Desert-ed

The desert of Nevada speaks to me in whispered tones. It is a silent, yet undeniable beauty. The subtletlies can be found in the creases and folds of the earth and rock. The nuance is in the shades of gold and the hues of pinks and blues. The color pallette is striking, and I am enthralled by its complexities.

It is hot. Degrees in the hundreds. I am summoned by the scorching heat to stay still and to pay attention. The mechanics of my body are on overdrive as my hypothalamus adjusts accordingly. I notice every bead of persperation trickling down my back creating a capillary network of tiny watermarks. It is monsoon season, they tell me. So nightfall brings welcome relief. Soft breezes that make the curtains dance and come to life. Just cool enough for an extra light layer of clothing. Cool enough to sleep peacefully through the night.

Upon the sun's return, you awake from its piercing stare through the window cracks. Sharp rays slicing through the cool air inside. Reminding you that the desert awaits. Daring you to come out and play.

Sucker Punch Love

Aside from hiking and swimming, and let's not forget ridiculous-distance-cycling, boxing has also become my current favorite way to let off steam during the week. I do it three times a week, an hour each session, at a club just down the road from me. It's not a serious I-wanna-be-a-boxer kind of ordeal, but more boxing-as-a-way-to-get-fit. There's no way I'm ok with getting socked in the face on a regular basis. Brain damage is not in my cards, and nor are any serious joint injuries. I also think I have a funny enough nose, so there's no need to subject it to potential wreckage.

Apart from the immediate fitness and health benefits, the most appealing thing about boxing is the extremely cathartic effect of beating the shit out of a heavy duty bag. Beating it until your sides hurt; your lungs gasping for air at the brink of collapse; your heart rate shooting through the roof, running its own side marathon. With every punch I try to give it my all--but I don't just throw wide and unruly punches. I love that there's structure, guidelines and technique. This makes it all the more satisfying. I see the big guys throw their entire weight into those bags without a care in the world for how it really should be done. To be honest, they don't look so good doing it--they resemble lethargic giants bashing clumsily into the bag. A far cry from the grace and speed of Muhammad Ali.

So there you have it: the ultimate combination of strength, stamina and technique is what makes boxing more than just a sport, but a discipline. An incredibly fun one too. I can walk into a class feeling less than adequate, and walk out after with a buzz letting in only good and positive vibes to the rest of my day. I am also so much more productive, and surprisingly less aggressive. My demons have left the building.

The Tourist

The Tourist, Santa Monica Pier (2010), 35 mm film

I received an interesting commentary from a friend last night about the photography section I recently added to my website. It was mostly good feedback, until he got to the one photograph that baffled him so much he had to ask me why the hell I decided to include it in my online portfolio. He was very honest about his dislike for this photograph (above). Too mundane and ordinary, he said. A photograph he could have easily taken himself. It was pretty obvious that this picture rattled him a bit--especially since my other photographs are, apparently, beautiful.

It was a brief yet very important conversation to be had. Like most artists, I really enjoy conversations of this nature with fellow artists and friends about my work. The more questioning, inquisitive and challenging, the better. Brutal honesty never hurts. Diverse perspectives is my bread and butter. As long as it is coming from a genuine place that seeks to nurture my artistic strides, and not to hammer me down for no good reason at all. Though I could easily handle the latter--I've grown thick enough skin to yield to outrageously negative criticism like a memory foam mattress. But it just seems unnecessary at this point.

The thing about this photo which I found hard to explain to my friend (English isn't his first language either, so double challenge) is that I really do love it. I suppose in a similar fashion to the love and adoration dog owners have towards some of the most grotesque looking and yappiest canine companions of the world. How the hell could they love such a monster? Well, they just do, ok? Ugly is the new Cute. Likewise, I feel a certain personal connection to this one photograph. And I'm pretty sure that "ugly" and "mundane" has a lot to do with this intimacy.

The moment slightly before the click of the shutter and the realization of the photograph plays an important role too. I saw this woman and overheard her having a conversation with her little girl. They had British accents (cockney ones, not the Queen's), and were obviously tourists enjoying a day out at Santa Monica Pier--which happens to be one of the filthiest beaches in the LA county. Popular tourist destinations in wonderfully kitsch areas like Santa Monica Pier interest me. The mesh of people that congregate in these areas brings to life an otherwise depressing location.

The idea of kitsch in itself is of interest to me. That this cockney family decided to take a holiday in Santa Monica Pier, which resembles Coney Island in many ways, made the photo all the more perfect and delightfully stereotypical. The resulting image is a peephole into the lives of ordinary people and a commentary on how they choose to spend their leisure time. It is exactly mundane. And yes, anyone could have taken this photo. Hell, most people take way better photographs than I do and they don't go around calling themselves artists. But that's not the point now is it?

Take William Eggleston's work for example. One of my favorite (and the rest of the world's) photographers who works mostly in color film. Now granted, most of his images are arresting and have the alchemical power to turn ugly into beautiful. But he does have a collection of photographs that investigates the everyday lives of ordinary people, places and events. And some of them don't convey beauty in conventional ways either, and sews together an entirely different narrative altogether.

I suppose what I'm trying to do here is explain the motivation behind my photograph; why I was propelled to take the woman's picture and why it means a little more to me than a beautiful landscape shot of a coastline. Meaning is everything. And sometimes, a disconnection, like the one experienced by my friend who was thrown back by this photo in my otherwise pretty repertoire , is what makes the photograph unique; and possibly a little daring.

William Eggleston, 'Paris' (2006-2008) C-print

William Eggleston, 'Troubled Waters' (1980) Dye Transfer

Imaginarium

Down the West coast of California the ocean is speckled with small to medium sized rugged rock formations that look like giant reptiles submerged in the icy cold waters. Their thick scales protruding through the surface; their patterns mimicking nature. The low skies are thick with mist from morning dew that rests on the mountain tops like a heavy hood. I am stunned by the creatures I imagine lurking beneath my feet and in the water. I proceed with caution; treading ever so lightly, with bated breath, so as not to disturb their slumber. There is something about the smudged blues and grays in the horizon, their soft and glowing hues, deploring the sun's rays until they burst through and drip into the day. I can barely make out their beady eyes peering through the dark water that violently breaks against their bodies before reaching the shore where I stand. I can feel them through my toes.

Coastal Ride Through the Highs and the Low Tides

The ride by Big Sur on Highway 1

I've been biking nonstop since last Tuesday. It's been 6 days on the road. Averaging 40 miles a day of hillage and thigh pillage. Yesterday, I did 70 miles. From fog, through smog, up hills and down the rugged Pacific coastline. Campsites by the ocean with secret trails past bubbling brooks and into beaches of gray stone and giant rocks that look like submerged dinosaur parts. I am convinced, as Hawaiians are, that where fresh water meets salt water therein lies magical healing powers. This is where I've soaked my sore legs in the cool (actually, freezing) water by the ocean.

I am about 100 miles from my final destination: L.A. I am so proud of my right leg for making it through so far unscathed. Can't say the same for my left leg, which is now wrapped in a knee brace for extra support. I can't believe I managed my first full day of cycling (45 miles) oblivious to the existence of a lower gear on the bike I've borrowed for this trip. I felt like an idiot when I realized the next day that I didn't have to go through that much suffering if only I knew of the "secret lower gear". Day 2 was definitely a day of discovery. I also discovered that my bicycle seat was not in its optimal position. The burning crotch sensation was definitely mitigated by Day 3 due to proper seat positioning. Note to self: learn your bike before jetting off.

I'm amazed with what my body has been capable of. But even more amazed by the determination of fellow bikers who I've met along the way. "Santa Cruz to L.A." does not compare to "Vancouver to Mexico", or even "Florida to San Francisco". These are only some of the impressive routes other bikers have taken or are currently taking. Good people, good stock. I've been sore for the last 6 days, but buzzing with a high that's been my jet fuel propelling me to new places and new faces.

Off I Go

I'm turning 28 tomorrow, and instead of the usual birthday debauchery one would expect from a lass who's about to leave the dodgy confines of the "early-late-twenties" category (an unofficial category conceived by friends who refuse to let go of their twenties) into a world less sure of itself, I decided to go on a lactic acid bender rather than my usual pints of pilsner. Out goes the booze, in comes the pain and surprising (but delightful) realization that I feel fitter today than I did the day I turned 21. I am so confident of this that I decided to go on a 500 km bike tour down the coast with a good friend (who happens to be 21). Uh-oh. I better keep up with the pace!

So here is the grand plan: We're leaving tonight (in approximately 10 minutes) to drive down to Santa Cruz with our bikes--thus avoiding the harrowing hills of death between San Francisco and Half Moon Bay on Highway 1. We will begin our bike journey tomorrow early in the morn from Santa Cruz all the way down to L.A. hoping to make it in a few days and relishing in the glory of it all on Venice Beach. There are hiker/biker campsites along the way where we plan to hitch our tent and sleep under the starry night sky of southern California while dreaming of warm showers and hot meals.

I have never gone on a long-distance bike excursion before and I am thrilled to be doing it now. Aging is a constant reminder of our mortality; but new adventure and accomplishments never lets us forget the thrill of living.