The other day, I discovered my cousin Gege from Brussels was a barbecue warrior. I had never met one before. I feel honored we dispose of such hidden talents in the family.
Concentration
Attack
Victory
And just to show that the apple did not fall far from the tree as far as emoting goes, this is the son of the Barbecue Warrior, Nicolas:
We are a family with character.
I misbehaved greatly in Paris for the last two days. The worst “betise” (mistake) was to follow a group of funky Parisians met on a bridge (ON a bridge, not UNDER) through Paris until 5 o’clock in the morning. What resulted from the escapade was a whole 4 Gig card of photographs completely eradicated to make room for photographs of cookies at 4 am. A few hours later, you wake up in a semi-coma, realize what you have done and want to die.
Despite my great stupidity, I still LOVE Paris in the springtime. These are some of the reasons:
Lovers on a bench
Beautiful landscaping
Parisians invariably showing you Dallas on Youtube and singing the song in French
Funky gay Paris
Dancing Gay Paris at 3 am in the streets
More later…
Parents, sometimes you make my job so difficult. By the time your little angels look at me through my lens, it’s generally too late for any kind of behavioral change. Irreparable harm has been caused.
My number one pet peeve: the cheese smile. I’ll know it right away. I lift my camera to my eye for the first time and immediately the kid breaks into an uncomfortable smirk while the parent behind me, blissfully proud, goes: “Cheeeese!”
Here is the thing - parents will never be happy with the photograph and it will take me at least 30 minutes to get a natural expression.
Pet peeve numero Duo: refrain from tattooing your child with a big red dragon just before the session. It totally ruins any kind of romantic spin I’m trying to create.
And finally, pet peeve three, OMG what do your kids watch on TV?
Okay. It seems as if I am all indignant but in all honesty, the poses kids come up with crack me up! I just do not want the parents to think that I am in any way responsible for these seductive displays!
Never was I better reminded not to judge a book by its cover than when I met Jenny Block in St. Croix. My first impressions of her were conservative, conservative, and ooh how conservative! Married, one child, a regular collaborator to the Dallas Morning News, low heels and skirt under the knee, Jenny exemplified in my mind the typical middle class conservative working mom from Texas.
During a visit to Sonya, a well-known jewelry store on the Island, Jenny got surrounded by a flock of charming gay men vying to advise her on her bracelet purchase.
The Advisors
They inquired:
“Is the bracelet for you?”
“One is for me, the other for my girlfriend.” She replied.
“Your girlfriend-girlfriend?”
“Yes, my girlfriend-girlfriend.”
Sensing a monumental misunderstanding, I volunteered:
“No, no, not a girlfriend-girlfriend! Just a girlfriend. She is married.”
And Jenny turned to me and very calmly pointed out:
“Yes I’m married. I have a husband… AND a girlfriend.”
Jenny Block’s new book on polyamory, “Open: Love, Sex and Life in an Open Marriage” hits the bookstores in June. She has also just landed a Blog spot on Huffington Post. As for me, I’m humbled and after meeting this force of nature, feeling pretty conservative these days… What can I say? A husband AND a girlfriend? That seems like an awful lot of work!
Two days into my trip in St. Croix, I lost my camera battery charger. Ensued self-loathing, anxiety, panic, and an overnight order which did not quite work as planned. Two days of incessant phone conversations with FedEx US and St. Croix customs, a trip to the local FedEx office (it does not have a working phone number) resulted in the most expensive ever non-overnight delivery of a charger (later refunded by FedEx after much irritated prodding on my part.)
Thursday morning, I was finally ready to roll.
My first photograph of the day was of Roger, the wonderful owner of Carringtons Inn, eating oatmeal straight from the pot, in his office. The bed and breakfast has five beautiful rooms overlooking Christiansted, and feels just like home (in more beautiful.)
I arrived in Christiansted early in the morning.
A Danish possession for close to two centuries, St. Croix has managed to keep most of its original structures. The town is a marvel of pastel-hued buildings which incorporate shaded sidewalks (we need more Danish architects in Texas.)
Across Christiansted’s harbor, a hotel on a tiny island. For $3.00, you can take the boat and enjoy their beach (and bar.)
With so much vacation spirit and cocktails on the beach, you almost forget that people actually work on the island. While tourists go casual, the Islanders dress up.
Chance encounters with kids on the street on their way to school…
Little Eden
Anthony
A little further, I meet Majo. He is trying to make up for a major gaffe when he forgot to invite his sweetheart for dinner after catching a big fish.
Then George.
George was very good with his crutches, and I literally had to run and hide to get rid of him… much to the amusement of the islanders.
Woman waiting
Yard in a more impoverished part of Christiansted
Man on his front porch
Sweetest toothless old lady
The lady’s very thin cat
Typical Crucian mutt
Well-armed Crucian cop at the Kentucky Fried Chicken
Curiously, St. Croix is also home to Hovensa, one of the largest crude-oil refineries in the world. You would think that would translate in better prices at the pump, but not so much.
I finished the day by swinging by The Divi Carina Bay Resort and photographing my friend Rose.
I slept 10 hours straight that night!
“Bill daaahlin’, I decided to surprise you with a nice long vacation in the South Pacific. It’s really pretty in Moorea this time of year, and you can repair our relations with the French while you are there and that should take you at the very least two months.
Here is some money for a pareo and pina coladas with little umbrellas. If you send me a postcard, I’ll make sure to frame it. Au revoir!”
If I were Hillary, I would have exiled the man a long time ago.
Ever since January when Bill Clinton re-injected race into the campaign despite recent party bigwig pleas not to do so (the Jesse Jackson comment), I have been wondering about his motives (incidentally, Ted Kennedy endorsed Obama a few days later.) Does Bill Clinton really want to be the spouse of the Decider-in-chief? Does he really want to run the risk of his spouse turning into a better president than he once was?
When during a speech, Bill Clinton not only disinters the subject of Bosnia, but also brings up the fact that Hillary is sixty, and that “when they (the reporters) are sixty, they will forget something when they are tired at 11 o’clock at night too”, what logically comes to mind is the question of what happens to a sixty year old at 3 am if she can’t handle 11 pm. You know: that phone call.
I just don’t buy the whole white knight in shining armor routine. I think he is out to get her. Consciously or not. Not that I care one way or the other, but I can’t help but question.
As a portrait photographer, my job is to capture the personality of my subject, its essence if you will. I pride myself in being particularly good with children, but sometimes, due to circumstances beyond my control, a kid’s fine subtleties seem more complex to figure out than those of others…
Baby horse Hafid Baske Afire’s first hour on Sunday morning…
15 minutes out of the womb
First bottle
First poop
First steps (all stallion!)
First nap
First butt-lick
First taste of love
I am cursed. I have to be. There is something about photographing model portfolios that just does not quite agree with me. Yet I can assure you it gives me tremendous pleasure to shoot beautiful peeps and I enjoy the added bonus to be able to use all the vocabulary learned on Top Model and Project Runway. But seriously, every time a model comes through my front door, something goes awry.
B. was a gorgeous guy.
As we went through the session, I had this great confidence that I was nailing it shot after shot. I could not wait to process all the images.
Yep. The session was fabulous. I came home, downloaded all the files and opened the first image in Photoshop. Nooooo. It couldn’t be. I opened a second and an third, and a middle one, and the last one. The guy’s fly was open the WHOLE time! I saved a couple of nice head shots. At least, no one can accuse me of impure thoughts!
When S. came through my door, I thought I would redeem myself.
The make-up artist had shown up half an hour early and caught me off guard with a head full of rollers (no, you are not getting a picture of that!) So things had not started as smoothly as expected, but I remained hopeful.
It was not until the make-up artist had finished his work that I knew that yet again I had been cursed. We headed to the studio to take a photograph of S. and make sure the make-up was fine when I smelled it first. Then I saw it. Right in the middle of the studio: a poop, courtesy of my Jack Russell. I blushed and mumbled and sent every one out. How embarrassing!
I’m fearful of what my next model shoot will bring. I’m trying not to envision all the possibilities.They are endless.
When your dog is a natural, that makes my job so much easier!
Idefix in Dallas
