Seemingly unconscious of my presences there is a moment between silence and mid-note that my lens captures Randy’s silhouette. He rehearses, then pauses to contemplate a melodic and rhythmic pattern – as he continues to rehearse Randy fills the room with waves of invisible sentiment. To the ear its blues, cool, romantic and yet a feeling of expressing pensive sadness. The rehearsal room tuns blue.
When heaven and purgatory collide over the Great Basin of California and Nevada, the upper atmospheric pressure is so great that cold air begins to sink violently downslope compressing with the warm air. The temperature rises, the relative humidity drops and birth is given to the Satanas winds. As Satanas exhales across the barren land an invisible assault of unpredictable chaos ensues.
Now unleashed beneath a sun splash sky the searing dry winds descent upon the Southland. It is the “Season of Suicide’ as the onrush is channeled through the passes and canyons that surround the City of Angels. Descending pass the sage, red willows and prickly pear the veiled breath of the devil sears the stems, exposed roots and unfolding blooms. Parched ravines become arteries of frenetic winds fraught with sweltering heat and are escorted with manic depression and bizarre behavior to the lost souls below. The mind-altering impact on some unwitting citizens can be explained away with the alibi, “the devil made me do it”.
The winds create turbulence manifesting vertical wind shear, which litters the sky with plastic grocery bags, splintered Styrofoam and showering pieces of debris. The decibels intensifies, mixing the wailing of the protagonist with the sounds of dismembered trees and wind gust that sound as if vast swarms of locust have arrived. A spark spawns Dante’s purgatory in paradise; sirens resonate across the Southland as the atmosphere is flushed with crimson and ash. The vast canvas of the Southland is painted with a dry brush of heat, valley fever and paranoia as the Satanas takes to the red carpet in the city of Angels.
- The hot easterly wind is properly and historically called: SANTANA, not Santa Ana! Sailors have a phrase, “Beware the devil wind Santana.” Refer to two years before The Mast, published in 1840, by Richard Henry Dana Jr. The original spelling of the of name of the winds is unclear, not to mention the origin. Although the winds have been commonly called Santa Ana Winds or Santa Anas, many argue that the original name is Santana Winds or Santanas. Both versions of the name have been used. The name Santana Winds is said to be traced to Spanish California when the winds were called Devil Winds due to their heat.The origin of Santa Ana Winds with an Associated Press correspondent stationed in Santa Ana who mistakenly began using Santa Ana Winds instead of Santana Winds in a 1901 dispatch.
“All men have stars, but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems… But all these stars are silent. You-You alone will have stars as no one else has them… In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars will be laughing when you look at the sky at night..You, only you, will have stars that can laugh! And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me… You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window, so, for that pleasure… It will be as if, in place of the stars, I had given you a great number of little bells that knew how to laugh”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,
“I just really want to tell you right now Enzo, that it is extremely plausible that you have created your own world and the illusion is that you are a neurotic mess because your mother was a neurotic mess. You think to much and feel to little, now go home and eat some prosciutto, drink some vino and take a nap.”
Sitting here in La, La, Land I can see how you would believe that a gluten free diet and drinking green veggie smoothes is the answer to all your worldly woes. It’s a lie sweetheart, what really works in this world is a pack of Marlboro red, a cup of coffee and a buttermilk donut. Listen sunshine, there is no guarantees in life, this is it, this is all you get. Honey, you and I are living in a temporary parking lot between Nativity Lane and Sunset Boulevard.
We are the little people, faceless and sad, we accumulate at a bus stop near Sunset and Sad, as you can see we wait for a bus that will never drew near. We are surrounded by the artificial glitter of the Stars, which provides the illusion of certain happiness which seem more real than where we are. We see the failed sitcom stars and the whole fragile scene as the dumpsters are filled with broken dreams.
Architectural photography is not my first choice for an assignment; I’m more of a run-and-gun photographer. But from years of overseas and domestic assignments I came to the realization that the kinetic structure of my knees are deteriorating and the pace of my stride is slowing. I live in my past as most men do my age, but reality is insidious and has a way of redirecting ones life. In a conversation with my brother Mark we discussed reinvention, evolution and acceptance as we age. I’ve witnessed him overcome incredible odds in La La Land (Hollywood) to becoming a very successful Producer while all along maintaining his integrity – which is the cornerstone of character. He now lives in the great Northwest freeing his spirit from the tragic and deviant characters of Hollywood. As T.S. Eliot said,
“We shall not cease from exploring,
And the end of our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
How appropriate, only recently has Mark rediscovered his passions that have lied dormant for several decades. One of which is using his hands to build and create – he is the only man I know who has built a home from the ground up.
So what does all this have to do with Architectural photography? My assignment was to photograph an older building that is being refurbished, redecorated and rehabilitated. While editing the images I suddenly became aware of the building name, Keystone, which is the central stone at the summit of an arch locking the whole together. I think of the camera as my cornerstone, holding my perception of the world together with its steel, plastic and glass.
I have heard that Architecture is like frozen music and is assembled in light that fills an empty space. So, are we architects of our own life? We lay our foundation in youth with education and life experiences as we try desperately to avoid the pitfalls as we whimsically journey to completion. It becomes apparent as we age to measure the space and spiritual dimensions of our past, the games we played and the poetic inventions of our heart. For some of us, we did this without a blueprint and struggled, but quickly learned that for every new situation and issue requires new architecture. Unlike Rip Van Winkle who wakes from the glassy bosom of Ale to find that twenty years have past, I woke to reinventing with a solid foundation to breaking new ground.
A sunset drive on the A72 near Rosebank, Scotland. Standing sentry are ancient elders of oak, silver birch and pine that border the country lane which is empty of all traffic. With the windows down the crisp air dashes about and fills the cab with aroma of turf, heather and earth. For a moment my soul is lifted from all of life’s complications and I slow the car to a crawl to absorb every second. To my left is the River Clyde, running dark and silent as the sun ends another day in the land of my fathers. I am home and received by the spirits and magic of Scotland and yet I struggle to believe that I just saw a unicorn on the banks of the River Clyde. It was a magical mystery tour and I can’t wait to go back because Scotland is in my heart and soul.
The street… Hollywood Boulevard swarms with consumers in shorts, shorts, flip flops and cameras,
“Oh look it’s Boyz II Men star! Where’s the Biebs star?” The young girl wearing leopard skin leggings ask.
Nearby a panhandling broken man with a yellow stained beard shouts,
“Hey! Ain’t no fun when the rabbit got’s the gun” his words sing.
He waves at a woman of the one percent in a Bentley,
“She’s got hairpoo and shinny shins I bet”, his song continues.
Near the corner of McCadden Place and the Boulevard, outside a darken bookstore old school meets new schools. Kool-Aid drinker’s in blue woofing tickets to a falsetto religion.
“Hey man! What did one shepherd say to the other shepherd? Let’s get the flock out of here!”
They’re not amused with furrowed brows as the broken man with the yellow beard passes by.
Sauntering, shuffling along without stepping on a crack… “don’t break your mothers back” he mumbles.
Hey! Mayweather, he’s the coolest, never without his sunglasses. I swear he walks in a Holy Light, a man who could read the hidden messages in a test pattern.
“Nobody works on the Boulevard they only perform; this is their universe with no soundtrack”, He shouts then points.
“Look at that old Filipino face with a sign, he thinks Jesus is for sale.”
Young men nicely dressed selling trips to the hills to see the stars in convertible vans; “Maybe silver ash will bless the pilgrims as they pass” His song carries-on.
A woman wearing paper shoes from the Nail Palace next to the alley is stomping on aluminum cans. Watching is an Armenian man in a gray hat standing at the entrance of Geiger’s Rare Books.
“Oh my, the Pig and Whistle is open, time to cheer the life on Hollywood Boulevard my friend, will you buy? “