Profile
Through the lens, sans color
I see a world in black & white. No, not in Black "and" in White. My visual perception is in the synergy of tones. I can sort out the essence from the hues with little or no reliance on color. And the visual statement can be powerful and evocative in the graphic starkness of black & white. The medium is an elite realm of its own that would exact raw creativity to breaking point. It does not hide sins easily, and it can brazenly isolate itself from other forms of expressions without apologies.
I've been weaned on the discipline of film photography and still an avid practitioner. Photography has always been my passion. I have seen and traveled places in it, connected with lifelong friendships, and lived experiences that will stay with me forever. It is a soul to a body, and I will always have a connection with it for a long time to come.
Day One in America
Late sixties: It was a time of turmoil—war protests, political assassinations, revolt against the establishment. It was my new reality in a new world. No waiting relatives, no prearranged job, no bank account. I was staying in an old, Wild-West vintage hotel, still with the original wooden structure and even a turn-of-the-century chain elevator that you had to crank yourself to operate. The area was called, the "Skid Row"—a rough, run-down part of town where panhandlers and occasional muggings were common. The four-story building was inhabited by a wild mix of characters and ethnic groups, and managed by an Indian family. Next to it downstairs was what we called "the Bowery," a pub-style bar where tired workers stopped by for a nightcap or social chat, and where I met my first USA buddy, a 6-footer Irish-American guy everyone called, Red, because of his hair. We were absolute opposites in everything, but became good friends.The city's newspaper was on strike and picketers were on an all-night vigil across the yard of their corporate headquarters. A buddy I had just met that day introduced me to the unshaven, burly guys next to the bonfire handing out hot soup to fellow picketers, "This is Ed, my friend, just got off the boat..." Before he could finish, the huge KP man, handed me a bowl of soup and said, "Welcome, enjoy the meal!" It was my first night in chilly San Francisco—and my first dinner in America.
What did you do in the War, Daddy?
In a word, nothing. That is, nothing beyond just surviving with the rest of the crew, the family. Which, in the larger context, was everything. I was way too little then to be of any help in any case, just barely having cleared the walking-running-climbing learning curves, one of which skills would later come in handy in a scary twist. The family had evacuated the city mostly on foot like the rest of the masses fleeing the deadly bombings at the turning point of the war, and we were staying with relatives in a remote rural province. One night, my grandma woke me up, asking I accompany her to the detached outhouse set up for us refugees. This was in the dead of night at the peak of the war when curfew violation was punishable by death (if you’re lucky), yet grandma wouldn’t take no for answer from little brave and sleepy me. So off we went in the moonless, pitch-black field, hoping not to disturb any snakes or their nocturnal cousins in the grassy pathways. I waited outside the makeshift shack and when she was done, we both headed back cautiously for the house. We were only a few steps having started when she heard distinct engine noise from afar. “Dive under any large bush,” she said quickly, “and don’t move or make any sound. It’s a patrol.” Sure enough, it was a truckload of Japanese soldiers patrolling the area. The truck moved slowly to a crawl as the soldiers scanned the dark field for anything suspicious, but then moved on after what felt like eternity. Grandma hid this episode from everyone, knowing the mob will be after her for taking such a risk. Her moral-support “hero” just went right back to finish his sleep.
There are artists and there are artsies.
How to tell when one is not an artist? When he looks like one. You can almost say the same about flying aces, spies, and shutterbugs. So it’s contradictory. So it’s true. I’ve dealt with the type for years, and I can spot him yards away. Art can be playful, yes. But playful in a creative way—and creative in a consistent way. Which is why artists make their mark with their distinctive style. Which means form comes into play, which in turn calls for structuring, and which in turn calls for discipline. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a strong advocate of free form. But you won’t catch me hiring Mr. Hollywood showing up in his funky handlebar moustache, and funny hat and coat emblazoned with “Art is my gig!” Let’s get real. The profession has absolutely nothing to do with weirdness and disjointed posturing. Some folks have been watching too much television—or being robbed blind by some artsy schools.
Hi-tech? Or hype-tech?
Computers are wonderful machines, someone said, they help us solve problems we never had before. That’s a little hard, of course, but I’ve learned to keep it all in perspective. I’m betting you can take away all the fancy techie gadgets tonight, and tomorrow will be just another day. Remember the Year-2K scare? Planes would crash, trains would derail, earth as we know it would cease to exist. Da Vinci, for all his inventive genius, must be rolling in his grave. Gizmos, just because they’re the latest, don’t excite me the way a ball game fan gets flushed watching his team make it to Big League. Stretching it? You’ve never seen those kind? Well, they exist, and you can count me out of that crowd. Computers do bug me on a different level. I get a kick working with them, raising to new heights my productivity, and enhancing even my techniques. But they have become more and more centralized and we more and more dependent on them, in blind faith and at their mercy. I do lug my laptop every now and then and utilize it to facilitate projects. They’re exquisite tools. But the day is yet to come when you’ll find me boarding a pilotless aircraft for any price.
Acknowledgment
Special thanks to the genius on the left, shown with my wife, Sofía, for the exemplary effort and hard work in the structuring of this site. Emilio’s technical skills and expert advice were a large part of making this Web site a labor of love.
You may send comments to: edLog3 at yahoo dot com.