Take Monday Off!

Take Monday Off!

I’m not sure if you can, but according to the Wall St. Journal’s late December travel piece (shot by me of course) you can manage to see Oahu in three days!

See article here.

I’ve often thought travel to Hawaii is tough as we are a long way from “da mainland” so considering flight times, jet lag, Oahu traffic, etc, it seems like a tough path to follow.  However, the story lays out a great argument of what you can see and do on Oahu in a short period of time.

I had a helluva time shooting the job all considering it rained during the entire commissioned time to work. I had to dodge rain, clouds, and gloomy seas but I was able to produce wonderful telling images of Oahu.

The WSJ article produced a really nice video with all my images which can be seen on their website here… Take Monday Off

Of the wonderful Oahu spots, Iolani Palace is one of those places that lots of tourist seem to visit from the outside but hardly go in.  The interior shows the elegant side of Hawaii’s Royal Family with 18th-19th century imported indulgences giving the Royals that touch of European royal class.

Waimea Bay without waves can be boring as most tourist expect big waves and surfers but when the water is flat, its like swimming in a big lake.  Brilliant place to spend the afternoon and see the sunset…if you can park!

And of course the not well visited Doris Duke’s Islamic shrine, Shangri-La.  Duke, the trust funded daughter of a super rich tobacco tycoon, used her wealth to import only the best art, furniture, and artifacts from all over the Islamic World.  The home is now a museum with limited access.  The ocean side estate is a Pacific mecca of Islamic art and architect bringing scholars from around the world to study and conserve the many artifacts and pieces on the estate .  Although some may see controversy as Duke purchased priceless art and pieces throughout the Middle East, including having an entire room (floor to ceiling) imported from Turkey, she helped preserved parts of Islamic culture that might have been lost dude to neglect or theft, or sadly zealots.  Imperialism aside, Shangri-La is fantastic and well worth the time to visit the home.

Museo Nacional de Antropología

Museo Nacional de Antropología

A man stood next to me in a Korean owned deli in Palisades Park, NJ.  His boots were fake, not real lizard but still in the style of  botas de vaquero none the less.  The boots you can buy in any norteno town where the men have paid thousands to sneak across the border to work as low paid laborers in the US.  His trim mustache and dark skin, tucked-in shirt and ironed blue jeans might have made him a short Lotharo back in Piedras Negras but here, he was just a a guy who worked as a baker in a Korean pastry shop.  Maybe he cut grass, painted, lifted, delivered, hauled, got spit on, harassed, not paid, paid lowly, hid, ducked, drank, shivered, and maybe he did none of the above.  But he was here, not in his country, and trying to work.

The Spanish I heard in Times Square coming from Minny Mouse wasn’t the native tongue of the native Puerto Ricans or Dominicanos.  It was la lengua of the Mexican.  Maybe the Chapinas or the Peruvian.  But it was the accent of the new comers.  They  dressed as Elmo, Spiderman, and Minnie to pose for a dollar or two with the kids of those who stayed in $300 a night hotels in the City.  They crossed borders to stand next to white kids so that their parents could snap pictures of them in the blinking lights.

One guy gets hot and lets slip his facade.  The mask slips revealing a face more fitting inside the Museo Nacional de Antropología than on the streets of Times Square.  Cada de indio as my mother would say of the neighbors.  The face of an indigenista, a face from Southern Mexcio, of Guatemala, of the south.

So Spiderman crossed 9th ave near Port Authority.  Wherever he went, he seemed tired.  Worn from dancing for the Spanish and Italian tourists.  Of hearing the accents of his conquerors and taking the money of his master.  He probably walked to his next job.  His delivery job where he would make a dollar or two running msg-filled Chinese food up six floors up to an uppity Iowan who now calls Manhattan home.  The Iowan feels its his new right to belittle the delivery guy who was five minutes late because he couldn’t walk fast enough.  The rain was too hard, the snow was too cold.

Santiago once pointed out the only people out on the streets during a blizzard were the mojados who were delivering food.

I learned on this trip New York works because of it’s illegal infestation.  An infestation that makes the City move.

 

a quick post about tear sheets

a quick post about tear sheets

I’ve been busy…which is good but haven’t had time to think much about blogging.  So here’s a quick post on a few tear sheets from a couple of jobs I’ve had in the last few weeks.

Melissa Rivera is a babe.  An art babe no less.  Further…a RISD artists and a Chilanga!  And when you’re able to shoot a creative person, they do all the work.  Melissa made a great portrait for Modern Luxury.  I actually didn’t do much but just point the camera.  Shes a great designer and could only hope…rather…strive to have the creativity she oozes when you’re around her.  Check out her designs on her website.

The Wall Street Journal sent me to the Four Seasons Maui to shoot their updated resort shopping.  Always exciting to see a 3/4 page with all my images.  Fun Stuff.

And the lead image is of a job I’m proud of as its for Texas Monthly, a mag from my home state.  Oddly, a Texan blogger by the name of Kev Jumba was in Honolulu by chance and I had a quick portrait session with him.  I contacted Diane Ako at the Halekulani and rented a banquet room to shoot a clean white background.  The fit was a bit tight but we got the job done quickly.  Erica was a big help.  Great portrait and he used my camera as a prop.

Midway

Midway

As our jet slipped over the dark Pacific Ocean, silvery moonlight fell upon the clouds casting shapeless shadows all across the sea.  Land seem to spring up as the jet continued making me feel as if we had never escaped the land.  Theroux described the Pacific Ocean “like outerspace…a sort of galaxy,” islands, like stars, dotting and endless sky.  And although I was only looking at shadows, I felt as if millions of uninhabited islands waited to be discovered, only to vanish as night turned away.

Our military plane was bound for Midway Atoll, about 1250 miles west of Honolulu, for the 70th anniversary of the Battle of Midway.  The US military extended an invitation to fly media, veterans, and various personnel to the remote island to attend the memorial celebration.  We had to arrive before sunrise on Midway as the atoll is now a wildlife refuge.  Endangered albatrosses nest on Midway and a mid-air collision with a large adult could potentially cause major damage to an airplane .

The Battle of Midway is a historic David vs. Goliath struggle where a smaller, out-gunned and less experienced US navy took on the vastly superior Japanese and defeated them, thus thwarting their naval aggression in the Pacific and placing Japan in a defensive role the rest of World War II.  At the cost of hundreds of lives, the US sunk four Japanese aircraft carriers.  Much of the destruction caused within minutes when, by chance, Japanese pilots were caught rearming and refueling as US dive bombers attacked.  Three carriers were sunk almost immediately and a fourth one sunk the next day.  Historically, the Battle of Midway turned the tide and helped the US gain an advantage in the war.

Although Midway Atoll was regarded by the Japanese as a critical base to conquer, the Japanese only bombed the island but never landed troops.  Many US attack planes took off from the island but were quickly shot down by the more experienced Japanese aviators in their state-of-the-art fighter planes.  The memorial ceremony recognizes the significance of the battle and remembers those who died.

Because of the designation of the Northwest Hawaiian Island being a wildlife refuge,  we had to arrive and depart in darkness.   As we exited the plane, I noticed these oddly shaped shadows wiggling and moving all around the airport.  I couldn’t make out what my ears and nose were telling me but as the sun began to rise, I quickly noticed these shapes were actually gooney chicks.  THOUSANDS of albatrosses were everywhere.  Of course there were none on the runway but just about anywhere else there were thousands upon thousands.  It was absolutely amazing yet frightening at the same time.  I  felt as if I was on a Moreau-esque island where humans were cannibalized by giant, fluffy birds.  Only the birds knew the secret, and I, clearly did not.

Midway’s buildings spanned generations of architecture and structures.  From early 1900’s structures housing workers who laid trans-Pacific telegraph cable, historic war-time hangars and command posts, to post war dormitories buildings which housed military and civilians living on the small island.  Well known Detroit architect Albert Kahn also designed many of the officer’s homes on the islands lending an air of designed civility to the remote outpost in the Pacific.  However, its the feathered architecture the is the most noticeable as you wander the island.  These squawking, ill-tempered fledglings seem more gooney than bright, but have managed to outpace the more clever humans.

As the ceremony marks 70 years, only two Battle of Midway veterans were able to attend the ceremony.  Age and time take their toll on many of the vets and many believe World War II memorials will no longer have any veterans in attendance in the next few years.  The ceremony recognizes the land battle as well as the sea battle that played out just a few miles away from the atoll.  Midway was bombed and sustained heavy damage from Japanese attacks but the real fight was out in the sea.  The two vets, both who were 90-years-old, were stationed on the island and recalled, with clarity, their roles in the attacks.  One complained he wasn’t able to fire off his gun because they were ordered to be underground when the first wave of the Japanese attack occurred and the other nonagenarian counted more than 30 airplanes flying over his position.  Though he fiddled with the straps, he proudly wore his WWII dough boy helmet that kept him safe during the Japanese bombardment.

The military band played, the color guard marched, and tears flowed as the Star Spangled Banner played.  Speeches were given about valor, heroes, and those who gave their lives.  Flowers were laid and a final salute and Taps ended the recognition of a fight so long ago.  At the end of the memorial, the attendees, including a couple of dozen Thai workers who live and maintain the island, thanked the men for their sacrifices.  Both vets, along with two others who were on later stationed on Midway after the battle, stumbled with their emotions as they remembered their lives from so long ago.

Afterwards, we were allowed to explore the small island and found much of it was in disrepair and abandoned.  Not much you can do if a bunch of endangered feathered-friends have planted themselves in every nook and cranny.  More so, the island lacks the money to help restore this remote outpost.  No unwelcome visitors are allowed hence there is no outside tourist dollars to grease the economy.  There are no resorts, no dive companies, no Roberts tourists bus clogging the roads, no Hilo Hattie, no Starbucks, no fake natives dancing the hula.  It is most likely the atoll will continue to function with the help of the US government but its status as a wildlife refuge makes it a bit tough to maintain.    Only birds, the Thais, a Federal cop, and a bunch of volunteers cleaning the beaches of the world’s sea garbage.

The large runway on Midway is extremely vital to trans-pacific air travel as large jets can land on the atoll.  The importance of the trans-pacific runway was recognized in 2011 when a flight from HNL To Osaka was diverted to Midway after a major crack was noticed in the windshield of the cockpit.  Close to 400 people were onboard the Delta 747.  However, many who maintain the island are complaining about the condition of the seawall that protects the runway from strong winter waves.  Without proper federal funding, the runway could be in jeopardy.

Life on this remote place must be harsh but the people who work and call this place home clearly are not itching to leave.  A small convenience store selling food, beer, and other necessities is stocked from imported goods.  A bowling alley and movie house give some a way to avoid rock fever and I was told a few of the Thai workers formed a rock band and play Thai rock every so often.  I asked about satellite TV and oddly they get lots of Thai TV but when you’re out in the middle of nowhere, does the NYSE really matter?  There’s a bar overlooking a gorgeous sea and a restaurant with a rival view.  The Thais are in charge of the food and although they made a super mild curry with little spice (so the farang can eat it) the islanders are not wanting of a good time.

There is a beautiful white sand beach beach of pure white sands that words and pictures cannot clearly describe.  North Beach, as its called, is idyllic.  Perfect.  Few words could describe its colors and feel.  A beach people spend their lives trying to find.  I hate to use this word but it was pure paradise.  But to have this stunning beauty just isn’t enough at times.  Midway’s remoteness makes you feel as if you are lost in the middle of nowhere.

 But as our trip came to and end, I though of the story one of the veterans told as he talked about the struggles on the island during the war.  In full battle gear, the soldiers humped on the beautiful North beach, making  brilliantly white sand into sandbags to use as military fortifications.  With few breaks and little water, not to mention the sultry heat and sun, working in this tropical island was hell.  No one handed them a maitai and a beach chair.  Soldiering has a way of ruining a perfectly good paradise.  And as I wondered how tough life must have been, I began to think more of the young boys who had never seen a beach.  The young man who had never been on a ship.  Sailors who abandoned ship or of the aviators who were shot down and lost at sea.  I thought of both the Americans and the Japanese.  I thought about that sable blue water, that endless sea.  That blistering blue sky knowing they’d never be found.  Lost.

I recalled George Gay, a US pilot shot down during the attack on the Japanese carriers.  He survived the crash but as he floated in the Pacific for many hours, he was one of the sole witnesses to the great battle of the Pacific.  He watched two civil nations kill their best and the brightest, and mostly likely the bravest, that each had to offer.  I’ve seen clips of young Japanese sailors floating in the ocean after their ships sunk.  I wondered what their last words were…their last thoughts.

Like we landed, we escaped in darkness off Midway, avoiding the large albatross that now own the island.  As I looked down at the ocean as we flew back to Honolulu, I thought about all the lost souls who gave their lives to their country, whether they were willing or not, and whether they were doing it for the right reasons.  It isn’t the 19 year old swabby who’s creating the foreign policy but its always them who ends up in the brink.

Don’t Move Here

Don't Move Here

17 years ago I never would have imaged the Austin I visited this past May.  The green gem of the liberal South developed into a snarling and congested city with swirling highways, Manhattan style co-ops, and a capitalism Austin once fought vehemently in order to maintain its uniquely slacker status as the State’s capital.  No where else in Texas would you find rednecks in boots next to a bare-footed bohemian siren across from a sliver-haired professors all crossing paths with a Lucchesed Congressman talking policy with a lesbian couple and their adopted Asian infant.  Only in Austin, hence the “Keep Austin Weird” logo that I don’t remember but fondly recall as I more than once found myself in such situations when I was in college back in the early 90’s.

Austin was a Technicolor dream compared to the monotoned murmur of San Antonio, my hometown.  Nothing seemed to progress very fast or far in SA other than the Spurs and tourist numbers and when my acceptance letter came bearing burnt orange, I couldn’t wait to escape the clutches of my one horse town.

Again, 17 years later, I knew it could never be the same.  The years after I graduated, Austin developed into a premiere town of statue with major tech corps putting their stakes down.  SXSW grew into an international event pulling big name bands and acts, and UT’s nationally ranked football program, and of course, its top notch and cheap education, pulled more kids into it’s enrollment. By far, the town of Austin itself drew newcomers for it’s small town flavor and southern hospitality, it’s in-town lakes and Austin’s enduring laid-back and green culture.  Sadly, new money and high demand always leads to gentrification and it pushes out many of the people that made Austin…Austin.  But change, as much as some may not like it, is good but sometimes gentrification can leave a nasty aftertaste.

We didn’t spend much time in Austin due to our whirlwind tour of Texas so we decided to just drive into town and see what happens.  We go for a walk down South Congress and I immediately encounter stuff that begins to wear on me…not for their uniqueness but for its uniformity.  Faux-hawks, Converse and skinny jeans. Mercurial girls in short skirts and cowboy boots trying to hard to hide their Brooklyn adapted attitude in western wear.  Sneering looks from people who surely didn’t care about me and seemed to be more annoyed by my presence than anything else.  It was as if they were annoyed we were on their turf.  Eh, its my imagination.  Its nothing but I was beginning to think I was like in Southern California with all the curt smiles and bad attitudes.

Within all the hip and vintage clothing were the burnt orange baseball hats of the Levi-ed and booted wearing frat boy and the Umbroed sorority girlfriend with standard frat party t-shirt and Kate Spade handbag.  But they were outnumbered by skateboards, Holgas, and people wearing identical “I’m a Pepper” t-shirts.  Oddly enough, I felt a more comfortable fraternity with Christi and Jeff than with the new hipster that flowed down the streets.

So I thought…Big deal.  So a bunch of ironic non-conformists hipsters found Austin and made it their new town to destroy then bitch about how it was so cool like last week before all the poseurs showed up and ruined everything. Hipsters infected New York long ago so I wasn’t too put out by their entitlements.  They uprooted loads of artists and photographers who were making a living (and art) in the slums of Dumbo by rushing in and pushing the rents up to the limits and standards of Manhattan.  It’s hard to stop that type of progress.

But what killed me the most about the new Austin was this jackass I came across at the Whole Foods flagship on North Lamar.  This guy wore a  “Don’t Move Here” logo-ed t-shirt.

Don’t move here. Huh. Don’t move here I kept mumbling to myself.  Is that addressed to me?  Is that addressed to anyone else that came behind him?  Bedazzeled, I rushed off to confront him about his choice of clothing only to loose him in an MC Escher world of similar faces and clothes and attitudes.  I, dazed and confused, rushed off to find solace in the past.

I knew what this ass was trying to say.  He, probably a newcomer from California, who left his craphole of a state to come here and destroy his new one.  Like a virus, jerks like this spread to the new epicenter and declare it off limits to anyone after them.  I see this type of attitude all through the Hawaiian Islands.

These entitled types, with privileges, and sometime with none, moved in remote places like Oahu’s North Shore, Molokai, and the far ends of Kauai.  They paint, surf, write, smoke pot, eat organic and pepper their language with Hawaiian words.  They demand their lifestyles be accepted, praised, glorified, and spread.  They cut you off in the crosswalk as they speed by in their hybrids with Obama 2012 stickers on the back.  They are the types that help ban plastic shopping bags in Kauai, stopped the Superferry on Oahu, and march en mass on the state capital when their views and beaches are threatened by tourists and developers.  They piss on newcomers if their surf breaks get overcrowded and pretend they’ve been local all their lives when they’ve just got off the airplane six weeks ago. They are the last ones in and try desperately to lock the door by swallowing the key so no one else can ruin their slice of perfection.

But the worst of all were the highly regarded food trucks.  What an absolute waste of time.  Bad attitude and service seems to be the only good things dished out from these trendy trucks.  Self-important meals of no real direction or distinction other than the clever ability to take two food groups and deep-fry it in organic vegan oil.  Good food, whether its an accidental mishap or taken from the food follies on cable TV, has to have some education behind it.  Because you ate banana pancakes on Khao San Rd. and taquitos in Juarez doesn’t give you creative license to deep fry a panko breaded a slice of avocado and expect Bourdain to ordain you a chef.

Oddly, I find Bourdain’s shit-eating grin amusingly absurd as it makes for better TV.  His blessing of the food truck culture in Austin must have inspired so many more kids to pick up the spatula and create food not fit for much more than their own stupid egos.  I can’t help but to wonder what Anthony was really thinking.  Sure there’s probably someone making magic in their rinky-dinky trailer somewhere but it clearly has to be vetted so it can shine.

So as my rants and disappointments come to an end, I must say Austin has changed for the better in many ways but in others I just don’t know.  Austin is much more multicultural we saw loads of Indian and Chinese families roaming the capital (uh..it was graduation week!  HA!) so it seems diversity is clearly changing the face of the town.  I don’t live there anymore and I haven’t lived in Texas for over 15 years but I remember what it was like.  I remember older students telling me how it was back in the day.  They remembered older students telling them…yada yada yada.  So does my review of Austin count?  Only to me, really.

The one true thing I did see about Austin laid just outside the city limits towards Lockhart.  We drove past a family selling live chickens, goats, and fresh eggs.  A young boy of about 12 but mature well beyond his age asked us if we wanted to buy something.  His voice hid a slight Mexican accent but his Texan was apparent as his dirt farmed hands and dusty cheeks gleamed of his background. We asked him what kind of peoples came to shop here.  Was it only Mexicans?  He answered, “No, all races come.”

My wife noted how sad it was for him to have lost his childhood so quickly just to help his family. I felt the same but was clearly convinced he was the future of Texas.  It wouldn’t be the immature children with tight jeans and scarves around their necks.  It would be that kid selling eggs on that Sunday morning.

That encounter was my tale of two cities.  One of entitlements and demands, the other of hard work and sacrifice.