ImageGuy

Tattoos were once the identifiers of sailors, and convicts, and exotic misfits of side shows. Today tattoos are body art, adornment, jewelry, fashion statements, symbols of life events or memories, or milestones. I thought about getting a tattoo for a long time. When I was in my twenties I got my ear pierced as an artistic statement. I quit wearing the earring when I was about fifty. It just annoyed me. But I watched my daughter get several tattoos, multiple ear piercings. As a photographer I have photographed a number of beautiful tattooed women. I attended the tattoo show in Syracuse last year looking at various artists’ booths and books of their work. I thought about subject. What statement did I wish to make? What did this mean to me? What design did I want permanently on my body?

I settled on a line of Tibetan Sanskrit calligraphy, the mantra “Om, mani padme houm”. I chose this because visually, the calligraphy itself is so beautiful. And because the mantra is something to center and focus the minds direction when repeated. It translates roughly as, first, “Om”, the sacred syllable, the sound to bring your “self” to a sacred place. “Mani padme” translates to the jewel in the lotus. And “houm” to the achievement of enlightenment.

I printed out a copy of the calligraphy and placed it in a drawer in my studio. I took it out and looked at it often, but it sat in the drawer for three years. When I turned seventy years old, I took out the print and said to myself, what in the world are you waiting for? If you want the tattoo, go and get it. So, the next day I went to the shop in town that had the best online reviews and I made an appointment for the following day and we added my mantra to my left arm.

After finally getting the tattoo, I felt elated. Why had I waited so long? I loved the way this looked, but still did not know what it would come to mean. While sitting chatting with the tattoo artist, I spoke of another idea I had for the opposite arm. I am a photographer and I shoot with Canon cameras. My last name also happens to be Cannon. I talked about getting another tattoo on my right arm of the Canon logo, and of course his suggestion to me of doing the logo but spelling it like my own name made perfect sense, Duh! So, after waiting three years to adorn myself with the first tattoo, I added the second one only three weeks later. The first tattoo was my serious tattoo. This tattoo was for fun.

I discovered later, as I stood at the sink one night washing the dishes, that I see both tattoos clearly as I work and they are so satisfying to me to look at. And I as looked at these two tattoos I realized what they symbolize and encourage me to do. The left arm with the mantra reminds me every day to stay focused and grounded and kind. To be compassionate to others. Something I need to hold on to desperately these days when the news every morning can make me so angry and tense and judgmental. But then I look at the other arm. And this tattoo makes me smile, and says to me, “yeah, do that compassion thing, but do it with a fucking sense of humor!”

They have changed my life.

Imageguy

I don’t generally use this blog to say anything political. But what I want to relate is more about what can happen to one’s spirit in the current political climate. In the past year I have made major changes in my life that have not only helped save my own spirit, and by spirit, I mean my happiness, my life force, my willingness to be human and compassionate and grounded on this planet. But what I have noticed is that, so much of the stresses and anger and hostility that was creeping into my everyday life was because of what is happening in this country as a result of this President and all the people who are supporting him and defending his actions and lack of any coherent leadership ability.

I stopped watching the news except to only catch just enough to know what’s going on. I get the Sunday Times. I trust the Times. I also stopped watching as much TV and just don’t have it on most of the time. So often, I would just leave it on in the background at home. But now it’s either music, or silence. As a result of not watching the news and other shows I have no interest in, I have time to play my guitar, or read. But I still often listen to the news in the car while driving. I listen, and I get tense, and I get angry, and I begin to get impatient with people on the road, and I yell at the radio and at the people that are talking. And I get to work with a knot at the back of my neck and my fist clenched.

Here’s what can happen. A couple of weeks before Christmas, I was driving to the local grocery store to get a muffin for breakfast on my way to work. As usual I had the radio on listening to CNN and it was the daily dose of the Washington crazies. Again, it had me angry by the time I turned into the driveway of the store parking lot. It was just before seven in the morning and the parking lot was empty for the most part. I drove down the driveway between the parking spaces, expecting to take the last one on the right, nearest the store entrance. Like most parking lots, the marked spaces are such that as you pull into a space on your side, there is another opposing space in front of you for someone pulling in from the opposite driveway.

As I approached the parking space there was another car entering the parking lot from a lower driveway entrance, driving toward my direction.  I expected he would take the opposite parking space since he would enter from that side, and I began to turn into the parking place on my side of the driveway. Rather than stop at the first parking space he entered, the other driver pulled all the way through taking the spot I was already poised to enter on my side. I had to hit my brakes and actually back up in order to be able to take the next adjacent parking slot. This, of course, really ticked me off and as I pulled in past the other driver I was screaming and gesturing at him in my window to let him know how upset I was at his lack of courtesy.

I went into the store a bit behind him since he exited his car first. As we entered, he turned right through produce and I went left to the bakery. I never saw his face except briefly in the dark through the car widows. As I was walking back to the register, the man approached me in the same isle. I stared straight into his eyes as we neared each other. He looked casual, but then as he neared me he said, “Is there a problem?”. Still seething inside from the episode in the parking lot, I looked straight at him and said, “You’re a fucking prick!” and walked past him. He looked back and simply said, “well have a good day”.

I paid for my muffin and walked out the door into the street light of the parking lot only to find the offending car had already left. It was like a punch in the gut. The man I had just so rudely insulted was not the man from the parking lot. He was a totally innocent person in the store whom I so quickly took out my anger on. I was so humiliated and sorry and ashamed of my behavior. Too ashamed I got in my car and drove on to work. I can never apologize to this stranger. But the lesson for me was monumental and so necessary.

In looking back and understanding the progress of that morning, I have come to see so clearly how the current political climate is destroying the fabric of our society and will ultimately destroy our spirit as well. The needs of this planet, and the needs of humanity have got to become the guiding principle of the future generations if there is to be a future. The anger and divisiveness and lack of compassion that has swallowed our government will damage democracy and affects all our lives in destructive ways. Politicians that thrive on constant reelection by doing favors and making promises to donors while ignoring the fact that they are there to represent not only their donors, but ALL the people of their districts or states, must be replaced. The selfishness and greed and loyalty to party over the best interests of the entire country and the world has to change.

Encourage anyone you know to vote. Please vote. In the interest of saving the nation, the world, and the planet and your own spirit. Australia is burning while the seas are rising and the reefs are dying. More young soldiers are being sent to the Middle East. Whose children are these? Trillions of dollars are spent on war with what resolution other than death and destruction and hardship and profits of defense contractors and oil industries. Nations around the world with foresight are converting their societies to be planet friendly and renewable. The oceans are full of plastics. The Amazon is being destroyed for hamburgers. The world is in crisis and crying out for the salvation of spirit. I treasure the words of native American sages who understood that we are not the owners of this planet, we share it with every other living creature. Our responsibility is to be kind to it and every being and thing on it, to treasure it, and be grateful.

Peace.

I recently came across some writings from about 12 years ago. Thought I would post them.  I call them “Short Short Stories”. This first one is called:

Broken Bread

Jack sat nervously, squirming in his chair like a six-year-old. He fidgeted with the silverware while he scanned the room. He had never done this before, a blind date. His self-esteem was on the line here. Although he felt like he already knew Becky well after so many emails and so much shared information over the internet. Jack was not an unattractive guy, in fact he was what some might consider a pretty good catch. He was in relatively good physical shape for a guy of 40, maybe a little thick around the middle, but still well toned and a fairly good tan. He played tennis and golf, and ran a couple of times a week. His hairline was receding slightly, but by no stretch was he balding. He was a good dresser and drove a two-year-old Pontiac Grand Prix. He had money in the bank and a low interest mortgage on a three-bedroom house in Rochester. He had been single for twelve years, having divorced his first wife after she had a two-year affair with a guy from the tire shop. But he was very nervous about meeting Becky face to face. He hadn’t dated much since splitting with his ex-wife and this was a big step for him. Maybe she wasn’t going to show. She was already fourteen minutes late.

“Can I get you something else while you wait, sir?”

“Um….uh, no….thank you, no….water’s fine…thanks.”

Jack sipped his glass of water to ease his dry mouth. As he looked over the top of the glass he noticed a woman entering the restaurant. It must be her. Becky was dressed in a deep red wrap dress pulled snugly around her petite waist. The front was fairly low cut revealing a slight cleavage and a simple gold necklace. Her hair was up for the warm weather and showed her graceful neck and small ears. Jack thought she was stunning. He took another sip of his water. She looked about and spotted Jack sitting across the room. She smiled and he immediately smiled back with a wide grin. She strode gracefully over to his table and leaned forward as he began to stand.

“Jack?”

“Yes, yes. Becky!”

“Oh, God, I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

She stepped around the side chair and hugged his neck as he stood up. He hugged her back feeling so relieved that she was indeed not afraid to come so close at their first meeting. The apprehension drained from Jack in a moment and they both sat, Becky still holding on to his hand.

“I’m terribly sorry to be late. The taxi was late and I tried to get him to hurry, but…oh well, here I am.”

“It’s fine. It’s fine. Not to worry.”

She asked how the trip up to Toronto was, the traffic is so bad on the Queensway. He commented on how beautiful she looked causing her to blush slightly. They spoke with such familiarity and interest that they almost didn’t notice the waiter. Jack ordered the chicken club with iced tea, Becky, the shrimp salad and a chardonnay. They lingered for about two hours over lunch talking as though they were long time friends that had not seen each other for years. There was chemistry. A definite physical tension. In fact, Jack wanted to kiss her so bad he could hardly stand it. When she looked into his eyes, he could feel the heat rise in his face. Jack felt like a high school boy with his first crush. This woman was perfect. This woman was the one he wanted. And he could tell that her feelings for him were strong as well. They touched again and again at the table and he felt as though he would explode if he couldn’t find someplace to be alone with her. Then risking it all, Jack asked, “I’m going to Chicago in two weeks. Go with, won’t you?”

Jack’s heart was racing. Please say yes.

“I’d love to go with you, Jack. But I’m afraid my husband might object.”

–Imageguy

Everything Has A Story

I was standing in the living room tonight looking around at the objects that represent so many years of my life.  And I began to see everything in the room as a story. The furniture pieces each represent not only a period in my life, but transitions in style, and associations with people who have been impactful in my life. There are objects that date back to my childhood. Odd how these few specific things meant enough to cling to them through so many years and transitions. And every single thing can simply take your mind somewhere filled with memories of everything from emotions, to music, to smells, to relationships, to milestones, to meaningful times.

Stories are the things we surround ourselves with to live in the comfort of who we are and how we got here today. They are things that give us pleasure to simply be around. I have, like so many people, a collection of things on my refrigerator. Things that make me smile. Things that remind me to be better every day. And I have another collection strung across the wall behind my work station in my office at home. I look at these stories and can, for a moment, experience the joy of those moments, the satisfaction of something beautiful, the inspiration of a quote.

This “story line” on my wall begins with one of my best friends in the world, closest thing I still have to a brother now. He’s wearing his Indiana Jones hat, a lanyard around his neck with his badge and we are sitting at the hot air balloon festival in Albuquerque, waiting for the evening light show. I met this guy at a photo workshop week on a farm in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, August of 1978.  And the story goes on from there.

Next is a picture from the gulf coast of Florida, one of my favorite spots in the world. I first visited there in about 1971. The picture is of a huge billowing cumulus cloud over a small bluff on the beach. There are many branches to this story, but mostly it lets me revisit the warm breezes and the smell of the salt air.

Then there’s a small version of a picture I have framed in my living room. The side of a warehouse/factory in Waverly, NY taken on a summer Sunday morning, just out driving where ever it felt right.

This is followed by a comical picture of my close friend and employer at a trade show after packing up at the end. Tired, hungry, he’s eating a round mint from a small package which he is holding up. The package says FREEMAN. On his forehead is a large warning sticker in bold red letters that says, “EMPTY Do Not Destroy”. A funny story, a stair-step in a long flight of many shows and hotel rooms and meals in over-priced restaurants waiting in airports.

Beside that is tacked an inspiration. “You know those things you’ve always wanted to do? You should go do them.” This is my current story.

Then the photo of my daughter in her Cleveland Cavaliers jacket with her long straight blond hair when she was dancing with the Cavs Girls. She was home for a brief stay and I managed to corral her in the studio. Not enough of these stories to suite me these days, but her spirit resides on my wall and smiles at me. One of my favorite photos of her.

On the opposite side of my monitor is another favorite of my daughter. The story here is rich with memories. Cape Cod, standing barefoot on a rock. Wearing a pale blue skirt, white top, long dirty blond hair half way down her back, Maybe nine years old. Sunset at her back. Staring out at the open ocean and pebbly shore. That’s a wonderful story.

Beside it hangs a key ring made in after school program with letter beads that say DAD.

My house sigil hangs next. G-O-T. House Cannon. I adopted the Targaryen three headed dragon. And it bears my motto – Born In Pain – Live In Fear—Die Alone. Now that’s a funny story.

The final item on the “story line” is a wonderful hand made birthday card from an intern who I worked with. She was an art student. And she drew a picture of Jimmy Stuart’s face from It’s A Wonderful Life with a quote from the movie when Clarence told George Bailey, “You’ve been given a great gift George. The chance to see the world without you in it.” She will never know how much I love this card. I’ve probably had it for 15 years and I treasure it as much as any piece of art I own.

Take an afternoon by yourself and just stand in a quiet space and look at the stories around you. The memories, the connections, the experiences, the joy. If the things you surround yourself with cannot tell you stories, then it’s time to create some.

Peace.

Imageguy—

When we live in a place for a year or five years or ten years or more, the familiarity of the place closes our eyes to exploration and discovery and this becomes our default. We’ve seen this, a thousand times. We could draw it from memory. We could follow the path blind-folded. And blind-folded is what we become.

Hartford, CT

Burano, Italy

So it is important to regularly go someplace different. Physically, mentally, spiritually, by what ever path you wish to take there.  Staying creative requires a detour.

Columbus, OH

Alys Beach, FL

I take vacations in order to immerse myself in someplace entirely different from my default. I often get off the interstate at a random exit just to drive a visually different route. We can stimulate creativity by simply changing something from the norm. Even small things. Use a different bath soap. Put on music you’ve never listened to. Turn off everything that makes noise and just be quiet. Rearrange the furniture.

Santa Fe, NM

Bilbao, Spain

Venice, Italy

I live in upstate New York. But I grew up in the South. I always expected New York to be a state of cities and buildings and traffic. But when I came here and found a state of farm land and forests, of mountains and lakes and gorges, I was totally surprised. I have been fortunate enough to be able to travel a bit. I love to drive. In 1986 I drove 9000 miles in four weeks, down the east coast, across the south all the way to Death Valley and Yosemite, then back across the middle of the country. I’ve been to New Orleans and Sante Fe four times. I’ve visited Florida more times than I can count. I’ve been to Toronto and Seattle, Chicago and St. Louis.  I’ve been to Honolulu and the Virgin Islands, I’ve driven around the perimeter of Nova Scotia. I’ve been to Germany, and Spain, and Italy. And every place, above all else, was “not here”. It was someplace different.

Pittsburg, PA

New Orleans, LA

The stimulus of new surroundings emboldens us to think differently, to try new things, to enrich our lives and educate our minds, to dissolve away the boredom and forget the annoyances. But for me, more than anything, it is visual discovery. New architecture, different faces, the sun is at a new angle and the houses are painted bright colors. The street is painted with history. The children have dark skin and the markets look nothing like where I usually shop. The landscape is jungle like or barren and hot. There is a bird I have never seen. There are fishermen in small boats. There are farm lands on terraces. It is discovery, it is different, it is new and exciting, it is awakening and rejuvenating.

Sedona, AZ

Zion National Park, UT

Regularly, take yourself someplace different. Walk a different route to someplace in your routine. Dive headlong into a new novel. Take a class in something you have no knowledge of. Surprise yourself. Life is an adventure. Venture someplace different. You’ll be glad.

Imageguy

In 2015 I published a retrospective book of photographs looking all the way back to 1973 when I took the plunge into serious photography. I had decided that I needed a way to document and preserve pictures that I felt were important images and also represented my own growth as an artist. Pictures are remarkable in the way they refresh memories and, particularly when you are the photographer, can take you back to feelings, smells, sounds, friendships, music, state of mind, all the sensual notations that are attached to memories.

The book ended up being 400 pages and felt to me like an accomplishment and a milestone. At over 40 years of photography, that works out to less than 10 images per year.  Doesn’t seem like much. But after 40 years it becomes a body of work with styles and transitions, it develops cohesive patterns, and it makes a statement.

In planning my next book, I began looking back over old image files to seek specific examples of images. Doing so led me to look at many images that I had bypassed, dismissing as “not my favorite”.  I discovered a great many images that, on second look were worthy of attention. I found these pictures by eliminating the noise around them, making them very singular, and by making them as large as possible on the screen of my monitor.

I viewed them on a black background, large, sometimes with a white matte as if they were framed.  It’s amazing what a difference it makes. It’s like listening to a piece of music in a restaurant then putting on headphones.  Usually when editing pictures, I’m looking at many small images in a grid or even if I am looking at a singular image, there are menus and tool bars. All of these things are visual distractions. To really see the image, it needs to be the only thing on the screen. Then something changes.

A friend was recently over for dinner and I held him captive to show him prints of past work (I’ve been on a printing binge). I was so delighted when he paused and commented on one image that is one of my favorites, so much so that I have it framed on the wall in my bedroom. It is a simple architectural shot of the steps of the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain. I was glad that it affected him. Where for me, it has the same appeal as well as all the memories of the trip, the museum, the day I shot it, the weather, the feel of Spain, so many things attached to that photograph that I alone own.

Happy New Year!

Imageguy – –

Adult art ahead.

I just published what I believe is my 15^th book. I publish at least one book per year to stay creative as a portfolio piece. This book, like the previous one, deals with nudes. Last year I published two books. Le Femme, a book of portraits of young women, and Le Femme 2, a book of studio nudes, pin-ups and lingerie photographs. I also do a lot of digital abstract art that derives from photographs. This year’s book combines the studio nude with abstract art and digital manipulation. It is titled COLOR NUDES.

I have spent about three years photographing models in the studio, most of whom are not professionals, but simply young women interested in the experience and in earning some extra money. The images used in COLOR NUDES begin as studio nudes and are then processed though numerous digital techniques and soft wares to achieve an image that pleases me.

Usually there will be multiple variations of the image altering color and techniques to achieve different looks. Every image is an experiment. I use similar techniques from picture to picture, but the various steps will never be the same from one picture to the next. I am usually always surprised at some point in the process with a sudden change that makes me just say “yes!”.

I believe most artists must feel similarly when painting, drawing, or photographing someone who is nude that it is a rather intimate experience, a sharing between the artist and the subject that extends beyond cordiality. I have come to greatly appreciate the confidence, the strength, the frankness, the self-assured beauty of these young models. They have offered their bodies as canvas for me and allowed me the opportunity to present them as interpretations of the female form.

One of the techniques I use creates what I call “digital solarization”.  If you have ever seen a solarized black and white photograph like those by Man Ray, you know what I mean.

Next year’s book is already underway. It will be different from all the other books I have done. There’ll be more about it as 2019 unfolds.

All of my books (most of them anyway) are available through Blurb.  http://www.blurb.com/user/preparator

All images are ©Imageguy Artbooks and George Cannon

Imageguy ––