the state we're in

I think what I like most about film photography is the delayed gratification it requires.  Will my shots turn out well?  Are they composed and exposed decently?  Who knows.  Obviously there’s no doubt that digital will always be king… but I think that for me, every once in a while digital’s biggest benefit (instant feedback) can become one of its biggest  detriments by leading to perfectionism (“Just one more shot!”) or analysis paralysis.

“That’s just, like, [my] opinion, man.”  … but I’ve found myself feeling a little bit more carefree as I’ve shot film over the past 3 months, and I’ve felt a lot less self-imposed pressure.  I think it has a lot to do with the fact that film kind of forces you to move on… instead of affording “the opportunity” to capture and re-capture the moment in an attempt to make sure it’s perfect—when all of a sudden the moment has ceased and instead become the attempt to capture the moment.  (That’s So Raven Meta.*)

Anyway, back to film and back to the Perkeo II that I mentioned earlier this week.  The first grouping of photos below is from a trip to Austin to celebrate our anniversary last summer; the second is from our trip to Alaska in May.  (Hover over the photos for short descriptions.)  I’m a big fan of the sharpness and slightly desaturated colors that the Perkeo’s lens dishes out.

I’ve got a couple of big fall photo projects in mind and I’m looking forward to more delayed gratification as I work on them.

* (That was not very Raven.  My apologies.)

Over the past few years I’ve slowly been developing a love for vintage cameras.  The first vintage camera I found myself in possession of was a Kodak Autographic—given to me as a Christmas gift in 2004 by Jen.  (I should have proposed then and there.)  Sadly, film for this camera hasn’t been made in nearly 50 years, so I’ll likely never have the chance to shoot with it.

Fast forward to an antique store on S. Congress in Austin sometime in 2006.  Enter the Voigtlander Perkeo II.

Even though I’d never heard of the camera or its manufacturer, I had to pick it up because it was in such fantastic shape: the body was immaculate and the leather bellows were pristine, without any cracking (a problem common to vintage cameras). 

I quickly learned several things about the camera, namely that it’s fully manual—from focus to shutter speed to aperture—and that it uses medium format film (which is less common than 35mm film but still widely available).  It also has an uncoupled rangefinder, which in plain terms means what you see when you look through the camera is only a loose approximation of what the camera will record.  I also learned something about myself: I had no clue how to use this thing… and I was a bit intimidated by the fact that it was 100% manual.

I’ve found a way to test the limitations of the internet, and that is to try to find instructions on how to use a camera manufactured in Germany at least 55 years ago.  After months of on-again-off-again Googling (bookended by frustration and feelings of having wasted money a camera I could never use), I found a kind soul in the midwest who snail mailed me an instruction manual for my camera’s precursor, the Perkeo I.  The pages were stapled together in nearly random order, but it was enough of a start to get the film loaded properly, dial in the settings, and take a few test frames.

Several months ago I was finally lucky enough to stumble on a PDF scan of the Perkeo II’s manual.  There wasn’t really any revelatory information compared to that snail mailed photocopy, but the artfulness of its contents makes me smile.  The typography is mid-century to the max, and its language is just awkward enough to remind the reader that it’s not an American product.  The illustrations are clean, photorealistic, and industrious—just look at the photographer’s furrowed brow and surly hairdo: 

I’ve managed to run 3 or 4 rolls of film through the camera and am really impressed with its optical quality.  I’ll share some of the highlights in a separate post.  It’s a bit of a chore to use, but it’s a lot of fun and a challenging way to make photographs.

Have you visited Ming Makes Cupcakes?  If not, you owe it to yourself to go there rightnow.  I don’t know Ming, but I marvel at her creativity and focus!  The website is beautiful, the recipes approachable (or maybe just small?) and the photos practically edible.  In case you need a visual tease, who could resist these?

Mango Cupcakes with Buttercream Frosting & Coconut

Blueberry Cupcakes with Maple Brown Butter Frosting

Vanilla Cupcakes with Lemon Filling & Meringue Frosting

Flourless Beet Chocolate Cupcakes with (pink!) Whipped Cream

Well, what are you waiting for?  Visit Ming!

Work has been a roller coaster over the past four weeks, and the peaks haven’t been too high.  On the one hand, the project I’ve been spending time on has been pretty cool and imminently useful, and I’ve been the first of my department to dip my toes into a newish programming framework.  That’s been a breath of fresh air, and useful to me and to the software I’m writing.  But on the other hand, in different areas of this task’s parent project I’ve had a couple of false starts and a rug or two pulled out from under me.  Don’t get me wrong — I usually like what I do, and I like my coworkers a lot… but it’s hard to feel like the work you’re doing is necessary or even valuable when things of this nature happen one right after the other.

This certainly isn’t a new feeling — at one time or another, everyone has ideas whose legs are swept out from underneath them, right?  Last week I heard a song that crystallized these feelings perfectly, and at the perfect time.  That song was “When My Time Comes” by Dawes, and when I heard it my first thought was “Where’s this song been for the past month?”  It has a certain anthemic quality that I think we can all identify with, and my ears are addicted to the sloooooow triplets in the chorus’s drum fill.  The song’s video is equally great, thanks to its vintage tones, its Cool Hand Luke reference, and the sun-drenched backlighting used in so many shots.

More than anything, though, the lyrics really resonated with me due to the situation I’ve found myself in and some of the feelings I’ve described above.  I like the incessant struggle that it portrays: we work… we toil… we think we’re capable of accomplishing great things or that we’re owed success… and yet our best-laid plans can see themselves deflated and discarded through no fault of our own in seconds flat.

“What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun?  A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever.

I saw all the work of God, that man cannot find out the work that is done under the sun.  However much man may toil in seeking, he will not find it out.  Even though a wise man claims to know, he cannot find it out.”

— Ecclesiastes 1:3-4, 8:17

Thanks to our small group I’ve been a little bit obsessed with taco trucks lately.  They’re cheap, authentic, completely delicious, and quickly becoming ubiquitous in certain parts of Fort Worth.  Now, you may hesitate and call them “roach coaches;” I will point to the health department certificate with one hand and cradle a box full of piping hot tacos al pastor with the other.  Their warm corn tortillas, heavy doses of cilantro and onions, and quartered lime are a siren’s song to my stomach.

I got an oil change over my lunch break and was disproportionately excited to see a new tenant in its parking lot—a big white taco truck who had definitely seen some glory days.  Here’s hoping it’s still there in another 3000 miles.

Kendrick and I were so fortunate to be able to attend a Weekend to Remember marriage conference this past weekend.  It was an incredible weekend of learning, conviction, and connection that I think will really “stick to our ribs,” if you will.

But all of that was threatened on Friday afternoon as I faced a major blow-up at the office.  I won’t go into any details (it sounds more impressive if I leave it shrouded in mystery), but regardless of how major or minor it actually was, it felt MAJORURGENTMELTDOWNANDPANICNOW! In fact, the last thing I did before I hurried out that afternoon to pick up a friend and leave town was listen to a partner in our firm rant to me about how pissed off he was, angrily searching for someone to blame.  And although his anger wasn’t pointed at me, I was the lucky recipient all the same.

I was shaking when I got to my car, overcome with fear, anxiety and guilt (is it possible I could have done something 6 months ago to prevent the present crisis?  it’s possible).  I wasn’t sure how I was going to calm down and enjoy the weekend, but God was so gracious.  At 6:30pm on Friday, as we were pulling into the conference hotel, I got a very calming phone call from the most unlikely source–my boss.  His lack of concern over the situation was just what I needed to put my mind at ease and I was filled me with gratitude for the reminder of how the Lord cares for us in the details of our lives.

I loved the weekend, even knowing that the crisis was waiting for me back at the office.  I was convicted by this quote from David Martyn Lloyd-Jones in our weekend workbooks: “Faith is the refusal to panic,” and I had some of my favorite girls praying Isaiah 30:15 for me as I returned to work: “This is what the Sovereign LORD, the Holy One of Israel, says: ‘In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength…’”  My lingering anxiety revealed my small faith, but I truly did find peace and grace in repentance.

via D.Fletcher

Finally, on our way into downtown this morning, I saw the faintest rainbow up in the sky.  Immediately, my heart swelled and I remembered God’s promise of protection.  This time, instead of anxiety, I was overcome with peace and a certainty that God would resolve this situation in his compassion and sovereignty.  I didn’t know what that would look like, but I received His promise and let go of all my worrying and striving.

I love searching the sky for God’s handiwork and have a (not always appreciated) habit of exclaiming wildly (some might say dramatically) when I catch sight of a pretty moonscape.  My habit of claiming the rainbow as a personal promise to me is pretty new, but I think it’s biblical and I think it makes God happy when we hear His voice and remember His promises.  How does God speak to you through creation?

By the way, I’m happy to report that, as of lunchtime today, the issue has been resolved and is now in my rearview mirror.  Tied up neatly with a bow.

I have set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between Me and the earth.
Genesis 9:13

Have you ever loved a friend more than they loved you?  Is that one of those seemingly solitary experiences that’s actually much more universal than it feels?

Have you ever let that experience make you feel intrinsically unlovable?  I was deep in that crummy spot recently.  I opened my heart to God, desperate for some perspective and for reassurance.  What came to me were the words of an old hymn.

“Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full in His wonderful face.
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.”

I thought that was such a tender way to pull me out of my pity party and remind me of the one true source of unfailing love.  As I focused on Christ, I felt washed in His love and mercy as the pain of this earthly relationship became blurry and slipped out of focus.  I still want a deeper relationship with this person, but I’m no longer looking at myself through the lens of that insufficiency and (perceived) judgment.  I can be content with less than I would like when I focus instead on the MORE I have in Christ.  He takes me from insufficiency to “my cup overflows;” from longing for deeper connection to being fully known inside and out; from questioning my worth to knowing I am fearfully and wonderfully made, fully known and fully loved; from feeling sorry for myself to worshiping and reveling in Him.

He’s awesome like that.

As the deer pants and longs for the water brooks, so I pant and long for You, O God.  My inner self thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and behold the face of God?…Why are you cast down, O my inner self? And why should you moan over me and be disquieted within me? Hope in God and wait expectantly for Him, for I shall yet praise Him, Who is the help of my countenance, and my God.
Psalm 42:1-2, 11

This is a pretty common sight in our household: one of us perched precariously on the edge of what is clearly Harvey’s rolly chair.  He generously gives us a few inches of real estate up front so we can sit at the desk, too.  You can tell he’s pretty put out by it though.

Even my adorable 6 year old nephew, Jeb, had something to say about it when he came to visit recently. “Don’t sit in the rolly chair,” he whispered urgently and conspiratorially to my mother-in-law. “You’ll get white all over your pants!”

It might be time to pull out the vacuum cleaner if…your cleaning habits are (innocently) criticized by a 6 year old boy.  As a general rule, they’re not exactly known for being fastidious, are they?

ps. “Vacuum” is one of those words I always, always, always misspell on the first go round.

I played soccer for the first time when I was 5.  My team, the Blue Angels, won nearly every game, if memory serves me.  (… and after each game, my coach would give each player a pack of Garbage Pail Kids cards as a congratulatory gift.  Mine were summarily thrown away and replaced with baseball cards from Circle K, which was my foot in the door to loving another beautiful game, but that’s neither here nor there.)

The Blue Angels were good—really good.  At the tender age of 6, I joined my next team—the Bears.  The Bears lost every game and were an utter mess, and it didn’t take more than a few games before we saw the humor in it and gave ourselves another moniker.

If anyone would have swept soccer under the rug and moved on to something else, it would have been a member of the Bad News Bears.  But not this kid.  My love of the beautiful game has been mercurial at times, but like a long strip of toilet paper on the bottom of an unwitting shoe, soccer has stuck to me ever since.

Since J and I don’t have cable—much less the special sports tier on which I could follow my favorite European teams—it can be a bit tough to keep up with things in the soccer world.  Reading online about a low header that hits the back of the net off of a beautifully curving corner kick just doesn’t have the same allure as actually seeing it in the context of the game.  Fortunately, the more I think about it, the more our lack of cable may contribute to the poorly-throttled excitement and exhilaration I feel every fourth summer when the World Cup is around the corner.

With that exhilaration in mind, and with the World Cup less than a day away, I wanted to recap some of my memories from the last several World Cups.

1994: “My salad days, when I was green in judgment…”  The US hosted the Cup, made it to the Round of 16 and was ousted by Brazil.  That we were eliminated on the 4th of July—while my cousins and I ran back and forth between a swimming pool and the broadcast—just added insult to injury.  The national team’s uniforms were a disgrace (see below).  Alexi Lalas’s hair and goatee were decidedly not a disgrace (see below).  I watched the final between Brazil and Italy at Gran’s, and Brazil won on penalty kicks (letdown).  A couple of my friends got really lucky and were able to see Spain and South Korea play at the Cotton Bowl early on in the Cup, and I envied them for it… especially the one that wasn’t even a soccer fan!

1998: France hosted the World Cup in ‘98, which was convenient because I spent much of the summer of ‘98 in France through a short-term exchange program.  I didn’t get to attend any of the games since none were being played in Normandy, but the experience of watching games in French with 6 to 10 crazed Frenchmen and women was one I’ll never forget.  France won the Cup that year, of course, on the shoulders of an epic performance in the final by Zinedine Zidane.  As fate would have it, my exchange partner and I watched the final in English in Texas with 6 to 10 Americans.  It wasn’t quite the same experience.

2002: With the Cup being played in Japan & South Korea, games routinely kicked off between 2 and 4 am.  Additionally, my roommates and I didn’t have ESPN.  Obviously, the only sane solution was to wake up in the middle of the night and drive across town to a friend’s apartment to watch the games.  It was worth it, since the US beat a once-in-a-generation Portugal team that many picked to win the Cup.  Thanks to a second Portugal loss at the hands of South Korea, the US squeaked into the Round of 16 to face Mexico.  Our glory in shutting out El Tri was short-lived, however, as we were snuffed out by Germany in the quarterfinals.  Reigning champs France self-destructed completely and were eliminated without scoring a single goal!

2006: J and I got married in the summer of 2006, and the World Cup started while we were on our honeymoon.  Naturally I wasn’t able to see many games during the group stages.  We honeymooned in a tiny village in northern Italy, and with the Azzuri fielding a strong team (if not a boring one), there was a lot of excitement around.  On a night halfway through the group stage, we walked into the town square to find a big projection screen set up with a couple hundred frenzied soccer fans watching a broadcast—I felt like I had been cast 50 years back in time, and I still grin ear-to-ear when I think of it.  I also recall taking a day trip to Verona, where we saw a bunch of US fans draped in US flags, sitting at a cafe gathered around a television, while they were ribbed & heckled by the other 95% of the crowd.  The back-and-forth between the US fans and everyone else was good-natured and really funny.

2010: There are a lot of good players out with injuries, but this year still has me feeling all tingly.  Obviously Spain is poised to go deep in the tournament, if not win it outright.  They have blazing speed and rare talent at nearly every position.  Their midfield is All-Universe (Xavi, Andrés Iniesta, Cesc Fàbregas) and they have two of the best strikers in Europe (Fernando Torres and David Villa).

One of my favorite players and in my opinion the best striker in the world is Argentinean Lionel Messi.  Check out this video and try and tell me this guy won’t have a strong Cup.  I would say 40% of the goals in this clip were literally undefendable.

If you’re feeling uninterested in the Cup, or overwhelmed at the number of players you know nothing about, or disconnected because soccer isn’t popular in the US, I urge you to simply consider the drama.  Spain is a powerhouse, but they are beatable—even by a good-but-not-great US team, who defeated them last year in the Confederations Cup.  I dare you to watch the highlights of that game below and not get sucked into the drama…

… and remember that games with this much drama, tension, and excitement occur almost daily during the World Cup.