I’ve been taking photographs ever since my parents gave me a Kodak Instamatic 44 as a Christmas present in 1970. In all that time I’ve never considered myself more than a practiced amateur, staying clear of the technical nuances of the craft like film speeds, f-stops, and the like. This came mostly from not having equipment capable of such settings. Nonetheless, like Schroeder practicing his Beethoven sonatas on a piano with painted-on black keys, I persisted in the endeavor. I took encouragement from Ansel Adams’s 1978 book on Polaroid Land photography; even without a full palette or a complete set of brushes, pretty good art can still happen.

With this post, and future ones like it. I want to share some photos I’ve made over the years that came out even better than I expected. Some were the result of planned effort; some came as serendipity. But I’m proud of them, and want to show. The first examples are from recent attempts. As I dig into my (less-than-organized) archives, or as I create new gems, I’ll post them for view. I’ve never taken any formal courses in photography, but I’ve picked up a few pointers of my own in my times behind the lens. For example, I’ve learned the benefits of a good, tight shot that fills a frame. And please, for the love of everything, don’t ever ask me to take a group photo of people around a dinner table.

When possible, I include the date and type of camera used in the photo. Enjoy!

Emma

20 May 2016  •  iPhone 6s

Emma is our Belgian Malinois mix, about eight years old at the time of this picture. She loves stretching out on the cool concrete floor when the day is hot. She also sheds proficiently, as evidenced by the loose strands in the picture. Sweet dog. I’d love to say that I was going for a Richard Avedon-ish half-lit view here, but actually my greater influence in lighting technique comes from Edward Hopper paintings. Unlike the occasional human subjects in Mr. Hopper’s work, Emma does not appear at all creepy when she looks at you from the picture.

We said our final goodbyes to Emma on 6 June 2020. This is how I’ll always remember her.

Saguaro Blooms

20 May 2012  •  Canon PowerShot SD1300 IS

I love the Giant Saguaro cactus, so it’s fortunate that I live in the relatively small part of the world where they grow. For a short time in late spring (and lately, sometimes in about November), the ends of the saguaro spears and arms sprout waxy white flowers. Though I’ve photographed this sight many times, this particular shot is one of my favorites because it features a pollinator (bee) near the upper-left corner. I like bees.

Night Blooming Cereus

16 May 2017  •  iPhone 6s

I suppose I like photographing desert flora as something of an assertion that the desert is a living place, unlike the popular images spread by movies such as Lawrence of Arabia, which depicted a barren wasteland populated by now-dead actors. Plants also tend to be patient subjects for pictures, although this specimen by its nature offers a brief window for viewing its bloom. Several hours before this shot, the plant showed an unopened bud; by the following morning, it was in full wilt. Somehow I achieved a remarkable [he remarked] balance of light and shadow here. One could argue that I could crop a bit from the top to place the bloom more prominently, but if one does, one should do it nicely and not be a jerk about it.

Arivaca Lake

21 August 2017  •  iPhone 6s

I came to southern Arizona from northeast Oklahoma over 40 years ago. If asked, I tell people that while I don’t miss the Sooner State’s high double-digit humidity and the attendant mosquitos, I do miss the sight of fireflies and regular access to lakes. ‘Tis said (largely by people inclined to use the word “’tis”) that Oklahoma has more man-made lakes than any other state, a reaction to the droughts of the Dust Bowl days. But Arizona has its open waters as well, enough to maintain healthy sales of recreational boats, even if they travel more miles on driveways and highways than on actual water. Arivaca Lake is located a few miles north of the international border, near the Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge. The area is actually classified as marshland. I took this shot from the end of a rickety pier; just how rickety is evidenced by the ripples in the foreground. What inspired me to this particular picture was the strong color arrangement, in various blues and greens, with puffs of white. Not until much later did I notice the soft-focus mirror effect from top to bottom. Such a bonus. I was unable to stay in the area after dark, so I don’t know what kind of firefly light show I might have seen.

Bicyclist With Lady Friend on Skateboard

14 November 2017  •  iPhone 6s

I took this photo while catching my breath during a bike ride on the Rillito River Park path. Once I saw this couple rounding a bend, I had less than ten seconds to pull out my phone and capture the shot. The composition, lighting, color, and even the puffy clouds at the top were total chance. I did not get the opportunity to talk to the subjects, but I shall assume that the lady holding the tether does not disapprove, judging by the gesture from her other hand. For those viewing this shot who are unfamiliar with the desert Southwest, the territory between the railing and the buildings is indeed the Rillito River. (And sí, Spanish speakers, the river’s name is an example of bilingual redundancy, one of many this arid land has to offer.)

One Dewy Morning

16 February 2018  •  Nikon Coolpix L840

This is my Thumb Cactus (Mammillaria matudae), a birthday gift from my friend Katherine. In its five year residence it has grown from a single spear to a cluster (of siblings? babies? appendages?). One morning following a winter rain, I headed out in search of a good opportunity to try the macro setting on my camera. I did not have to go far. Here are two photos from that shoot: an aerial view of the beauty, and another that’s not so much in-your-face as it is piercing-your-cornea. Once you get past the pink (does this qualify as “shocking”?), you see the subtle variations of green that are shot through by angular lines and refracting drops, a blending of color combined with contrasting of shapes. Can you tell from the description that I’ve never taken an art appreciation class? Of course you can.

Thanks Vermilion

17 March 2018 • Nikon Coolpix L840

[As much as I would love to claim the splendidly terrible pun of the title as my own, I give proper credit to the marketers of the long-gone Ford Maverick, for which this phrase was an actual color option, along with Hulla Blue, Original Cinnamon, Anti-Establish Mint, and (my fave) Freudian Gilt. Sure, it was a transparent attempt by Big Auto to appeal to already-waning counterculture tastes, but I applaud the effort.] 

The wary avian pictured above is a Vermilion Flycatcher (Pyrocephalus obscurus mexicanus). I spotted him one sunny Saturday morning at Brandi Fenton Park, near the Rillito River Park (see above). This was another lucky shot, as the closest I could get to my subject was about ten meters. A good zoom lens and surprisingly steady hand yielded this gem, pleasantly centered (no cropping, I swear), and with the color splash overcoming a slightly busy background. The light-colored branch behind the neck is not ideal, but hey–that’s serendipity for you.

When the slate chalkboards were hung at the new Tucson High School in 1923, no one could have known what expression they would display some nine decades later. Toward the end of the Spring 2012 semester, some of my students left their marks in chalk. Art, like life, is ephemeral.

Portrait by Jhoselin. “I drew you as a Guido,” she said. With a touch of The Fonz, clearly.

English, by Emilio.

Stella’s Drawing. I hope life is continually amazing for her, and for all my cloud-dwellers.

Reyna’s Note. This sort of thing made my month. It also suggested that I can’t teach the your/you’re lesson often enough.

Farewell Flower. My handwriting at the top wasn’t always so shaky, but the dual-language day was standard.

Always-cheerful Zoraya.

Brianda’s Note of Seasonal Joy. She grudgingly inserted the comma, at my request.

Definitely Unsolicited Comment. From an anonymous Period 1 Freshman.

Self-titled. From a Period 7 Junior. When I asked, “Are you putting rage comics on my board now?”, I believe I startled some students with my up-to-the-decade reference.
O wonderful teacher that can so ‘stonish a class.

Om and Sanskrit. From Aidan, a Period 7 Junior.

Can You Feel the Love? From a Period 6 Junior.

     I displayed only part of this as a teaser for an essay, and now here it is in full. And yes, I wrote it. The first part of it actually occurred to me in a fit of wordplay about 30 years ago, probably while avoiding more important work. I found it again much later and added the finishing touches.

The framed work as you see it hangs on my office wall, but before that a copy graced a corner of my classroom, in an inconspicuous place above my desk. No student ever commented on it, nor did it ever merit a mention in any official evaluation by my administrators, but I’d like to think it gave someone a few extra things to think about.

(And yes, that is me reflected in the photo. Check out that bicep!)

Common wisdom has it that no one ends their life wishing they’d spent more time at the office. Since my home office is where I get to do my writing, I truly enjoy my hours here.

This is the view as I face Marvin, my computer friend:

And if I swivel around (Thank you, Thomas Jefferson!), this is what I see:

 Much of the decor had earlier graced my classroom, the walls of which were of a color only slightly more attractive than this one.

     I deliberately chose the image of an old stop sign for my essay “Too Obnoxious; Didn’t Read.” Although the yellow-on-black sign was officially replaced by the reflective white-on-red sign in the the U.S. in 1954, I remember seeing some of the old signs in rural areas of Oklahoma as late as the 1970s. Since that time, the yellow yield signs have similarly changed color and design.

It seems that the largest representation of the old color scheme is the standard school bus. Will they change, too? The sight of a huge vehicle in mango or neon red livery would certainly stop traffic.

This is one of my favorite (so far) photos that I’ve included in the site, despite–or maybe because of–the mishmash of objects and lines it contains. The location is the south side of the maintenance center for Tucson’s SunLink modern streetcar line. As you can see, the admonition is visible from the Union Pacific rails nearby, for the benefit of those aboard Amtrak’s Texas Eagle and Sunset Limited, as well as 70-or-so freight trains daily. Downtown pedestrians and drivers on Sixth Avenue can also view this message, framed by lovely skies and the Santa Catalina mountains, seen in the upper left here. At night, the message glows in blue.

This sign features prominently in my (as yet uncollected) list of Unintended Life Advice findings. Also included: “Walk With Light,” and “Keep Cool. Do Not Freeze.” which could be found on a jar of mayonnaise.

These two colossi stand sentinel-like at the intersection of First Avenue and Orange Grove Road in Tucson. As I pointed out in this post, they’re not real saguaro cacti, but disguised cell towers. In a hilly (actually, mountainous) area such as this, whenever a spot with clear reception is located, it’s not unusual for two or more companies to lease space in it and set up. One can only imagine the conversation that occurred simultaneously:

“There’s this great location we’ve secured on the north side. Since it’s open desert, we’ll use a saguaro-type housing on our unit, so that we’ll blend right in.”

“Yeah, let some other company put up a plain tower and have the neighbors and tourists call it an ‘eyesore’!”

“Well, they can use the saguaro thing, too, for all we care. There are different models to choose from. They’d be idiots to pick the same one as ours. After all, two identical cactus would stand out, and defeat the whole purpose!” 

While I’m on the subject, those of you who are not familiar with the desert Southwest might not know that the saguaro (Carnegiea gigantea), while a common symbol of the Old West, grows only in Arizona, the Mexican state of Sonora, tiny parts of California and New Mexico, and nowhere else in the world. Over the years I’ve become a fan of the Western movie genre, and on numerous occasions I’ve been engrossed in some classic oater set in Wyoming or the Great Plains only to be presented with a saguaro standing tall where it has no business being. (I’ve heard of birdwatchers who have similar tales of movie settings that are spoiled by the sounds of birdsongs coming from species located far from the intended location of the story.)

Granted, the Sonoran Desert has been used as a filming location for close to a century, and it’s no secret that a great many stories are not filmed “on site” for various reasons, usually involving cost. If a few saguaros are in the shot, that’s a bonus; they’re much harder to import than, say, tumbleweed.

Which is not to say that importing is not considered, though, the only practical solution there involves fake specimens. The best example of this is one I remember from an episode of the TV series thirtysomething. (It was back in the ’80s; judge away.) The show was normally set in Philadelphia, but this episode had some characters visiting people in Phoenix. In a scene on a golf course (of which Phoenix has, I don’t know, thousands), the characters tee off on a lush green landscape also populated by the most plastic-looking totally identical similacra of saguaros some faraway art director could find. Moreover, they didn’t even have to bother. Saguaro cacti, because of their relative rarity, are a protected species. It’s a federal crime to mutilate or destroy one; a permit is required for just moving one, even by the owner of the property it stands on. So, golf courses in saguaro country carefully clear out these desert royalty before any other landscaping is begun.

In conclusion, I must add that when I first saw the towers pictured above, my first thought was to notice the identical poses. My second thought was that the image reminded me of something, and after a while it came to me: These are heads of tobacco companies appearing before Congress in 1994, where they collectively swore they knew nothing about the harmful effects of their product on human health.

And so we have it. Nature imitates villainy. Botanical performance art.