Best of the Best

Here is a slide show of the year in photos. I hope you enjoy it.

http://www.doiy.com/yearinphotos07/

Slow Ride

Palo Alto, CA

Smoke Shop

Tenderloin, SF

Palo Alto, Ca

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Today's Front Page Tomorrow's Bird Cage

A newspaper anti-trust attorney leaves a high profile firm to settle down in Calaveras county to publish a bi-weekly newspaper. Did the legal work dry up or something? I don't know, but at least the population is higher than the altitude.

Power

Bakersfield, Ca

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Fall

Sacramento, Ca

Leap of Faith

Imagine waking up one day and being disabled. The day before you are running with scissors and the next day you can’t find the scissors because now you’re blind. No matter what we think we understand about disability it is much harder than imagined.

I spent an hour with Walt Raineri, an attorney at Fenwick & West that lost his sight two years ago to retinitis pigmentosa. Simple translation, 90 percent of his vision is gone because the cells in his retina can no longer process light into electrical signals.

He meets me in the lobby and makes a leap of faith shooting his hand out. As we shake I realize that in a visual world there are a lot of things we take for granted. We discuss the location of the bike and how to get there much like going on a mission.

Passersby say “Hi Walt,” as we navigate the hallway and head towards the basement. Walt says things like “where’s that pole?” and “here’s that curb.” He raises his hand to shield his face when we walk near some low-hanging support beams, saying I learned the hard way to watch out for those.

Pushing the bike out isn’t easy. I navigate and we have to watch for cars and speed bumps. We take the bike up a set of steps and Walt counts them out. He knows the number by heart. Uncertainly on the last step can lead to disaster.

He asks if I can send him some photos telling me his wife will describe them to him later. I am really touched by this.

They Carried Their Service

This year I read Tim O'Brien’s "The Things They Carried," and when I walked into Judge James Ellis' chambers it didn't take me long to figure out this guy was in Vietnam. There was a gigantic American flag tacked to the wall and a framed tiger print hung above a bookcase. On the bookcase was a miniature "MIA" flag, the type of flag people wave with one hand at parades. He is sporting a boot-camp buzz-cut and is the right age.

He walks with a cane and limps across the room as we talk a bit about his tour of duty. He was a platoon leader in Vietnam and after six months was severely wounded. He looked off longingly as he talked about his service and trailed off as he said he planned to make a career out of it. I asked him if six months in action felt like six years and he said yeah we were all so young back then and thought we were invincible.

Highway One

To license these images or others please visit my PhotoShelter site.

Flight for David

In college I had a professor that was once a television reporter. He told a bulging roomful of us, young and eager, but naïve, budding journalist that he discovered every time he skipped lunch his story was that much better. He used to survey the room after he dropped this comment and scan our faces. When his eyes hit mine I always blinked disbelievingly.

I got up at 4 am to do my first ever for publication multimedia project on a guy with ALS. David Ames was denied a commercial flight to undertake an experimental surgery, but was donated a private jet by a couple of anonymous donors. It was my idea and I had thought a lot about it. I planned out sound clips and visualized what photos I could shoot.

I went to work after the session and then much later continued working on the project after most everyone left for the day. I skipped lunch that day too, but it was that much better I think.

click for slide show

Hope Street

Dr. Sandra Steingraber asks the audience to visualize breast cancer rates stretching back from the 1940’s to 2000 as a small girl walking along a scenic rural road. As the years pass, the girl matures and the flat road gradually begins to incline. The incline represents the increase in breast cancer rates, by the time the girl is in her late 30s she is practically climbing vertically.

Steingraber presents breast cancer as a human rights issue in her book “Living Downstream: An Ecologist Looks at Cancer and the Environment.” She cautions against despair asking anyone in the audience to stand if they are a breast cancer survivor. Half the room stands. Steingraber says “when you were diagnosed you didn’t say that’s ok I’ll skip the chemo resign myself to die.”

Steingraber is hopeful and wide eyed and the room erupts in a standing ovation.

A Tale of Two People

“The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to love, mad to talk, mad to be saved; the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!” – Jack Kerouac

Tiburon is the last place I would expect to meet a guy like criminal defense attorney Jon Rankin. I am parking next to boutique shops that quietly hawk overpriced glassware, jewelry and high end chotchkies. I enter his office at the bottom of the stairs in the middle of the deserted shopping strip.

I call out and he enters from an adjoining office welcoming me. I am immediately struck by his jewelry and the gurgling sound of half empty fish tanks. He ushers me into his office where I notice a corner dedicated to flamingos and even more fish tanks in various stages of evaporation. He says “I collect them,” pointing to the flamingos. Everywhere I look is vivid detail about this guy’s life. He’s an extrovert in this quiet Marin county hamlet and I have to struggle to pay attention to him as he’s talking to me.

He’s telling me about a guy named “Nazi Low-rider,” currently doing time in Pelican Bay in the SHU as they call it (Special Housing Unit). Mr. Low-rider wants to replace the Arian Brotherhood and sends Rankin artwork from time to time. Rankin tells me some of it he has to keep in a drawer because it is too offensive.

I get him to pose with a polar bear skin rug. He points at his ’58 caddy and that’s where we head next.

Imagine yourself buried in Concord, in a quaint house on a half acre lot and you dig in for 26 years. Later you find yourself squaring off against MediCal in a fight for your home with everything but the ONE you moved in with. Meet Donald Townes. He’s got garden gnomes scattered across his back lawn, roses adoring a trellis and a nearby thriving vegetable garden.

This 1,000 square foot home in the hot Concord baking sun is something worth fighting over. He’s a quiet guy, a sensible guy. Donald tells me he is heading out to Mexico for a getaway in the morning. He needs to clear his head with the trouble from MediCal.

Book Sale

It’s hard to say something when you don’t have much to talk about. The last few weeks have been pretty uneventful or maybe I am just not paying enough attention. Oh there was one tiny, slightly interesting thing. Maybe.

I jerk up the parking break on Washington Street, right near the Oakland Police Department and look through the passenger window. There it is, a book called “San Francisco: A City for all Seasons” with an introduction by Steve Young sitting in the front window.

I remember the phone call. Elise Hochstadt said I should submit photos for a book project on San Francisco. I was excited and nervous at the same time In the end I managed to get an image in the book. I never got paid from the publishing company and I gave up trying. I somehow managed to squeeze a copy of the book out of them and now there is another copy for sale in this used book store.

Thankless Job

The 37th annual Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender Pride Parade starts right on time with a deafening collective roar of Harleys as the “Dykes on Bikes” gun their way up Market Street. In their wake a much quieter and smog free contingent of “Mikes on Bikes” peddle and squeak by.

Thousands of spectators line the streets watching as politicians including City Attorney Dennis Herrera, Mayor Gavin Newsom, District Attorney Kamala Harris and Public Defender Jeff Adachi cruise up the parade route waving and smiling.

The public defender wears a shirt that says, “Getting you OFF since 1921.” As his float passes me, Deputy Public Defender Tal Klement grabs the mic and in a pull you closer at a bar kind of way says, “Let’s give it up for the Public Defender.” I can actually see a collective puzzlement sweep across the crowd as people struggle to grasp the concept. Then gentle, polite clapping, much like when the school know-it-all wins yet another award.

There’s a theory that law school grads go into private sector legal work to pay back large school loans and then later venture off to the PD’s or DA’s office to pay back a different kind of loan. Most people will never think of ever needing a public defender, but Edith Delgado will probably never forget hers.

She was labeled a speeding out of control youth, a barely passing continuation high school student with a penchant for reckless driving. The day she pinged a Ford Explorer carrying the Tonga royals, causing them to rollover and kill everyone on board was the beginning of her end. Delgado was vilified by the press, but forgiven by the Tongan family. Her trial lasted a year and in the end to everyone’s surprise she was found only guilty of misdemeanor vehicular manslaughter.

She was apologetic, remorseful, grief stricken and genuine. Probably the best defense a PD can give. Randy Moore her lawyer truthfully put his client out there and got her OFF.

I stalk and chase a couple down Market Street trying to get a picture of them holding hands. They keep waving and dropping their grip. Finally I get it.

Destination Everywhere?

Up North past the "Drive Through Tree” in Myers Flat, within spitting distance of Oregon lies Eureka, CA also known as the “Lost Coast.” Eureka is home to 26,000 Indians, rednecks, hippies, homeless and truckers. It’s a quaint place and I love towns on the edge of everything and Eureka is just that. It’s a small town on the beginning of nothing.

A week earlier I got my passport. After recent changes these blue gems are a hot commodities and it took me two months to get mine. The last time I had one, I had a Mohawk and wanted to marry Penelope Huston from the Avengers Today, I hope that maybe I’ll get an international assignment leading to fame and glory.

The Eureka court administrator intensely tells me a story of how Wayne Adam Ford walked into the main lobby and sauntered up to the sheriff’s window and confided that he had been very bad and needed to be locked up. He produced a bag containing severed women’s breasts, shocking deputies and leading him to be charged and convicted with killing multiple women while engaged in long hauls in his trucking rig.


I am led around the courthouse and move from area to area photographing the events in the courthouse. I am pretty sure nothing like Wayne Ford will happen, but you never know. After some convincing I am allowed into the criminal arraignment afternoon calendar and I make a great photo. Later I polish off some wheat beer at Lost Coast Brewery in downtown Eureka while posting photos to my flickr site. I have a long and pretty drive ahead of me and I can’t wait to see the Redwoods—the true gems of up North.

Good Sport

Its tough illustrating stories with photographs and sometimes being creative isn’t even the hard part. The story du jour is about pants. Men wearing pants, men without pants and a judge that sued for $65 million because a dry cleaners lost a pair of his pants. Yes, a judge.

I tried to get the page editor, the guy who is in charge of the story to pose. He said no. I asked the managing editor and he looked at me like he was going to punch me. Time was running out and after varying the pitch a bit I convinced the paper’s best kept good sport Osker, to drop his drawers and sashay for the camera.

The shoot took place in the middle of the production department and it was over and done in less than couple minutes, but Osker saved the day by dropping his pants.

See previous post "Pantalones"

Pantalones

B-L-O-G

For a story on the increasing occurence of blogging in the workplace at major law firms from legal support staff.

Vist my Photoshelter site for images like this one to license.

Busy

I’ve got a reception to shoot after work and the next day I am meeting an estate planning attorney that specializes in pets. You heard right, as in cute and cuddly Fluffy wants a slice of your estate after you die. And this guy helps divvy it up. He seems flakey and we have a time scheduled for 9 am on a Saturday morning.

I’m on time in the Haight Ashbury district, knocking on his door and I am not surprised when no one answers. I knock a few more times and 5 minutes later the door swings open and a messed up hair, no shirt and barefoot dude squints at me. He tells me he completely forgot and ushers me in to the Victorian foyer. I look past an empty bedroom and then glance over and through a doorway I see a woman pull the covers up to her chin and call out, “Michael can you shut the door.” I tell him to take his time and run a comb through his hair as I creep off to the living room to hide out.

After a while he comes back and suggests I photograph him naked with his cat and we can title it “Cock and Pussy.” I think it’s a great idea, but I am pretty sure the editor wouldn’t want to run it. We shoot some photos and I am thinking there is nothing crazier than an early morning shoot in the Haight.

Grace Under Fire

I am trying to catch up on some last minute work when my boss pops around the corner and says, “Scheck just got a tip that a supervisor is being searched by the Feds.” I reluctantly grab my gear and head out with the reporter. We head over to City Hall and talk about hockey and softball. My team is 7 and 0 and for the first time in my softball career we’re undefeated.

I dread the thought of waiting outside in the wind, so we head in and wander aimlessly knocking on doors. I notice a cop standing outside a door and suggest that maybe it’s that guy. The reporter says, “Oh I see just because his last name is ‘Jew’ he’s obviously the thief.” After some talking the deputy gives up that the Feds are indeed searching this supervisor’s office on a warrant.

The agent enters the bathroom and unzips in the next urinal. I ask him for his card. He declines, but confirms that they are serving a search warrant.

The reporter calls in his story and stops in the middle of the grand staircase to tie his shoe. Later in the office when I show him his picture he says, “The one thing that separates me from the others is grace.”

The Number 3 Lane

I remember first falling in love with the Bay Area crossing the Bay Bridge and leaning back, looking out the back of the hatch-back as the suspension cables went up and down. I would plead, “drive in the middle” as this would help foster my fantasy of the bridge raising and lowering the car with every tower. The sun was shining and I would count out the towers silently as we went past. One, two, three, four and then I would ask how come the bridge to Treasure Island doesn’t have cables. Just the kind of question an adult loves to answer.

Mean Streets

Meeting San Francisco District Attorney Harry Dorfman at the corner of Newcomb and Newhall is something I am looking forward too. When he rolls up in a Crown Victoria, an obvious unmarked cop car with a driver I don’t question the escort’s necessity. Even midday the area is crawling with people milling around. Suspiciously they eyeball me, the detective and Dorfman and spread the word “Po Po.”

I couldn’t feel safer though as the Dorfman starts joking about how this is going to make him famous and fantasizes that George Lucas and Francis Ford Coppola will be lining him up for roles in the jointly directed Godfather IV. He can’t be any happier as one of the most difficult cases in his 23 year career comes to a close and it all started on this block in 2004.

David Hill, in his own words is a “Thugged out Nigga livin da mob life,” and three years ago the killing of San Francisco officer Isaac Espinoza shocked the community as the DA’s office said it wouldn’t seek the death penalty. Now after Dorfman lands a tough guilty verdict for intentionally killing a police officer, Hill is sentenced to life without parole.

The inspector asks me if I brought a gun and when I shake my head he says “That’s ok I brought mine.” He points at some gang graffiti on a wall nearby and jokingly asks me if I need any drugs. Afterwards I shoot some photos of the two of them and promise to send them each one.

Color for Color's Sake

Sometimes someone on a precarious ledge will say “but black and white photography is just oh so much better than color” in response to me exclaming that I like color better than black and white.

Black and white has its place just as color does. Personally, I am more drawn to color as I can achieve a much more diverse artistic expression, while black and white can be limiting. Most of us don’t see the world in black and white and when we see a photograph laid out in grayscale there is a visual cue that something is different. In that regard you can use black and white to your advantage. However color can be used to cue up that double-take, deeper look that draws your viewer in.

It is challenging to use color photography in such a way that the color imagery becomes meaningful beyond just a mere color photograph. Used in combinations with complimentary colors or primary colors, color adds a dimension and depth that is different and in some respects much deeper than black and white.

Travels with Potsey

A dog is truly man’s best friend and my buddy Potsey is riding shotgun with me on my way to Infineon Raceway in Sonoma. It’s 6:30 am and he isn’t bugging me to stop for a latte and a bagel; he is just sitting patiently staring out the window. Occasionally he glances over at me and tries to rest his head on my hand when I downshift.

I’m meeting an attorney who owns three Lotus Formula One race cars, one of which is a black 1976 “John Player Special” driven by Mario Andretti. The Lotus 78 also called the “Wing Car” because of its inverted wing look helped win Andretti the 1977 Grand Prix.

I park my 1996 dented and scratched Honda Civic with 140,000 miles just as some guy goes by in a red Ferrari. The mechanics are studied and meticulous; I get the impression largely, that to be here and work on these cars is reserved for only the most patient and proficient. Potsey isn’t as impressed though, but he’s happy to run around the outside of the shop and pee on some old tires.

Crosswalk

The solid red hand instantly switches into the white walking man and she steps off the curb. Maybe she is delivering some flowers or maybe they are for her. It could be an anniversary or birthday, maybe even a funeral.

The rotund men crossing the street have probably just finished lunch. They could be discussing stocks or plans for the weekend. Maybe one of them will notice the flowers and think about buying some or perhaps they will just pass by.

Trust Your Mechanic

I answer the phone and my friend is asking me if I want to go on a plane ride on a Cesna out of San Francisco International with Bob the mechanic. It is Sunday morning, the day after St. Patrick’s Day and I’m in my underwear, waiting for the plumber to fix my stopped-up sink, but I say yes.


The fog has pulled back from coast and N58689 is all gassed up and ready when we arrive. Bob gives me some brief instructions, informs me he is the only one allowed to smoke in his airplane and asks me over the roar of the engine if I can hear him on the headset. I flash the thumbs up.

Bob’s a gifted 30 year pilot. The first time I become aware of this is as we are approaching the Napa airport he practically stops the engine and banks a 180 degree turn putting us right in position for a smooth landing, but leaving me a little dizzy. They order some steaks while I eat a salad adorned with beets and cottage cheese, Bob’s raving about the Jonesy Special Potatoes; a freshly grated hash brown, topped with a slab of Velveeta and grilled onions. Apparently Herb Caen mentioned the potatoes once in a column.

Back in the skies we pass over Oakland and hang a right just past Hayward. The radio goes out while were running parallel with the San Mateo Bridge and while bob is changing channels and asking for call backs my friend taps him on the shoulder points out a commercial jet flying in the vicinity.



“Tower, 5868Niner come in?”
“Tower, 5868Nineerrrrrr?”
“What frequency am I supposed to be using?”
“Tower, 120.50”
“The switch panel isn’t working”

The second radio works and we get ordered to turn a hard 90 degrees and queued up for a second approach around the bay. So it’s back across to Hayward and then a few more 90 degree turns and we are now hitting some major turbulence on our approach.

“That’s a strong tail wind”
“No, it’s a head wind,” says Bob
“Tail, look at the windsurfers”

Bob starts counting out our altitude in 100 feet increments from 1000 down and when we hit 400, he masochistically slows the engine and it gets so incredibly quiet I think I am in a glider. We’re wobbling back and forth and just after we hit the runway the copilot says, “Felt like both wheels hit the ground at the same time.” Bob, says “Yeah.”

Yeah.

A Week's Worth

Mary Staats, law librarian (grows orchids as a hobby)
Michael Wang, U.S. Attorney (just had a baby)
U.S. District Judge Ronald Whyte (busy guy, caseload is high)
Sixth District Court of Appeals Justice Richard McAdams (amateur videographer
Anthony Falzone, Stanford Fair Use Project (works with famous documentary filmmakers)
Khoa Do, attorney and ultimate fighter (trains 3 hours a day!)
Yuka Sugar, Howrey (took 5 years off to raise 2 kids)

The Town that Doesn’t Exist

Bolinas is almost just off the map. To get there you need to hang a left at an unmarked road on Highway One. Signs pointing the way have been torn down, helping to hide its location and the reclusive residents like it that way. The United States Census Bureau classifies it as a census designated place or CDP rather than an actual town, but I assure you it exists. I have been there.

The directions are precise, long and complicated. I am constantly reassured by landmarks listed in detail, “a nursery on your left” and “a fire station on your right.” I wonder if a “Tom Tom” would be as thorough. Residents have included people such as Grace Slick, Anne Lamott, Tony Serra and Frances McDormand. I turn left at the “T intersection,” and park on the “pavement under a basketball hoop,” as I am instructed to do.

Two dogs greet me with uncertainty, a wiry Jack Russell and a Weimaraner with only three legs. The hippy attorney is on the phone and none of the hippy staff is expecting my visit. With the dogs on my heels I am back on the porch waiting.

He greets me wearing a t-shirt defining the word “Greek,” a pair of cargo shorts and sandals. He has a goatee and wanders off to change his clothes “into something dressy.” I’m kicking myself for not figuring out how to keep him in his current outfit, but I chuckle when he comes back wearing a Hawaiian shirt, slacks and still sporting the same sandals.



The case he is working on is about a daughter that smothered her ill mother and claims it was a mercy killing. She copped to a manslaughter charge and got pegged to the middle tier sentence—six years. He got the term reduced to three and wants to get her off altogether. I really like his home and Bolinas makes me want to stay for a spell. I want to go downtown and maybe get some lunch, but I spent too much time photographing him and I need to get back to the City. I am hoping I can remember how.

Believing is Seeing

I am consistently awestruck by the randomness of the world and seeing extraordinary beauty in ordinary things. For example, I never tire of Big Sky.

I am driving back from Sacramento, where I routinely go to shoot photos of not so extraordinary people. The first thing I noticed today is the air is clear, smog less and almost pristine.

Driving on Interstate 80 thousands of times and am still amazed by clouds. However, I wonder why I sometimes neglect to notice the beautiful things all around; a subtle, wry smile or a flower in a crack surrounded by cement. Maybe I am too preoccupied, but more importantly, how does the beauty around us appear ordinary at times? If seeing is an art, then that body of work is lifelong and vast. All I can do is continue to believe in seeing, to find the uncommon in the common.

Duh!

Alameda County Superior Court in Fremont, CA

If you need a sign to tell you leave your Glock in the car then good luck in court, you're going to need that too.

Beholders

I am waiting in the lobby of the SF Superior Court for what seems like forever. The sheriff manning the metal detector and x-ray keeps glancing over at me. The lobby is warm and bright.

He walks in and after introductions, the first thing he says is, I absolutely hate having my photo taken. I start up a conversation about hotwire.com and ask him to tell me more about the once federal case. They are seeking class-action certification against the travel booking site for tax-juggling that puts the burden on the consumer and shifts the weight off of the company. Of course, customers don’t know they’re getting the extra fees tacked on and more than likely the judge will grant cert.

We end the shoot and then lean up against the wall and continue talking. The light is just pouring in behind him and I want to shoot more. I ask for one more shot and surprisingly he agrees. I notice some quirks about his face and although he definitely has a “good side” I completely understand why he hates having his photo taken. I am biased, and realize I am trying to create an ideal.



What ends in the frame begins in my mind. My perceptions about what is attractive, desirable, respected and accepted by our society are largely based on what society dictates. Sometimes you can break out of the box, other times you are merely just breaking into another one. Is beauty in the eye of the beholder and what if all the beholders are completely crazy? You decide.

Love Letters

Everyday Department of Public Works descends on United Nations Plaza with high pressure steam cleaners. This bit of graffiti will be gone in a few hours, but for the time being I wonder about Amanda and Josh and if they scored. Are they getting the help they need? Probably not. There aren’t any quick fixes to an incredible downward spiral that has people living in poverty, drugs and alcohol abuse.

I once saw a guy holding a big bottle of malt liquor staggering up the sidewalk. He started to fall and as he is dropping, he is eyeballing the beer slipping out of his hand. Both he and the bottle hit the ground with amazing force. The bottle shatters on impact and this guy is out cold; gurgling a bit as someone starts dialing 911.

The sanitary smell of the soap from the pressure washers hits my nostrils as I exit the building. Men in white waterproof suits blast the plaza free of urine, shit and puke. The homeless, drug merchants and other plaza dwellers are displaced for a few hours, but return nonetheless. I wonder if this is official policy to combat homelessness in the Tenderloin or just the city being annoyingly stubborn about clean streets.

Either way the plaza smells better for the time being.

Growth

The Presidio of San Francisco was originally the site of a Spanish fort, built 1776. Seized by the gringos during Manifest Destiny in 1848, the Presidio remained a military base for the next 147 years, making it the longest continuously-operated base in the United States.

Now in the hands of the Presidio Trust in conjunction with the National Park System, the Presidio is undergoing a transformation. Sections have been converted into commercial spaces, like the old Letterman hospital has become the home of the Letterman Digital Arts Center and Lucasfilm. The Presidio today is a balancing act between being financially self sufficient and an open public space.

Walking in the door to the Officer’s Club is like entering a ghost town, so I wander around thinking of how best to photograph a group of 75. I suddenly realized as I take a few snapshots of the room, how much I have grown as a photographer. Much like the Presidio I have transformed myself into something half commercial and half artistic.

X-rays, Pat-Downs and Beyond

Family law court is always a nice change of pace from the usual parade of (cha-ching) attorneys in the Valley. During the drive to Sacramento, I can't stop thinking about taking lunch and buying some olive-oil bottles and checking out a mandoline slicer.

I am about a half an hour early and I enter the courtroom at the tail end of the “calendar.” The last case is reminiscent of Kramer v. Kramer without the kid and without the humor. Ok, so it’s nothing at all like the movie, but the mom is asking the judge to extend her restraining order against the dad. The judge spends the next five minutes citing all the different things that would violate the order and then asks the dad if he’s ok with that. He says “Yeah” and exits visibly upset.

After some photos of the judge, I head over to the Third District Court of Appeal, where the security is lax and the judges are high profile. I am amazed at the disparity in security at courthouses. At the family law court, I am scanning my baggage and being questioned; now I am simply telling the lone, bored guard that I’m here to shoot photos of so-and-so. My bags don’t even get noticed as I am led upstairs and ushered into the judge's chambers.