tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84873177921254735222024-03-05T13:43:29.396-05:00ROPE BURNRope Burn is a art gallery and essay blog about Photography, Media, Culture and Religion.Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-75185545391911186282010-06-30T09:47:00.004-04:002010-06-30T11:12:38.183-04:00The Basketball Coach and the Evangelist<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5aUTijmohoMn05JqoZQdgROYNNLaTaiGB5D0KgpdK5FQD0E_YDF7lYIr_Ahb_89baHufvPCDlP4U5zlsJ3G5TtvdSD9U52RSpQSUTun73DcjQ54ScsDZpUCGv-Ms12EaUVkxhiem4pZs/s1600/Vicki_Car_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5aUTijmohoMn05JqoZQdgROYNNLaTaiGB5D0KgpdK5FQD0E_YDF7lYIr_Ahb_89baHufvPCDlP4U5zlsJ3G5TtvdSD9U52RSpQSUTun73DcjQ54ScsDZpUCGv-Ms12EaUVkxhiem4pZs/s400/Vicki_Car_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488584795099096018" /></a><br />Heading for Colorado on Thursday for the wedding of my friend, Vicki. Vicki and I became acquainted through church in Ft. Wayne, Indiana at the ripe age of 23 or 24. She coached the women's basketball team at a local high school and I ministered to Christian Student Fellowships at northeast Indiana colleges and universities with the aim of encouraging bands of young Christians on secular campuses to evangelize their non-believing peers. She is a central character of my book, 'Jesus Days, 1978-1983.'<br /><br />We were an unlikely couple well suited to each other, the Basketball Coach and the Evangelist. She loved sports, I loved the arts, and we both stood firm under the umbrella of our faith. We were fellow travelers stumbling into adulthood, struggling to loosen the bonds of our evangelical backgrounds in order to breathe freely.<br /><br />It seems amazing to me now that I questioned my sexuality when it must have appeared so apparent to anyone with good vision. But the evangelical church, or perhaps any religion or social structure, allows one to hide, to appear as others want to see you. And I excelled at appearances. One learns early how to choose one's life costume.<br /><br />At times I'm asked if I still believe in God. Vicki does, although she doesn't practice her faith in the way that we did as the Young Evangelicals. I don't know if I do, although if I were pressed to say whether I leaned toward faith or not, I'd have to say that I tilted slightly toward God, however you might define it. Perhaps it is easier. But I know that I really don't think about God anymore, although when my father endured triple bypass surgery last winter, I said my prayers. Who were the prayers directed to? I don't know. Some times I think that prayers are like tossing pennies in a fountain. All the pennies pile on top of each other and you can no longer discern which penny is yours, but you still wish it has an effect and will prompt the fulfillment of your wish.<br /><br />More than twenty-five years has passed since Vicki and I met. More than twenty-five years has elapsed since I abandoned the evangelical world in which I'd lived my entire life. Yet the circle closes and touches again this weekend when I share in the wedding of Vicki and her new, husband, Ernie. I'm very happy for them and wish them best for the coming years.Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-84524818904188704782010-05-24T12:29:00.002-04:002010-05-24T12:30:25.625-04:00New Post: Juan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9l7Fc8z5CvraECgsPMjF3JyP6ZcdaVj2QqbLqOdDGI8hyOfLGQHlP727Alt6qQfj2hNP4XRAauMFnQaCp_Nr0FDAsvqYtSKz2YoifNoUwWetTffgNgnKASaquqwaWKsnvnahT-KxRab8/s1600/GregReynolds_Juan_Replace_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9l7Fc8z5CvraECgsPMjF3JyP6ZcdaVj2QqbLqOdDGI8hyOfLGQHlP727Alt6qQfj2hNP4XRAauMFnQaCp_Nr0FDAsvqYtSKz2YoifNoUwWetTffgNgnKASaquqwaWKsnvnahT-KxRab8/s400/GregReynolds_Juan_Replace_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474874752186035522" /></a>Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-88261859961264837242010-04-21T20:25:00.002-04:002010-04-21T20:53:43.535-04:00Keeping On, Keeping On<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh9bACsUZrj_gr-gMUsKinPE1mtiU3e6cW9LrqMHUO7ERS1RHQt1ajCsCBH7qJyFLwqeLMs2B6U6fjYMDCoA2ZSoC4mSEZw-VRXh-LCaE9pyQi2TK8vOOaCggALuJoYUsvYsc_rh_AF9Y/s1600/GregReynolds_Family_Florida_2001+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh9bACsUZrj_gr-gMUsKinPE1mtiU3e6cW9LrqMHUO7ERS1RHQt1ajCsCBH7qJyFLwqeLMs2B6U6fjYMDCoA2ZSoC4mSEZw-VRXh-LCaE9pyQi2TK8vOOaCggALuJoYUsvYsc_rh_AF9Y/s400/GregReynolds_Family_Florida_2001+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462758639589544658" /></a><br /><br />The blazing sun under which some young artists shine is as far removed from my world as a faint star in a far off galaxy. I see it twinkling cheerfully in the charcoal sky but I can not warm my body with its warmth or see my path with by its light.<br /><br />Over the last days, I have been engaged in increasing my "visibility." I say visibility because I feel that often as an artist I have moved through life as the invisible man working away but having the work never seen. It is time to move things forward and using the above paragraph's metaphor, bring the work into the light.<br /><br />I don't really write these thoughts for the young, excited and ambitious photographer or artist, but for the older creative who struggles to continue and not give up. Recently, I attended a small dinner party, a reunion of sorts with fellow graduates of the Film School at Columbia University. We met in the 1980s, in our youth, energized by our hopes and dreams. Some twenty-five years had passed and the crew had passed from their twenties into their forties and fifties. What excited me and energized me was the enthusiasm for the arts that this crew still had exhibited. None had reached what could be called the pinnacle of success but all were still striving to create. I think that's amazing and I'm so impressed and motivated by their continued aspirations.<br /><br />So even though I wrote yesterday on my Facebook wall that I felt that "putting myself out there" felt like pitching stones in a vast lake and hoping that the ripples hit the banks, I'm still pitching and watching for the waves to turn Tsunami on me and wash across the shore.Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-5361212078541532672010-03-18T10:21:00.013-04:002010-03-18T11:42:02.976-04:00When Should Dreams Die?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOioD7PCLToR0r_4A4mk5zhqRPChg65viG9c0FJSIhg3-ZpXaetO9Q66CsKEc-sxUacpyQocNJNvFDFToScY63sCqmzgMutF7mFTRB66bBVcz1GoM1iaEHiVjiBK7FFa47bQilzwBHBnk/s1600-h/Kamesh_Portrait.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 281px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOioD7PCLToR0r_4A4mk5zhqRPChg65viG9c0FJSIhg3-ZpXaetO9Q66CsKEc-sxUacpyQocNJNvFDFToScY63sCqmzgMutF7mFTRB66bBVcz1GoM1iaEHiVjiBK7FFa47bQilzwBHBnk/s400/Kamesh_Portrait.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449984642697479442" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPgUOiWlw24bJl5Pv4iHCmQb5wz5T6hcvisVNlifnX1Ff3_tA6RFxSHt7TIaJsUc_erWrPqT7XR00W-ZX5lCW-WawKvnjXVUcXoRitGZMsPIhRcnOb7yvj_I4PJKK3q2CIjOVSZcXmNIE/s1600-h/Kamesh_Nude.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 296px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPgUOiWlw24bJl5Pv4iHCmQb5wz5T6hcvisVNlifnX1Ff3_tA6RFxSHt7TIaJsUc_erWrPqT7XR00W-ZX5lCW-WawKvnjXVUcXoRitGZMsPIhRcnOb7yvj_I4PJKK3q2CIjOVSZcXmNIE/s400/Kamesh_Nude.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449984640668557298" /></a><br />Kamesh. Photographed in New York City in 1997 by Greg Reynolds.<br /><br />Tonight an Opening at a Gallery in a suitably downtown New York City lower eastside neighborhood features the new explorations in Black/White photography of a very famous, (not to my family but to the right people in art circles)young photographer, whose suitable good looks has made him also a subject of other well-known photographers. I venture a guess that the Vernissage will be suitably mobbed by suitably goodlooking and young gay men. I will not be there.<br /><br />I'm glad I'm not the bitter type of older artist who resents the fame of sexually attractive younger artists. Well, maybe a little bit. For me, I, (perhaps naiively, perhaps not) associate fame with recognition, admiration, money, travel, great food and drink and opportunities to frequently get laid. Who could or would knock that? Like probably many other artists, I imagine my moment coming late in life as I'm wheeled out to a microphone, thank all the people who have since died many years before and obviously can't be there, and then keel over from a heart attack.<br /><br />When should dreams die? Should I let them expire in their own time? Should I just stop feeding them hope or denial and allow them to starve to death? Or is a quick, clean kill the best? A decision to end the pursuit and change direction.<br /><br />Sometimes I'm amused by advice directed toward the young to follow their dreams. Following your dreams isn't so hard to do if you're living at home or parents are still financing your education, but it's not so easy in middle age. Youth grants the capacity to sleep on a floor or a lumpy sofa, to eat hor'doerves and bar fruit, or to smoke or indulge in drugs and too much alcohol without looking like shit the next day. If I do that, I will look like hell and not function for two days.<br /><br />I have a an artist friend with a degree from Columbia University, who, in his thirties, turned away from a career in architecture, acted against the wishes of his parents, and put brush to canvas to become a painter. He's now over fifty, does great work and slowly is achieving the recognition that he has long deserved. I admire him so much because he paid such a price to pursue his dreams, and he still struggles to pay that price each new day.<br /><br />The road to success requires both a point of departure and a good vehicle. It helps tremendously to set off on your journey from a place of affluence and influence. The "affluence" will insure that you can afford the right schools, food and housing, and still have pocket money to pay for drinks and club admissions, while "influence" will make sure you actually get into those acclaimed institutes of higher learning and meet the "right" people. Yet most young people come into the world with out the benefit of wealth or contacts. To them I say, shit sinks but something built of wood floats. Make great work and it will rise to the surface where it can be seen. <br /><br />The thought of giving up comes to me often, usually in the middle of the night when dreams interrupt my sleep. Yet at this stage of life giving up is difficult to do. I feel like the swimmer who dives off a river bank thinking that the opposite side is only a short distance away, but realizes when his muscles tire that he actually swims in an ocean and can no longer see the shore ahead or behind him. At that point, you have only two choices: keep swimming and pray your toes soon touch bottom, or sink beneath the cold surface and drown. To your advantage, after stroking the water for a long while, your muscles will strengthen, allowing you to paddle faster and further. <br /><br />I choose to keep swimming.Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-20581697616851688612010-03-13T12:30:00.010-05:002010-03-13T14:31:37.299-05:00Men Observed: Part 1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJObCBcmHHiZg2y4qwyt_-gm-_Vb0I71QmAXHvprFTW1RGpKkjJ3YV2d018wDTddFQv4UmUXAmAz4iHUBuijZLKsNF2ky3PPWUibqR7DYdqW-QRnbWhPXtRWJRo72ug4cIPtuJS8d3a9g/s1600-h/Justin_NewYork_Portrait.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJObCBcmHHiZg2y4qwyt_-gm-_Vb0I71QmAXHvprFTW1RGpKkjJ3YV2d018wDTddFQv4UmUXAmAz4iHUBuijZLKsNF2ky3PPWUibqR7DYdqW-QRnbWhPXtRWJRo72ug4cIPtuJS8d3a9g/s400/Justin_NewYork_Portrait.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448195516030671362" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7I-9c5FpUsZOhgwDMDMC145XwSLQumFMBmR5QM9rkfQ9Bz84pVPzFjgdWPff0RjAoLht44JCemaD0n5oga8sgCVkUP8Zyyar5LjyvdAx-sQjSTTWOWKjrhxcHC41SZ4Po5Qz3YwZyljA/s1600-h/PatrickDean_NewYork_Portrait.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 302px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7I-9c5FpUsZOhgwDMDMC145XwSLQumFMBmR5QM9rkfQ9Bz84pVPzFjgdWPff0RjAoLht44JCemaD0n5oga8sgCVkUP8Zyyar5LjyvdAx-sQjSTTWOWKjrhxcHC41SZ4Po5Qz3YwZyljA/s400/PatrickDean_NewYork_Portrait.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448195512586892722" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtjDhk0Rqoa901JkIEIU2VTg_P6pG4l5B7BmIOSngp87waMTbsj8-a5_Ogrf7ui-i8CfBAFkxj-IZwq2QePAS4tXB13i13yL7kVPeTCkBJgXvL7aKohd62eqD46Wn8-CWVayc4Xvu5WNw/s1600-h/Negovan_NewYork_Portrait.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtjDhk0Rqoa901JkIEIU2VTg_P6pG4l5B7BmIOSngp87waMTbsj8-a5_Ogrf7ui-i8CfBAFkxj-IZwq2QePAS4tXB13i13yL7kVPeTCkBJgXvL7aKohd62eqD46Wn8-CWVayc4Xvu5WNw/s400/Negovan_NewYork_Portrait.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448195506198823314" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUPQk0Vx5kR9c6hSPobBBP9MceF-QGsKqi7anRYM7n0DACGUs9Lsb90XHQz3FD-eJ-gdzFnr9jkBzj-rv3ENtmUe7YJGdEECXoJhZb5zILM8tlmVdiKzW3oBlgHQKmKH_zcqggB2qodw0/s1600-h/Mark_Bill_Kentucky_Portrait.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUPQk0Vx5kR9c6hSPobBBP9MceF-QGsKqi7anRYM7n0DACGUs9Lsb90XHQz3FD-eJ-gdzFnr9jkBzj-rv3ENtmUe7YJGdEECXoJhZb5zILM8tlmVdiKzW3oBlgHQKmKH_zcqggB2qodw0/s400/Mark_Bill_Kentucky_Portrait.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448195285038594274" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU16td2xSH9Hf06jPhHDg5qRMkshraEMQ4z9-RZLO48eZu7-6yeH-icVvoX-2YQ0uILjKWaQ3ZxKQaE_NmSB_oWRDnyKmlva88BRWZfVJ_T7XcHbP4zwCHxiS0hz5rvAEy4kt9Sv77O5s/s1600-h/Ralph_Kentucky_Portrait.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU16td2xSH9Hf06jPhHDg5qRMkshraEMQ4z9-RZLO48eZu7-6yeH-icVvoX-2YQ0uILjKWaQ3ZxKQaE_NmSB_oWRDnyKmlva88BRWZfVJ_T7XcHbP4zwCHxiS0hz5rvAEy4kt9Sv77O5s/s400/Ralph_Kentucky_Portrait.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448195279741695186" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju0ThIoOk6GS39zyqgLQG77uf3Q306jM4DO7C9tvjMwBu_L4VP8Ls3Jvqz00IynqT18N1my3ROISRrWd2tk5hYLkFPRvTIt7RqyTQgvs-m2a8tW2QxO-q8ULyHkWJpl6d4FRuqzi8T3A0/s1600-h/Martin_Gary_BW_.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju0ThIoOk6GS39zyqgLQG77uf3Q306jM4DO7C9tvjMwBu_L4VP8Ls3Jvqz00IynqT18N1my3ROISRrWd2tk5hYLkFPRvTIt7RqyTQgvs-m2a8tW2QxO-q8ULyHkWJpl6d4FRuqzi8T3A0/s400/Martin_Gary_BW_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448195273791795650" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXl0ep0fVCrikt-vsTdWpMuv0TSesGXEHr7eIL7tdaCSsRQvLPt6RYyMSqiSOB4fDq5hqLv28HneI2favkoqe_Ft1RILExuhUranl7qDv7gDQ4SsZi3BanluEn4TCi0EKbHBy5VUxzr8/s1600-h/SerbianModel_NewYork_Portrait.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXl0ep0fVCrikt-vsTdWpMuv0TSesGXEHr7eIL7tdaCSsRQvLPt6RYyMSqiSOB4fDq5hqLv28HneI2favkoqe_Ft1RILExuhUranl7qDv7gDQ4SsZi3BanluEn4TCi0EKbHBy5VUxzr8/s400/SerbianModel_NewYork_Portrait.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448195267624811122" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi87gQ_m9DNi5wfDqZAjY8KCkDYuZYT_NDRDCOLLyCMHkC8yNWpmZeymK6L-axcsA0AGSV2ONJWEBSi8xwhNolkZSB7PVoH5DJRP1By_TgS1rBYOCisHU6wcRjEg_iZpbY7-b7VVuKN9U0/s1600-h/Jeremy_NewYork_Portrait.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 296px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi87gQ_m9DNi5wfDqZAjY8KCkDYuZYT_NDRDCOLLyCMHkC8yNWpmZeymK6L-axcsA0AGSV2ONJWEBSi8xwhNolkZSB7PVoH5DJRP1By_TgS1rBYOCisHU6wcRjEg_iZpbY7-b7VVuKN9U0/s400/Jeremy_NewYork_Portrait.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448195257042541154" /></a><br /><br />Top to Bottom: Justin, Patrick, Negovan, Mark and Bill, Ralph, Martin and Gary, Serbian Model, Jeremy.Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-37472927223576292332010-01-27T13:36:00.002-05:002010-01-27T14:19:10.164-05:00Simple Questions. Hard Answers.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFiNaD6lhcnIaJmQBjrRWl_N7xmyWwUXsxlvkZ57ogdkX69AqrkpneWWMDo3_c9khirsnVGc0rDoKKnTso3NyjqJxnkLnL2pxmi1rY6Mwp1FTfTfabOoE-yPHe1KId3p00pivgxzz7sf8/s1600-h/Bobby_TwigLeafSign.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFiNaD6lhcnIaJmQBjrRWl_N7xmyWwUXsxlvkZ57ogdkX69AqrkpneWWMDo3_c9khirsnVGc0rDoKKnTso3NyjqJxnkLnL2pxmi1rY6Mwp1FTfTfabOoE-yPHe1KId3p00pivgxzz7sf8/s400/Bobby_TwigLeafSign.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431501276731296338" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />"How's your work going?" inquired a colleague/acquaintance at the School of the International Center of Photography in New York. <br /><br />Simple question, right? But why the blank, is it so difficult to answer. I don't know how to reply. Stumbling for words only makes me appear stupid and inarticulate. <br /><br />Or so it makes me feel. <br /><br />The creative life is a long journey down a winding road full of potholes, shattered glass, fallen trees and detours. Along the way there are amazing adventures, but for most people it is not a trip in First Class. I'm happy for those who seem ride in great comfort and reach their destinations quickly without any wear or tear, but my means of transportation evidences dents, scratches, peeling paint and tires balder than a baby's butt. <br /><br />What do I say but, "My work is going well, thanks!" It's like a stranger asking how you are. They don't really want to hear how things are actually going, because if they did, they probably wouldn't ask.<br /><br />I think many artists feel uneasy about their creative endeavors. Unless there is hard evidence showing that your book will be published, your music or dance performed, your art shown, you often just don't know. You don't know because you are still in the process. Maybe at the beginning, perhaps at the end, but still nevertheless you're not there yet. And there's no shame in that. The shame would be if you quit before reaching the end.<br /><br />So I decided not to quit, but to persevere. It seems to me that I've gone so far already at this state of life, that there's no turning around and going back. I can only press on.<br /><br />But, to answer the question, "How is your work going?" <br /><br />It's going well. I am working and I get a lot of pleasure out of what I'm doing. And, finally, I can see that, perhaps, I'm finally getting somewhere and that all the work will be worth it. Yet I'm not sure if the reward actually comes in the act of working or if it comes after the work is done.Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-33761321722831197042010-01-23T12:47:00.002-05:002010-01-23T13:18:43.251-05:00January and All is Gray with the World<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVeg1MQYYRg-jjiTLaVZfRLv2hbZ2wbV2MvKGtm98BYxphaOH0EMENglhC4YxZojSO6j6_CR7STq2QRg-5MTeEnKQzhzFlvJkZ3vamBthArifaCgdcbyX2vsABSal2kZj7u2P55FTvDt8/s1600-h/Kentucky_Winter_Haystack.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVeg1MQYYRg-jjiTLaVZfRLv2hbZ2wbV2MvKGtm98BYxphaOH0EMENglhC4YxZojSO6j6_CR7STq2QRg-5MTeEnKQzhzFlvJkZ3vamBthArifaCgdcbyX2vsABSal2kZj7u2P55FTvDt8/s400/Kentucky_Winter_Haystack.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429993892079616322" /></a><br /><br /><br />An unexpected phone call has the force to shake our little planets. The phone rang on New Year's morning. On the other end of the line was my Mom in Kentucky requesting my immediate presence. My father has been rushed to the Hospital with chest pains and tingling in his arms. The doctor's finding: blockage in his arteries (probably a result of 83 plus years of fried bacon, fried eggs, fried chicken and fried whatever "southern style." He required open heart surgery. Around midnight of that same day, I stood in baggage claim at the Lexington Airport, waiting for my bags and my youngest brother to pick me up.<br /><br />Until my grandparents all passed away, I believed myself surrounded by two defensive walls made up of my parents and their parents. With the loss of the grandparents, one barrier collapsed into dust leaving only one wall standing. The thought of losing my parents means that one more barrier will have fallen leaving me standing alone before my ultimate end.<br /><br />This kind of thinking, obviously, can sound pretty morbid. But, I look at it, as more sobering than anything else. Youth inspires the confidence to tackle anything believing oneself invulnerable to pain or death. While middle age makes you value life even more, knowing full well that at some point every book has a conclusion, no matter how much you may want to stall the ending.<br /><br />Three weeks has now passed, Dad survived his operation and now is home recovering. My father is not a patient man. He's the kind of man who plunges three stories down a cliff, brushes himself off and starts climbing again. But you don't endure having your chest cut open and your heart pulled out, and expect to ride a motorcycle the next day. <br /><br />On Monday, I fly back to New York City. Thankfully, I leave knowing that my father health will improve over the next weeks, and that he will probably have a much better summer this year than the one he experienced last year. Regretfully, I leave knowing my mother will have the full responsibility of caring for my Dad, a traditional man of a generation of Men that expected certain things from their wives. My father still expects that my mother will prepared three meals a day for him, and that means three meals daily that he enjoys, because it is no joy for my mother to prepare food for someone who doesn't believe each bite they swallow is the best bite he's ever enjoyed.Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-51938352771435607852009-11-17T10:51:00.009-05:002009-11-20T10:26:51.401-05:00Williamsburg Time Warp. 1979<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSMD7Sr3Ep-Sp6BaEeILk10uE0F-OxVTs2qWT4hyphenhyphenaeJ80v45FILVF2xp2NT_GjTi4I0OkhDxMfNATh7MTaISW2v-W-cmz36W3BSIfkx-msaK8rqurZ_mvG0emkRVvYj4EG2Ac_mk5uJWc/s1600/Greg_raspberry_imacon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSMD7Sr3Ep-Sp6BaEeILk10uE0F-OxVTs2qWT4hyphenhyphenaeJ80v45FILVF2xp2NT_GjTi4I0OkhDxMfNATh7MTaISW2v-W-cmz36W3BSIfkx-msaK8rqurZ_mvG0emkRVvYj4EG2Ac_mk5uJWc/s400/Greg_raspberry_imacon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405102567905031442" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpToT-tA7BKoOCisnLsEXPfjXraF_YkeA_M54EuqN0_Sj5rE0FCd1ECl2xux6r-1v_x9Gn7Qp7gQsMolVcIEX-uXi4_GQjwoVbd5FSJnteCvmV8ND-V4X0STjZ9naXTwJ124fWg0dWYfI/s1600/IVCF_volleyball_imacon_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpToT-tA7BKoOCisnLsEXPfjXraF_YkeA_M54EuqN0_Sj5rE0FCd1ECl2xux6r-1v_x9Gn7Qp7gQsMolVcIEX-uXi4_GQjwoVbd5FSJnteCvmV8ND-V4X0STjZ9naXTwJ124fWg0dWYfI/s400/IVCF_volleyball_imacon_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405099701887270738" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCBpnrRD9WiJpiNi0yuFl9JG-J_y2KlzQCFlXJ9v5ekcxwfPtVMg7nPKpewuvpBhLm_HjvSWPdSdnHbIbSLgcoZBS9_6k2i0PLTNCx7XVN4azXcd6RiN2eI7NcTNxdddsmeC6TA5_Ui_w/s1600/Buddy_camping_2_imacon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCBpnrRD9WiJpiNi0yuFl9JG-J_y2KlzQCFlXJ9v5ekcxwfPtVMg7nPKpewuvpBhLm_HjvSWPdSdnHbIbSLgcoZBS9_6k2i0PLTNCx7XVN4azXcd6RiN2eI7NcTNxdddsmeC6TA5_Ui_w/s400/Buddy_camping_2_imacon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405099695393904130" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXL6UPy-sihzLAn0oHEDkhwEu78KZV0iT9rh56WopOxlfk9NM1ZQ6lXMCZjLwm5uZNifUNAA7jt2OJGSfkosXIKd9pKkBQZ1RpV9fDW77pmSBsoUcOHvaj7togB3gHxnWfZ2q3uZsw0U/s1600/FtLaud_twoGuys_Beach_imacon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXL6UPy-sihzLAn0oHEDkhwEu78KZV0iT9rh56WopOxlfk9NM1ZQ6lXMCZjLwm5uZNifUNAA7jt2OJGSfkosXIKd9pKkBQZ1RpV9fDW77pmSBsoUcOHvaj7togB3gHxnWfZ2q3uZsw0U/s400/FtLaud_twoGuys_Beach_imacon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405099694180192082" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVHZ4qeJUApQTMgrKRu1_xifwxLryKjJ56AviaRRe440YhVw6dAiMkBlZw_6xXmiWA2SbW38yxzRag9OJQPiSUrXnJSUTCi2DasK9RwF1g2nCRd_2HmnUzA8ABAl77tW25FmINHUECANE/s1600/Xtn_gayboy_bus_imacon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVHZ4qeJUApQTMgrKRu1_xifwxLryKjJ56AviaRRe440YhVw6dAiMkBlZw_6xXmiWA2SbW38yxzRag9OJQPiSUrXnJSUTCi2DasK9RwF1g2nCRd_2HmnUzA8ABAl77tW25FmINHUECANE/s400/Xtn_gayboy_bus_imacon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405099691056156674" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8lKffPMniarnlxSwO_Sb5Tzl8sWf-3i_hhvQt2nTVyoJLIonT1NhNfKv5G95L73I38nf6V9O8hyphenhyphenKQq3qlcscFs13_LsAaok1Kb8h9RB4p4FcO6wVZ1oUaiNe161vGw6GbARTlaZFKSQ/s1600/Sam_Tulum_BlueTrunks_imacon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 273px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8lKffPMniarnlxSwO_Sb5Tzl8sWf-3i_hhvQt2nTVyoJLIonT1NhNfKv5G95L73I38nf6V9O8hyphenhyphenKQq3qlcscFs13_LsAaok1Kb8h9RB4p4FcO6wVZ1oUaiNe161vGw6GbARTlaZFKSQ/s400/Sam_Tulum_BlueTrunks_imacon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405099690315917474" /></a><br /><br /><br />Sitting on New York City's L Train, jerking along between Manhattan and Williamsburg, Brooklyn, I have had the unsettling feeling that I've been transported back to 1979. Were it not for the numbers of ears I see tethered to iPods and the fingers pecking away at cellphones, I would believe with certainty that it was, in fact, seventy-nine. The long hair and beards and mustaches adorning hipster faces has the unmistakable look of my college age peers. I want to blurt out, "I looked just like you once!", but the blank eyes peering back at my middle-aged facade reveal that they fail to see what resemblance they share with me.<br /><br />I think I look great for my age, but I don't look twenty-one, much less twenty-seven. Thank God, I feel no compulsion to dig through attics and basements, or hit the vintage stores, to achieve that style again. Dressing in middle-age, as you did in your youth, strikes me as too much like older men and women, who believe that keeping the same hairstle through the decades has somehow stopped the cruel hands of time. <br /><br />Men differ today from the boys of my youth, as much as I differed from my father's WWII generation. I can't speak for my father, although I can recount stories he has regaled I and my brothers with since childhood, but I can compare what I observe today from what I remember seeing in my own early twenties.<br /><br />Young men have always been conscious of their appearance, but today there is much more self-consciousness about their bodies and sexual identity. Today's man knows that other men -- aka gay men -- may be looking at their bodies, prompting them to want to look great, while at the same time to not solicit the gay gaze. <br /><br />Although, I wasn't out as a gay man in my student days, I, nevertheless, watched the men on my dormitory floor and at the gym. Nudity was less of an issue, when guys were not wondering if gay men were watching them. Men all showered together, and whatever was thought was left, in public, unspoken. I recall at eighteen, shortly after moving into my college housing highrise, entering the floor's men's room and seeing an Adonis built senior, standing naked at the sink, shaving a day's stubble off his morning face. I the rush, not of lust, but of, awe. He was magnificent and that image, now burned into my memory, I will carry to my grave.<br /><br />I look at the photographs that I took during that period and I compare them to photographs that I make today. People behave differently before the camera now, than they did, back then. Today, everyone is much more self-conscious about their appearance than twenty-five or more years ago. At that time, not everyone had a camera, and unlike today, a camera wasn't on everyone's person twenty-four hours a day. Today with proliferation of digital cameras and camera phones, everyone can shoot everyone else all the time. The digital speed of immediately seeing the image after you've shot it only makes people either more self-conscious or more self-satisfied.<br /><br />People ask me if I shoot film or digital. I continue to shoot film because I love the look of it, and because it would cost me a fortune to buy a digital camera that could imitate my own medium format film camera. But one advantage I treasure to shooting film over digital, is that I don't have to keep showing whomever I photograph their captured image in the LCD screen. I tell them that they'll have to wait, and because they accept the wait, they become more relaxed and less conscious of their own out appearance. It means that the subject must trust me and allow me to do whatever I need to do without the subject turning into an Art Director.<br /><br />Not only straight men are conscious of how they are being perceived, but gay men are conscious of it as well. While a straight man may want to avoid being seen as a sexual object, or even being perceived as being homosexual, gay men have become like women who don't want to encourage too much attention from the male sex. Such gay men want to be seen and admired, but not bothered. Nor does this gay man want, at least in public places, being perceived as a slut, so he wears his towel from the locker room to the shower, and never enters the sauna or steam room, where he knows that he'll find other gay men.<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/m6RDKKrU0Jo&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/m6RDKKrU0Jo&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object>Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-34369967417232214452009-10-21T09:22:00.009-04:002009-10-24T20:24:29.062-04:00'The Way It Used To Be", Pet Shop Boys. Scroll down and click on music.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVDRUFOwSHB-LXSajtsc_0m4HBKqA-MUB51W6LBNKvPrB6K-pwjKoFlCJwpa7RsGHgv6JtZamK_P0IWHKQwEVrMu-uTCp2cTItD7sadFFiO0ln_xvg6tkvFSRYnT89SI_a6YO-mezuBlI/s1600-h/Andreas_Nude_Po_2_7.5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVDRUFOwSHB-LXSajtsc_0m4HBKqA-MUB51W6LBNKvPrB6K-pwjKoFlCJwpa7RsGHgv6JtZamK_P0IWHKQwEVrMu-uTCp2cTItD7sadFFiO0ln_xvg6tkvFSRYnT89SI_a6YO-mezuBlI/s400/Andreas_Nude_Po_2_7.5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396316965154490706" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmR2VhlIr2brvmP5f0JUZGIme__gVitS38E5ACObVI07L4PBzAZF8smPighRmbHEhnq7kzD7W_xvtNiIurqmaAgm-9OF-Ds7opTJIj6IYIlVKu9NrxmlyilImbnFRGEQ5EJBnT7M3_sAg/s1600-h/Paul_Berlin_BWFace_7x9.jpg"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEZg6FlABf2hM4FXok8HhI7CptCtWoyLbrjL-QHEfl3DDmQkPA2vWLBTkrZISUYPFi3CGqGgFeACqjwcFfGSlBCHRKkK6aeoRZKefRomuhP0zUuIKBEjnKDMaPIM3Ivq55KLTkyR48FRY/s400/StillLife_Gourd_Knife_2_7x5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396315380628781826" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYoJlJcNyr1LZ9NUp14TP2zOQK3NRFLlqm0iZk7CEOQXJU3CEwGM78Z8tWP4HpizlzFsQx3Gqjpx6GT68r-Oe2zrMbDRyk3cdQiXhKj34mnY8eFjLuHsfXsEz1_e7Uet6JBwEgfexQOk/s1600-h/Boy_GoldenCurls_1_5x7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYoJlJcNyr1LZ9NUp14TP2zOQK3NRFLlqm0iZk7CEOQXJU3CEwGM78Z8tWP4HpizlzFsQx3Gqjpx6GT68r-Oe2zrMbDRyk3cdQiXhKj34mnY8eFjLuHsfXsEz1_e7Uet6JBwEgfexQOk/s400/Boy_GoldenCurls_1_5x7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396315381322159890" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdlpsqraPRoLJCcv9NXoXAW9unpN7sRXlCjcncZIWFoi5OCTIJvm92fMu_kwO9Fyd6pw2fFJncT4mrC4iKbEoPkzgqliR5Hh2l3gVomsB9n0jN4POZxTZ7ZeEZSPCQ4jAB6N_QS0Z7hU/s1600-h/Still_LIfe_NYC_Lobby_8x6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdlpsqraPRoLJCcv9NXoXAW9unpN7sRXlCjcncZIWFoi5OCTIJvm92fMu_kwO9Fyd6pw2fFJncT4mrC4iKbEoPkzgqliR5Hh2l3gVomsB9n0jN4POZxTZ7ZeEZSPCQ4jAB6N_QS0Z7hU/s400/Still_LIfe_NYC_Lobby_8x6.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396315376463850338" /></a><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GPDDNR2PCuc&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GPDDNR2PCuc&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I'm here, you're there<br />Come closer, tonight I'm lonely<br />Come here with me<br />I want it the way it used to be<br /><br />What is left of love?<br />Tell me, who would even care?<br />So much time has passed<br />I'd still meet you anywhere<br />Water under bridge<br />Evening after day<br />What is left of love<br />Here that didn't drift away?<br /><br />I can remember days of sun<br />We knew our lives had just begun<br />We could do anything, we're fearless when we're young<br />Under the moon, address unknown<br />I can remember nights in Rome<br />I thought that love would last, a promise set in stone<br /><br />I'd survive with only memories<br />If I could change the way I feel<br />But I want more than only memories<br />A human touch to make them real<br /><br />Another day, another dream<br />Over the bridge an empty scene<br />[ Pet Shop Boys Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ]<br />We'd spend the weekend lost in bed and float upstream<br />I don't know why we moved away<br />Lost in the here and now we strayed<br />Into a New York zone, our promise was betrayed<br /><br />I was there, caught on Tenth Avenue<br />You elsewhere with Culver City blues<br />Then and there I knew that I'd lost you<br /><br />What is left of love?<br />Tell me, who will even care?<br />So much time has passed<br />I'd still meet you anywhere<br />Water under bridge<br />Evening after day<br />What is left of love<br />Here that didn't drift away?<br /><br />Don't give me all your love and pain<br />Don't sell me New York in the rain<br />Let's leave our promises behind<br />Rewind and try again<br /><br />What remains in time that didn't fade away?<br />Sometimes I need to see<br />The way it used to beGreg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-24114462906873119142009-08-31T11:36:00.033-04:002009-10-28T12:31:36.987-04:00Drew. Summer 2009.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-W0qIOo8Dbgzc8gM90LspnJUY6X-abNi1wy2P5wU8XcZikhxnOknaCDhl2SNftQyIBmVXXkPFPA0d44sZU74t3I0tKirGJx-OSLtteQlpRa3J93lcmI777xohg6-SW323LEUzLEtOu4M/s1600-h/Drew_20.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-W0qIOo8Dbgzc8gM90LspnJUY6X-abNi1wy2P5wU8XcZikhxnOknaCDhl2SNftQyIBmVXXkPFPA0d44sZU74t3I0tKirGJx-OSLtteQlpRa3J93lcmI777xohg6-SW323LEUzLEtOu4M/s400/Drew_20.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376166944048052290" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuRALBNfIaSimNvr5semmYXz0SWUyBDQoao6Ext46Oq0CqPm2zFu42B3n2IyAJOoj-r9-h_2n4_cctbtImWHN-gDLoaJdBq3eg82mXig1kf8JWo71WsduMeko3Tq9WEh0YoXnUqrRVWno/s1600-h/Drew_002.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuRALBNfIaSimNvr5semmYXz0SWUyBDQoao6Ext46Oq0CqPm2zFu42B3n2IyAJOoj-r9-h_2n4_cctbtImWHN-gDLoaJdBq3eg82mXig1kf8JWo71WsduMeko3Tq9WEh0YoXnUqrRVWno/s400/Drew_002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376170762155468802" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqiEDaRtfJ-3KcBLWctb4pSAy8RzdSel66lY9MQANJxFfsVPXGA9Ljr9NSAr8rjHCU2gQFKzhHJR0v-ZHx3ppACotqIgDGUXw_-B09R-XqI0Bt7uPzqdpRSen4hel4xs6FY4xP7v3ovNU/s1600-h/GR_Drew_17.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqiEDaRtfJ-3KcBLWctb4pSAy8RzdSel66lY9MQANJxFfsVPXGA9Ljr9NSAr8rjHCU2gQFKzhHJR0v-ZHx3ppACotqIgDGUXw_-B09R-XqI0Bt7uPzqdpRSen4hel4xs6FY4xP7v3ovNU/s400/GR_Drew_17.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376166150472353778" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcSU2SwuKSfoEOuycErqlWvZnA8JwXYcpuE-Po4LIoYpWyew4sxonuccD4jqxMGL8IsmPYAZmEfUZU2UZx5plI-yIN4Pu-1EJPl6MaQZFtCQF4OmhFaBixu7t6BhLUAWRyKLLUXH7Qrg/s1600-h/GR_Drew_7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcSU2SwuKSfoEOuycErqlWvZnA8JwXYcpuE-Po4LIoYpWyew4sxonuccD4jqxMGL8IsmPYAZmEfUZU2UZx5plI-yIN4Pu-1EJPl6MaQZFtCQF4OmhFaBixu7t6BhLUAWRyKLLUXH7Qrg/s400/GR_Drew_7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376170314538621858" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzdpGzd25uelBu0n243A-C06KPugy0Ny7vK6fk6FeAPRyDomA4FKBVEnhDJ-J-b8aR8fyD3mOSf0oaDnhBCkoSbd0ysM147E7WIqzKxANCUpUGKw2XC4e_yy0rFo2OaEC-9qH8GIYotM/s1600-h/Drew_029.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzdpGzd25uelBu0n243A-C06KPugy0Ny7vK6fk6FeAPRyDomA4FKBVEnhDJ-J-b8aR8fyD3mOSf0oaDnhBCkoSbd0ysM147E7WIqzKxANCUpUGKw2XC4e_yy0rFo2OaEC-9qH8GIYotM/s400/Drew_029.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376169300906464050" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLmrWwe-x-zMUOkVezQf1WAnh60O4VxK-FZDe3mEh80yAcL7rgbxHi5GeUz2Fbn6BDYhF-bwYYdCargx9Li0KCZ-9iM7H1H8mWC7IaZzBF5t-rX659bvXctu0_ylnriEAFWsFUqCUP-fw/s1600-h/GR_Drew_15.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLmrWwe-x-zMUOkVezQf1WAnh60O4VxK-FZDe3mEh80yAcL7rgbxHi5GeUz2Fbn6BDYhF-bwYYdCargx9Li0KCZ-9iM7H1H8mWC7IaZzBF5t-rX659bvXctu0_ylnriEAFWsFUqCUP-fw/s400/GR_Drew_15.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376167527178180498" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharv4WediY3h8ypj1QeJzJ-WSkOLlIZT-7r5fAgqX32WBRZ6EWWDE5CA7IGbVVsJ0QFT4L8pcDjHZM_J5tQ5OBWXfBvp8w05dLTGXZIWq3cBZ1v96cjLwRY7vGLSCnOLR21abAO5im_To/s1600-h/Drew_015.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharv4WediY3h8ypj1QeJzJ-WSkOLlIZT-7r5fAgqX32WBRZ6EWWDE5CA7IGbVVsJ0QFT4L8pcDjHZM_J5tQ5OBWXfBvp8w05dLTGXZIWq3cBZ1v96cjLwRY7vGLSCnOLR21abAO5im_To/s400/Drew_015.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376170308538552082" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxdfKEU03WtzaBlOeCA27qd79buiaODAsdr-s8nlVy0n37TUzMxmOU6fHUZ3C1mMxHrNneCkdLrLL7YpuqTLoRae2jJuLRvAOXTB453m2BKXOoFCZB38t-r7MQsR3-wwgtH-8Ud9Aizw0/s1600-h/GR_Drew_13.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxdfKEU03WtzaBlOeCA27qd79buiaODAsdr-s8nlVy0n37TUzMxmOU6fHUZ3C1mMxHrNneCkdLrLL7YpuqTLoRae2jJuLRvAOXTB453m2BKXOoFCZB38t-r7MQsR3-wwgtH-8Ud9Aizw0/s400/GR_Drew_13.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376165689060980082" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxGu8WCImSEJ448NtU9nr4Xsr_yjydh2qnohE7f9AqIvA77ZcpPQvwCn-8rgpccbVqtYLp_EycZN_IWpoGg6ppf9HLkC1p9UDp6ZLu8JHySpzRc04JiPlSAXSZQyx3wSE3R24yQuoZ1M/s1600-h/GR_Drew_12.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 297px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxGu8WCImSEJ448NtU9nr4Xsr_yjydh2qnohE7f9AqIvA77ZcpPQvwCn-8rgpccbVqtYLp_EycZN_IWpoGg6ppf9HLkC1p9UDp6ZLu8JHySpzRc04JiPlSAXSZQyx3wSE3R24yQuoZ1M/s400/GR_Drew_12.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376170305823722178" /></a><br /><br />Shot for East Village Boys Zine. www.eastvillageboys.comGreg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-38555489739896009212009-08-11T14:45:00.010-04:002009-08-11T15:55:29.532-04:00Identity as a Creative Person<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeMB8HRiU73R78tdnywu1eX0ZUuUfWHBlHLjx0C6q4Z3MAmILPutmIkgnq2hEK3QnoeKH-RBVz497Dlgiq7vzyO0dnXb0gmATpBPxLc53qORRMGXkNGGMh-8-PuLnrBFSiy8cT9ANKFs/s1600-h/JC_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeMB8HRiU73R78tdnywu1eX0ZUuUfWHBlHLjx0C6q4Z3MAmILPutmIkgnq2hEK3QnoeKH-RBVz497Dlgiq7vzyO0dnXb0gmATpBPxLc53qORRMGXkNGGMh-8-PuLnrBFSiy8cT9ANKFs/s400/JC_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368780104927871602" /></a><br /><br /><br />Before I came out as a gay man and returned to graduate school to pursue film studies, I found my identity in the roles that I played: son, grandson, brother, good student, Christian, religious, church leader, Evangelist, and heterosexual. It wasn't difficult. I'd been cast in my role by virtue of genes and geography. Each of us to one degree or another, deal with this mantle thrust upon us by birth. While many embrace it; others question it, while yet a few cast it off and flee naked into the day or the night to find another cloak that fits to who they are. <br /><br />In many ways the question still remains, from what do I achieve or draw my identity? Who am I? I'm still a son and brother, but unlike my brothers, I never became a husband nor a father. What does it mean to be a creative or an artist? Are you an artist, if you've never had a gallery show? Are you a novelist, if you've never had a book published? Are you an actor if you're not on stage in a play?<br /><br />Frequently, I am asked, "What do you do?" What do I say? Or should I say anything?<br />It seems like I'm drawn into a game which I'm not going to win. The question seems so American, rude and direct at the same time. <br /><br />Often, I respond by saying, "I'm a photographer." But what does that mean? I could take pictures of flower pots, or door knobs, or weddings, or babies, or cars, or whatever. I've had people respond back, "Oh. My seven year old nephew is a photographer. You should see his pictures."<br /><br />Once, I explain that I make portraits. I'm then asked,<br /><br />"Are you a professional photographer or is it just a hobby?"<br /><br />This is where the answer gets tricky. Professional or hobbyist. What people want to know is whether you earn money from your photography and if you can live off it. You are then being judged, not on the creative work itself, but rather on the money derived. <br /><br />If I say, (with some bemusement), the results are professional, then I see question marks reflected back in their uncomprehending eyes. From their point of view, someone who spends his time on something without earning much back is either crazy or a hobbyist. Everyone is allowed their hobbies.<br /><br />So I guess I'm not a hobbyist, I'm just crazy. What else could I be, if not crazy? I spend hours and hours, days and days, months and months, years and years, making photographs without having achieved a gallery show or a major magazine publication. The money that I've spent is incalculable at this point in time, what with the expense of equipment, film, processing and prints.<br /><br />Now I deflect the question. I usually say that I make photographs and write, but that I earn income from doing all sorts of other things: teacher, child care provider; waiter; bartender; and, production assistant. The list goes on and on. For the last three years, I have lived with a family in Brooklyn and helped to care for and raise their son, who will soon be six years. It is not an experience I sought, but one that by happenstance came to me, and I don't regret it. I've formed a relationship that will be with me for a life time.<br /><br />Last week, I sat in Union Square, New York City, dressed in black pants, long sleep white pullover, white mask and black goggles joined by thirty other men and women in a performance for a Brooklyn artist. For this I earned the princely sum of twenty dollars. "Hey. It pays for subway fares."<br /><br />To say that I'm a photographer places me in one box. I'm not "just" a photographer. I'm a son, a brother, an uncle, a friend, a gay man, who makes photographs, who writes, who travels, who engages with interesting people and learns other points of view. I'm a creative who lives, or attempts to live, creatively.Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-28874104207491318432009-08-03T11:52:00.015-04:002009-08-05T13:19:00.016-04:00"It's not even pretty!" my nephew declared to his older sister.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Idgc-nk-vLM4DwGKQoTDGIhuzhBLu1Xkwt9BXRQVUsHNnGeO18pzNcGI_la0KYTyiNEtuHnPuDp3t5T2D6xm9JyD4YZwDEostY75yMCB-4eyZXIz7stxXWAJAqwSLxyUw_dBzQ_2Wuw/s1600-h/Mom_Aaron_Baby_1995.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Idgc-nk-vLM4DwGKQoTDGIhuzhBLu1Xkwt9BXRQVUsHNnGeO18pzNcGI_la0KYTyiNEtuHnPuDp3t5T2D6xm9JyD4YZwDEostY75yMCB-4eyZXIz7stxXWAJAqwSLxyUw_dBzQ_2Wuw/s400/Mom_Aaron_Baby_1995.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366529895681219378" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-ixC2OQt3RC-9UsY0nVtBMOW503YYYo-Ue_MrrcU5ijaeoPlFvjxB-AUBuopxflpo0O8t3EvObFTmwf-ke7CEtcXNRGZ5A0eOKdpLk52sHS_M8QTLCHNbA6lfLLpXIzMcfaZlO-UkOA/s1600-h/Aaron_Jan_09_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-ixC2OQt3RC-9UsY0nVtBMOW503YYYo-Ue_MrrcU5ijaeoPlFvjxB-AUBuopxflpo0O8t3EvObFTmwf-ke7CEtcXNRGZ5A0eOKdpLk52sHS_M8QTLCHNbA6lfLLpXIzMcfaZlO-UkOA/s400/Aaron_Jan_09_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366529888101613266" /></a><br /><br /><br />Some years back I sat parked inside my youngest brother's car outside his suburban house, while his fifteen year old daughter and nine year old son fought over the music. "It's not even pretty," my nephew declared in reference to his older sister's choice. He spoke with such surprising disdain for a boy so young, yet already he demonstrated that age was no barrier to convictions. <br /><br />Some time before this dispute, I had lent him my catalogue of cds. The artists ranged from Moby to Minogue to Mozart. I was quite curious as to his preference. What would he favor? <br /><br />What's great about kids is that they do not know the difference between old and new, ancient and contemporary. It's all the same and so they gravitate to whatever they like rather than what the surrounding culture steers them toward.<br /> <br />He ended up selecting Mylene Farmer, a French pop singer. For weeks following, he sat in the back of the car, buckled in by his seat belt, (barely tall enough to look out the window), with his earplugs tethered to his portable cd player and listen to Madame Farmer over and over again. Why? What drew him to this sound? Obviously, there was no way he could understand the lyrics. They were in French for God's sake! But, nevertheless, he responded to something that touched him on a deeper emotional level that although he was too young to articulate, he nevertheless felt.<br /><br />I believe that it is this emotional and intellectual connection that separates art from commerce. Rather than persuade you to do something as Commerce would do (Go there, buy this), great art whispers rather than shouts affecting the hearer/seer on a deeper level. Art gets under the skin in the way that commerce can never do, touching the mind and the heart. I think that this is why commerce favors the beautiful because it is so often only about the surface.<br /><br />Why do we return again and again to certain music, painting, photography, theater, architecture, poetry and novels? Great art is an act of communication between the Maker and the Recipient. It has the capacity to arouse a feeling that was heretofore absent. <br /><br />Some people look to Art for answers that other people seek in religion. Art like religion is the expression of the ineffable. We try to explain but we can not, so we find another means of communication.<br /><br />Like my young nephew, I'm attracted to beauty. Beauty is like a shiny object on the sidewalk that immediately catches your eye, but just as quickly loses your attention as you walk on down the street. I glance through fashion magazines all the time, feasting on the beautiful men and women, yet it is an empty calorie meal. I rarely linger on any image, quickly turning the page and moving on to the next. The beauty on display is all on the surface and reveals nothing more. It appears to have been conceived by an Art Director and a Stylist, rather than springing from an artist.<br /><br />Nevertheless, recently, upon three separate occasions over the course of a few weeks, I went back to see the retrospective of Fashion Photography by Richard Avedon on show at the Museum of the International Center of Photography in New York City. Three times! Something more must be contained in Avedon's photographs to warrant repeated viewings. <br /><br />Avedon was embraced and worshiped by the fashion world. But Avedon wasn't merely a fashion photographer, he was at heart, a portraitist. His fashion images from the 40s through the 70s lean closer to portraiture than le Mode, in spite of the couture clothes by Dior and Givenchy. <br /><br />Avedon believed his series of photographs of regular people that he shot in the American West his more important work. But to me he seems to have no real connection to these subjects nor they to him.<br /><br />While the photographs displayed at the ICP Museum reveal he had a deep bond to the subjects, aka models, who inhabited his frames. It feels like he knew them and that they were his friends, his family--a very beautiful, lively, interesting family, but nevertheless a family. One can imagine that he had Dorian Leigh, Sunny Hartnett, Suzy Parker, Robin Tattersall, Dovima, Lauren Hutton, Jean Shrimpton, Veruschka, Twiggy, Penelope Tree, et al, all over to dinner where they laughed and talked late into the night.<br /><br />While the fashion images taken in Paris in the 40s and 50s were his work, the photographs capture the wonderful times he shared with a select group of beautiful friends living in beautiful places. "Wish you were here!"<br /><br />And I do wish I was there! I wish to much to be transported back in time. I want to take Suzy Parker to dinner; I want to go roller skating with Robin Tattersall on the Place de Concorde in Paris. These are great cinematic images in the true sense of the cinema that recall the best of post war Hollywood Directors. The photographs tell a stories of love, longing, loss and great happiness.<br /><br />This is why I went back to see the Avedon show again and again, because in the process of viewing the images, Avedon became more real. Not only do the models age, but the photographer and artist, as well. In their youth they see their reflection in the faces of their youthful friends and colleagues, but as they age they become less the participant and more the observer.<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QZOR-RZ2Xww&hl=en&fs=1&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QZOR-RZ2Xww&hl=en&fs=1&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object>Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-27679799096157413972009-07-26T14:38:00.013-04:002009-07-29T19:37:27.922-04:00"I don't want you bringing any homosexuals into the house."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZoMaS2MiVwjzE5NItdso5NIj00Zput7QtwkPOKu0D2H6zRckUh5ur3rTP1v8fuEj3lzYN5a5R3UNP5u0yRf2S1og8eQPxYel35tcgoT79mZIijQSjNYB3bdBO8BQuxKkLZgDVqS8A5do/s1600-h/Dad_grills_hamburgers_imacon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZoMaS2MiVwjzE5NItdso5NIj00Zput7QtwkPOKu0D2H6zRckUh5ur3rTP1v8fuEj3lzYN5a5R3UNP5u0yRf2S1og8eQPxYel35tcgoT79mZIijQSjNYB3bdBO8BQuxKkLZgDVqS8A5do/s400/Dad_grills_hamburgers_imacon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362841818491111154" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZuXSKuMldAHlzyAggTF49r3LobLWC_FwvOAw49TpWZ9rEdyrzPSFV1uSnJjii_Rs6veL17oGl6GAg2ATvMQx0WbUFvvJr39huzMdw1NZORrgWfjfsEvKWdBLCwEaHTp4xUyapHo1AIo/s1600-h/Dad_Portrait_Cafe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZuXSKuMldAHlzyAggTF49r3LobLWC_FwvOAw49TpWZ9rEdyrzPSFV1uSnJjii_Rs6veL17oGl6GAg2ATvMQx0WbUFvvJr39huzMdw1NZORrgWfjfsEvKWdBLCwEaHTp4xUyapHo1AIo/s400/Dad_Portrait_Cafe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362841812753585970" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjgvQfZNwDEETWtlhYozAwdSm4PDzAoIkWSqtKeKPQuvRhsGPPcMvQRkG1GgvQ33EKm3AcbnIwgZE0zIVxmsVLin6nlBT40PdQCSEp5j7kOa3TcE3to4J5gwJl21qEK2odD5vUz63A2I/s1600-h/Dad_ArmChair_Den_KY.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjgvQfZNwDEETWtlhYozAwdSm4PDzAoIkWSqtKeKPQuvRhsGPPcMvQRkG1GgvQ33EKm3AcbnIwgZE0zIVxmsVLin6nlBT40PdQCSEp5j7kOa3TcE3to4J5gwJl21qEK2odD5vUz63A2I/s400/Dad_ArmChair_Den_KY.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362841808144710402" /></a><br /><br />My father turned eight-three years old today. As is his custom, he probably rose at dawn, climbed on his motorcycle, fired up the engine and cruised along the lonely Kentucky back roads, before arriving back home again in time to eat Mom’s bacon and eggs breakfast. <br /><br />For over a half a century, he’s been as close to a bike as paint to pavement. While in the past, the road trips were just something that he did (he rode to California at least five time), today each ride is an act of defiance against the inexorable encroachment of old age--as if you could stop the hands of time by merely unplugging your electrically powered clock.<br /><br />It wasn't easy growing up the son of a man who resembled Sean Connery and behaved like John Wayne in the movies. Dad had what could only be called “screen presence: fearless; cool under pressure; man of few words; athletic and handsome. He exemplified the qualities of the All-American man’s man. <br /><br />My father grew up largely dependent upon himself, one of seven kids. By tenth grade he left school and entered a government sponsored youth work camp, at seventeen, during WWII, he served with the navy in the South Pacific, at twenty he married, by twenty-five he ran his own business, at thirty he built his own house, and by thirty-seven he’d fathered five sons. How do you top that?<br /><br />It must have been difficult for him to of had a son who preferred books, art, drama and church to motorcycles, airplanes, judo wrestling, and scuba diving. He excelled at everything he chose to tackle. If some one drowned, the authorities called him to retrieve their bodies from the bottom of murky lakes and rivers. I remember at age eleven or twelve, seeing his bandaged after a mad tenant who owed back rent sliced him up with a knife. I recall him going back to a gas station to demand his money back from the unscrupulous owner who had sold me gasoline that never made its way into our car’s gas tank.<br /><br />I’m sure my father didn’t know what to make of me. It was like having a child who spoke a different language. While my brothers ran around outdoors, I sat in front of the television, mesmerized by Susan Hayward’s portrayal of singer, Jane Froman, the great vocalist who lost her leg in a plane crash, watching her sing "With A Song in My Heart" as she danced down a staircase under enormous hanging chandeliers. Thank God, my saint of a mother provided him with four other sons to entertain him. <br />Were it not for my brothers, my awkward and tense relationship with my father—five minutes alone in a room with him and I felt like a caged bird looking for an escape—would never have mended.<br /><br />Although, I came out as gay man at the late age of thirty (soon thereafter, informing my brothers), my parents remained in the dark until ten years later. I didn’t want to tell them, even though it made my life miserable their not knowing. Knowing my parents, I knew that my mother would love me still but agonize over my spending eternity in Hell, whereas my Father would take some stance like John Wayne to Montgomery Cliff in Howard Hawk’s film, ‘Red River,’ and tell me what to do. And so it played out, after my next younger brother decided it necessary to out me to my mother, who in turn, felt it necessary to immediately inform my father. Needless to say, it was not pretty.<br /><br />One afternoon, I found myself alone with my father in the Den, where he sat in his arm chair watching the game show, ‘Wheel of Fortune.’ The tension in the air was as thick as the humidity before a hard rain on a hot summer day. I wanted to flee but I continued to sit there staring at Vanna White spinning the wheel. <br /><br />Finally, like a kettle on the stove, the whistle blew. My father informed me that my mother had spoken to him about myz being gay. It must have required all his strength to even get the words out, he not being a man to express anything much more personal than a “hello.” He then proceeded to tell me that since I was smart (my having acquired a B.A. and a graduate degree) that I could change. He told me that I was never to bring any gay person into his home (although my mother later said that she liked all friends and didn’t know who was gay and who not). He ended the speech by giving me his prognosis: my relationship with my brothers would be destroyed if I did not become straight.<br /><br />It never came to pass. For months, I barely spoke a word to my father, and not many more to my mother. But it was the support of my brothers that broke the silence. My father came to see that his straight sons continued their solidarity with their gay brother. And because his sons did not share his point of view, he was left isolated and alone. <br /><br />I don’t know when I realized that our relationship had improved, but I recognized that the tension between us had dissipated. It felt like the relieved exhaustion I would feel after a physical fight with my next younger brother. We would end the ruckus all sweaty and tired, but whatever ill feeling we were carrying disappeared.<br /><br />Then one Sunday morning, while my mother was off to Church, my father asked me if I wanted to go on a motorcycle ride with him. I pulled a helmet over my head, climbed on behind him with my hands gripping his sides and we were off with the wind whipping our faces. Then I knew that things had changed and life henceforth would not be the same.<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Q4drJR9Ueb0&hl=en&fs=1&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Q4drJR9Ueb0&hl=en&fs=1&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7Sybendn624&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7Sybendn624&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-60457965728625938772009-07-21T19:37:00.009-04:002009-07-22T15:12:26.384-04:00Bobby in Kentucky<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Haawf8RepxVF5d6_JZaw1S4FJfCGQ6gllH2hhZEbW1wEHarqEl1lFtIIpztshPWUYGcLZ2I9jq5HfKR92kxsDDibsp8xmK64AFcFf7oVRQSH1MrG-UmNt1X1nEzEbM1oyGBoY2ze78Q/s1600-h/Bobby_GrassyMeadow.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; 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display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3tzct6n6oYo9UploDuY29B3k66BSjRzTN0aax95-opG1CyMFr9kn8V2EUm8k0_by7wsJSOTcU36_TKha6P-UfMjAGdz94DeHrpTLH4LVekjjdarXuTtTWqElI9Nb-iRsKWUjNG1Fbi-8/s400/Sam_Store_SellerBoy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359853025290678962" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpdfK4W4t6CxI1Vxo1d3IXruRNwJsMmO-QL8MCEWc3va9lqC-_b_HkFtTE9I_q6z07ZL6sm7jdCGEGu2moWf_MDFmBK_EMmWPYMh5HpWBjcbbmHIeipv6NURuIz8uKb4kixmCgpKpb9E/s1600-h/KY_Students_Lake_imacon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpdfK4W4t6CxI1Vxo1d3IXruRNwJsMmO-QL8MCEWc3va9lqC-_b_HkFtTE9I_q6z07ZL6sm7jdCGEGu2moWf_MDFmBK_EMmWPYMh5HpWBjcbbmHIeipv6NURuIz8uKb4kixmCgpKpb9E/s400/KY_Students_Lake_imacon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359853019216539874" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8E6TF1KnPn6PNiZaAjhgbtdXC97uxiba9wtSijYTSn5vyh7-poFT9bCJdJrC5IsLzZklcRrCxrzXEkbds7Lm_A3Fk7T3vFDAUFZzi_25YNfO5QWnL_6ARGATRS9816NDOiG86MLWO5lA/s1600-h/Tulips_Vase_IN_imacon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8E6TF1KnPn6PNiZaAjhgbtdXC97uxiba9wtSijYTSn5vyh7-poFT9bCJdJrC5IsLzZklcRrCxrzXEkbds7Lm_A3Fk7T3vFDAUFZzi_25YNfO5QWnL_6ARGATRS9816NDOiG86MLWO5lA/s400/Tulips_Vase_IN_imacon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359853016373641458" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JBRJECLXrT9-_KChGyO9-UeUCJSNu7Ajkgyrcx_td7qmZw-7J7xw8DkvkFRD6eY-GctkFpJaTQSVepV_U46EFLuIt0qHUJKy4Yjf-kG3Ybuej1PwQb4i6NKMR5AuHKO4dX-4Pwfjeo8/s1600-h/Xtn_gayboy_bus_imacon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JBRJECLXrT9-_KChGyO9-UeUCJSNu7Ajkgyrcx_td7qmZw-7J7xw8DkvkFRD6eY-GctkFpJaTQSVepV_U46EFLuIt0qHUJKy4Yjf-kG3Ybuej1PwQb4i6NKMR5AuHKO4dX-4Pwfjeo8/s400/Xtn_gayboy_bus_imacon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359852317708189442" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>"Hi, John! It's Greg. Been thinking of you. Give me a call. Hope every thing's ok." I then hung up the phone, but, I had the unsettled feeling that things were not quite alright back in ole Kentucky.<br /><br />For months I had rung John from my home in New York City, leaving a string of unanswered messages on the voice mail he shared with his wife, Mary. Seasons passed: snow melted; flowers bloomed; tomatoes ripened; leaves tumbled from tree branches; and still, no response.<br /><br />We had all become friends while on a student tour of Europe. Seventy kids and their exhausted adult supervisors on three exhaust spewing buses criss-crossing Europe . At that time, I was a seventeen year old born-again Christian, a youth leader in my Southern Baptist Church, a High School thespian and former Art Club president. Any observant outsider could have added it all up and come to a quick conclusion: Gay! But I was always bad in math. </div><div><br /></div><div>John and Mary were my chaperones. Although only ten years my senior they impressed me as so much older, spiritual and mature. They had met one another while attending a conservative Methodist school, Asbury College and their courtship blossomed into marriage shortly following their graduation. </div><div><br /></div><div>For six weeks, we wandered through the glittering Capitals of Europe: tripped over the ruins of the Roman Colisseum; stared dumbfounded at the almost naked, fan-waving, leg-kicking dancers of Paris' 'Folles Bergere'; scrutinized the half smile of the Louvre's 'Mona Lisa'; and, followed the stories of the young hopefuls in London Westend muscial, 'A Chorus Line. It was a far, far cry from my strict Baptist Church in which I grew up where the most drama came from Baptisms and the sin-to-redemption testimonies of visiting preachers. I felt like Audrey Hepburn in 'Sabrina.'<br /></div><div><br />Leap several years into the future. By then I lived in the historic Cherokee Triangle of Louisville, Kentucky, a neighborhood for drawing creative and artistic types (Do the math). I was twenty-eight years old and the Area Director of Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship (a conservative youth movement with chapters on university campuses across America). By this point of my life, sexual identity issues that I had buried away inside myself were violently breaking out of their crypt.<br /><br />My life was not just a mess but a lie: I was on the verge of asking a Church Organist to marry me; I pretended before my staff and students to be someone above the temptations that every human confronts; I answered questions that no reasonable man would attempt to answer. I counseled young men and woman who confessed of homosexual desires to give it all to Christ and let Him change them. </div><div><br /></div><div>As the state team leader of IVCF, I supervised a staff of five, whose objective was to establish and equip strong groups of Christian students to witness to Jesus to the non-believers on their campuses. I lead prayer meetings, ran instructional weekend Bible conferences, traveled on Mission Trips to Central America, and trained young Christians to evangelize vacationing students on the beaches of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida during Spring Break. I was a Christian Poster Child whose appealing image betrayed the real turmoil within.</div><div><br /></div><div>Although, I had always been drawn to the arts, (drawing, painting, reading, theater), I had also always been inclined to spiritual things. I had grown up as a Southern Baptist, and for me, God, Jesus, faith and Church played an important role. An avid reader of fantasy and science fiction, I believed in an after life and felt strongly that everyone would be much better off spending eternity in Heaven than in the fires of Hell. I was a young Ted Haggard (the ejected former leader of the National Association of Evangelicals who had confessed to engaging in gay sex with a Hustler Masseur) in the making.</div><div><br /></div><div>But by my late twenties, I found myself so tormented by my desire for love and physical contact with my own sex, that I imagined I had only two choices: become straight and marry or live sexless and loveless for the rest of my life. The other path was too black to even consider. And that's how John came back into the picture. Since our European tour, he had become a Christian psychologist with a practice at Louisville's Methodist hospital.</div><div><br /></div><div>One day, I called John under the pretext of merely saying hello and admitted to my homosexual conflict. Uttering those words required almost more strength than I had; I dialed the number dozens of times before before letting the call go through. John suggested in sympathetic voice that we meet for lunch and talk about it. And so we did, and continued to do for several weeks before he finally said that our friendship precluded his help and he exhorted me to get real therapy from someone other than himself.</div><div><br /></div><div>For the next two years, I met weekly and sometimes twice weekly, (depending on my level of anxiety), with a silver haired Christian therapist, Gertrude. "I want to be straight," I told Gertrude. But she just nodded her head and echoed Jesus's words upon our first meeting, "Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free." </div><div><br /></div><div>I had tried other ways to go heterosexual. Over time, I realized that prayer alone would not remove my desires, nor would admissions to older handsome Christian mentors. I would feel great for a few hours after my confession and then all the longing would return like a mountain avalanche. </div><div><br /></div><div>For a years I was persuaded that my gay feelings were a temporary aberration to be expelled by healthy relationships with my male peers and friendships with women that could become romantic. I had even convinced myself that each time I suffered a nocturnal emission or wet dream as it is more commonly referred to, it was God's way of relieving me of my desires. Obviously, it didn't work.</div><div><br /></div><div>Next, I concluded that it was my a fear of the woman's sex that hindered my progression into straighthood. I needed to just get over it. So I entered a drug store in a part of town where no one would recognized me and quickly seized whatever straight male pornography that could legally be sold over the counter. Later, back in the apartment that I shared with a Christian policeman, I retrieved the magazines from under my mattress and flipped through the pages of busty blondes, brunettes and redheads, posed in positions that displayed all their assets so well that you could count the pubic hairs. But no matter how hard I tried to summon up some heterosexual feelings, the photos and stories only left my own asset limp.</div><div><br /></div><div>One summer evening, I bought a six pack of beer. Driving to a private tree shrouded spot, I parked on the side of a road. Although I wasn't even a drinker (two beers were my limit), I thought that if I were to drink enough that I would free my inner heterosexual who would come forth like Jesus from His tomb. Then I would be resurrected to a new life as a contented and happy straight male. Of course, I did not succeed. My naive attempt at self-administered therapy only left me inebriated and stopped by the police on my way home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Even acquiring a girl friend did not help. Linda was my last attempt of going straight. We had met through friends. She was the Church Organist at a socially prominent, white columned Baptist Church, who, at twenty-nine, suspicioned that I might also be her last chance to marry. I tried to do everything right, even taking her home to meet my relieved parents. Attending church functions and going to movies was fine, but to her chagrin, I always wanted to go home immediately after kissing her Goodnight at her door. Even conservative Christians who would urge controlling your sexual desires until after your marriage still want get as close to the edge of the cliff as they can without falling into the chasm. But not me. I was outta there. </div><div><br /></div><div>Through these years and the years following my decision to come out as a Gay man, to leave the Christian ministry, to move to New York where I entered the Film School of Columbia University (an acceptance I believe prompted by my bizarre story), I remained in contact with John. In the beginning when I had first begun therapy, John said that he believed that I was merely passing through a stage that I had skipped over during adolescence suspicioning that I carried unresolved issues with my father. </div><div><br /></div><div>But what I came to realize over time was that John dealt with his own homosexual longings which he believed sprang from his own relationship to his parents. As the years passed, he talked about them more and more and inquired about my own life as a gay man, how I reconciled my Christian background with my choices. As for me, simply put, I came to realize that being Gay was how I came into the world. If there is a God, then He made me gay. I explained to John that as I saw it the Bible doesn't really talk about Gays or what it means to be Gay. The Bible talks about acts of violence, I didn't see anywhere where it spoke of love between two men or women of the same sex.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our relationship changed. I became the confidant and John the confessor. He admitted to engaging in furtive sexual encounters with other men, mostly closeted married men, whom he met in the parks or online. The episodes excited him, but at the same time, he believed that he was working out same sex feelings that he should have processed as a teenager. When asked about his marriage and whether he would come out or consider divorce, John spoke against it. He loved his wife, feared the loss of his retirement through the Church were he to come out, and worried that his children would disown him. He would remain married.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is where the story becomes even more complicated and unbelievable to recount. At this point, John had been married over thirty years and had fathered two children, who were now married with children. And he had become a caregiver to his wife, Mary, who had become sick to the point of death with an illness that no Doctor had diagnosed. For two years, she became weaker and weaker, until finally one Doctor suggested that she take an HIV test. The result came back positive. She had been suffering from complications stemming from AIDS.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oddly, John had not infected her. He tested negative, and they opined that Mary probably became infected through vitamin infusions that she received intravenously back in the early eighties. Once the diagnosis was determined, Mary went on the cocktail of AIDS medications. Miraculously, her health turned around completely and she went from being bedridden to being up and about and back to work.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was the final phone call where the story came out. I was back in Kentucky and rang John and Mary's home thinking all I would hear was the answering machine. Again their message, "Hi, you've reached John and Mary. No one's home. Leave a message and will get right back to you." As I prepared to hang up, I heard a woman's voice. It was Mary.</div><div><br /></div><div>The conversation began quite casually, but I detected a difference in her tone. It was almost cold to the point of ice, yet all the while very polite. I asked, "How have you been?" knowing about her problems with AIDS, and knowing that she knew that I was an out gay man.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you really want to know?" she answered in a way that made me not want to know. Nevertheless, I said, "Yes."</div><div><br /></div><div>She had discovered that her husband had engaged in homosexual sex. Now the fury in her voice was unmistakable. She kept repeating, "Greg, I know you're not to blame." "Greg, I know you're not to blame." But she was persuaded that I had encouraged John to have gay sex, and she felt betrayed that I had kept this information from her. Even though nothing physical had ever transpired between her husband and myself, Mary, was jealous of the emotional intimacy we shared. Her husband had never felt free to ever share any of his fears with her or anyone in the church knowing that he'd only receive judgement, a judgement that would only exacerbate the guilt that he already carried.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Greg, I'll tell John that you called. But, Greg, I just want you to know, that if he ever calls you, I'll divorce him."</div><div><br /></div><div>With that, she hung up the phone. And, John, never called.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-35322277645772970772009-07-15T14:46:00.021-04:002009-07-16T15:03:54.966-04:00"Ich hab noch einen Koffer in Berlin." Marlene Dietrich<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXX7Q5kCKS_WSFeMunrt7Iufk6_6Wksgpqt53bI5A1n3v_tQ6lij-P_duFpPm12wqUd284TQ-cu3DIAoTlRD3dihm3PAG1gmZzvZCgJCKoTrdcG7fjk-ywzLN4n_j644DuWlRimUKnLk/s1600-h/Anja_Mexico_Beach_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXX7Q5kCKS_WSFeMunrt7Iufk6_6Wksgpqt53bI5A1n3v_tQ6lij-P_duFpPm12wqUd284TQ-cu3DIAoTlRD3dihm3PAG1gmZzvZCgJCKoTrdcG7fjk-ywzLN4n_j644DuWlRimUKnLk/s400/Anja_Mexico_Beach_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358764554679750018" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX9kionKHkW-ne4USCd_J5mNqVWwi7gmDWloDGl0ar5Erc-NsggahVLxXgKUGpMDmj5vvVP0YgMMR4Fu9MM-BviDRJAm94YXvdzcMc5xEODJD75Clz1iw0TR9OIG4gfOgjzJA4n3xzqjw/s1600-h/Paul_Berlin_BWFace.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; 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display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWtyXu4vx5G_OYmVXvkOEkbDgLItuRL4DE00K0ZwLgCL8VeZbzUq7hZDBjAU-A_sLSb9fubkKqtBmwnAqHhXisVG18XlnMfA8dvUTKnYVEL7UAhR6_R5gbPk_JuMu3um5kqloPZJCd90/s400/Andreas_Nude_Po_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358764053957421154" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYg3GRQWasb1HUJ_uBV26QaL1pRpXbYGAFLmvPRLX9Xgxe0lqV0zKFcX9bZ_gC2BOnIgqywAc1MWuqJFcnBVpwUGUI6qvAEswvrNHt2VrNX5bsZENIOtVAGeLueLN4y9NA5UyzchVei78/s1600-h/Berlin_Zucker_Sign.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYg3GRQWasb1HUJ_uBV26QaL1pRpXbYGAFLmvPRLX9Xgxe0lqV0zKFcX9bZ_gC2BOnIgqywAc1MWuqJFcnBVpwUGUI6qvAEswvrNHt2VrNX5bsZENIOtVAGeLueLN4y9NA5UyzchVei78/s400/Berlin_Zucker_Sign.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358763950465615234" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQttpjtHKw4Dp6PnB101-vtE_b6tlz9sc7YjFSIbOkHIU9Bna27AANx1dZRkOH4rkktBoctGll-jrq7YR59bkzfESHrB1Rc-bKeH7YrUS-eZ3QgIKleankyPi5hAGmpEXuCPiCvYjIhD8/s1600-h/Bernd_Berlin_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 292px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQttpjtHKw4Dp6PnB101-vtE_b6tlz9sc7YjFSIbOkHIU9Bna27AANx1dZRkOH4rkktBoctGll-jrq7YR59bkzfESHrB1Rc-bKeH7YrUS-eZ3QgIKleankyPi5hAGmpEXuCPiCvYjIhD8/s400/Bernd_Berlin_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358763846756941442" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRK5-yTFRraPFl1N5wXMaLjQboStWtluFRNEeh58kR_7xbCpre9cF4thTQkKwBr3Kse9Q6kUPwu7sugrTodSWrbQJ1N9bbAuS4Sbgd7t-63v0KZk5BZOi3dXO3IZvLbunWrPvCFn0CPjU/s1600-h/Berlin_Repartur_Sign.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRK5-yTFRraPFl1N5wXMaLjQboStWtluFRNEeh58kR_7xbCpre9cF4thTQkKwBr3Kse9Q6kUPwu7sugrTodSWrbQJ1N9bbAuS4Sbgd7t-63v0KZk5BZOi3dXO3IZvLbunWrPvCFn0CPjU/s400/Berlin_Repartur_Sign.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358763732998279250" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazUKB4nVoobqKadMCS-W-_f4kZrfpQgIzSzBX90H3dhXDDdGBOs5RFtroQmgqtWjGaPYd4nVDEXDCtyWKbuM0akQco50P4bINDZU9NYxUKf3S0ckWZYe3jMrtaKtBw51QP2BrNlXTtoM/s1600-h/Paul_Berlin_dress_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazUKB4nVoobqKadMCS-W-_f4kZrfpQgIzSzBX90H3dhXDDdGBOs5RFtroQmgqtWjGaPYd4nVDEXDCtyWKbuM0akQco50P4bINDZU9NYxUKf3S0ckWZYe3jMrtaKtBw51QP2BrNlXTtoM/s400/Paul_Berlin_dress_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358763611966885538" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uPuwqVE4X0b3HXsUz36MNn8taajbHaukBRvFE6DNaTNvPtEoyDVrUFS-rHUI6fffHkByxeLcFm-fJYtW-OUiQxhuNzSLYw4uKXued_NiupuqYWq1zqyCYb9EO8UW6tKSQIYEeuV2uYQ/s1600-h/Henning_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uPuwqVE4X0b3HXsUz36MNn8taajbHaukBRvFE6DNaTNvPtEoyDVrUFS-rHUI6fffHkByxeLcFm-fJYtW-OUiQxhuNzSLYw4uKXued_NiupuqYWq1zqyCYb9EO8UW6tKSQIYEeuV2uYQ/s400/Henning_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358763456098871426" border="0" /></a><br />It's not so surprising in retrospect that a decision made in the past affects the course of the future. Nevertheless, at the time a choice is made, one may have little, if any, idea of the end result. Call me a Libra but I never excelled at decision-making, an act I liken to dropping a twig from a bridge and watching it float down stream, sometimes adhering to a rock and other times sailing out of sight. <br /><br />One day, some time ago, I spied a tattered posting on a bus shelter near the Gates of Columbia University in New York. These glass enclosures have long served the community as billboards for residents to rent apartments, sell household items, advertise services and announce events. The notice announced a six week, black/white film photography course at Barnard College. I enrolled, and soon found myself shoulder to shoulder in a cramped darkroom with the women of Barnard. For the next few years, I was like a rabbit down a hole, ensconced in my cubby illuminated by a red safe light, making prints of what I'd observed in the world outside. <br /><br />So too, it was with German. At fifteen, upon entering my sophomore year of High School in Kentucky, I had the opportunity to learn a language. The options were three: Spanish, French or German. The popular students chose French, the practical and foresighted ones took Spanish while the odd kids--the intellectuals, geeks, artists and romantics opted for German. For me, I joined the eccentrics, a club of which I still count myself a member.<br /><br />Had it not been for German, I would never have spent my nineteenth summer as a Gastarbeit, Guest Worker at a Hotel on the Island of Sylt in the North Sea, where I developed my first crush on a boy called Hanti, a seventeen year old motorcyclist who died in a mishap the following summer; I would never have met Andreas, a blond haired young man I found perched on the back of a park bench, bathed in lamp light, one summer evening in the Hofgarten of Duesseldorf, nor would I have been befriended by a Anja, a beautiful young photographer who impressed me with her impressive black/white images of lesbian friends and lovers. And I would never have gone to Berlin, a city that I have returned to time and time again, and still consider moving back to.<br /><br />Berlin is like the former lover who still wanders in and out of your day dreams and surprises you upon awakening in the middle of the night. Not to be there is a sweet loss, the taste of which you never want to entirely expunge from your tongue. There's a German slang word called Geil. In English geil means horned or horny, but it also means exciting, and Berlin is a geile Stadt. It exudes history, and sex, an act which once committed compels you to commit again and again.<br /><br />Often I hear Berlin compared to New York, but I do not find it like New York, unless you mean the New York that existed in the sixties or seventies. But Berlin is nothing like New York today. In America one can carry a gun but not drink a beer on the street; in Berlin it is illegal to carry a gun, but one can join friends out doors and consume as much Beer or Wine as you want without fear of penalty.<br /><br />The cost of living in New York crushes the artist's impulse. The demand of one's time to earn income entire off sets the time to be spent on creating art or just joining friends to exchange ideas over a glass of wine. Who but a millionaire can afford a space in NYC large enough to accommodate large groups or make big paintings or direct performance pieces, while in Berlin such space can still be had.<br /><br />Sex can also be had in Berlin. Assuredly, sex is still available in New York City, but it also comes with a price. First off, who has any privacy in New York? Who can afford privacy? Everyone lives with someone else. A big question, at least among gay men, is "Can you host?" And how few can answer that question affirmatively. It stops a relationship even before it has had the chance to begin.<br /><br />There's definitely a German attitude toward sex that differs from the American. Americans are like the teenagers who talk about sex all the time but don't have it, whereas the Germans, actually, do have it. New York gay men are looking for the perfect lay, almost a "trophy lay", you might call it, that they can show off to friends. It's almost as if the Americans measure themselves by how perfect the guy is with whom they engage in sex. But, mind you, I am discussing this from a gay male perspective.<br /><br />When I've been in Germany, in Berlin, I have had encounters with men that I never would have had in New York. Not to count on my fingers, but I've met men who I found attractive who were quite different from myself: albeit, taller, shorter, more muscled, tattooed, or edgy. What I'm saying is that my observation was that the German or Berliner was not looking for their twin, or their perfect idea, or their trophy, but rather looked for a genuine encounter in the present.<br /><br />I want to return to Berlin, not to escape New York, but to step into a stimulating environment that encourages creativity, adventure and risk.<br /><br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/d-BLoI-0aFc&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/d-BLoI-0aFc&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-51588355836962891472009-07-10T12:45:00.010-04:002009-07-10T14:00:36.361-04:00Memory, Loss and Longing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIUEeVZzjAGcRkvy2MbwD_fN02oH2LbkVN38UU99jnBBUgK36vmt5Ej5cXq6D9IIOUG9d8ffG_Mpxiq62mByiuc_V5303K_XepFMvgPAQKBpgIIMvrPfhyO7vPfBi5NIf2JRW1W-QK_Y/s1600-h/LeslieAnne_LewisCarrollBook.jpg"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsQ6DJSofScX1RGE_UY_BFwwwHyKALVHCxlKmdpp9hZDpt8ttupp0P-pvdfYy2eT5qczZBrZT7-ZiSBATy_TkHnpBaF257NSwnVV4NiXazH2V7tHk4iALlh9gpEtSdvZrmJHiV7QqDYDU/s400/Dad_grills_hamburgers_imacon.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356885160837094786" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAJ0DQOJMePHaC8cYpqDZPoqCqydBhbmQRlRNBVo1pVFWtQDMQ1JRQkFeOiosinP7TgcaMrfndsUjL-kx65kl-1BdcTaNlgpwYd4mjFNlbRlKuWK21OYV5M7Fm5U027N5ER2qErWtMOI/s1600-h/Dad_Chair_2009_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAJ0DQOJMePHaC8cYpqDZPoqCqydBhbmQRlRNBVo1pVFWtQDMQ1JRQkFeOiosinP7TgcaMrfndsUjL-kx65kl-1BdcTaNlgpwYd4mjFNlbRlKuWK21OYV5M7Fm5U027N5ER2qErWtMOI/s400/Dad_Chair_2009_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356885155635493762" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWHUupF0KTkk9WQyKSv8Mah1qT6z1-n_7bZNpyMddiObVVfn1c4nNLZYNBEMFJCm6TV7oUAMEeUjMeAVgLIDr_pjo-rv3kNW4vW-0NFZIZ7tz1AXygPAhfRA6j1BzUbc6VKe_AP1TeflA/s1600-h/LeslieAnne_weddingdress_09_4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWHUupF0KTkk9WQyKSv8Mah1qT6z1-n_7bZNpyMddiObVVfn1c4nNLZYNBEMFJCm6TV7oUAMEeUjMeAVgLIDr_pjo-rv3kNW4vW-0NFZIZ7tz1AXygPAhfRA6j1BzUbc6VKe_AP1TeflA/s400/LeslieAnne_weddingdress_09_4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356884149505306450" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sodae8IBkj3wA1drnh1wu4NRBFpGo3GE0j8JYS9RWA21K1x0Cqbe_bolExirxqOW9yEbuc8cLEn6eZOX2tBR9CqcHxUwGnvsG1-MpvOxGiE4bRKHn-hao2roEBF0c8lp-bpHatfZJxQ/s1600-h/Kentucky_Winter_Haystack.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sodae8IBkj3wA1drnh1wu4NRBFpGo3GE0j8JYS9RWA21K1x0Cqbe_bolExirxqOW9yEbuc8cLEn6eZOX2tBR9CqcHxUwGnvsG1-MpvOxGiE4bRKHn-hao2roEBF0c8lp-bpHatfZJxQ/s400/Kentucky_Winter_Haystack.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356883971770263938" /></a><br /><div>The powerful themes of memory, loss and longing pervade Viggo Morensen's upcoming film release in '<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Road</span>.' The story begins in an American suburb in the near distant future. An unexplained cataclysm sends shock waves through the earth, visiting earthquakes upon its inhabitants, thrusting dust into the sky that obscures the sun and brings on a deep freeze. Plant life dies and with it the animals, followed by people who survive off the detritus of groceries and supermarkets and then off the flesh of other survivors.</div><div><br /></div><div>The story is told in a linear fashion as after the death of the mother, a father sets off south with his only son to find life and other "good people." As they make their journey through a landscape devoid of life and greenery, the father recalls a past that is no more and the son dreams of a life that has never really begun.</div><div><br /></div><div>These themes of memory, loss and longing are the catalysts that trigger my own photography, especially as it concerns my own family. Returning home to Kentucky a couple of times a year is like seeing life on speed dial: my niece and nephews leaping from childhood into adolesensce and my parents moving from their vigorous "golden years" into a gray period where life sputters like a dying engine.</div><div><br /></div><div>I watch their story like a viewer in the cinema, who can leave his chair at will and walk through the movie screen to engage with the characters, only to return back to his cushioned seat. Yet their portrait is my portrait.</div><div><br /></div><div>Recently, I mentioned to my friend, Uday, that my fear of my parent's passing impeded my own moving on in life, hindering me my from pursuing my own dreams, out of concern that I'll not be near or around when they go. I think of going abroad again, yet measure the distance. As my parent's life shortens, I become increasingly aware that what little time that we have left is all the time we have left. My friend responded that even if I were there in the same vicinity, I still might not be there at that moment. He had lost his own father while he travelled in Italy and my friend was in New York.</div><div><br /></div><div>Photography is a futile weapon against aging and death. Everyone grows older, everyone dies. Life changes; new life goes on. All I can do with my camera is arrest a moment, a moment that tells a short story and will always keep close by the memory.</div><div><br /></div>Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-27049739745725391142009-07-07T14:40:00.006-04:002009-07-07T15:12:59.402-04:00The End of Kodachromes and Memory as We Remember It<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCGhG4IG2h0DpCWqzPrCga5Q2IpiI-AsnJFo3oNse801gdcFlEbc9leBFCvQlacpAAlzgjCa3Ww-m1VtHbkx78BWAWSxXrYIXsotFlOjmcYnOa4JfaIJv2DKr1t9qSWWawsrI-EONsMAE/s1600-h/Greg_volcano_marlborough_imacon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 263px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCGhG4IG2h0DpCWqzPrCga5Q2IpiI-AsnJFo3oNse801gdcFlEbc9leBFCvQlacpAAlzgjCa3Ww-m1VtHbkx78BWAWSxXrYIXsotFlOjmcYnOa4JfaIJv2DKr1t9qSWWawsrI-EONsMAE/s400/Greg_volcano_marlborough_imacon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355794304095219458" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_kwzBd6jPgE4AGG6B9t9U7qSBbwcbr5aCWvpNwe2hBXfeKcMioTBzsi9ffXDJF_Y9Rod1fcJ4jFyiotuA9hWOMBhly_P5MNA_7z7UWJ3ddvx1roYCNqM5-IJgCl4nECouENag3uSNcdM/s1600-h/IVCF_volleyball_imacon_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_kwzBd6jPgE4AGG6B9t9U7qSBbwcbr5aCWvpNwe2hBXfeKcMioTBzsi9ffXDJF_Y9Rod1fcJ4jFyiotuA9hWOMBhly_P5MNA_7z7UWJ3ddvx1roYCNqM5-IJgCl4nECouENag3uSNcdM/s400/IVCF_volleyball_imacon_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355793712572135858" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAdPBufcYLxsYgK86lLdGgoAyYWDGonLK7m3L3vid3VTrPkCB2AxCZ4Y0uD7i78bdT_i90y_Y1Lm8vZ1HaXT-C4xGimdrRm209wnZRfuj4gnpe7tC_MAlXNk2yGZHs4tCbukJ8jcO-yo/s1600-h/FtLaud_wet_tshirt_man_imacon_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAdPBufcYLxsYgK86lLdGgoAyYWDGonLK7m3L3vid3VTrPkCB2AxCZ4Y0uD7i78bdT_i90y_Y1Lm8vZ1HaXT-C4xGimdrRm209wnZRfuj4gnpe7tC_MAlXNk2yGZHs4tCbukJ8jcO-yo/s400/FtLaud_wet_tshirt_man_imacon_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355793259802837298" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1A6L-wh-OnwJ0y8FuxrzmxmD79TC086-JuNjQ_drRcZ1sytnjj0IKyTPutP7mkOeQjjtfivKB0y_mhJNiLBH3ibabbUWFeozBznVqgEuazj8iTHV9aeK1uHR2AdvpUq-0kG06nB4ezuE/s1600-h/FL_Evang_Singer_imacon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1A6L-wh-OnwJ0y8FuxrzmxmD79TC086-JuNjQ_drRcZ1sytnjj0IKyTPutP7mkOeQjjtfivKB0y_mhJNiLBH3ibabbUWFeozBznVqgEuazj8iTHV9aeK1uHR2AdvpUq-0kG06nB4ezuE/s400/FL_Evang_Singer_imacon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355792992870851794" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD_phYhVcLt_afQRXvdvRcRX8bW5tTii22gZIIixECTydviDvxe6A81Eg9dN-QUrwyPgG5vDLOQnxQMvvhLrnb_mUt6XU6OOG-Ae_91GVO5LKhGBp_Ql_ukGrE5dDQuF9rw29Rc8JM_T4/s1600-h/Buddy_Bible_Van_imacon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD_phYhVcLt_afQRXvdvRcRX8bW5tTii22gZIIixECTydviDvxe6A81Eg9dN-QUrwyPgG5vDLOQnxQMvvhLrnb_mUt6XU6OOG-Ae_91GVO5LKhGBp_Ql_ukGrE5dDQuF9rw29Rc8JM_T4/s400/Buddy_Bible_Van_imacon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355792713600970290" border="0" /></a><br />Sifting through my bin of memories--Kodachromes bedeviled with dust and scratches--I considered whether to leave them as they were with the romantic effect of aging, or return them their youth.<br /><br />At first, I left them alone, merely scanning each one inside its cardboard frame, retaining their black curved edges as they would appear on a home movie screen. But as I looked at them more and more, I wanted to see them as I imagined them to be direct from the camera store in the years, 1979 through 1982.<br /><br />At that time, I was an ardent young Christian, working for a non-demoninational Evangelical organization on university campuses. It was my mission to make the world a better place by bringing Christ to the lost.<br /><br />Today, I have great empathy, if not sympathy, for young Christians or any young person with passionate religious convictions. We are all, better or worse, products of our own cultural backgrounds. We all grew up with our own backyards.<br /><br />My own backyard was the Baptist Church in the South. Kentucky to be precise. Going to Church every Sunday, getting saved and baptized was just what everyone did. Had I not struggled with my own homosexuality, I can imagine that I may still be there, married with children and involved in a church.<br /><br />Hours spent in photoshop, carefully removing the grime off the old transparencies took me back to my former life, yet at the same time the restored images brought the past directly into my present scrubbed clean of all the nostalgia. The chasm of the intervening years had come together like two parallel canyon walls divided by a dried up stream bed.<br /><br />Honestly, I am saddened by the end of the Kodachromes. The past is always seen through the medium of the day, and today's ultra-sharp digital images will influence how future generations look back at our present. How will they see us?Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-26379809600824275602009-07-05T09:07:00.005-04:002009-07-05T09:45:52.896-04:00'The Model As Muse' at the Metropolitan Museum of Art<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclPTTvgJ1BJwlqcM7d9JJ3lPxaFYFeu2E-rs_LHX7keLxcYCRVOu6Pn0OeB592RnIIWET7WRTzRKkoRr5AtvsLcNNP1lnGZ_sE4Gzc3hyphenhyphengMVs8dy45hMQmCYYfhM2L86C8NDPs4tD6Q8/s1600-h/LeslieAnne_6yrs_garden_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclPTTvgJ1BJwlqcM7d9JJ3lPxaFYFeu2E-rs_LHX7keLxcYCRVOu6Pn0OeB592RnIIWET7WRTzRKkoRr5AtvsLcNNP1lnGZ_sE4Gzc3hyphenhyphengMVs8dy45hMQmCYYfhM2L86C8NDPs4tD6Q8/s400/LeslieAnne_6yrs_garden_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354963277863303810" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDs7-bVMBUD4eJ94GcIxHXvCNgTWIAjdmG58mvgh368C_PQxyiofXECV5rmBTgbs0nND4jBIkL4sqdAfm-E8JBcQZblAhua_IwtgAeu7bAhhbuI56Tpzpi21OLcktUW_m-NcX2Pem5cXo/s1600-h/LeslieAnne_12_picnictable_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDs7-bVMBUD4eJ94GcIxHXvCNgTWIAjdmG58mvgh368C_PQxyiofXECV5rmBTgbs0nND4jBIkL4sqdAfm-E8JBcQZblAhua_IwtgAeu7bAhhbuI56Tpzpi21OLcktUW_m-NcX2Pem5cXo/s400/LeslieAnne_12_picnictable_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354963073488670354" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGydnDpVFnXMHEg9rNaHzUZajayqHHzeEjLAZaOcrohVMlwQOQrohLkQP2XFJXr1TVNob5psKkBACLvKIRSMj7q1tNV2CFONAhT-MonOD9akN60LdQYEajBaPxFk48blAU3fex-xoUxk/s1600-h/LesAnne_WhiteTop_08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGydnDpVFnXMHEg9rNaHzUZajayqHHzeEjLAZaOcrohVMlwQOQrohLkQP2XFJXr1TVNob5psKkBACLvKIRSMj7q1tNV2CFONAhT-MonOD9akN60LdQYEajBaPxFk48blAU3fex-xoUxk/s400/LesAnne_WhiteTop_08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354962873530982642" border="0" /></a><br />'The Model as Muse' show at the Metropolitan Museum of Art felt like an air mattress of an exhibition, sustaining a large body for a long period of time but eventually collapsing in upon itself. I know something about air mattresses, having slept on them enough what with my peripatetic life and having patched them up with duct tape.<br /><br />Saying that, I must also say that I love looking at beautiful people and beautiful photographs and there's enough on hand to keep you entertained. I even passed by a Paris 'Vogue' cover of Janice Dickinson from 1979. Now thirty years later, she's been kicked off Celebrity Island (NBC's "I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here!").<br /><br />What did interest me was seeing the chronology of fashion images from the 1940s to the present; from Dovima and Suzy Parker to Penelope Tree to Twiggy to Cheryl Tiegs to Lauren Hutton to Christy Turlington to Gemma Ward to Natalia Vodianova. From one decade to the next you see how not only the clothes changes but the bodies upon which they hang. Faces and bodies like bathing suits go in and out of fashion.<br /><br />The exhibition is called 'The Model As Muse' and what with the extensive holdings of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I would have loved to have seen how the idea of Muse has influenced painters, as well as photographers, across the ages. I'm very curious as to<br /><br />"what makes a muse?"<br /><br />Why does a subject attract the attention of the artist and compels the artist to then transfer his feelings on to a canvas, or today, an inkjet print? Is it sex? Is it love?<br /><br />Sex is easier to understand. We all know the sensation of being caught in a hormonal tide and cast upon exhausted on a beach only to then be yanked back out to sea. Even the photographer with as much creativity as one of those salt crystals in the ocean, still has the impulse and energy to keep pushing the shutter button on his/her camera when confronted with a groin stirring man or woman.<br /><br />Beauty is also easier to understand. A genetically blessed man or woman is like a television in a crowded bar, even if the sound is off everyone still keeps looking.<br /><br />But a part from sex and beauty, what then?<br /><br />For the last fifteen years, I've continued to photograph my niece in Kentucky. She has fascinated me, entertained me, provoked me in so many ways that I can't not turning my lens in her direction. Even when she's not doing anything I find her interesting. From year to year, from childhood to adolesence to young womanhood, she has continued to engage me.<br /><br />Yes, I understand that love can be a great motivator, but love per se, doesn't necessarily make a great image nor does it make someone compelling in a print or a painting. My niece was never a quiet breeze ruffling the curtains in the window, she has always been the strong wind that knocks open the front door. <br /><br />It is a question that I continue to ponder even as I continue to photograph her.Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-57441946869828742232009-07-01T16:35:00.003-04:002009-07-01T17:32:39.968-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ7knVjHU6TdfofDP-NAgbFtznKAAf8ABnvesSTj1wRO_kxDSuAdKJYNoRRhuqSMgMNR8DfVSWd6Y_28oVikpHrAG5TsQ1KwrNUSekGgd3rpIAyMGy5MEYVQj0GbAdwO_ZHALwO44Z0lE/s1600-h/iv_overalls_girl_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ7knVjHU6TdfofDP-NAgbFtznKAAf8ABnvesSTj1wRO_kxDSuAdKJYNoRRhuqSMgMNR8DfVSWd6Y_28oVikpHrAG5TsQ1KwrNUSekGgd3rpIAyMGy5MEYVQj0GbAdwO_ZHALwO44Z0lE/s400/iv_overalls_girl_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353607778238951170" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirykphQ40HIIkWbXpBdajADv9irpnZA6VN2JWU6ntQHzzDjUu5aN3gKm_5dguOB5xiXZZrSR1v7EehmKPRQ0QZrw6M_giFNjw3JmGEvkHFS6BlZJyljnlrOk-UEvHzYonFnGhD5dEqBvM/s1600-h/FtLaud_Girls_Sportscar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirykphQ40HIIkWbXpBdajADv9irpnZA6VN2JWU6ntQHzzDjUu5aN3gKm_5dguOB5xiXZZrSR1v7EehmKPRQ0QZrw6M_giFNjw3JmGEvkHFS6BlZJyljnlrOk-UEvHzYonFnGhD5dEqBvM/s400/FtLaud_Girls_Sportscar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353601432337008690" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKltMtfmPNHiKCGCh2gd99tdW-idxV80nIlD2tV-AtBGKFZvojbsmD_yoCeMzzkjU07ooO1mGw5zMEl6taKNTsc5P8KsffNJhyphenhyphen4WFRvLhgHIs8DvguMbTRsZFpPIM2qDo6pWJUsxRJves/s1600-h/Sam_Mexico_Truck_2_imacon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKltMtfmPNHiKCGCh2gd99tdW-idxV80nIlD2tV-AtBGKFZvojbsmD_yoCeMzzkjU07ooO1mGw5zMEl6taKNTsc5P8KsffNJhyphenhyphen4WFRvLhgHIs8DvguMbTRsZFpPIM2qDo6pWJUsxRJves/s400/Sam_Mexico_Truck_2_imacon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353601138323756130" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwa71vA6ljyZOx0X5gIhm4ipOpyGB9VacyEMYDcXSrJc59qIvsooN8GHyi5ZEwqWeAbXZumvOR1vWS59lMz1YI0cVP-qGr44XBKBwB0cI7K5O3ky6aV8OEC_ZyWkZuB1kZrDMGFt0c5c/s1600-h/Sam_KingdomOfGod_imacon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwa71vA6ljyZOx0X5gIhm4ipOpyGB9VacyEMYDcXSrJc59qIvsooN8GHyi5ZEwqWeAbXZumvOR1vWS59lMz1YI0cVP-qGr44XBKBwB0cI7K5O3ky6aV8OEC_ZyWkZuB1kZrDMGFt0c5c/s400/Sam_KingdomOfGod_imacon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353600924394809250" border="0" /></a><br />Before I ever became a photographer, I took photographs. It was 1979, Ft. Wayne, Indiana, a young missionary nurse back from Zaire offered me her Pentax K1000. The introduction lead to a fevered courtship and falling in love. I'd never known a 35 mm camera and our first year was all about passion and little on technique. You just did it for the pleasure of it.<br /><br />I was working an a Staff Member for an evangelical, non-denominational collegiate organization called InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. My job was to travel to college campuses in Indiana to either establish a community of Christian students who would evangelize their peers or to encourage existing groups in their Christian life, leading Bible studies, teaching at conferences, demonstrating how you would approach a stranger and share the gospel of Christ.<br /><br />This, I might add, was all during my twenties and period of my life when I was buried deep in the gay closet. The possibility of leading a happy and "gay" life seemed entirely unreal to me, like living on the moon without a spacesuit.<br /><br />During this time, I took my camera with me: to Christian conferences, staff meetings, Missions in other countries, Evangelism Outreach during Spring Break in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. I wasn't there as an outsider but as an insider. The world was my own, my own friends, my own family. I saw nothing odd or foreign about it. It was my home. And I just took photographs without thinking about it. Never thinking that anyone other than my friends or my family would ever see these slides. I wasn't doing it as a "project" that I could promote to book publishers and gallerists, rather I was just taking pictures for the pleasure of it.Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-45026380986730213142009-06-29T11:18:00.008-04:002009-06-29T13:02:07.477-04:00"A goodlooking boy like you is always wanted," says the small town sheriff in 'The Fugitive Kind.'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0nx54FT67GruWWOFONNOEf4ouAF2CKfyvJNZZseALR7lzaANRKPiGsBZm7QPOYIUhkPc2L-C-zTPZq1piENvf3eUe3Fbbh8DrvDxyFAVRtBSHFdB5_4V-p9lYU5LxysmqK1Iv_aIdHk/s1600-h/Bobby_in_Kentucky_11.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0nx54FT67GruWWOFONNOEf4ouAF2CKfyvJNZZseALR7lzaANRKPiGsBZm7QPOYIUhkPc2L-C-zTPZq1piENvf3eUe3Fbbh8DrvDxyFAVRtBSHFdB5_4V-p9lYU5LxysmqK1Iv_aIdHk/s400/Bobby_in_Kentucky_11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352770986480025794" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiW_hLMn2Y1WJvQMLcReqQSKv8Lcv2Z32euPhyKNK60drSyYLF0y1sV0OybT_VpJy-Ihq6Z9mUlPNIGGWffYFZMrzutnpsslsPqTu5ob1-3vJ2w_D0GmDyTzxUeF8YE9ho442abyZQlI/s1600-h/Bobby_in_Kentucky_4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiW_hLMn2Y1WJvQMLcReqQSKv8Lcv2Z32euPhyKNK60drSyYLF0y1sV0OybT_VpJy-Ihq6Z9mUlPNIGGWffYFZMrzutnpsslsPqTu5ob1-3vJ2w_D0GmDyTzxUeF8YE9ho442abyZQlI/s400/Bobby_in_Kentucky_4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352770454676102690" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW65ulcA-aRLVhI5dfBaPpq7YqZdLlv8PTnrz5uAfEx-bE4NpYb0GUayoGvpJLsvLKRVEfjJEfpGIn5B3cy2-sjcjVaEBdzMnH5c3o_1k97PHxTcp_gQREQbmlnXod2Yfk-Nqc4o7UR3A/s1600-h/Bobby_in_Kentucky_3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW65ulcA-aRLVhI5dfBaPpq7YqZdLlv8PTnrz5uAfEx-bE4NpYb0GUayoGvpJLsvLKRVEfjJEfpGIn5B3cy2-sjcjVaEBdzMnH5c3o_1k97PHxTcp_gQREQbmlnXod2Yfk-Nqc4o7UR3A/s400/Bobby_in_Kentucky_3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352770309788269154" border="0" /></a><br />Marlon Brando plays Val Xavier the tortured beauty in Sidney Lumet's groin-stirring stirring drama, 'The Fugitive Kind' (1960). Anna Magnani, Joanne Woodward, and Maureen Stapleton play the three small town women drawn to the guitar playing drifter like moths circling a light bulb on a hot summer night. Brando is the boy-man, young enough to exude an enticing vulnerability and old enough to display the scars of a boxer who has spent years in the ring.<br /><br />The screenplay was adapted from a Tennessee Williams play penned in the 1930s. Val Xavier is the stranger who upsets the lives of the towns folk: the women who're attracted to him and the men who resent his intrusion. It's 'Sex in a Small Town" with the female leads as gay male stereotypes who've pinned their hopes on a stranger. There's the gay married man trapped in a sexless marriage (Magnani), the pretty young twink (Woodward) who has already done everyone and is desperate to get away, and the brow-beaten gentle soul (Stapleton) who wants to help and has settled for an insentive clunk of a husband.<br /><br />Both the character Val and the real life actor, Brando, seemed totally self-aware of the sexual power they exerted over others. It seems to me that this power caused him some conflict: he didn't want to abuse it yet he always used it. A model and musician once admitted to me after several beers and bourbon shots that he didn't want to be an unreliable, undependable friend, but that he knew that he could always make new friends, so he'd just let the old ones slide away when they had served their purpose.<br /><br />"To me a movie is about revelation and human behavior." Sidney LumetGreg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-83509680615831126892009-06-26T17:04:00.005-04:002009-06-26T17:44:53.410-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcH2xWvBVK8KdsStz5H5N2xpSmfT768P54yX7jGdvQBY2QolIFDei8qPSaQdJXzz1R7sjRBhUiBUNHpYJMUX9uAPIKok1k5Lc-XaHOacj3pmgUU_oIxie_MQYPNiKhHoPt63ewh4hBFU/s1600-h/Greg_Louisville_KY.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 295px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcH2xWvBVK8KdsStz5H5N2xpSmfT768P54yX7jGdvQBY2QolIFDei8qPSaQdJXzz1R7sjRBhUiBUNHpYJMUX9uAPIKok1k5Lc-XaHOacj3pmgUU_oIxie_MQYPNiKhHoPt63ewh4hBFU/s400/Greg_Louisville_KY.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351754563708089762" /></a><br /><div>Michael Jackson died.</div><div><br /></div><div>When 'Thriller' came out in 1982, I was a Christian Campus Minister in Louisville, Kentucky and pushing hard on my closet door, coming out as a gay man. By the summer of 1983, I had knocked the door off the hinges and was on my way to New York City where I'd been accepted into the Film School of Columbia University.</div><div><br /></div><div>The previous years, I had served with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship, traveling to University and College campuses where I counseled and encouraged young Christians, urging and training them to share the Gospel of Jesus Christ with their unsaved peers. When I abandoned my former world and landed in New York, I discovered I'd come upon a different planet and exchanged the fear of God for the fear of AIDS.</div><div><br /></div><div>More than twenty years later, I've been looking through old Kodachromes, piecing together how I saw the world during that period of my young life. In coming days I'll share more of those images from my Jesus Days.</div><div><br /></div>Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-58923291560528715122009-06-25T17:07:00.002-04:002009-06-25T17:24:42.521-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0-UBL5ORyJZVf6kx5n14FqPriyF3yyf3f-vGWsCasIzhSG2r4knnIO4eYUVVBcAj9y3MqV4qlseya6EsRd_W-YcZhcH88WT0Hi3fX-uKTbC_30NvYBVlFnEvo4gOc37v-xLuQBaPG7N4/s1600-h/Model_GoldenCurls_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 293px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0-UBL5ORyJZVf6kx5n14FqPriyF3yyf3f-vGWsCasIzhSG2r4knnIO4eYUVVBcAj9y3MqV4qlseya6EsRd_W-YcZhcH88WT0Hi3fX-uKTbC_30NvYBVlFnEvo4gOc37v-xLuQBaPG7N4/s400/Model_GoldenCurls_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351376237154902322" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHzZC0iKzW47vkKSHRQVnlHhpbHdaLdnTWMvYW33A1MZLWzayN9kFSoLCefH8gTKvy6genKVkGgIUJK1897NGmaqbu9BUJDRPaPCvyrBYP7RzocYoZtzMVGR_2rVfwB6H7N1fVAOwk0k/s1600-h/Model_BlondCurls_Portrait_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 297px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHzZC0iKzW47vkKSHRQVnlHhpbHdaLdnTWMvYW33A1MZLWzayN9kFSoLCefH8gTKvy6genKVkGgIUJK1897NGmaqbu9BUJDRPaPCvyrBYP7RzocYoZtzMVGR_2rVfwB6H7N1fVAOwk0k/s400/Model_BlondCurls_Portrait_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351376230070410738" /></a><br /><div>How do you choose one image over another. That's the dilemma I suffered today with these two similar but very different images. Which is stronger? The direct gaze or the gaze to the side? Which one pulls you in? Which person do you want to meet?</div><div><br /></div><div>I've always been drawn to beauty and it disturbs me that beauty is often cast aside as if it were not important enough in art and that it only serves a commercial purpose. I differ. Beauty enlivens my world. Years ago, my nephew, who was only about eight at the time) expressed his exasperation with his older sister's choice of music. "It's not even pretty," he exclaimed. Even at such a young age he was drawn to that which sounded beautiful to him. So even children acknowledge and recognize beauty and find pleasure in it.</div><div><br /></div>Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8487317792125473522.post-87986428451175346612009-06-24T18:04:00.008-04:002009-06-26T17:50:52.216-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQcxyWzpXCkCePhVhV7mG4OIaHS36znVkCjat03qCYtZCYwI_MWYow8T27ypUDfG4j6wXPzMKBmLdU1TS0UfzlGoi3Jt8eUDOWF279G6-XwzFY-dWX6-eUv3pokWwgUWP7D5nbRxw81A/s1600-h/Justin.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQcxyWzpXCkCePhVhV7mG4OIaHS36znVkCjat03qCYtZCYwI_MWYow8T27ypUDfG4j6wXPzMKBmLdU1TS0UfzlGoi3Jt8eUDOWF279G6-XwzFY-dWX6-eUv3pokWwgUWP7D5nbRxw81A/s400/Justin.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351756996027201090" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">After spending a year and a half, searching through dusty and dented boxes brimming with tossed negative sleeves, retrieving images from days past, and then scanning the edits, I decided to pick up my beloved Contax camera and shoot again. Blame it on Spring, but it was time to get out there and do something again. Although it's not that I've not photographed at all, but that I've just shot very little, other than my family in Kentucky, whose likenesses I've frozen on film for more than two decades.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I went into Central Park on a rare sunny day and focused my lens on Justin, a newbie to New York from North Carolina. I had spied Justin at one of my event jobs that I do to survive in the City as a cater-waiter. It always fascinates me as to why a photographer or painter chooses to photograph or paint one subject over another. What makes someone interesting? And how do you carry that quality over into a print or on a canvas? Through cater-waitering in New York, I've met a lot of actor/model types who live for being the center of someone's attention, but what engaged me about Justin -- a part from his fiery hair -- was his subtle air of detachment and bemusement in the people and events going on around him. He didn't seem to be asking, if not demanding, attention.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Greg Reynolds Photographyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04648717192255014388noreply@blogger.com1