http://www.straymatter.com/ Every so often I stumble upon an image and my camera is many miles away. I can only sigh with resignation and reach for my phone. On the list of great truths about photography, surely there is a line that reads, "Thou must carry your camera at all times. No exceptions, bucko." Then again, upon closer examination of these photos, I wonder if maybe I'm missing the point. Somehow the cruder the instrument, the more perversely beautiful the image. How else can one explain the fiercely stubborn existence of Polaroids and Holgas in the era of a jillion pixels? http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1120 Thu, 12 Aug 2010 01:02:46 EDT There is nothing quite so discerning as the eye of a dog. It registers all with a mixture of curiosity, wariness and duty. Even late at night, when I have been motionless for the better part of an hour, I know the slightest movement--the scratch of a nose, the flex of a neck--will activate that shiny orb in the dark. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1119 Sun, 01 Aug 2010 23:20:36 EDT When the road goes from asphalt to crushed gravel to dirt, the sensible person turns around. I plow straight on ahead. I'm in search of a place everyone else has forgotten, and you can't get there on a freshly paved highway. Sometimes, sadly, you can't get there at all. I discovered this on a recent evening with the sun hanging low and the pup licking the desert air. I'd latched onto a road that promised to take me nowhere, which was precisely the place I wanted to be. On this day, though, nowhere was somewhere I'm not supposed to be: an Indian reservation. As seductive and tempting as it was to keep on going, it felt wrong. I turned around. It's a bittersweet feeling to live aside a forbidden nation. But there is sweet justice to it, too. And so I'll be content to gaze longingly at those roads that stretch out into nothingness and imagine all the nowheres I'll never go. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1118 Fri, 23 Apr 2010 04:24:09 EDT It's commonly held that a smell can transport us anywhere in time. And that's undeniably true. But time travel is not the exclusive province of the nose. The eyes can take us on quite a ride, too. For me, it can be as simple as spying an old typeface. The mere shape of long-out-of-style letters can dislodge an attic full of memories. There was a time when these letters were fresh and new and a sign of modernity. Now they are reminders that all things grow old. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1117 Mon, 11 Jan 2010 06:56:18 EDT How did I know? Let me tell you. I knew when he clambered to his feet and fixed me with the most hopeful gaze in the universe. I knew when he chewed on my finger as if it were the most succulent thing on earth. I knew when he fell asleep in the crook of my elbow on the ride home. It's a story told a million times, in a million different ways. He was mine, and I was his. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1116 Tue, 24 Nov 2009 01:59:42 EDT Slashing south and west through Arkansas, I saw a sign for Hope and decided to pay a visit to the birthplace of our 42nd president. I slipped into town on a side road and was struck by the lack of presidential welcome. There were signs for bingo and karaoke and tattoos. But nothing for Bubba. Dusk gave way to night, and despite my best efforts, I could find no trace of the Man from Hope. No matter ... my wandering eyes had settled on other sights. Hope might well be the birthplace of a world leader, but on this night that was least interesting thing about the place. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1115 Mon, 12 Oct 2009 23:53:09 EDT I don't often traffic in set shots. And I sure haven't let a work-related photo wander into my exclusive clubhouse for photographic doodlings. But I don't much believe in brick walls, so this one comes sailing in from the other side. The commercial side. I make this exception because photography is about discovery, and sometimes we discover things in unusual places--even at work. As was the case last week when I got to goofing around with an articulating desk lamp and a scrap of gauzy fabric. The minutes passed trancelike as I manipulated the arm of the lamp, up and down, back and forth, like a kid working over an action figure. And then I hooded the lamp's tiny halogen head in gauze as if it were a Turkish woman in hijab. And just like that, a mound of cubed cheese became a little bit like art. And work became a little bit life. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1114 Wed, 30 Sep 2009 04:57:20 EDT There are days when no matter my disdain for the big highways, I dutifully climb the ramp and take my place between a pair of deafening 18-wheelers. Because people are awaiting me, and no tale of back road intrigue will excuse my being two hours late for supper. Even still, right around 6 p.m., I often find one hand tugging instinctively at the wheel, pulling me onto the spider roads where magic can be found on every small town corner. It's a golden hour, and a blessed reprieve, from the concrete river where the big boats sail impassively into the setting sun. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1113 Thu, 10 Sep 2009 17:27:31 EDT The life of a modern vagabond requires thrift and cunning and more than a little help from your friends. In the three weeks since I kicked off the great wrong-way trip to the southwest, I've borrowed everything from swim goggles to kids, from toothpaste to towels. This week I'm borrowing something of a different sort: a dog that reminds me so much of my own. The similarities are uncanny. The flaps-down ears. The impatient late-night pacing. The weary head tucked between a comfortable pair of knees. It's as if my buddy has been transported here, hundreds of miles away, by an inexplicable act of magic. And when I rub my borrowed dog's ears, I fancy that my buddy can somehow feel it wherever he is: two fingers and a thumb kneading on one end, two soft doggy eyes growing heavy on the other. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1112 Fri, 21 Aug 2009 04:10:12 EDT My body has returned to the road. Yet my eyes are a thousands miles behind, still squinting at images from an entirely different season. It is an elusive thing, the photographer's vision. When you are in possession of it, the world sits on the head of a pin. Wherever you look, up or down, left or right, a rectangle of beauty awaits you. It is a beautiful thing, this vision, and not something to trifle with. For when it slips away, without so much as a nudge in the dark, it is not restored like keys to a pocket. It is an exquisite mist whose drift you cannot stalk. You must let go its memory. And wander in hope. http://www.straymatter.com/index.cfm?id=1111 Tue, 18 Aug 2009 04:51:52 EDT