The view from Gabby's seat.

  

The view from Gabby’s seat:

A few years back I visited my daughter in Washington, D.C. and she gave me a glimpse into the Capitol, the Senate, the House of Representatives and the Supreme Court Chamber. All were fascinating places to visit, each location oozing with implied influence.

                    

                    

Two nights earlier, President Obama had delivered his State of the Union address that mentioned Arizona Representative Gabriella Giffords’ recovery from an egregious attack of gun violence. Ms. Giffords struggled to stand and speak, but sat heroically and defiant against this uninvited intrusion into her life.

That day, as I walked around the empty House Floor and surveyed this powerful landscape, I imagined where all the power players sat a few nights earlier, but there was one seat in particular that I wanted to see. It was Gabby’s.

I wanted to try to sense her character and vicariously consider her point of view.  Sitting in her seat, I felt empowered—even more so as I imagined the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Supreme Court Justices seated in the next few rows.

The next day I walked along the National Mall and photographed the monuments-- but I did so with an questioning eye, confident that I had set my belief about gun control to a fixed point in the sands of controversy.  Any counter-thought toward gun control would certainly ricochet from this hallowed seat of Ms. Gifford’s, and fall harmless to the metaphoric ground.

That night, I walked the distance between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument thinking about many things, gun control was one of them. I began to consider that it was actually the process of the policy that bothered me most.

           

      

The next day I ventured back into the Capitol and photographed in Statuary Hall beneath the towering Rotunda. The marble statues seem to whisper their silent words of wisdom, tempered in both rebellion and allegiance. I tried to listen—but this revolutionary message of reclamation and defense was hard to hear. There was just too much chatter.

                        

            

 

About that time, my daughter wanted to show me an odd feature of the rotunda. Apparently, because of the architectural design, you can stand at one end of this large room—speak normally, and be heard clearly on the opposite side of the room. A convenient form of espionage that could exploit the uninitiated… In this place, even whispers resonate—as long as you are aware, attentive and aligned. 

Perhaps this metaphor is worthy of more than a simple anecdote. Maybe it’s the small voices of conscience that cut through the clutter that provide the greatest clarity. A message that transcends the marble renditions of our forefathers and delivers its tempered advice directly to the ears of the living. Are we truly defending our 2^nd amendment right to arm ourselves against an unruly militia, or are we simply exercising our right to sovereign and independent expression?  Are we more concerned with Amendments than Commandments—and if so, why and is that even an issue? Tolerance is a virtue, understanding is an obligation and there is wisdom in diversity. The pursuit of Life, Liberty and Happiness—what does that even mean?

btw- I think it's ironic (or at the very least, entertaining) if you google my blog name, then this is what appears:

                                                    

The death of Petey.

The death of Petey.

Let the truth be told-- this is a little embarrassing. But if you can't let yourself be vulnerable on the Internet, then why bother??

As a child of the sixties the dinner table was often filled with conversation about current events. Any observer of that time knows those issues can provide for volatile and opinionated views. My table was no different.  However, when the conversation turned abrasive-- or too difficult for the mind of a child to comprehend, I would often retreat under the table and visit my best friend "Petey". Petey was a very good companion to an only child, but there was something else about Petey-- he was invisible and could only be seen by me. He was my first "Bestie".

One year, Petey visited at Thanksgiving. I emerged from our secret place beneath the table with Petey perched on my finger so everyone could meet my best friend. Instead, my extended family looked at me oddly and my uncle proclaimed that I might need to be evaluated by a competent pyscho-therapist. Of course, I had no idea what that meant and wasn't concerned in the least that no one could see my feathered friend. I took Petey back to his home beneath the table and returned to my dinner.

A little later in life, around twelve, my father gave me a 20-gauge shotgun for my birthday and took me quail hunting to celebrate. I had hunted with my father many times before, but never with a loaded gun! I was there to pet the dogs and walk the fields with my father. Now it was different. Now I was armed.

Let's just say that I'm not a natural born killer.... It took several hunts before I fired my gun, and when I did I missed badly. My father, a very observant man, picked up on that fact quickly. He never confronted me openly, only encouraging me to sight the flight of the bird and systematically squeeze the trigger. 

When the dogs flushed the next covey of quail I followed his instructions and felled the bird. My best dog retrieved the fallen bird and dutifully dropped it at my feet. I picked the bird up and watched it die in my hands. I placed the warm bird in my jacket and noticed the crimson stains on my hands.

That night at dinner we ate the birds that had so beautifully flown to their death on that cool, gray November afternoon. I bit down into my dinner and felt the sharp crunch of a shot pellet that was deep inside the breast of the bird. Immediately, I realized something complex and frightening had occurred. I knelt beneath the table to find Petey (whom I hadn’t seen in years) to cleanse my guilty conscience, but he wasn't there. "Petey" was gone and he had taken my innocence with him.

Last week as I was writing this blog, I looked behind me and noticed the dead bird that is pictured above. He had evidently fallen victim and was pridefully placed at my feet by one of my adoring cats. I picked up this still-warm bird and tried to come to terms with the situation. The killing ritual had visited me again.

I remembered Petey and pined for the days of lost innocence. I carefully placed the bird on the scanner and memorialized the moment. Why this? Why now? Perhaps the right to bear arms is even more complicated than I first imagined....

Dance Varmint

.....Dance Varmint.

The process has begun and it's now time to step to the soapbox for a simple declaration: I don't have a definitive stance on gun control. Or if I do it's deeply rooted and conflicted with guilt, memory, love and fear. A laundry list of your basic emotions that can be called upon to support my beliefs and/or justify my conscience. The truth is that guns, for some strange reason, seem impartial and oddly comforting to me. Perhaps the mug shots of the offenders who surrendered these guns would be more terrifying and intimidating.

The fact is that guns seem to simultaneously comfort and frighten me. It's not the gun that scares me so much, as it is the distorted mind that employs it's devious delivery. More specifically, it's the death of the innocent that makes me sick to my stomach.  I imagine that most rational people think that unjustified killing is a boil on the butt of humanity. But, of course, how does one define "justify"?

I'm glad you asked--

justify:

1 show or prove to be right or reasonable: the person appointed has fully justified our confidence.
2 Theology declare or make righteous in the sight of God.
3 Printing adjust (a line of type or piece of text) so that the print fills a space evenly or forms a straight edge at one or both margins.


For the sake of argument, let's eliminate the third definition and consider the first two entries.


Better yet, let's focus a little tighter and consider the inherent visual narrative of a confiscated gun. You want circumstance and reason? Maybe it's here and maybe it's not. This much I know, each gun has a unique barrel-signature that imprints itself on each bullet that it fires. It also imprints that same indelible signature upon the lives of countless victims, defenders, sportsmen and prey. It's messy and begs resolution. The answer is deeply personal and, for me,  elusive.

Perhaps it would help to observe this dilemma through the lens of a subjective analysis-- the photograph. Let's experiment with the object and literally solarize a polarizing subject.  Let's turn shadow to highlight, evil into good and right into wrong-- let's introduce metaphor.  Guns are good, guns are bad-- perhaps (of course) they can be both.

metaphor:
- a thing regarded as representative or symbolic of something else, especially something abstract.



I think the real question is Why are guns both the sinner and the savior? In other words..... let's consider the ways and justify the means.


oh, btw:

consider:
-think carefully about (something), typically before making a decision: each application is considered on its merits.

McCullers- Richochet week 1

Week 1: Hello, may I shoot you?

I have spoken these very words more than once.

For photographers the context of this phrase usually occurs after you have noticed someone compelling and you want to memorialize the moment. If a gunman uses this phrase you can assume that you are in big trouble. The only memorializing that will be done is on your tombstone. One identical phrase, two different scenarios both meanings dependent on context. Please say hello to your new frenemy- the gun.

The assignment at hand is to introduce a current body of work, that we will consider, analyze, and modify according to class discussions and critiques. Following is a brief introduction to the subject matter, methodology, conceptual intention, and artistic ideology that is defined my latest body of work known as "Ricochet".

As I sit typing these words the "countdown clock" on CNN is ticking off the hours and minutes remaining until President Obama addresses the nation tomorrow night regarding his proposed legislation on gun control. That is an appropriate backdrop for a body of work that centers on a cache of confiscated hand-guns that are stored in the weapons vault at the City of Atlanta Police Department. The fact that the weapons vault is directly adjacent to the room where confiscated drugs are stored is worthy of it's own blog-space, but I digress....

The walk through the halls to get to the weapons vault was aromatically charged with the slight, pungent smell of marijuana.  I considered the irony and quietly mused, "Had I taken a wrong turn and wound up on the set of the tv show Cops?", sadly, no. I realized that I was on a journey to Wonderland to follow Alice down the rabbit hole and pop out in a Land called Oz. However, here the yellow-brick road was littered with shell casings and the creature in the corner was definitely smoking a hookak. Ultimately, this project is about the thorny, metaphorical paradox of chasing rabbits into holes and then killing them. Sometimes for sport, other times for food-- perhaps for power, defending your rights and (possibly) perverting our innocence.  Just to be clear-- this is not a story about hunting...

I immediately thought about the duality of this subject matter and how different it was from what I first imagined. The message, not to mention the medium, might well be muddled in a glorified gray area of opinion that was both calculated and passionate. Surely my well-balanced, moderate geo-political and progressive photographic beliefs would offset any radical ideologies that appeared as subtext of either fact or opinion. The beautiful banality of these images would certainly over-ride any misgivings and prejudice that might arise, right??  Or could it be that I am betraying my culture and my art in one broad stroke? Killer-photography without cameras, killing-guns without bullets, where is the foundation for logic? Apparently, the familiarity of my photo-chemical background and the sanctity of my 16-gage shotgun are at risk of being out-dated and harsh. These inviolable rights aren't as neatly packaged as they used to be. Acknowledging that small voice that resides in my conscience, Alice smiled and chided me to keep up! It as tho she was saying "Relax, we're just getting started".

Entering the vault I stepped into a room full of guns and immediately channeled my inner rabbit, I felt like prey. Shotguns, handguns and rifles (oh my!): each gun mounted on peg board hooks, identified, tagged, and cataloged into some ominous database that reconciled each gun to its questionable past. This passcode-protected display conveyed a sense of organization that somehow neutralized the killing karma that must be inherent in every back-story of every gun that is hung on the wall. Some of the guns were military and some were militant-- all were designed to do one thing. Whether it's to feed, defend or vilify-- when the finger slides to the trigger only passion remains.

I unpacked the scanner and selected my weapon(s) of choice, turned off the lights and started the process. For some strange reason, I thought about the cartoon of Buggs Bunny and his nemesis Yosemite Sam. Somewhere deep in the back of my mind I heard the echo-- Dance Varmint!!