Like last year, I booked a trip to LA only to discover it coincided with the day my family was supposed to honor my fatherhood. And just like last year everyone was happy to celebrate my family contributions this weekend instead.

These yearly sojourns to Southern California are meant to keep connected to family and friends. Our mundane moments are communicated pretty well through email and periodic phone calls. These trips reveal more subtle changes: walking with a walker after a Thailand accident, no longer dying her hair, the desperate need for a dentist, and the bright smile I've forgotten.

On last year's trip I discovered a gold mine when I unearthed a bit of Gates family history: Malibu Clothes in Beverly Hills. This, my faithful readers will remember, is where my father bought all his suits wholesale for fifty years. And, this is where he bought me my first suit at the age of seven. You had to know somebody to get in. Cheap prices for quality material, yes. But this was Beverly Hills. Even in the 1950s exclusivity was a must.

On this trip I decided to make a return visit. I certainly didn't need another sports coat but a pilgrimage seemed in order if I wanted to truly reconnect with my father for Father's Day. And, I wanted to get a photo of the biggest Rolodex I'd ever seen: The Acme Visible Strat-O-Matic.

Looking for my buying history in the Acme Visible Strat-O-Matic. That's Jimmy Smits' photo in the background. I told you this place was exclusive!

Not to be confused with the Strat-O-Matic game company, purveyors of sports simulation games, this Strat-O-Matic neatly housed thousands of clients' clothes-buying histories on a million 3x5 index cards. "Don't you have a computer database of these records?" I asked my salesperson. "Yes, but having something tangible to carry with me while you shop allows me to quickly scan your buying habits --what you like and don't like and how many times you've come in and bought nothing. Stuff like that." As I scanned their latest selections I knew my entry for that day would be ¡Bought Nada! Bought nothing! But as I said, I wasn't there for the luxurious fabrics. I was there for the Strat-O-Matic.

The owner chimmed in: "We've had five computer systems over the years. But our Strat-O-Matic has lasted 40 years and hasn't broken down once. I saw it in a library back then and knew right away I had to have one."

I wanted one too; really bad. All that organization potential made my head spin. But where would I find a million pieces of information to fill it? Perhaps I could start cataloguing my friends and relatives. After my trips to Los Angeles I'd go to my Strat and pull out their thick card decks. For every occasion I'd write down the details of our visits. Yes, there'd be those days every now and then when I would write: Bought nothing. But then there'd also be those subtle moments I'd savor: the slightly overcooked asparagus she apologized for, kicking my foot under the table when he thought I was carrying a joke too far, and the childhood embarrassment finally explained.

Good relationships are filled with these moments. And they need to be catalogued.

The Happy Couple on Our Wedding Day

Sixteen years.

After sixteen years of marriage certain things fit perfectly. Two artists, we started with an artists' wedding and each year we're reminded of this beginning. It's a day to remember our coupling but also who each of us is. We both want to get back to making art.

We've been going to the same restaurant for the past seven years to celebrate. Because of the restaurant's database, they always remember which anniversary we're celebrating and our menus are printed with a celebratory "Happy [Fill in the year] Anniversary." They always take us to the same area of the dining room where there are three tables-for-two set in a triangle. Some years we dine alone. With young children it's wonderful to be adults and not just parents. And we marvel how facile we are when slip into adult conversation. And there's always wine. I make a play for the sommelier, describing at length the flavor and finish we're looking for. It is my finest hour as a wine connoisseur. Well, I know what we like—we're a very compatible wine couple.

If there are others at the other tables we may converse with them, sharing our celebratory events. If not, we're happy to be alone.

This year, the couple on our left was already seated when we arrived. We could tell she was celebrating her birthday. But it was obvious they only had eyes for each other. The table on our right was still unoccupied. There was a chance we'd meet someone interesting.

Finally two gentlemen were seated. My wife and I continued talking with each other. When our entrees arrived one of the men looked over and commented on our food. A good conversational opener. I've used it myself over the years. We were happy to engage.

They were in town for the weekend, up from southern Virginia. Hampton Roads if memory serves me. He was a lapsed Catholic priest now in local government and the other he was retired. They loved DC. Easy to get to, they'd spent the day traversing the Smithsonian on the Mall. I, of course, felt it my duty to wax poetic on the American Art Museum. Not on the Mall, often people will miss the splendor and history of the Old Patent Office Building where the museum is housed. I know my lines (it's my job). It was easy to make a visit there enticing. They were leaving the next day but would make sure they went before taking off.

I asked Mr. Lapsed Priest how he felt about Father Alberto Cutie, who had just left the Church after breaking his celibacy. "When I left the Church we wanted to get far away." "Far away from his former parishioners," his partner added. So we moved from Michigan to southern Virginia. And then he chuckled (not a laugh, it was definitely a chuckle).

"The first weekend in our new home we went to church. As we were leaving someone tapped him on the back and said 'Aren't you Father Smith?'"

You can never get away from your past. That evening, that was just fine with us.

• [ Wedding Anniversary ]

I have just returned from the GEL Conference in New York—a fantastic opportunity to listen, meet, and interact with many wonderful and fascinating minds. Remind me to tell you about the game Werewolf: a parlor game on the surface, but one filled with intrigue and issues of trust and paranoia. But I digress.

The purpose of today's post is to introduce you to a new series of photographs I've been taking over the last few years. Of course, you know that I've recently gotten back to my love of photography. So, today I'd like to publicly present my ongoing series: Hotel Bathroom Origami.

Why would any one want someone else to touch the toilet and tissue paper and the towels in our hotel bathroom? A rhetorical question as it seems to be more and more the norm as I travel around the world. Every time I arrive at my hotel destination, my first stop is usually the bathroom for a pit stop. But with the Swine Flu consuming us (or at least our germaphobe tendencies), who wants anyone handling anything we touch to our noses and unmentionables? To say nothing of wasting paper just for the sake of presentation. Really!

Werewolf has nothing on the scary paranoiac (yet oddly beautiful) Hotel Bathroom Origami.

• [ Hotel Bathrooms, Origami, Photography, Flickr, Swine Flu ]

Commentary at the New York Stock Exchange

On a trip last week to New York for a series of meetings I suddenly discovered the New York Stock Exchange was located directly on the path between my hotel and meeting site. This "discovery" was hard to miss with a huge American flag draped across the front of the building and tourists holding up their cameras for a similar photo op (even at this early morning hour).

My time in Washington has trained me to look for initial signs of heightened security camouflaged as benign architectural flourishes. Bronze-colored "stones" subtly blocked would-be terrorists' attempts to ram the front of the building. From there my senses noticed more overt measures: guard dogs sniffing along the front of the façade, stockbrokers showing their IDs to uniformed security, and the older gentleman, nicely dressed, loudly maligning the virtues of the new Obama Administration.

While tourist-photographers tended to document the huge flag, I, always looking to make a statement, went for the more ironic version of this snapshot. (The next day there was a new pic to take. Reports that advertising budgets are drying up must surely be premature.)

• [ NYSE, New York Stock Exchange, Photography, New York City ]

Chris Anderson's The Long Tail: Products that are in low demand or have low sales volume can collectively make up a market share that rivals or exceeds the relatively few current bestsellers and blockbusters.

Chris Anderson, editor of Wired magazine, popularized the term The Long Tail to describe a strategy for businesses that sell large numbers of items, each at a relatively low volume. Despite fewer sales per item, according to Anderson, such businesses can make big profits if they reach many, many niche buyers.

In the last few years, the Smithsonian American Art Museum has been looking at our museum's online information in the same way. Our Web statistics showed that the number of visitors to our top ten sections paled when compared with the total number of visitors for all other pages, even though only a few people viewed each page. The challenge: how could we make it easier for our online visitors to find things of interest even if that information is buried deep in our site?

Anderson recently spoke at the Smithsonian 2.0 conference. Organized by the Smithsonian's new Secretary, G. Wayne Clough, the seminar brought digerati from across the country to discuss how the Institution could make its collections, educational resources, and staff more "accessible, engaging and useful" to our visitors with the help of technology. A few weeks ago, American Art's director, Elizabeth Broun, continued the discussion by holding an unprecedented all-day staff retreat to discuss the use of social media within the museum.

• • •

Museums are changing. Like many other organizations, our hierarchical structure has historically disseminated information from our experts to our visitors. The envisioned twenty-first-century model, however, is more level. Instead of a one-way presentation, our online visitors are often interested in having a conversation with our curators and content providers. In response, many of us at American Art have been looking for ways to engage our public by designing applications that promote dialogue. By encouraging user-generated content and by distributing our assets beyond our own Web site and out across the Internet, we hope to make our content easier to find. In doing so, we are trying to fulfill our long tail strategy. In order to succeed we will need to approach our jobs differently.

While the traditional visionary makes connections between the big pictures, long tail visionaries look for connections between the small pictures. I am hedging my bets at the grassroots level. And at this level I, along with my coworkers, play a number of roles.

Advocate. Making our artworks accessible and connecting them with Americans' lives has been our director's long-term goal, and we've noted the cultural shift from a broadcast mode of communication (that one-way, top down dissemination of info) to a more conversational one. Five years ago when I first proposed doing Eye Level, American Art's blog, I looked at the ways young people were consuming culture. A blog seemed like a good first step toward attracting youth to our offerings and hopefully engendering lifelong interest in our museum.

When the Lunder Conservation Center, American Art's open conservation lab, told us they wanted to find a way to let visitors know when a conservator was working on an artwork, we showed them how to use Twitter to inform our museum's information desks that something cool going on way up on the third floor. Showing our staff a valuable solution to one of their real world problems is one of the best ways to advocate for social media within the museum.

Collaborator. It took a group of us to make our blog a success. While our goal was similar, we all saw the process in slightly different ways. Nevertheless, together we made change possible. Growing pains are emerging, though. As we develop new ways of communicating with our visitors and members, our jobs and responsibilities will morph. Bringing order doesn't require the centralized management of a "Social Media Czar." But it does require a strategic plan. Who's responsible for what? How will multiple departments contribute, say, to a Twitter feed without it degenerating into confusion? Organizations used to one honed public voice may find this difficult to fathom. As we try to reach many different audiences, many of us will be entrusted to convey a consistent message. And this can work only if we know how to work together.

The Luce Center's Fill the Gap! has been one of the most interesting online interactions we've had with our public.

Community Organizer. At the root of all of this techno stuff is people: individuals who share a common interest. We're finding new ways to bring people together and nurture their relationship with the museum. We do this both within American Art and between our museum and public. We're always looking for museum staff to write for Eye Level. Their stories are the museum. As we develop social media outreach, we're also soliciting outside people to contribute their photographs, insights, and stories.

Recently, the Luce Center for American Art, our open storage facility, requested help to Fill the Gap! in one of its cases. If an artwork in open storage is moved elsewhere and will be gone more than a year, the Luce staff is asked to replace the piece with another. This time, we asked our Flickr audience for suggestions to fill the empty space. The ensuing dialogue with citizen curators' suggestions was exactly the type of engagement we want to encourage with our public.

Realist. It's not easy developing a new organizational paradigm. I also realize not everyone sees the future in the same way. After our museum's social media retreat, I discussed the day's topics with my colleagues. Some had valid concerns and reservations. How would this new goal add to their already busy jobs? With resources at a premium, would the quality they strive for be sacrificed? And with so much "junk" on the Internet, would our efforts just be adding to the cacophony? Good content is still our best cultural currency and we have a lot of it here. Plus, as I see it, face-to-face dialogues would always trump anything online. It isn't the technology I am excited about, but rather how technology can connect us and even lead to new understandings about our content.

As long tail visionaries we don't just embrace new technology --we question it. After the unbridled exuberance for the 1990s' next best thing, separating reality from hyperbole has become one of our most valued skill sets. Our efforts must support our museum's goals but we can test these waters, even failing now and then, and still move forward and evolve. Developing new paradigms require more process-oriented, rather than results-oriented thinking. We have to be cognizant of the new structures and relationships we're building in order to evaluate our successes and failures. This is the grassroots where long tail visionaries work best.

• • •

Is it hubris to call us visionaries? Not really. We are part soothsayer and part prognosticator. And these have become entry-level requirements for cultural workers at any organization. At the very least we need to make informed decisions and a lot of educated guesses about the changes technology is bringing to museums. Is it provocative? Change, by its very nature, is provocative. Traditional museum content providers are no longer the only people in a position to decide what is worthy of our attention and limited resources. Museums and other cultural institutions are in the midst of a fundamental shift and long tail visionaries are working together with curators, public affairs officers, and other staff to make some important decisions. This transition, though, will not always be easy.

Sometimes I need to be a realistic and pragmatic long tail visionary. But, I'll confess, every now and then I can also get really, really excited by the possibilities. Visionaries can get that way sometimes.

Related material:
Download this article as a PDF.
A thirteen year old bit of prognostication: New Roles for Artists in the Information Age
Case Study: New World Blogging within a Traditional Museum Setting

• [ Long Tail, Chris Anderson, Museums, Social Media, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Smithsonian 2.0 ]

Trees with Mormon Temple, 2009, ©Jeff Gates. Click on image for larger view. Yesterday, as I was driving the DC Beltway I suddenly saw the spires of the Mormon Temple above the leafless branches of Rock Creek Park. With no other man-made structures around, these steeples have always reminded me of the Morlocks' towers rising above the growth of 802,701 A.D. in George Pal's 1960 adaptation of H.G. Wells' The Time Machine.

I'd always wanted to make a photo that evoked this feeling. And this clear winter day was a perfect time to do so. Bringing the image back to my computer I wanted to enhance the primeval feeling of the woods with the distant man-made construction. I created a slight vignette around the center of the image and reduced the color in the woods, reminiscent of 19th century photographs. I left a bit of color in the center branches at the foot of the tree to draw your eye in.

My latest hobby is photography, which is pretty ironic since I used to teach the subject and considered myself a fine art photographer a few years back. Using that word to describe my interest isn't really too much of a stretch. Merriam-Webster defines it as "a pursuit outside one's regular occupation engaged in especially for relaxation" and Word Net says it means "a spare time activity." The word amateur has come to mean "less than professional." But its original meaning was "lover of." All aptly describe photography's place in my life these days.

With a full-time job and a fuller-time family, it's hard to fit in much more except for the occasional couch potato TV and Netflix sessions. Yet, the enjoyment I get from not only taking the photographs, but the post-visualization of the final image (that is, the after-the-fact manipulation of the photo to elicit just the right feeling) is worth my less-than-ample free time. And, more over, getting it out there --posting it on the Net and connecting with viewers-- actually gets back to my original interest in photography. I love both making images and talking about them. I really enjoy the interaction.

When I was a teenager I had pen pals all over the world. From Japan to Czechoslovakia I looked forward to hearing about other people's lives. In 1992 I had a one person exhibition of my work at the Baltimore Museum of Art. Every day I'd go over to the museum and listen to people comment to their friends as they looked at my photographs. And every once in a while I'd reveal myself, engaging them as they talked. I was never the stereotypical artiste, sequestered in his studio, unable and uninterested in engaging the public. Back when I was teaching art and photography many students would often take on this stereotype as their own: "my art should speak for itself: if you don't get it it's not my job to clue you in." This always shocked me for I always felt just the opposite. I wanted to share and talk about what I was doing. And the best part was when a viewer would interpret my work in a way I'd never thought of.

In 1988 I founded ArtFBI (Artists for a Better Image) to study stereotypes of artists in contemporary culture. I wanted to see how this old artist paradigm would mesh within the burgeoning post-modern one. Sherrie Levine shocked the art world in 1979 with her series After Walker Evans, a direct reproduction of photographer Walker Evan's work with her name as the artist. It was no longer just about the sanctity of the art object. It was about the discourse generated by the process of making art and its function in society. Flickr and other social media platforms like Twitter are updated versions of my younger interests. (And, in searching out online examples of Levine's work to show you I came upon this Flickr photograph of Kristina Gibbs' reproduction of Sherri Levine's reproduction of Walker Evan's photograph.)

I've been happily involved in this process for most of my life. In 1996 I wrote about New Roles for Artists in the Information Age. Back then I was a teacher. But now my day job at the Smithsonian American Art Museum has evolved to fit my interests perfectly. A good part of my work --actually it's written into my performance plan-- is to search the Net for interesting ways to place our artworks into new contexts and connect with new audiences.

While many of us at the Smithsonian have been working behind-the-social-media scenes for quite a while, suddenly it's exploded into a flurry of activity. A few weeks back we invited a number of Net digerati to take part in Smithsonian 2.0, a discussion about moving all the Smithsonian's interesting "stuff" out of our nation's attic and onto as many networks as we can. This week the American Art Museum is devoting an entire day with all its staff to discuss this. Our aim: to get it out "there" for pleasure, discussion, and for you to use as you see fit. This is no small task for a museum complex born and, in many ways, still in the 19th century.

So, it's not surprising that I'm using what little free time I have to continue doing what I've been doing for years: constructing images about our lives and introducing myself to you to engage in some chat.

Maybe this is more than just a hobby.

• [ Photography, Social Media, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Flickr, Twitter ]

Portrait of Barack Obama and Abraham Lincoln in Cupcakes Click image for larger view.

Fridays are supposed to be light days with anticipation of the upcoming weekend filling workers heads worldwide. Yesterday, was anything but as our anticipation was redirected to the cupcake portraits being constructed at the Smithsonian American Art Museum, my home-away-from-home every weekday. Zilly Rosen and her group had prepared 5900 vanilla cupcakes and were carefully placing them in just the right places to reveal a duo portrait of Barack Obama and Abraham Lincoln --a combo St. Valentine's Day and Presidents Day homage (that's the word we use in art museums for this kind of thing).

The process was being broadcast live over the Net with thousands remotely watching. (As the portrait nears completion today you can still view it live.) I got the chance to see it first hand as the faces slowly were revealed. When you looked at the work directly it was hard to see Obama's and Lincoln's faces. However, looking through my camera viewfinder, the smaller image reduced the size of the "pixel/cupcakes" and the images became crystal clear.

The family's heading out later today to see the final portrait and, at about 5 pm EST, we'll all get to sample a bit of Presidential history. Ummm, cupcakes. My ten year old can't wait.

Update: I have uploaded my best photographs of the installation and "de-installation" (i.e. eating) of this Presidential portrait to my flickr photostream.

• [ Obama, Lincoln, Zilly Rosen, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Cupcakes ]

Details from some of my Inaugural portraits

As I began to look at the photographs I shot during the Inauguration I realized how many portraits of people I had taken that day: from soldiers and police who were doing traffic control (and other more subtle national security tasks) to the many different citizens who came to celebrate and sell their souvenirs. As I said initially, this was a very different Inauguration than the last two I attended. Few protesters, it was more celebratory than either of the last two Bush events.

Over the years I have spent a lot of time thinking about the best camera to take on these urban photo safaris. In 2001 I dusted off my Pentax 6x7 to shoot medium format "real" film at Bush's first Inaugural. This had been my go-to camera during the 1990s. Medium format gave me great detail for large prints and I loved the quality. But that January 20th I realized this would be the last time I would ever used this camera --too few shots per roll and, weighing in at almost four pounds, it was heavy as hell. This was not well-suited for the type of urban documentary photography I was interested in and my back was no longer willing to carry it around. It became a burden to take pictures. I needed to make an adjustment just as digital cameras were coming into their own.

In 2005 I brought my first digicam, the tiny Pentax Optio S5. Oooh, it was light and its featherweight brought the fun back for me. But the measly optical zoom (3X) didn't allow me to get close to some of the action at Bush's second Inauguration. So I began looking for something closer to my dream combo: a lightweight camera with a massive zoom. The winner was the Panasonic TZ3 (and now its successor the TZ5). It was a bit heavier than my S5 but not by much and it had a 10X optical zoom (the longest zoom on the lightest camera around). It didn't have processional settings like the Nikon P5000 or the Canon G9 so I wouldn't have the most control over the images I took but I figured I could do what I needed in post-production using Photoshop.

So this year it was me and my TZ3 welcoming our new President on the National Mall. When you're taking impromptu street portraits you don't have a lot of time to contemplate your camera settings. You point and you shoot. I asked people if I could take their photograph. Sometimes I'd just be able to get one shot off before my subject moved on. That's street photography: Henri Cartier-Bresson's decisive moment. I was in a maelstrom of people moving in all directions. Getting someone to stand still for a minute wasn't easy.

As I looked at my images on the computer later that evening I started to form opinions about what I had taken. Going in without a strict notion of what I wanted to take (how could I, not knowing what to expect), I relied on my internal photographic senses on the street. However, now I had the time to make decisions about the final images. And I realized that some would require a shallow depth-of-field to separate the subjects of my photos from their background. Unlike my formative photographic years when I could do that by as I was taking the photography using a wide aperture, I was going to have to recreate this via Photoshop. And to do it right was going to entail a multi-stepped process.

Original Photograph with a Long Depth of Field

Separating the figure and fence from the background with the Pen Tool

Some images were easier than others and I could use Photoshop's Quick Selection tool. However, when I needed accuracy I had to use the Pen Tool to create an outline path I could then convert to a selection. In this image the metal railings were at the same distance from the camera as the soldier. Like the figure, they would remain in focus in the final photo. But it wouldn't be easy to make a selection that included just the figure and the fence. So I outlined both using the pen tool. This took time but would allow me the most control when creating my depth-of-field. I turned this path into a selection and then Inversed Selection to select the entire background. I now had separated my foreground from the background and could start blurring the background.

Second Step: Creating the Initial Depth-of-Field

Entire Background Thrown Slightly Out of Focus

Photoshop's Lens Blur tool is made for recreating the blur created by a len's shallow depth of field (using a wide aperture). However, areas closer to the lens are less out of focus than those further away. So this process would have to be repeated, throwing more distant areas more out of focus. I began by using the Lens Filter to put the entire background slightly out of focus. The near background (the crosswalk) would stay blurred at this level while I made the areas further back blurrier.

Third Step: Using Quick Mask to Move Selection Back in Space

Using Quick Mask to Move Back in Space

I then went back to my original selection (the soldier and the fence) and masked them off using the Quick Mask tool. To do this I selected the background then just hit the Quick Mask icon on the Photoshop tools palette. The soldier and the metal fence turned red, indicating it was masked off from the rest of the image. I then added to the mask using the Paint Brush tool, setting a soft edge to the brush since the blur would gradually become greater as it moved back in space. Changing the size, hardness, and opacity of the Paint Brush allowed me to get the selection as accurate as I wanted it. Everything in red is now masked off.

I turned off the Quick Mask and the area outside the red became my new selection. Going back to my Lens Blur filter I increased the blur as seen below in the areas further away from the camera.

The background is now more out of focus.

Using the Quick Mask brush I did this one more time to throw the far background a bit more out of focus behind the ambulance.

The far background is thrown even more out of focus.

Final Step: De-Saturating the Background to Make the Figure Stand Out

My final step was to reduce the color in the background to make the soldier pop. The bright colors of the ambulance were competing with the man. I went back to my original path of the soldier and the fence. Turned that into a selection and inversed it to select the entire background once more. Using the Hue/Saturation (Image-->Adjustments-->Hue/Saturation) I reduced the color in the background just a bit and then darkened it for the final effect:

The final image with the background desaturated to make the soldier stand out. Compare that with the original image below.

Original Photograph with a Long Depth of Field

• [ Inauguration, Photography, Photoshop, Depth-Of-Field, Digital Photography, Street Photography, Portraits, How To ]

Last Wednesday, as I sat in the train commuting home I suddenly realized I was a bit queasy. This wasn't anything new. A late-day coffee sometimes upset my stomach just a bit. Forgoing any subway reading usually calmed it down. I had control over it. But Wednesday was different. The coffee in concert with an overheated subway car did me in. It came on suddenly and wouldn't let go. I closed my eyes as I broke out in a cold sweat. I shed first my winter coat and eventually my shirt. I wasn't sure I could make it to my stop. By the time I got there I was sitting in a drenched t-shirt. It was all I could do to get out of the car and sit on the platform bench nearby.

As I sat on there with my head down I knew I was dehydrated. I couldn't lift my head without becoming lightheaded and I knew I'd need help getting out of the subway. When a janitor passed me by I asked him for some water and to use his cell to call my wife. It's hard to ask a stranger for help. As I waited I laid down with my eyes closed. I relished the quiet of the abandoned platform, only to hear the oncoming trains. The wind that preceded their arrival felt good on my face. But with their appearance came homeward bound commuters: a constant reminder of my vulnerability.

I was sick and unable to take care of myself in such a public place. I closed my eyes to hide the looks of people passing me by. Suddenly, a man's voice asked if I needed help. "I've called my wife. Thanks," I said, just barely opening my eyes to see his shadow in the subdued light of the platform. I simultaneously wanted his help and wanted to be left alone. "I'll stay with you until your wife arrives," he said. When she came he quietly left. I wanted to get his name but he was already gone.

She brought me water and I drank it as quickly as I could. In the end that was a big mistake. "That was too much of a shock to your system," the paramedics later told me. I tossed it all right on the platform. That's the "thanks" I left for that nice janitor. While we waited for the ambulance (for a gurney was the only way I'd get out of there) two other commuters asked if they could help. I am thankful for the kindness of these strangers. But then a train operator got out and asked if I was drunk. Vulnerable and misunderstood. I couldn't wait to get out of there.

When the paramedics finally arrived they took my vitals (all fine) and asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. "Absolutely not," I replied. I knew an all-night visit to the Emergency Room, waiting hours in a garishly lighted waiting room would not be my best medicine. I'd be fine if I could just get into bed and relax. They carefully lowered the gurney to the bench level and moved me to the elevator while my wife got the car. As we waited for her I asked if they needed my medical insurance. "It's all free," she said.

I was thankful, but none of this was free.

• [ Metro, Public Illness, WMATA, Dehydration, Subway, Washington, DC ]

A "postcard" view of the Inauguration taken from the top of the Washington Monument. The circle marks our spot on the Mall. Click image for larger view. (The original can be found here.)

My twelve year old daughter and I got up early to catch the Metro downtown to Barack Obama's Inauguration. We didn't know quite what to expect. No one did. There were numerous unknowns: how many millions would crowd the Mall that day, would the Metro be able to handle the heavy traffic, and where would the best vantage point be to witness the festivites. But I had to go and I wanted to bring my daughter. She's at the age when she's aware of cultural and political events and has started forming strong opinions about them. This would be something she would remember.

The Metro platform was full of people but the cars were relatively empty when we got on. As we moved towards downtown they quickly filled. The atmosphere was celebratory, like we were going to a homecoming football game. In the last few months we had all been rooting for the same team and this was our party.

We met friends at a Starbucks close to the Mall and walked the short distance towards the Washington Monument. After scouring all the printed Inaugural primers, this was part of the deployment plan my friend Randall and I devised a few days before. The stream of people moving towards the Monument was fairly light at 8 a.m. and surprisingly, we found no security checks at the perimeter, just a volunteer who welcomed us as we walked in. This was in stark contrast to our expectations (and the warnings of the Secret Service) and the experiences of those closer to the ceremony in the ticketed areas. We staked out our place on the eastern slope to the Monument in close proximity to a Jumbotron, facing the Capitol about a mile away.

With three hours until the kickoff, my daughter and I went exploring and photographing. The landscape was filling with people. And I was beginning to feel wrapped in a sea of left-of-center love. By the time we decided to return to our places we had to go against a human tsunami trying to get as close to the action as possible. Along this path I photographed some of the people, the law enforcement, and the media we encountered.

During huge events like this I like to photograph the periphery. That's often where all the interesting visuals are happening. But unlike four years ago when I photographed George Bush's second Inaugural, moving around, let alone finding those edges was impossible. Too large and too crowded. Instead, I focused on those in close proximity.

Different, too, from four years ago was the atmosphere of this event. Very few protests, it was more of a true celebration for change. I could feel that relief as I chatted with those around us. We clapped when various dignitaries were announced. And we began singing Steam's song "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye" when Bush arrived on the dais. Joy. After eight long years 01 20 09, Bush's last day, had finally arrived.

When the moment for Obama's swearing in came, rather than face forward, I turned around to capture the reaction of those behind me. And then I hugged my daughter.

Additional Images: You can see the rest of the photographs I took at the Inauguration here. I'm still culling my images for a few more gems.

• [ Inauguration, Barack Obama, Washington, DC ]

I've been wearing a baseball cap emblazoned with this date and slogan for over two years. And I can't believe January 20, 2009 is finally upon us. I feel like a veil is being lifted and like victims of oppression who suddenly become free of their oppressors, I am both filled with hope and anxiety when I consider the future ahead for us. Things will not change right away and some things will be hard for Barack Obama to right. These eight years will not go away that easily.

The actual attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon seem far in the past (although their effects do not). The Iraqi and Afgani Wars, Osama and Al Qaeda --it's hard to believe George W. Bush has been in power during this whole period. It seems like forever (it has been forever). I am less naïve and see our success as a people much more tied to the rest of the world. George W., you showed me that over the years. Your actions spoke volumes. And I learned the hard way by your mistakes and missteps.

Early on I felt isolated from many Americans, those who saw your policies in very different ways. I'm gratified after eight years I am no longer in the minority. It took awhile but those missteps became onerous to most. But many paid a high price and sacrificed their lives because of your decisions. I don't take terrorism lightly but I'm hoping there are other ways to fight it. I am looking forward towards a more humble period in our history.

I started Life Outtacontext in February 2001, just as your first term began. But it wasn't until 9/11 that I began to write about the "News Outta My Control." As a reaction to September 11 I created Dichotomy: It Was a Matter of Time and Place as a way for others to tell their stories, pairing missives from those who were affected directly by these attacks with those who experienced them via the media. I just received my most recent contribution just last week.

During the last few days I've been taking stock of the last eight years through my writings here. Below is a list with links to my thoughts these last two Bush terms. Some of these stories remind me that some of us have an incredible ability to analyze our situation accurately (unlike the Bush Administration's WMD assertion), like Seymour Hersh. In a 2003 post he tells us that it's Pakistan, not Iraqi, that should concern us the most. Or like Steve Mehallo's 2003 poster for peace that says "Make Jobs Not War. We're starting to see the light now.

Others remind me that I can be outspoken in quite an idiosyncratic sort of way: here, here, and here. (Oh, and don't forget here, here and especially here.) Some pieces I am even proud of. Freedom fries be damned!

While just a regular "Joe" citizen, living in Washington has over the years given me access to the centers of power. Like the time I ran into John Ashcroft on the street, or when my wife and I were invited to Vice President Cheney's house. And sometimes politics got personal. It's been a hard, but interesting eight years. September 11, the Iraqi War, the 2004 and 2008 Presidential Elections, Katrina, and the economic dive-bomb. It's all here.

The list below seems so nice and tidy. But life for all of us has been far from it. To better times!

• [ George W. Bush, Barack Obama, Politics, Terrorism. Inauguration ]

Pierson's Comfort Group, LLC gets the award for the best slogan in the Porta-Potty business. Click image for detail.

Don't think me anal but I must continue my porta-potty report from yesterday. This morning the Washington Post is reporting on the details of the massive Inaugural stimulus package on the National Mall (let it be known that this venerable newspaper is just as astute at word play as I am, titling this article "Mall Area Is Flush With Portable Facilities").

According to the Post, Conrad Harrell, vice president of Chantilly-based Don's Johns thinks "the total inaugural Toilet Tally could top 7,000. That's a one-day bathroom capacity of nearly half a million gallons, an epic of septic. 'There was an event in Germany where they installed 8,000 for a visit by the pope, but there's never been anything like this in this country,' said Harrell... 'We feel like we're part of history.'" I can't top that.

But I do have to give the award for the best porta-potty business slogan to one of Harrell's competitors. Pierson's Comfort Group states it boldly: "We're #1 in the #2 business." I really can't top that.

• [ Inauguration, Porta-Potty, Washington Post ]

Porta-Potties Stand Ready and Waiting for Inaugural Hordes.

Am I ready? Well, to be honest, I am a bit nervous. Will I be standing in a sea of four million out-of-towners or two million --many natives have decided to go skiing. (Follow the rules people and we'll get along just fine.) Will the Metro actually get me where I'm going? The Metro's General Manager isn't so sure. He is sure "something will happen on the 20th." That's what I like: confidence.

Am I prepared for the cold and the hours I'll be standing on the National Mall? I'm working at it. Concerned that I might bring some prohibited item with me I checked out the special Inaugural sections of both the Secret Service's Web site and the DC Government's Web site. And I found a discrepancy. The Secret Service says prohibited items are just for the parade and Inaugural Balls. While the DC site says that same list is for all Inaugural events. I put in a call to the Secret Service (their headquarters are right next to my office) and they said they'd get back to me, but never did.

I tweeted the problem and suddenly the Canadian Embassy was following me on Twitter. Located on Pennsylvania Avenue, right on the parade route, the Embassy requested more info. Suddenly, I was at the center of international intrigue. I immediately requested "heat asylum" (to watch the parade from the Embassy's incredible vantage point all warm and cozy) but was flatly rejected (but some of my best friends are Canadian!). So much for social media's diplomatic channels.

Bottom line: I'm traveling light. Got my special mittens with "retractable" covers. Underneath are fingerless gloves so I can take photos without fear of frostbite. Layers, layers, and more layers. Bottled water, camera with extra SD cards and batteries, and energy bars. Check. Everything has to fit into my heavy down coat's pockets. No backpacks allowed. Yep, I'm all set.

Am I worried about taking a pee in this sea of humanity? Nope. I took a lunch hour this week to go down and survey the facilities. The photo above even made the front page of the dcist yesterday.

My biggest concern is whether I'll be stuck in the middle of the Mall. Unlike four years ago, when the Bush Inaugural crowds were a bit more manageable, it may be hard to move around. I like to photograph the "edges" of the action. That's where the good stuff usually can be found.

Stay tuned. I'll be reporting in live from the Inaugural on Twitter from the best, albeit the chilliest vantage point I can find.

Related Post: Inaugural Porta-Potties #2

• [ Inauguration, Porta-Potty, Secret ServiceDCist, Washington MonumentCanada ]

Rush Hour on the DC Metro. Photo by andrew.deci via Flickr.

When you commute five days a week on public transportation you start to see the same people standing in the same places everyday. I've always marveled at how our clocks are in sync. Do each of these people get up at 5:30 a.m. like I do, eat breakfast while reading the paper, then go shower and dress for work, all at the same moment?

So it wasn't surprising when I saw that tall man, in his late 50s, wearing his wide-brimmed leather hat and trench coat on the subway platform. He's one of those people who not only gets on at my "home" Metro stop but also gets off at the same downtown destination I do. I see him in the morning and in the evening on our way home. Everyday. We live and work in close proximity. There are a few of us. But I've never talked to any of them (although I often make eye contact with a guy who brings his wife flowers every Thursday).

I've never engaged this man with the hat but I have been keenly aware of him from the beginning. He's a nervous sort of guy. When the subway car stops he walks fast to the entrance and when the door opens he rushes in to get his special seat. Luckily, that special seat isn't my special seat. In fact, I have worked hard not to rush in to get my special seat expressly because I don't want to act like this man.

Now, you need to know a bit about human nature, specifically Washington, DC Metro commuting behavior. When a train arrives what we should do is move to the sides of the doors and let everyone out before entering. This is the civil and evolved way. But this doesn't always happen. In fact, it rarely happens. There's a pile up of bodies squeezing to get out and those simultaneously pushing to get on. I try hard to not succumb to this madness.

On this particular day as I waited for the jostling to begin I looked to the left and Mr. Man with the Hat was standing right next to me. I had never been this close to him before. When the doors opened as commuters started to exit the subway car he was already leaning forward in frenzied anticipation. So in play was he that it appeared he was pushing the person in front of him forward. I watched him, inches away, move in. And I could stand it no longer.

"Please stop pushing," I said in my calmest commuter voice. "I wasn't pushing," he replied. "Yes you were," I softly mumbled back. I didn't want to cause an altercation but without thinking his statement demanded a reply, even if I was the only one to hear it. We got on --he went his way towards his pre-ordained seat and I went mine.

In order to justify my mumble I replayed our brief encounter as the train moved to the next stop. And during the playback I realized he indeed did not push the person in front of him. His body language and shuffling, like a nervous sprinter just before the gun sounds, made him appear to jostle the woman in front of him. But there was no actual contact. It was his extreme posturing that made me react.

But the deed had been done. I had revealed myself and my heretofore private evaluation of this man. I was no longer just an anonymous person he saw every day at the beginning and end of our mutual commutes. I was that man.

Sometimes it pays to keep your thoughts to yourself.

• [ Washington, DC, WMATA, Commuting, Human Nature ]

From his vantage point: sewing Jean-Dominique Bauby's eye shut after his stroke. Still from the film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

Today is my mother's birthday: more accurately, the 87th anniversary of her birth. She died in 1971 just days before her fiftieth birthday. Eleven years before she was diagnosed with a benign brain tumor: acoustic neuroma, Clinically speaking, this tumor is "a non-cancerous growth that arises from the 8th or vestibulo-cochlear nerve." But the effects of her illness and treatment were as toxic as any chemotherapy would have been. At 11 I was too young to be included in the discussions of her disease, prognosis, and treatment. Invasive and targeted, today my memories of her illness are still as imbedded in my brain as her tumor was in hers.

Yesterday, while the rest of the family was out on holiday errands I decided to force myself to watch the Netflix movie that had been sitting next to the TV for months. Next in our queue was The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. While I couldn't remember the film's exact synopsis I knew it had something to do with a man locked in his body, unable to respond to the world around him. This certainly wasn't on my list of comedic films I'd gravitated to recently, hence its longevity on our TV shelf. And as the plot unfolded I was totally unprepared for the striking similarities to my mother's illness the film would convey. I was shocked at how raw my feelings and emotions were 48 years after the fact. And I was glad I was alone.

After my mother's operation she too had been transformed. She didn't have a stroke but the results of her operation left the right half of her body fixed and immobile. When Bauby's neurologist first exams him and sees his right eye is not blinking I suddenly remembered my mother's eye. His eyelid, my mother's eyelid had to be sewn shut in order to preserve it. And the graphic nature of director Julien Schnabel's depiction, shot as seen from Bauby's eye as it's being sewn shut was almost too much to bear. But I forced myself to look, ironically through cupped hands over my eyes. Usually reserved for horror movies, it's a control mechanism we all use. Too much and we can quickly black out the horrific parts. I was prepared now but it hadn't always been that way.

Until now I had always experienced my mother's illness from an 11 year old's perspective. I, too, had been locked in position all these years. Suddenly, I was experiencing it from my mother's point of view. When we first see Bauby's face, we see the sutures cementing his eyelids together. And his lips, the right sides of which are limp and distorted, brought back similar memories. The scene was only a few seconds long but it was as if this was a vision I'd had for decades. In fact it was.

When my father came into my bedroom that evening, he sat me down and told me mom would have to have an operation. She had lost part of her hearing in her right ear and often would feel a sense of vertigo. The doctors had diagnosed the tumor and it had to be removed. I remember feeling scared but in a child's way. My initial fears were not of death. I'd never experienced death before. They were more about change. What did this mean to me?

On the day of her operation I went to school. I felt special as I played during recess. My mother was going to have an operation today! Turning the day into a special event was my way of pushing away the fear. A couple of days later we went to the hospital for our first visit. That's when my special event was replace by my new reality.

They brought my sister and me into a room. It was painted that dingy hospital green. We were sitting on a bench when they wheeled my mother in. Her hair had been cut and she had little clamps on her right eye to keep the lid shut. We engaged in that inane small talk that's so typical of hospital room visits. My father was there and so was the 800 pound gorilla. We ignored the primate while my mother started to ask us questions. "Are you doing what grandma says?" she uttered. Her mouth transfixed me. Only half of it was moving.

At first Bauby doesn't remember having his stroke. But his memories slowly return. He had just picked up his son in his new sports car to take him to the theater. They are driving along a country road engaging in father-son small talk. "Got any hair on your dick?" Bauby asks his son. "Not yet!" his son replies. Such an open and loving exchange, it reminded me of last week's dinner conversation when my 10-year-old daughter suddenly announced that "Mom and I had a talk about periods today." "Well, what do you think?" I asked. "Yech," she replied. As the stroke begins we witness Bauby's transformation. This would be the last normal conversation he would have with anyone.

As his son realizes the gravity of the situation and runs to the nearest house, the look on Bauby's face is excruciating. His foot is glued to accelerator, spinning his tires. His contorted expression is part stroke and part realization that something awful is happening to him. He's losing control of his body. Later we witness his shock at who he has become: "God, who is that? Me?" What did my mother think the first time she saw her face? I don't remember what I thought and we aren't clued in to what his son thought in later visits with his transformed father. Schnabel story is meant to be seen through Bauby's "eyes."

And through his eyes I connected with my mother's life. While she could speak and walk with the help of a cane she always complained that she was in a "fog." As a boy I was disconnected with those feelings. But on the eve of her birthday I was given the opportunity to remember her, not through my life but perhaps through hers.

Related Post: On Death and Waiting: making the hard decisions in the Terry Schivo case

• [ The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Julian Schnabel, Brain Tumors, Strokes ]