uncover, exposing the darkness to light

that others might see, even years later.

Missing pieces of broken emptiness

Neglected, it's beauty fades and character takes hold of the presence.

No place to hide

All I ask is that you look and contemplate the many meanings.

The remains of irreconcilable differences

Listen to the silence . . .

     for they do have voices.

“Mom, please not the closet,” a child cried

Memories are hard to erase, for they are what we have become and we cannot be denied our identity.

An empty heart

For me the kitchen is where one finds the heart of a home. Neglected and without love, it is nothing more than a room within a house. A house to be considered a home, it most provide a place of safety and nurtured tenderness.

With memories striped bare, stolen innocence still cannot forget

You can empty a room and remove all traces of a former life and identity, yet the memories still remain.

Paint cannot hide the wounds

Pealing away the many layers that have hidden the cruelty not only exposes the ugly secret. it also begins the healing process for the victim.

Leave through many doors to find yourself

By walking through a door and entering a room, we are confined and confronted by the  walls, by the space within and the impressions of others. 

To regain out identity, to discover our full potential and shed the abuse we have suffered, we must leave by many doors.

Lost and found

The series ‘Family Secrets’ comes to a close with ‘Lost and Found,’ but for many people from an abusive childhood, the pain never ends.

In the last few weeks I have relived many memories, gut wrenching and painful at times. The abuse suffered ends with me! It is a promise I made to my dear and lovely children, Armont and Ariana. They will never have to experience the pain and memories of the kind of verbal and mental abuse, or the physical beatings and sexual abuse I endured at the hands of my perpetrator; my mother.

The healing process for any abused person takes a lifetime.

Self portrait with shattered mirror

The only way we can eradicate this evil is to first say to ourselves: “We are not at fault.” All too often we think we are to blame for these conditions, but it is not so. Remember, no love is worth suffering pain and abuse. There is help and you must seek it.

I had returned to the empty club house, deciding to photograph the hallway, using the mirror in the ladies room. As I was setting up the shot, I looked into the mirror and decided to photograph myself instead.

Postscript

Between April 25 and May 30, 2005, I posted ten photographs at an art community website, Renderosity. It was during this time that I went public for the first time, sharing my childhood memories of abuse and openly confronting my inner demons.

The process of healing has taken twenty-six years, when at the age of thirty-five, I realized that I had not been the problem.

Even though I am doing better today, the wounds and scares still remain, at least I proved stronger and so was able to break the cycle, for my children are now grown adults and were never experienced abuse. However I am sorry that my wife was exposed to my pain these  many years.

What helped my recovery process was that not only coming to terms with what had happened to me, but that seven to eight years ago, I was finally able to forgive my mother and so release the anger that I had harbored against her, which by then had eaten away my spirit like a slow moving illness.

This post has had me look back upon my childhood and reviewing the other

150 or so images that that were taken as part of this series in 2005.

An idea took hold of expanding this story and share what has 

happened since I went public and how I have dealt

with the recovery. So now I have begun

to work on a small book.

Thank you for your visit

and comment . . .

Egmont

An expression of my gratitude

I rose early to arrive in Berkeley as we were engulfed by fog that still had not been burned off by the rising sun, in order to cruise specific streets where fliers are regularly posted onto layers of stables and paper remnants. Once I have found a section of a couple of blocks, I park the car and gather the necessary equipment; all of this feels like I am going out on a safari, hunting my objective, the elusive, random ephemeral abstract beauty. Because I am using my friends’ 1:1 ratio macro lens, I am searching for specific abstracts that are a little larger than a few postage stamps, not easily achieved.

Once a possible section has been found, the tripod is set up, the camera positioned. A few more critical observations and calculations are made before three variable exposures are quickly achieved. A few more adjustments to tripod and camera for another angle and the whole process is repeated for the next set of multiple images. This process is repeated several more times until I have squeezed every possible second I have remaining of the early morning before I have to be at my cardiac rehabilitation class.

And as I enter my third month of dealing with a failed open-heart by-pass graft, I reflect upon the past two and the five to six hours I spend each day I attend the program, the progress has been marginal, suffering a few setbacks, leaving me with no clear answers and still too many uncertainties. However, focusing only on the negative means I am allowing the situation control me and though it is still a major distraction, I have been trying to find a balance.

One of the goals of the cardiac program is to be generally more active, especially accomplishing more walking and to achieve this, we were given a pedometer to guide our progress. So today I looked over the numbers I have been recording in my notebook to see that in seven weeks I have covered 181.53 miles (292.144 km), averaging 25.932 (41.734 km) per week, or 3.70 (5.955) a day, with the most in one day being 8.46 miles (13.615 km) when I visited the Pacific coast.

Now to help pass the time during my walks, I have been combining it with photography; especially focusing on the series I began a little more than five years ago. Walking down Ashby, Haste or Dwight , holding my extended tripod with camera securely mounted, inspecting each telephone pole, searching for the visual gem.

As I continue to cope with the disruption to my previous routine and life style, the past two months have felt like being stranded, isolated in a time warp from which there appears to be no escape. I have missed visiting your blogs, to see what you have been up to and leaving a comment, wile sharing with you my own creative events.

Please feel free to download the full size version of

the bookmark page by clicking here to gain access.

As I bring this update to my ‘Leave of Absence’ to a close, I wish to express my sincerest gratitude to those who have sent me letters, cards and emails, checking up on my progress, sending me encouragements and wishing me well, I also desire to say thank you to those who have stopped by either of my blogs, just to see if there was anything new.

I would also like to say thank you to those who have decided to become a follower during my absence and in due time I shall also return the honour and list your blog at my blog roll and resource blog, The DIRECTORY.

I would like to reciprocate by sharing with you a few images of my excursions that I have designed into a page of bookmarks that you can download in full size here, then print out on card stock. You then have the option to punch a hole at the top for a string or ribbon.

If you would like to check out my other version of the books, please visit Four Seasons in a Life.

Wishing my American friends a wonderful and safe forth of July.

I thank you for your visit

and comment . . .

Egmont

The letter ‘L’

For about a week I have been debating if I should post a set of photographic images based on random destructive typography or a more recent illustration I had created as an expression of love for my wife. As you can see I decided in favor of the illustration because I wish it to act as a bridge to a forthcoming post, since calligraphy and typography are very dear subjects for me.

Not too long ago, provided twenty-two months can be considered a brief lapse for someone at my age, I wanted to create a single declaration of affection and present it to her on her birthday. At that time we had been married for nineteen years, celebrating our anniversary just thirty day earlier.

Statement of Love, May 2007

Pen and coloured pencil on 100Lb. Bristol, 11 x 14” (27.94x35.56 cm)

Sketching a single letter L, one on top of another several times until the structure stood with strength erect and yet delicate, the following statement and phrases were added:

A huge mass of letters are forged to fabricate the

words that weave about the page of a lexicon,

Yet I am unable to find a single

phrase that will describe how my

heart feels for you . . .

A single word, a single phrase,

Love letters, a mass of letters

. . .

I would like the welcome the many new followers since my previous posting and note that having reached this momentous milestone of one hundred followers, I am thinking about a Give Away to celebrate this occasion. I am contemplating a work of art that I shall be creating for this event, so please stay tune for when it is going to take place and how you will be able to win.

Thank you for your visit

Egmont

Illustrations as background surfaces

.

All of Friday we faced numerous periods of heavy rainfall with intermittent showers, but in the late afternoon the sky broke open, revealing a low setting sun and with ones back to her, the hillside before me became alive. Bathed in a pale soft golden light, the new years growth drenched from the rain sparkled, while off in the distance the sky was a dark turbulence of grey, a dramatic contrast and I wish I had stopped and taken a few pictures. Yet some things are best remembered, treasured in our memory as an experience randomly recalled when something irrelevantly triggers the past.


With the day mostly gone by now, I am sitting back in my favorite chair, drinking a new tea that I have not had since my early twenties and contemplating about what to write, even though I am also yearning to get started with my first artist trading card (ATC). However I have been struggling with not only style and subject matter, but also my personal demon, fear. The fear of not being able to draw as I did years ago, when I last held a pencil or a fine tipped Hunt’s pen in my hand.

Rainbow Trout

Pencil, watercolour on illustration board — 1998-99

At the time I had worked for more than a decade photographing fishing flies for various books and calendars after the success of my first book in 1988, The Art of The Trout Fly, a collaborative effort with author Judith Dunham. Since these flies were tied by master fly-tiers and placed into very small elaborate sets and not a tying vice, I was always looking for another way to interpret their art with my creative vision.

California Golden Trout

Pencil, coloured pencil, and watercolour on Bristol — 1998-99

Previously the sets were recreations of scenes found in nature or on a fly tiers bench, in which the very books, tools and materials that created the fly, now surrounded them. Though I was content with the method I had established, I began to explore the idea of developing illustrations as background surfaces on which a fishing fly would be placed and then photographed.

Only a number of drawings were made and I do not think that even a single frame was ever shot. A combination of economic shifts and my own needs, these drawings lay hidden in envelops that are tucked away in artists carrying cases and though not forgotten, I now look upon them with a sense of pride and an unwavering apprehension. Maybe once I get started with my first miniature drawing, fear will no longer seem insurmountable.

The Art of The Trout Fly

Second edition, Chronicle Books 2003

The art of my childhood

Every time when I walk into the converted guest bedroom that serves as my office, I see two pieces of art hanging on the wall from when I was a child. It was not until today when they were removed from the frame for scanning, did I discover a third, a smaller drawing, hidden behind the larger one. These drawings with watercolour were done when I had just turned five and six years of age and are the only ones I have of my childhood as a budding future artist.

October 8, 1954, 156 x 116 mm

I remember little surrounding these drawing, except for my insistence to paint the clouds blue and the flowers in this smaller illustration represent sunflowers. I would be speculating, the artwork could have been done after a visit to the countryside to see my grandfather, since we lived in the city. Though I was only five, I remember clearly a row of houses to one side of the street and empty farmland on the other, where the soil was being tilted and in the distance a number of large mounds of harvest debris were smoldered, leaving a trail of soft grey smoke against the afternoon sun.

August 88, 1955, 215 x 180 mm w/o support

Each one in its own way tells of a story, a reflection of the times. Not the time we live in, but rather a snapshot of my little universe within four walls, one without the presence of a father. He was away for weeks on the passenger ocean liner Italia, crossing the Atlantic between Hamburg and New York. The ship was built in 1928 for the Swedish American Liner, at which time the vessel was named Kungsholm. She changed ownership several times during its lifetime operation and it was during the years when Home Lines acquired her in 1948, renaming her SS Italia where my father served on board as a maitre d’.

Postcard images of the SS Italia

Little did I know at the time, that within two years we would cross the Atlantic Ocean for America, pulling up roots and temporarily planting them in New York, where we stayed with my aunt. Within a few months of our arrival, we left the ‘Big Apple’ and crossed America in a burgundy Chevrolet two-door coup my father had brought. With our destination being Hollywood, we traveled in part on the legendary Highway 66 and though the landmark highway has been replaced, I have from time to time longed for a trip down memory lane, to see what is left of the true American architecture and the people still living there. For I am sad to admit, any memories from the 1957 road trip are lost, as any recollection of my time in Arizona or Nevada are fuzzed together in a blur of one big endless adventure.

September 14, 1955, 246 x 180 mm

I do not know if any other drawings or watercolours were ever saved, only to be lost when we moved, I am very happy to have these three to pass along to my children. I hope will cherish and keep them safe along with all their art that we cherished and saved, marking the different stages of their individual progress.

 _____

Earlier last month I launched my third blog, The DIRECTORY that is not only my blog roll, but also serves as an artists resource with numerous links to other sites on a variety of subject matter. If you have not done so already, please do have a visit and add yourself as a follower in order to receive monthly updates.

We are not alone

Dreams taking flight, #N004232 — May 1, 2007

Today a heavy fog has blanketed the area as it lingers, filtering through the landscape with the stillness of a dream; winters melancholy soon shall pass, bowing out to an approaching spring that slowly rises from the darkness. Though morning light has crossed passed the mountains ridge, there are no shadows but in my room, as candles flames flicker to the slightest movement, as its warm amber light baths the surroundings with solace.

Though I am alone physically, I am not. Your words to ‘Life’s Fragility’ have given me company and turned an ordinary day into one filled with compassion. It was a difficult post for both the reader and the author, as any obstacles were overcome by courage.

In these last weeks I have visited your comments often, I feel we have become closer, as you so graciously shared your thoughts and something about your own life or of the ones you love.

A spirit set free, #N004778 — May 4, 2007

Recently I came across a quote that expressing what many of us who blog have come to experience, myself included. They are of the German romantic poet and playwright Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), who’s ‘Trauerspiel’ and accompaniment of Beethoven’s OP-82 that I was ceremoniously named after. The translation is not perfect, though multiple sources seem to agree on the words, it is not perfect as translations go, it still retains Goethe’s thinking.

Goethe in the Campagna, 1786

by Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein

The world is so empty if one only thinks of

mountains, rivers and cities;

but to know someone who thinks and feels with us,

and who, though distant is close to us in spirit,

this makes the earth for us an inhabited garden.

I have been deeply touched by everyone’s visit and with what you wrote, more so than I could ever express and I hope, I had replied to each one of you individually as promised.

The images of the iris flowers are from our garden and I wish you to have one for yourself as a reflection of my sincere appreciation for your presence. If you would like a digital file at high resolution to print out for your home, please send me an email and tell me which one you desire, also make sure you are able to receive a PhotoShop electronic file that is 15-17 MB in size or if you prefer a much smaller JPG document.

I wish you all a wonderful day,

Egmont

Life’s fragility

Yesterday I lit a candle to mark the fourth birthday in my second life, commemorating the day I was to have passed only to cheat death, when doctors performed a triple-by-pass open-heart surgery. The residual consequences have been mixed and though I am grateful to be alive, the side effects of the surgery have become an almost daily battle. Especially the bouts with depression have become more numerous these last one and half years, lasting longer and becoming more sever, that I have even begun to question if the quality of life gained has been worth this daily struggle.

Following the months after the surgery I was very optimistic, looking forward to a better life. Knowing I had better chance, more then most men, to possible live beyond the national average. I would like to regain that optimism, making whatever few years I do have left seem like a lifetime. As the candle celebrating the birthday slowly burned, its light flickered now and then, to unseen currents, when a little hot wax dribbled down the tapered shaft, marking the beginning of my forth year, which was now more important than ever before.

As I reflected, I could not help but also encompass the events that are unfolding by the hour ever since an earthquake had struck the city of Port au Prince, Haiti. It is events like these that we are reminded how fragile life is; unfortunately it takes a disaster or a personal crisis for most of us to understand this.

The arrival of winter as autumn passes

Wildcat Canyon Road, Berkeley California - December 27, 2005, #22281

In many ways this series of photographs reflect life’s fragility. They were taken one week after my collapse, which was later determined to have been a heart attack, and two weeks prior to the open-heart surgery. To this day they are some of the most personal and best work I have produced in the last four decades. Not only do they represent a pivotal moment in my then fifty-six years, they also reflect life’s last will and testament that was voided on January 16, 2006. And so whenever I think about the surgery or the month of December or the month of January, the mind recalls those several days in which I visited a small stretch of earth with tripod and camera in hand, searching.

If you were to ask if I knew what it was that was being sought those last days in December of 2005, the answer would have always been met with a blank gaze, then followed with utter silence. I just knew that regardless of the weather I was compelled, no driven if you would, to capture an image. Only months later did I come to understand that the image was the message and that it was meant for me. It was nature letting me know that my life was like the many leaves that had fallen and now represented my very existence that was about to expire. Yet I am here, facing doubt and an uncertainty, while still trying to make sense of it all.

Though I considered January 16 to be my second birthday and not just an anniversary, I did nothing more than light a candle, watching its bright amber flame slowly burn, while the candles scent began to settle all around the room. Though birthdays are meant to be celebratory, I did not wish it so, besides no one remembered and I did not say a word. It just seemed that some birthdays are best spent with ones self.

A last hurrah

Wildcat Canyon Road, Berkeley California -December 28, 2005, #22294

The inevitable hope

Wildcat Canyon Road, Berkeley California -December 29, 2005, #22326

December’s blanket

Wildcat Canyon Road, Berkeley California -December 30, 2005, #22349

Rain-washing away the sins of the day

Wildcat Canyon Road, Berkeley California -December 30, 2005, #22351

Technical Notes:

Camera: Sony DSC-V1, 5MB, Full Frame

Computer: Macintosh G4

Post work: Photoshop v8 (CS-I)

Post work notes:

Levels, Curves were all individually set.

Channel Mixer for all images at R+40/G+50/B+20/Constant-5
Afterwards converted to Duo-tone for secondary colour

Gaussian Blur was applied to all images

Thank you

As we bring another year and our first decade for the century to a close in a few days, I have been reflecting on my first seven months of blogging. I had not known a thing about blogging, let alone visited any blogs. Well, all this has changed now.

With 17 post published and another 33 at Four Seasons in a Life, I am truly thankful for those who have stop by, had a look at my photographs and read the words to my thoughts. I am especially grateful to my regular readers who have chosen to follow, including the ones who elected to follow anonymously; I cherish your company just as much.

As we are about to enter into 2010, I look forward to our continued friendships, sharing each other’s art, ideas, and personal stories in the coming weeks and months. Maybe even one day we may have the opportunity to talk on the phone or possible meet in person.

I do not know what will await us in the coming year; I do know that visiting your blogs is like comfort food we long for on a cold evening or when we have a need to feed that sweet tooth in the afternoon. Your blogs have enriched my life on many levels, from knowledge to inspiration, to guidance, as well as offered a break from the days routine with a little much needed humour.

I thank you for your presence in blogesphere

and for sharing your world

with me and all of us.

Egmont

Irving Penn remembered

Irving Penn, June 16, 1917 – October 7, 2009

Regardless of ones profession, there are those in our field whom we admire and excel to be like, so when I heard from a friend more than a month after of Irving Penn’s passing away on Wednesday, October 7 at the age of 92, I sank into my chair feeling hopeless, feeling I had just lost my best friend.

Even though I never met Irving Penn, his unique style had a significant impact upon my own work when photographing people. I first became aware of his work when I purchased “Worlds in a Small Room”, which was published in 1974 by Penguin Books. This thin square publication now well worn with kindness over the past thirty years, it is still my most favorite cherished photo book.

What was striking about this collection of black and white photographs was that the sets were bare of any distractions; this way the focus was always on the individual or groups pictured. In addition the lighting remained consistent, always a cool natural northern light that produced considerable details and deep dark shadows, which were rich in depth.

Despite a number of the photographs in the book were taken inside a building with numerous large windows facing the north that flooding the interior with an even flat neutral light that painters love and Irving embraced, the majority of these photographs were shot in a large ‘make-shift’ tent that Irving traveled with. It’s large size, that of a modern day living room, allowed Penn complete control of the daylight, while the tents canvas also served as a perfect backdrop.

The combination of these features I applied to my photography when photographing clients and friends, though my tent was the inside of a studio and the northern light a single strobe light inside a large soft-box, it emulated very well Irving Penn’s vision. The only thing I did was add a large fill card opposite the light source to bounce light back at the subject, softening the shadows and also maintaining the details in the darker areas. Even today a number of my digital still-life photographs are set in a room that has the northern light exposure.

Besides Irving Penn's lighting approach to photograph, I admired his compositional style of angles, shapes and the drama the elements created as he filled the frame with the person or model when working for Vogue magazine. Above all, Irving Penn never stopped growing as an artist by resting on his laurels. He was always exploring new ideas, not only in what he photographed, but also investigating and trying different printing methods, including producing a number of his images as palladium prints.

With his passing, he was the last survivor of three who defined for several decades what fashion photography was all about. Now Richard Avedon, Helmut Newton and Irving Penn are all together again. May they share a glass of wine and reminisce how their lives paralleled one another.

Irving Penn, June 16, 1917 – October 7, 2009

Richard Avedon, May 15, 1923 – October 1, 2004

Helmut Newton, born Helmut Neustädter, 31 October 1920 – 23 January 2004

Irving Penn’s “Small Trades” exhibit at The Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles

September 9, 2009–January 10, 2010.

     

Irving Penn

Small Trades

Virginia A. Heckert and Anne Lacoste

J. Paul Getty Museum

272 pages, 9 1/2 x 12 inches


259 tritone illustrations

ISBN 978-0-89236-996-6
hardcover, $49.95

NOTICE: All images featured in this article retain their original copyrights to whom they were issued.

A thought, a wish shared

clear

      silent

            water

with

      no beginning –

      no end

there

      dreams of hope

            drift

Self-portrait with shattered mirror

There have been a number of self-portraits over the last thirty-five or forty years, which have marked periods and events in my life, and over the course of these many years the photographs have captured various stages of appearance and the state of my health. Mostly all but one were shot in a controlled environment, carefully setting a stage in my studio with a proper background and lighting, including an extra long cable release. However ‘Self-portrait with shattered mirror’ was unplanned and completely spontaneous.

I had been on another one of my photographic excursions, documenting empty structures that were surrounded by a new residential and part business redevelopment on a former company owned community referred to as The Hercules Dynamite Factory. The majority of the former homes and other structures were boarded up, but in some cases, concealed openings could be discovered that teenagers had created looking for adventure and excitement.

Self-portrait with shattered mirror

Ladies Room — Hercules, California, May 22, 2005

Digital duo-tone

Through one of these openings I had entered and explored for the past hour or so, a number of smaller rooms that were adjacent to the ballroom and dining hall, all of which looked as though it dated back to the early 1940’s. I had closed my eyes, pretended to hear the Andrews Sisters singing and stomping their feet to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B or Rum or Coca Cola, with walls reverberating the energy of the band and the sound of a clarinet. Yet all that could now be heard was a deadening silence interrupted by an occasional vehicle passing by.

I continued photographing, focusing at times on areas of the building that could tell a visual story of a child being physical and mental abused and that which it had suffered be reflected in the remains of these interiors, when I came upon the ladies room and a shattered mirror.

From a technical standpoint this is not my best work, when viewed from the esthetics and especially what it represents personally, the photograph captured the essence of a childhood lost through the eyes of an adult.