After a long summer of traveling that included my third solo cross-country drive and a wonderful trip to Paris (not Texas, though I did make friends with a gnarly cat in Marfa), I decided that instead of moving back to San Francisco I would explore life in the East Bay. I finished my last 3 months of 2011 living in downtown Berkeley and loved the area – but after a few nights on the town in Oakland it became clear to me, for reasons I don’t understand, that this was where I needed to be. So here I am, living in a beautiful place in downtown Oakland, and so far it’s fabulous.

Rundown Cat, Marfa, Texas

While in Antoine D’Agata’s workshop in Paris I was referred to as a young, contemporary American photographer. This label didn’t make sense to me. With further critiques and the ensuing physical and psychological distance from the world of photography I’m accustomed to in America, I began to see my work in a new light. There came a point when I felt a significant lack of authenticity in my images and those of my American peers. Namely, a large amount of distance between the life we live and the life we portray in our photos. I saw a beautification and perfection I didn’t notice before. A pop and cleanliness that reminded me how Capitalism and advertising has worked its way into the subconscious perception of Americans. I thought, maybe we are so desensitized by imagery we embrace artifice without realizing it? It was a strange feeling to see my images shape-shift in front me, like watching the eyes of a loved one go from blue to black.

Sitting in that classroom in Paris I was taken aback at how occupied all of us have become with staying on top of editor’s lists, photo blogs, social media, gallery shows and the such. It seems a lot of us are either too distracted or too lost to have the energy to sit down and genuinely use photography as a personal tool. What happened to making images that we would choose to make regardless of anybody or anything else? I was reminded of what I’ve always known: I don’t care about the hype or the money and I really don’t care about the business model. Dreams for sale are not dreams.

And I understand we have to walk a fine line. We have to keep taking other people’s pictures in order to pay the bills and earn the time to do personal work. And this is where it becomes so easy to lose touch with who we are and what really matters. We often think that if we work hard enough on personal projects it will eventually lead to and fuse with paid work. But I would ask, what kind of personal work is the kind you make under those conditions? And I would argue that if you work hard taking other people’s pictures long enough, you’re likely to keep taking their photos without even realizing it (isn’t Beauty empty without truth?).

When I’m at the end of my life and thinking about what I’ve given back, the last thing I’m going to care about is the magazines I shot for, the museum I was in, or the recognition I received. The only thing that will matter is how honest I was, how fully I lived my life, and whether I made the kind of photographs that were deeply mandatory.

I can see now that, among other things, I am much too aware of the photo industry and other photographers to make sustained, reflective and authentic work. I am easily distracted and it shows. One of my biggest take-aways from my experience in Paris was the reaffirmation of the fact that in order to touch bottom, you need to disconnect from the noise.

For now, the only thing that matters is that I close the gap between the life I live and the photographs I make.

…

“The only photographs that truly exist are the ”innocent” images. We find them in the family photo albums or in the police archives. Beyond serving as a simple documentation of reality or of a certain aesthetic sense, they attest to the role of the photographer, of his implication, of the authenticity of his position in that moment. The compositions of light, narrative, are no longer, for me, fundamental problems but superfluous lies. What interests me today in an image? The perspective that has justified the act of photography, the interference of the experience, of the ongoing scene, the texture, the material, the meaning of the self-portrait, of the individual, the incoherence of the unfolding sequence, the maniacal reconstruction of the random experience – the photographs, like words, are meaningless when isolated…” -Antoine D’Agata

This post is the 5th in a series for the Leica Blog:

In late May I drove from San Francisco to Charlottesville to attend the LOOK3 Festival of the Photograph. LOOK3, which is the festival that offered an award that began my relationship with Leica, is probably the most intimate and intense photo festival in America (For example, this year they coordinated the rare event of Sally Mann interviewing Nan Goldin on stage). Prior to the festival, Leica placed me in a five-day workshop with Magnum photographer Christopher Anderson, who has been a long time inspiration to most younger photographers I know, including myself. My time with Chris and the rest of the class turned out to be a wonderful, inspiring experience. I absorbed every idea, detail and feeling I could during the workshop. By the time I left I was mentally and physically exhausted, but creatively rejuvenated. I’m still letting the advice and insights I gathered during the workshop and festival settle where they need, but in short, my time with Chris and all the other talented and inspiring people at the festival restored some of my excitement and faith in the power of photography.

Unexpectedly, on my way to LOOK3, I was asked by Leica if I would be interested in going to Paris to attend the Antoine D’Agata Magnum workshop, Leica M9-P announcement party and Magnum partnership announcement and other Magnum festivities. I thought the email was either a mistake or sent to the wrong person. Lucky for me it wasn’t. I spent eight days in Paris and needless to say, I had a wonderful time and met a lot of photographers that inspired me and helped me rearrange some ideas. And again, my time with Antoine D’Agata, although brief, gave me even more insight on the medium and my place in it.

After the past month I feel really refreshed and inspired about the power of photography and my future with it. Which is an ironic statement considering its contrast with the feelings of my last blog post. I wouldn’t disagree with anything I’ve written in the past, but the clarity and understanding I have on using the role of photography as a personal tool instead of a self-imposed obstacle in my life have greatly improved. I’m still in a state of processing, so a few pictures will have to do for now. I will say though, that I’m incredibly grateful to Leica for the opportunities and experiences I’ve had over the past month. What I’ve realized is likely to shape the next several years of my photographic and filmmaking endeavors.

I’m off to meet the wizard! (And if you happen to be going to LOOK3 this year, I’ll see you there).

From a post last month on the Leica blog:

I’ve always thought of America as the teenager of the world. And if you roll with that frame of thought, then Los Angeles would be comparable to the cool kid in high school that didn’t care about education, drove a fast car and was headed straight for a quarter life crisis. Yet I really love Los Angeles. Let me rephrase that: I really love visiting Los Angeles. Throughout my teenage years I made frequent summer trips to LA. Two-week stretches accompanying family on business trips. My mother would spend most of her time in the hotel room and told me not to leave Santa Monica and Venice Beach. I quickly learned the bus routes and soon was exploring Beverly Hills, West Hollywood and other unsanctioned neighborhoods. Back then (1996-1999) I had a red point-and-shoot camera and I knew nothing about photography. I took pictures only so I could remember, validate my experience or process what I was seeing. As a teenager from Sacramento (with fairly strict parents), sneaking through the city with a camera was like being on a drug; it was a mad barrage of experiences like nothing I had ever experienced, and most of which I was unable to comprehend. When I visit LA now, it still feels that way.

Recently some friends and I took a weekend trip from San Francisco to LA to attend a 20th anniversary party for David Lynch’s seminal ’90s TV series Twin Peaks at the appropriately creepy-campy Clifton’s Cafeteria. It was good to get out of San Francisco for a bit and revel in the LA light. I spent a Saturday afternoon walking around Hollywood taking photos. No matter how many times I’m there, it is always a bizarre experience. And it’s particularly bizarre after living in San Francisco (which you could fairly describe as the antithesis of LA). I am drawn to the city today just as I was drawn to it when I was younger. But now, along with a deeper vision that comes with age and education, I’m able to retrace and revisit the additional layer of a particular time in my youth, a time when I was so excited and naive about photography that every place I went the light felt like gold and a photograph was to be discovered.

After talking to my friends about the city, what struck me the most about Hollywood was its immense facade, which in many ways is the social currency of Southern California. The heart of LA, after all, are the movie studios. An empire built on fiction and dreams. Even the city itself was conjured out of the desert, like a trick of magic. Appearances and impressions play an important role here and like mirages, are not what they seem. For me, the city itself is an obscene dream. A convoluted script unraveling block by block, scene by scene. Its characters ridiculous, emotionally disproportionate yet enticing. Every time I’m there, I’m anxious to leave and every time I leave I can’t wait to go back to take more pictures.

My friend Brianna on our way to swim during a trip to Lake Tahoe with friends in August, 2007. I remember swimming in Lake Tahoe for the first time and being frightened because the water was so clear that you could see every rock and shadow. Ignorance is Bliss.