Today marks the 50th anniversary of my mother's death. It's hard to believe it's been that long. I miss her deeply. And I always laugh when I wonder if she'd recognize me if we passed each other on the street. I'm an old guy now. She was 49 when she died. I was 22....
Today marks the centennial of my father’s birth, November 19, 1921. He died in 2000. We had a complicated relationship, and I’ve spent a good deal of my life investigating his life to understand why better. He never talked about his childhood. So I had to dig for that information. In the end, I did my best to be a good son and to honor him at the end of his life....
I am nothing if not observant. I had to be, growing up in an irrational house, where, at any moment, the sublime could morph into the profane —and where a loved one could literally change overnight. (Sadly, I don't mean figuratively.) It's no mistake I became a photographer, always looking for the inconsistencies in human behavior, ready for any turn of events, no matter how unlikely they may be. Irony and synchronicity are not lost on me. And, when I think about it, my...
Today is Midsummer. Here in the States we think of it as just the longest day of the year and the beginning of summer. But people who live much nearer the Arctic Circle celebrate this day with gusto. After all, on the opposite side of the calendar they have to endure a dark day. Forty-one years ago I was hitchhiking from West Berlin to Malmö, Sweden. There I would meet my friend and we would travel north to celebrate Midsummer with her friends....
As my wife and I drove the nine miles from our house to my daughter's dorm I said, "I hope that rug is gone. It's not even ours." I was in my organizing mode: how to pack up my daughter's things as efficiently as possible and get them home in our car, including a small refrigerator. The rug belonged to my daughter's roommate. She had moved out the night before and had offered the well-used industrial gray carpet to my daughter as a parting gift. Right. I know that ploy: pawn off...
I don't know what happened to Antonio Bay tonight. Something came out of the fog and tried to destroy us. In one moment, it vanished. But if this has been anything but a nightmare, and if we don't wake up to find ourselves safe in our beds, it could come again. To the ships at sea who can hear my voice, look across the water, into the darkness. Look for the fog. —John Carpenter's The Fog I've had two careers in my life: teacher...
Like many Eastern European Jews, my paternal grandparents emigrated from the Russia in the early 20th century. But not all of my family left for the States. And, I suppose you could say they were saved from the atrocities of the Nazis because they lived under the atrocities of Stalin. But, interestingly, my great Uncle Louie ("Unkie") went back for a visit around 1931, when this photo of him and some of his brothers and his sister was taken (my grandmother Bessie, Louie's sister, and another sister, Margaret stayed here). This is...
I'm not a sports junky. In fact, I'm worse. I'm a fair-weather sports fan filed under the subcategory "College Sports/Only Schools I Went To." And that means just football and basketball. So, I follow two schools, both my alma maters: Michigan State, where I got my undergraduate degree and UCLA where I got my MFA. Oh, and as a fallback, I will sometimes follow the University of Maryland just because I live in Maryland...
The Chamomile Tea Party's First Ad in Washington, DC's Metro (click image for larger view) It's been a while since I've posted anything on Life Outtacontext. But I've been busy. With the upcoming election, there is more food for fodder than ever for my Chamomile Tea Party posters (and I have some new ones, so take a look). While I have my personal political beliefs, it's interesting to step back and dissect this year's political process. If you're disgusted or scratching your head, you might want to take a look at an article in today's Washington Post which sheds some light...
My mother's tombstone is so high above my head, it's hard to connect with her grave. Every trip to Los Angeles is punctuated by a visit with my parents. They're buried at Mt. Sinai Memorial Park, just a few hundred feet from each other. I haven't lived in L.A. since the mid 1980s but it will forever be the place I come from. And this visit has become part of my ritual each time I return. I'm usually alone with my thoughts but this time the city was a stop on a family vacation so my wife and girls were with...
