Last year on this date...

... I was in a last minute decision to move from my beloved new studio. The roof leaked, the repairs were not being completed by the land lord, functionally nor esthetically. The Cafe downstairs had twice almost burned us out. All the people who had encouraged me to open a location so they could book, seemed to vanish into thin air so the money was not coming in as had been promised. I was continually having to transfer from other accounts to keep up. As much as I loved the studio idea, it was proving to be a bigger hassle in the long run. The fire threat was the most uncomfortable thing and it being an old building, it would have gone up in a flash.

I reluctantly had to give notice to my landlord. They were unsympathetic and cold. They were business owners. They did what they had to do to make their justifications and I ended up paying a bigger price tag than I ought to have, just to be free of the albatross. I called my commercial insurance provider and explained the issue, I had said my main concern was the fire hazard of an ill managed Cafe. My agent had scoffed at my concern. Shortly after all of my pricey gear was out of the loft, the Cafe below burnt to the ground. I called my agent to make sure my insurance had been switched to the new address. When she found out about the fire, she was silent and said she would never doubt my intuition again. To this day, I think there is only a shell on the lower floors.

I picked myself up by my bootstraps and forged ahead. Being a mobile photographer was where I started, so back to it I went. Recovering from the financial loss is still a burden I deal with daily. I learned to conservation picture frame from the very best of the best in that field to supplement my income, but the cost of getting to and from work everyday, wore on me, and my dreams of being the photographer I wanted to be were gradually slipping away.

Here we are today, with endless possibilities ahead. Press releases, articles to be published, events to attend and write about, world famous music producers that make extraordinary espresso, iconic authors with book launches, and photo sessions to edit and deliver. My life has been anything but ordinary to this point. In fact, I don't know that I'd be able to manage an ordinary lifestyle.

I have yet to turn down the fantastic offer of a job in Central America that I was heralded for earlier this year. I keep waiting for the City of Calgary, that I love so much, to yield the financial crop I had been hoping for. This abundance has eluded me thus far. The warm Caribbean breezes beckon me still, and every time I have to discount my work yet again, because someone does not value my skill, the call of the warm blue sea builds to a roar in my ears.

After trips to paradise and excursions abroad, I've learned that my skills are far more valuable everywhere but home. I can honestly say I know very few photographers who have said anything different. In fact, most of the musicians I know have the same conundrum. There is one blues artist here in town who had to fight for anyone to recognize him here, and no one paid him any mind until he was signed to a plum gig in the US. His voice is what I think soft butter would sound like if it could make a sound. He is smooth, yet powerful with his delivery. His band and their songs are clever and catchy, very tight musically. He had to be recognized by a foreign entity to be taken seriously here at home. Just for the record, I always knew he was gifted and made mention of it to him frequently enough.

 I have possibly secured an assignment that is turning out to be everything I had hoped for. I am at present waiting for the final word of a start date. It will take 6 months to complete. I'll be in the air more than I'll be on the ground, and maybe even getting paid enough to pay my rent. It is not based out of Calgary, or even Canada. If this is the way, why shouldn't I move to the Caribbean. I can work in every other country just as easily from there... but I love my condo on the river. I love my friends here, my kids are here, my life is here, there is just no regular work here for what I do.

In the end, unfortunately, one can not live on love alone in this society. I could be Buddha-like all I want, but my landlord still wants his rent cheque, the grocery store still wants to be paid for all the food, the electric company does not love me back, and my internet provider does not take trades for photography. Here is my question then... why do people want me to work for free or below standard prices if they themselves don't work for free?

Hey! Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

Weirdest photo shoot ever!!!!

I've photographed some pretty interesting things in the past. I'd have to say the most interesting was when Sheikh Hamad took Qatar from his father, Sheikh Khalifa in a 'peaceful' coup d'état. Don't remember what year that was, I think it was in 95. The kids and I were living on the 10th floor of the Sofitel Hotel in downtown Doha. From my hotel room, I could see the whole of the city including the Emiri Diwan. It was eerily quiet for a city that usually wakes up at 4am to beat the heat of the day before 8am. The ports were closed so we couldn't get much more than grilled cheese sandwiches and bottled water for 3 days. That was back when I used a film camera. But those details will be in the book with the pictures I took.

So yesterday, I had a last minute engagement shoot in between the buildings downtown. The couple showed up in separate vehicles, not unusual. They appeared happy and totally immersed in each other. He, a charismatic American upper middle class 30 ish, polished, and well dressed. She, a tall willowy model type, also attractive, polished and well dressed, definitely Western European, well educated, undetermined age due to exceptional plastic surgery. They seemed to need to touch each other, even just slightly through the whole consultation bit of 15 minutes or so. The photo session is going very well. They look like a Ralph Lauren/Vogue advertisement. Our lighting was perfect, their energy and infectious laughter made for easy pictures. They had obviously both been photographed often.

Towards the end of the photo session, a dark car slowly edges to a stop close to our chosen point of location. Two tall, Armani suits step out with briefcases and cell phones in holsters. If you asked me to describe their facial features, I couldn't. But if you looked in any fashion magazine for some square jawed young corinthians, you'd probably have it close enough.

They stand behind me, just watching and talking on their cell phones. Based on their body language and sharp tones, They could have been talking to each other on their cell phones for all I know. We take a 5 minute break and the suits step forward to confer with my male client. The intended bride retires to her car to touch up her make-up for the umpteenth time, and when she returns, the suited bookends, and her beloved, all with the movie star smiles, step over to speak with the future Mrs. beloved. They extract folders and documents and hand her a pen. She reads the first page and her face turned bright red.  She reads a little further, cursed in a couple of languages that I won't repeat, throws the documents at the three smiling underwear models, and storms off to her car. The bookends immediately get on the cell phones. She is now sobbing in the back seat of her rental car, mascara and goo running down her face already. Her beloved is also on the phone, speaking rapidly to his parents, I am guessing.

As I'm watching this unfold, my facial expression must have been similar to what would happen if you were caught on the tines of a fork. I didn't want to be there, to witness this scene of destruction and betrayal. From what snippets I caught of the bookends conversation, the young man and his family had doubts about the girl, or maybe it was just his family. Either way, they sprang the prenuptial agreement on her without notice or opportunity to consult a lawyer. Not sure but she may actually be a lawyer. Hard to tell with all the languages she used while spewing her epithets at the 3. What I find odd is it was done in front of the photographer (me). Isn't this something you would do behind closed doors for this very reason? Or did they think I'd be crass enough to photograph the outburst if it was expected? I did not, in case you're wondering.

So as this is unfolding in front of me, it reminded me of my own divorce many years ago. We didn't have a prenuptial agreement, nor did we need one. I wanted custody of my kids and nothing else. There was no fight, I just wanted to be free from the neglect and careless treatment.

I was also reminded of a not so recent potential boyfriend. We went out a few times but it never progressed into anything meaningful. He was disillusioned about marriage and having to fork over half his estate to his bride of less than a year. I felt a little sorry for him as it sounded like there was potential there for something wonderful for the two of them, but his wounds were still fresh and gaping. I politely declined to be the transitional relationship. Quite recently, he contacted me to meet. He felt the need to apologize for whatever his indiscretions were back in the day. Then went on to say how, when discussing with friends,  how he wanted to get back into the dating scene, he was reminded how I had said if a man presented me with a prenuptial agreement, I would sign it. (Now I will bet my amazing lawyer is reading this and cringing at his computer desk, and I will probably get a lecture about that later). He is delicately trying to broach the subject of dating me for this reason alone, but has yet to pluck up his courage. I am not interested and will have to one day soon, I suspect, gently refuse his overtures.

Back in the day, marriages were arranged as a matter of business between two consenting families, and in some countries, they still are. The financials, disbursements, and transference of property were done by the elders of a village, the ruling families, and later the lawyers and oldest male heirs. Things were decided, right down to where the bride will live out her dowager years. (that's the final years after her husband has since departed this earth.)
The reality is, if you're going to marry in this day and age, you should expect something like a contract, number one, and number two, if you don't have any hidden agenda, sign the stupid documents. Just to note, don't spring it on your bride or groom last minute. Be intelligent, schedule lawyers for both parties and make it official. But do it in private, it's really no one's business what you decide.

I'm standing there scanning the images of the only moments before this blissfully unaware couple were attacked by the blindsiding of a necessary evil. Now entangled by lack of trust immediately equal on both sides, and a possibly intrusive family that now appears like they have been proven correct about the bride's intentions, I stowed my gear, returned the money to the disheveled former bride to be, and walked away. Thankfully, a few days prior, I had photographed a truly happy couple, who had been together long enough, (or already signed their agreement), to trust, love and honor each other. I went back to my editing room to review their pictures, and found myself thinking, there's hope for us all yet.

Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

Train People ... part 2

When I am taking the train to anywhere in Calgary, it's always an adventure.

There are times when it's silent, everyone is sitting quiet with their headphones on, plugged in to their electronic devices to get a little privacy before or after a long workday. Then there are days when it's bustling, cramped and noisy, and then on occasion, very rarely, something happens and we all laugh.

One morning, the car I'm riding in is not overly full but every seat on the train is taken at my stop. The next stop, a kid gets on. He's maybe about 18 or 19 years old. Typical snowboarder wear, skate shoes and a hoodie. He has his IPod turned up so loud we can all hear the beat at the other end of the car. (definitely wasn't expecting Beyonce to be blaring from that boy's headphones, he looked more like a GreenDay kinda guy). He looks around very briefly, and stands beside the door.

 So the train jerks and groans to a start and we're all enjoying the sounds of Beyonce as we're rocking along and all of a sudden, a big tough male voice starts screaming obscenities. We can all hear it, but no one's lips are moving and then the voice repeats the same sentence over again after a brief pause. The woman (who's ear is just beside the pocket of this Beyonce listening kid's hoodie) yanks on the kids sweater and tells him his pocket needs a bath cause it has a dirty mouth. This kid is so absorbed in his Beyonce song, his eyes are closed and he's mouthing the words, having his own private little concert... in his head, he's not hearing her. After one more ring, she finally gets his attention and his face turns red as he's fumbling to get the phone out of his pocket ... before it rips into the potty mouth rant one more time. He grabs the phone and accidentally hits the volume button so now it's even louder. By this time we've all clued in on where the noise is coming from and we're all a little embarrassed for the kid and also a little amused. (At least those of us with a sense of humor were amused...) By the time he had finally answered it, we were all laughing out loud, and the poor kid of course can not sit down and try to be anonymous or anything , so he does the next best thing. Tells everyone on the train it's his Mom calling, so everyone please say hi to his Mom. Full train load of people saying hi to his Mom, in some small PEI town. After he was off the phone he told us she'd never been off the island and now she loves Calgary because everyone is so friendly to her little boy, and she thinks he must be safe in such a big city. I'm guessing he changes that phone ringer before he heads home to the Island for a visit.

So, as much as I like to poke fun at Calgary Transit for the poor planning and lack of consistent schedule, it's not all bad.

Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

Train People ...

Between framing pictures, photography, race cars, and philanthropy pursuits, I get around the city quite well when my locations are on the train line or accessible by taxi. As many of you already know, I have finally buried my little white truck. It was sick for quite some time. It was 20 years old. You know, in truck years, for anything built after 1970 that's about 80 years old. We had some good times, my little truck and I. It was, sad to say, struck with a rare exhaust disorder. Then it gradually spread to the manifold, gaskets, and finally, it took over the carburetor. We held a small memorial down by the river, where we parked and had picnics together. Sad day... but anyway... anyone know where I can sell some scrap metal? Lol!

So now I walk mostly, take a taxi if I'm carrying a lot of gear, or I take the train. If you're bored and have a limited budget, I strongly suggest taking the train. Rush hour is a fun trip. The first two cars of the train are usually jammed full while the last two are almost empty. This I find quite amusing. Now not that I'm knocking Calgary Transit, because yesterday, they were running on time. At least the train I took was on time.

Usually, if I'm heading up to the frame shop at the tail end of rush hour, the train has been on average, maybe 20 minutes late. It's supposed to run at 10 min intervals by the time I get there, but more often than not, I will just miss the 3 trains that come less than 5 minutes apart, and then not another one for 20 minutes. The first few times, I was not impressed, but then I giggled ridiculously after the 4th time this happened. My entertainment value was the realization that they were nothing if not consistently 20 min late. I adjusted my time to leave my place 5 min earlier, still the same result, and then another 5 minutes earlier, still the same. Then at 15 minutes earlier than I really should have to be there, that was the ticket! I finally caught the train and ended up where I needed to be on time. Quite an ordeal but one learns.

Once I thought I had it down, another twist in the plot. One morning, during summer schedule, I arrived at the station in time to have the driver quickly open the doors and then shut them before I could step on the train, departing in a whoosh of air. I foolishly thought another one would be along shortly, no big deal. I waited, and waited, and waited, 20 minutes went by and no train in sight. 4 went by going the other direction, but not one going into the down town core. It was quiet, there was no traffic on the McLeod Trail ... a little eerie feeling creeps up your spine when there is nothing happening on a usually bustling thoroughfare. Finally I see the train coming in my direction, and the driver was obscured by shadow in his teeny little cockpit. It was a little strange. Stranger yet was the fact that not another soul was on the train. I stepped on the train and it lurched to a crawl and headed off to the next stop. I am at this point, the only person on the whole train. Not just my car ( the last car) but on the train. No one gets on at the next stop... (cue creepy music here) . The train jerks and struggles to begin it's journey onward, and as it descends into the first tunnel, it is picking up speed. I am now alone, on an empty train, heading into the bowels of the earth at a gravitational stripping speed, and my train driver is some unidentified shadow character. Either a Stephen King movie, or a Bugs Bunny cartoon, could go either way here.
Finally at the still as yet unopened City Hall stop... ( picture the afore mentioned train to hell stopping at the as yet unopened City Hall Station... can this really get any creepier? ) ... a guy gets on wearing a suit, and no kidding, he looked like that suit wearing guy from the Matrix series of movies, Mr Anderson. I always thought the dark would be a creepy setting for a scary movie, but I have to be honest, dead silent normally crowded city streets and an empty train in the mid morning sunlight is really creepy.  So I'm looking at this suit wearing guy and kind of giggling to myself about the absurdity of it all. Could this get any funnier?

That's part one of this story... tune in next week for part two of Train People!
And don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

The Curse Of the Digital Black Book!!!!

At some point yesterday, I had only partial service on my cell phone. I was receiving calls up until about 2 p.m. and then only emails and FB messages after that. Home I go and I call my wireless provider to see what the problem was.
I spoke to a really polite girl who gave me a rehearsed answer she read off of a sheet of paper. I asked when the service would be repaired and how much intermittent service there would be. She didn't have an answer for that.

The dilemma I face is simple, it's the only phone number every one of my business contacts has. I still have email, facebook, twitter, linked-in, and two tin cans with the string attached, but my cell phone is so convenient. I now feel kind of naked and exposed without it. It amazes me that I've become so dependent on the little piece of electronic shrapnel. I went for years as a hold out, I wasn't getting a cell phone ever, I said. I always thought that if someone really wanted to get a hold of me, they'd leave a message. Then I became a single parent that worked all the time. I sucked up my pride and bought the first one. After a few weeks with the little pocket sized communicator, and it did look exactly like a Star Trek communicator, I was hooked. It was so easy to just call the kids and check on them, make sure the homework was getting done, that they got rides from another parent after hockey practice and ski training, that they were in bed on time when I worked nights for the RCMP. It was so simple.
Then I opened my own business and it was so easy to just carry my office with me. My phones have all been really great for multi-tasking. My appointment schedule is in my phone, my emails, facebook and twitter access for marketing, and of course all the numbers from my Rolodex from years of traveling, networking, and meeting friends were all added. Here's the funny thing, I can still remember phone numbers from when I was 10 years old because I had to memorize them all or write them down in an address book. Today, not a chance, they're all on my cell phone on speed dial. I think my brain has become cell phone lazy. If I had to recall my mother's phone number off the top of my head... couldn't do it.

So here I am, taking a day to shuffle some personal business around, and I am at a loss without my cell phone to complete some important tasks. Even my on-line banking is done from my cell phone so often, as I'm almost always running from one job to the next, that using my computer to transfer funds seems obsolete. Sad but true... I have become something I said I'd never be... a digital junkie.

Today, because I have all this personal business to attend to and I have lost access to some critical points of communication, I'm taking a minute to evaluate the cell phone... is it really necessary? Would my photography business survive without it? Would I be able to pick phone numbers out of thin air like I used to do, not too many years ago? Do I really have to text, email, and FB anyone within minutes where business is concerned? Hmmm ... things to consider.

After careful review, some parts of the wireless addiction I am not sure I want to give up. I can email, text, or call my clients at will if the weather changes an outdoor shoot to an indoor shoot. My kids can reach me anywhere, anytime, any day if they need to, 24 hours a day.  I like being able to text my girlfriends for Sunday Breakfast if I'm going to be late... Lol! ( of course this will make them laugh) .
But after that, do I really need it? I called my cell phone provider to inquire into the process of canceling the service, not that I was married to that decision, but just seeing what the process would entail. The bottom line is that it's too expensive to opt out of the digital age at this time, it would blow my tightly wound budget to shreds. So that ends the dream of kicking the digital habit right there! Lol!

Today, I will have to actually walk to the bank to take care of business. I haven't been inside a real bank in months. Is the process there still the same? The digital age is changing by the microsecond so who really knows what's next? Will I be digitally x-rayed like they do at the airports? Do I need a computer chip embedded under my skin so they can just scan me as I step up to the counter? What about biometrics? If I stick my thumbprint on a screen, can they just transfer the money from one account to another? Or maybe a retinal scan? I DID NOT SAY RECTAL I said RETINAL. There are also retinal scans at some airports for airport staff and frequent cross border travelers.

Digitally, I think I've covered all the possibilities of what happens without the cell phone. It chaos really. In a world where everything we do depends on the advances we make technologically, we could be in for a rude awakening if a meteor really did knock out our communications satellites.

As far as the digital black book goes... yes I have that in my cell too and not sure I want to discard that little gem either!

Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

The Building ...

I"ve lived in a few different places in my life time. I have to say, my favorite place in Calgary is here in Mission. Where I was living for the past 6 months was sweet, but I needed more bang for less bucks. I was looking for a solution, but having no luck. Out of the blue, my old building manager called and said "Hey, little girl..., one of the south facing units on the river opened up, you interested?" Was I ever. The timing was perfect. Just when you think all hope is lost, something comes out of the blue to rescue you. Funny how that works if you're open to it.

So after giving notice at the mansion, and I must say my landlords there, totally got where I was comng from and were incredible about me moving out. I did give more than enough notice and they understood my situation. I will miss them dearly, very kind and gracious human beings. There are people renting locations in this city who could take a few lessons from the mansion landlord's textbook. We all know who I'm talking about... Lol!

After a brief bit of wrangling, with the help of my Son, Son-in-law, my Daughter and their friends, I was moved. Because Peter Appleby was kind enough to let me use his cube van, he deserves a nice little shout out. A Remax agent with a big heart... he's 6 foot 8" .... so that's also literal... look him up if you need to buy or sell.

I am in my new building, boxes and furniture scattered everywhere, very little room to move. I have a bit of work ahead of me. As I'm standing on the front stoop chatting with my building manager, people come and go. He introduces me to all of them, and tells what suites everyone is in. Very congenial crowd. I went out with some of my beautiful and brilliant friends tonight to a non-descript club in the middle of no-man's-land here in Calgary. We had the best wings I've ever had, truely. When I arrived home at a reasonable hour, I decided to skip the unpacking, take a little longer breather and head to the cafe to write and edit. As I'm locking my door and heading out, in the hallway are two of my previous building mates. It's like old home week and we're laughing and chatting, hugs and stories were exchanged, and truthfully, I could have stood there in that hallway all night and gabbed with my old friends. We all moved to different places and ended up back together, like college roommates bumping into each other in the big city. I took over the suite of someone who everyone of us had had a run-in with at one point or another. We've decided we will have a building christmas party this year, a great big open house where we can all socialize together and laugh as loud as we want without fear of offending anyone else.

I must say, my suite overlooks the Elbow River, at the end of a quiet avenue. Barely any traffic, kind of quiet. I watched the sunset from my bedroom window yesterday, through the leaves of one of the giant old trees in my front yard and was speechless at the quality of the light. Then I woke up briefly at 4am, I could hear the water trickling and leaping it's way to somewhere else. Sweetest sound I've ever heard. Yes, I am grateful.

Things are looking good, business is picking up, slowly but surely. Nothing like being paid to do what you love. I still volunteer as often as I can, I have many beautiful and brilliant friends on the rise and at the top of their field. We seem to all be rising at relatively the same pace, and those that lag behind a bit, we all pull together to lift each other up. It's amazing the difference between what once was and what is. The kindness of strangers, the gifts of opportunity from new friends and old, meeting the people you know and love by chance, and having the same amazing feeling that everything is going to be okay. As I was told by one of my dear friends this evening... "Now all we have to do is find you a truehearted boyfriend and everything will be perfect!" Plenty of offers there but I'm still waiting for the right Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet. .... LOL!

Hey! Don't forget to check you Compass!

Cole

In the blink of an eye ...

This year so far has been a bit of a mixed bag for business. I've done some corporate, a lot of photojournalism, sports of course, some portraits...which I swore I wouldn't do any more, and a fair amount of non-profit stuff. Lets discuss portrait for a bit.

One of the things most recently invented for the photo industry is Photoshop, and by recently I'm meaning in the last 20 years. I would love to extoll the virtues of Photoshop but I find it is taken to the extreme more often than not. If you're tryning to create an original work of art from a photograph this does not apply. The creativity is boundless with this software and koodos to those that can manipulate the program to make it bend and sway with the breeze.

I personally love the program to touch up my lighting when I do photojournalism style work, or do the work that burning and dodging would have done in the good old days of darkrooms and chemicals. After that, I leave it to the graphic artists to make magic. I do my magic with my camera on site. As I said before, good lighting can make or break your images.

My only reason for not doing portraiture as a steady income, is about photoshop. I could make a fortune with the requests I get, but how far will I go to destroy my 28 years of honing my craft. The skill is in the lighting and the camera operation, not in the photoshop. If you have to spend more than a few minutes editing each picture, you need to head back to photography school. It's a wonderful program for touching up a blemish, dark circles, and brightening the eyes. I've been asked to 'make me look 20 pounds thinner, can you straighten my nose a bit, my husband forgot to shave today, could you edit out his 5 o'clock shadow, I can't get my son to sit still can you take him out of that picture and edit him in to a different one..." etc etc etc. You get what I'm saying. Last I checked, I did not go to medical school or graduate with a degree in reconstructive surgery, barber school, or nanny college. If you require these services, hire the professionals who did graduate with those designations because I have to say... they are the people I call when I need those things taken care of.

My kind of photography is the kind that tells a story. I love to capture a moment, sometimes they are so fleeting, that one second of timing, is the difference between an amazing photo that will sell 200,000 more newspapers and one that gets deleted.

I once did a photosession for a large family. A Mom and Dad, 4 children. The 2nd youngest was not quite 5 and very shy. She spent the hour or so, hiding behind her parents, or her siblings. My staff and I tried all kinds of tricks to coax her out of her shell during traditional poses, and then I asked the family if they minded just playing games with her and their other children on the floor in front of the backdrop.  She relaxed and played and still her expression did not change. The last game was the one that stuck. I made it so in the end they all had to look up at me at the same time during the game, even though she was hiding behind her next older sibling, she peaked out and smiled just the barest of smiles.

When the Mom and Dad returned a week later to look at the proofs, they cried when they saw that photo. Their little girl had never smiled in a photo, or ever for that matter. She was born with a rare disease where it was not possible to smile. She had become so self concious of this fact in her very young life that when she saw a camera, she hid. We had her relaxed and playing, laughing so much that her laugh and the light in her eyes looked like a smile. The picture was natural and untouched by photoshop. The Mom had said she had given up on family portraits because it upset their little girl so much, and when other photographer's tried to make her smile with photoshop, it didn't look like her face it was always so distorted. This one I did for them was a moment every mother in her situation could dream of, and we made that moment happen for them.

I do my best to get a natural picture. Some of the best images I have ever taken was when no-one was looking at me and my camera, they were looking at each other or simply enjoying the moment. This is why I love photography so much. It's about the moments remembered that make you smile, cry, or laugh. If you string all those moments together for a lifetime, you have stories to tell, giggling to do, or maybe a few tears to remember a loved one who has passed on. I want to see the real you in a photo. Not the image of what you wished you looked like or the fantasy. I want to be able to see the wrinkles, baby fat, big feet, school kids with missing front teeth, and Grandma wearing a purple turban cause she thinks it makes her look like Betty Davis. These are things that I see as character. Being able to look at a photo and say " I can't believe I wore that." may seem like a bad thing to others, but I see it as who you were then.

My advice ... be who you are in your photos, so in 50 years, when you have time on your hands and your grandkids or other little people are visiting, you have stories to tell about that moment. Not a fantasy of who you thought you were back then.

Just sayin.... Lol! Don't forget to check your Compass!

Cole

Cafe Day!

Not sure what the deal is with my Internet, but haven't been able to get access for a week. We recently had some road construction in my neighborhood... again, so maybe they shook something loose in the cable box outside. I've been trying, in vain really, to reach my cable company for a solution or discussion on the issue. It's not that big of a deal right now, I only have work during the day that keeps me quite busy, and trying to reach anyone after six at their office is a minimum two hour wait... yeah ... not happening. Instead of waiting on the problem to fix itself, which it seldom ever does, I did the next best thing. Dragged out my old wrecked PC laptop and headed to the local Cafe to work for the afternoon. Now, I always use a Mac for my photography, my PC just doesn't have the power to keep up and it only works when it feels like it. (I think it's a little jealous of the sweet little Mac I bought.)

Today however, it seems to be doing okay, as long as I keep one leg propped on the chair, my phone on the table beside me, and my beverage must be at a perfect 45 degree angle to the screen. Any slight variation and the battery shuts the whole operation down... ( considered asking the guy beside me to hold his empty coffee cup up over his head just as a backup but he didn't seem to be the type to think that was funny.)

As I build my contracts and my new tender for bid on a job, people come and go. If I had been thinking, I'd have brought my camera today. I am seldom without it, but today I needed to focus on the paperwork. At my little table in the front of the cafe, eyes on the screen, every so often I see someone come in and take a seat at the table beside me, or the one across. They sit alone and sip a beverage, or a couple have quiet conversation, a family of well dressed Italians came in and occupied the nest of tables to my left. They were laughing and loud. I enjoyed their witty conversation, although I only understood half of it. (note to self... must drag out old Italian school books to brush up a bit) The woman alone came in after they departed for their dinner reservation and read the paper, fully engrossed in it, she only looked up once. A smaller stocky man asked to share the chairs next to her and she briefly indicated it was free without saying a word and only nodding the briefest of inclination.

Observation is the greatest gift to a photographer. We may notice things that other's would overlook. Expression is the first thing I see. We are usually well adept at defining the mood of another with a glance.

Natural lighting is the next thing I see. I spend a few moments assessing whether I would leave it as is or add a fill light in a spot or two, or maybe just a reflector to add a little warmth if the lighting is a little cold and moody looking. Never underestimate the skill it takes to make you look amazing. Good lighting can really make a photograph say many things. Poorly done lighting can make you look 10 years older, heavier, morose, or cold. My favorite piece of advice came from a very famous actress who has since passed. She advised us all that she could care less about her directors, her make-up, her sound, but her lighting must be just perfect. She stated she always made friends with her lighting techs first as they could make her look as she wished to appear, not as she really was. (I actually had a very well respected concert sound tech say much the same thing about some of the famous singers we had both had the privilege to work with. Make friends with your sound guys or the mix that comes out of the board will sound a lot different than what you were hoping for!)

I have been very privileged to work with some amazing clients. They know exactly what they want and I have made their requests materialize with what looks to be a complicated process but is actually something I can do with my eyes closed. If you know what your equipment is capable of, this is not unusual.

Back here at the cafe, I watch the coffee crowd ebb and flow and think of my amazing camera, all alone on my editing desk. Still full of life from my last experimental outing, and I wish I had brought it along. The crowd is definitely a mixed bag of types and stop time images from my table with a wide angle to grab the whole scene would have been an amazing photo study. The early evening light is streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows, warming the already chocolate brown wood shelving units, stocked and stacked with coffee products. The staff is tidying the tables and restocking their bank of mini coolers for the next wave of caffination.

Time to get back to work on the Race Team stuff. Deadlines are looming and I have limited power with this questionable old PC...

Until next time... don't forget to check your Compass!

Cole

Photographing love and other stuff....

The weather is beautiful today and here I am, sitting in front of my computer, editing and prepping some promo material for the race team. I went for a walk just to clear my head in the wee hours of the morning. Skirting the main roads and keeping to the river mostly. I ended up all the way down by Memorial Park after I left the muddy banks for a bit. The grass was still dewy and soft. There was a homeless guy sleeping on the bench, a guy walking his dog, a woman riding her cadillac of a town bike looking like she was late and had to be somewhere, and a couple, maybe in their mid twenties. They were dressed in whatever clothes they had on from the night before. Her make-up faded and smudged, his hair a little disheveled and suit clearly rumpled.

As much as they were all out of sorts, they glowed. There was no maidenly shyness or tough guy trying to hide his feelings. As they talked quietly and whispered secrets to each other, they showed no censure or shame in their emotional state. It was like watching the happy ending of a fairy tale.

I watched them from the distance for a bit and just as I was about to turn away and head for home, the homeless guy on the bench came up behind me and sat down beside me. He was watching them too, most of the night since the bars closed(2 am?). He said at first he was tempted to tell them to shove off so he could get some sleep. He said he couldn't explain it, but hearing them laugh and coo at each other like little birds made him remember a time in his own life where that was still possible. So he left them be. His eyes teared up and he said "...it's beautiful isn't it? To love like that...?" I smiled at his question and said "Yes it must be."  When I stood up to leave he stood up and bowed to me like a member of the Queen's court and said "Good day My Lady." I giggled and gave him my best mocking curtsey and we went in opposite directions.

He asked that I not photograph him because you never know when "They" are watching. I didn't ask who "They" were and wasn't sure he even knew but the whole scene was just cute as it was so I didn't see the sense in lessening the romance of it. I did photograph the couple from the back. Her head on his shoulder, his arm around her, the sun coming up beside them. From the front I didn't want to intrude. They looked as if they were fighting to stay awake and not miss a second of time with each other. It looked as if they were reluctant to end such a perfect date. That maybe if they just stayed there, the perfect date would never end. Thank goodness for a zoom lens.

My question for all of you is this ... do you still love this way? With true abandon? Can you throw your whole being into it and give another pure unconditional love without suspicion, judgement, or reserve...?

Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

Hangin with the Amish!

I was away this past weekend in the Eastern US, mainly in Pennsylvania, but I did make it to Lewes, Delaware ( the first town in the very first State in the US ), Cape May New Jersey, Atlantic City NJ, and of course one of my favorites, Manhattan. It was a balmy 37 degrees, that's 102 Fahrenheit for all my American friends. As we all know, I love the heat, even miss the choking 50 degrees of the Middle east at times.

I was lucky enough to be escorted around by a man I admire and respect, who commands the race team I was there to learn about. He drove me around endlessly to all the places he had probably been to a million times over throughout his life so far, and patiently answered my unending stream of questions about the area, it's inhabitants, the weather, the soil, the water, the history, the architecture, and on and on and on. I pestered him constantly about the race team, the process of owning the team, running the team, managing the press, negotiating the sponsors, and anything else that came up.

In our travels, we sped past a field of fresh cut hay. The farmer out cutting the hay, was a young boy, maybe 12 or so. His clothes were that of a boy from the 1800's. Thick black boots, laced up past his ankles, black simple straight leg trousers, black suspenders, a deep blue solid shirt, and a pair of Aviator sunglasses. He stood on the front lead of a manual swather, and in his already calloused young hands, he held the reins and drove a team of four big sturdy work horses. (a swather is used to cut crops in the field and lays them in perfect little lines that you have to go back and pick up later ). The dust kicked up in the heat behind the team and the cutting was thick and dry. The boy, not really a boy, but not yet a man, drove the team with a skill that looked as if he had been doing it for years and was a seasoned expert, which he probably had and probably was. As the dust flew forward and I caught the picture with surprising clarity and amazing natural back lighting, I wondered if he ever missed the TV shows, current styles of his contemporaries, ever talked back to his parents, got in trouble at school, or missed a day of chores because he has hockey practice or homework to do. Then I realized, how do you miss what you've never had to be concerned with? How do you miss doing the chores when everything depends on you bringing in the harvest before it rains and moulds in the field?

It amazes me how much we take for granted. I grew up with no running water, plywood floors in our 'little Hippie House on the Prairie'. We cut our own hay, stooked it up, hauled it to the barn for the winter feed stock and now and then I catch myself using these current little conveniences without remembering how simple life was without them. As we drove away from the field with the young Amish boy cutting his hay, I silently mulled over the things I didn't have as a child compared to what I have now. I am really happy for all these little things but I wondered... do I really need all this stuff? I filed the thought away until I could think about it some more, and here I am, writing it out here in this blog post to you fine people that are kind enough to spare five minutes to read my gentle ramblings. How much in life do we really need? The Amish live simply, without a lot of extra stuff. Why do we feel we need so much stuff?

So here's my question to you all... take a couple of minutes to think about this.
If you had to live without electricity, indoor plumbing, telephones, vehicles, and all the other modern conveniences you have, could you manage without them?

I am pretty sure I could, but not so sure I would want to. I like being able to answer a call from my Daughter or my Son at any given time of day. (Yes Shayne, even when you call me at 2 am after a night of debauchery with your buddies just to say how grateful you are that I'm your Mom and how much you love me and appreciate all the sacrifices I made for you)
 I like being able to flick the switch on the wall and have a room instantly blink to life before I enter it. I like knowing that my friends in other parts of the world are safe and dry when I have time to catch the nightly news blurbs. Now that I am taking the train or taxi's everywhere, I really don't miss having a vehicle, until I realize I needed to pick something up from a place in town that is not easily or quickly accessible by public transit. All these little things seem insignificant until you have to do without them.

Just sayin'

In case you didn't know, please don't forget to take a minute or two to visit my advertisers on the right of the page. They all have some interesting stuff to talk about too!

Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

Paparazzi, Paparazzo, Adrian Grenier, Evan Ferrante, and me...

Today I was sent on assignment for our local online news agency to photograph Adrian Grenier and Evan Ferrante for Adrian's new documentary about a 13 year old boy in the profession of paparazzo. I did not see the film with everyone else at the Glenbow Conaco Phillips Theater. I had planned to just fly in, take the pictures I needed for the paper and head out to the rodeo grounds to get the events. I like deadlines and the rush of getting my work in on time to match what the columnist is writing is kind of fun for me!

Those of you that know my work, know that I have a variety of subjects in my portfolio. A good portion is famous athletes, musicians, political figures, and events that they attend. I have taken great pride in always asking for permission from my subjects, and never taking the pictures without their consent. I may not make the 'big bucks' that the paparazzi make on 'the one great shot', but I am also always hired by the event host, the celebrity that's being celebrated, or the local news. It's not like I've never considered it, I just didn't feel like it was the best example of a lifestyle I wanted my kids to grow up with. All in all, if you get a great picture, you can feed your family for a couple of years without worrying about how you're going to pay the rent or choose between groceries and the electricity bill. In the end, I never went down that road because something in me couldn't compromise my values for a dollar.

So I arrive at the event, the film is still in progress, and Adrian Grenier and Evan Ferrante are standing in the lobby organizing their stuff. Very attractive, relaxed looking young men. After signing in and checking my press credentials, their media coordinator sets up my time with the two actors. They come over and bring along the 'merch' for the shot. As I get the pictures as quickly as possible, I watch them with my camera eyes for anything slightly not right. There is not a sign of anything untoward. They are both comfortable in front of the camera and the charming boyishness is still very obvious in their easy camaraderie.

As I mentioned, I was planning to jet out of there right after I got the shots I needed. Something about their easy energy made me want to stay for the Question and Answer period they had scheduled for after the show had concluded. I waited in the lobby and watched them organize their team. Finally the theater doors were open, the lights up , the crowd was clapping. Time to watch the magic. Their introduction by Nico and then a few words of address to the crowd by Luke, and they were on stage, ready to hear what the crowd had to say.

The questions were not difficult, mostly about minor issues in regards to the film, but the one common theme were the positive comments about the film. Adrian and Evan seemed to be well versed on the politics of their subject matter. They answered every question thoughtfully and with intelligent discourse on the subject at hand. They had plenty of humor between them and their demeanor about the project made me want to see it. I decided I would get a copy and watch it.  They very kindly autographed the DVD jacket for me and I left with contact information to send them copies of the pictures I took.

 I watched the DVD while I was getting ready to head out to the wrap party and found it to be a side of the paparazzi I hadn't counted on... they were human too! They had families, feelings, humor, attitude and everything in between. Adrian gets behind the camera himself to experience the side he's usually not on. The tables are turned when the kid becomes his own celebrity and Adrian has to play hide and seek with him, where Adrian is the one having to catch up with the kid.

Quite a few years ago, I was photographing a concert for someone. Unbeknownst to me, the promoter was dating a famous singer that didn't want her picture taken with him and saw me with my camera. With the promoter's kin in tow, she bared down on me in the lobby during intermission and demanded to  know who I was working for. Her attitude was 'in your face' aggressive and challenging every word I said. I was not shocked or taken aback in the least, I took it in stride as part of the job. I was a little surprised that the promoter had not told his lovely siren that I was working for him. She demanded to know who I was working for, what I would do with the pictures afterwards, and on and on. She was really quite lovely in person, but the attitude at which she spewed vitriol in my general direction was uncalled for and inappropriate, and made her seem vain and self absorbed. I politely explained the way I work, who I was working for and if she did not want to be in pictures, that I would not take any as she so politely requested. I also assured her that if she did end up in any by accident, I would edit her out or delete the file entirely. I was true to my word and did exactly that. By the time she walked away, she was much more calm and asking for my business card. I had two in my pocket but didn't feel like it would be a wise decision to share one with her at the time. In her defense, she was one of the most sought after entertainers at the time, and I'm sure she knew what it felt like to be hunted every time she stepped out her door. I have people prying into my life often enough and I'm not nearly that famous. Imagine having random strangers trying to shine a halogen lamp in all your nooks and crannies for the world to see... No thanks.

 I used to cringe in my boots every time someone referred to me as paparazzi. Did you know paparazzi means 'a buzzing annoying little flying bug'? Hmmm.... I'm happy I was able to meet them, photograph for my news 'deadline' and  watch a great film, but I will still ask permission to photograph any subject that I need to get. The documentary told the story from a new perspective and I'm glad I was able to see it. I still don't feel the need to get 'the money shot' and make a million off it. If I do, it will be because some rare endangered animal poked his head out of his cave and I happened to be there to capture it for National Geographic .... hmmm seems pretty much what the paparazzi do after all, doesn't it?
Well, you get what I mean. I'd still like to sleep at night knowing I didn't run a deer off the cliff in my pursuit of that elusive claim to fame.

Get the Documentary... it's worth watching!  It's called Teenage Paparazzo - a film by Adrian Grenier.
In the meantime ... don't forget to check your Compass.
Cole

Learning to rope ....

I have no idea how old I was, I can barely remember the day for that matter. I was learning how to rope from the back of a horse. If you know how to throw a loop, skip ahead because you know this next bit already...

When learning to rope, one usually starts with the basics of equipment. A long sleeved shirt. Why the long sleeved shirt you ask? When you're first learning, it's pretty common to start to throw and have the rope land on your extremities. If you're learning, it's not likely you've graduated to a nice medium soft smoothly braided rope. Most people start out with a stiffer rough rope so they don't have to work so hard to get the rope to swing properly. Those solid coarse ropes can burn like a son-of-a-gun when they hit you at any speed. Next thing is a proper set of roping gloves on your hands. I have scars from rope burn... ( this is usually funny when I tell people what the scars are from... rope burn. I generally don't elaborate on what the ropes were for. It's funnier that way.) I recommend blue jeans for the same reason. Lastly, if you're going to rope, put on some decent boots because it just looks silly otherwise. Cowboy hat is optional because, unless you're really a cowboy, or cowgirl you're just a city kid trying to look like you ain't! 

 First thing is positioning. It's better if you have your feet firmly planted, shoulder width apart, and you're facing your target square on. It's kind of like bowling but not really. Lol!

Okay seriously now... once you're standing square to your target, usually a wooden sawhorse with a set of horns tied on the one end not facing you. (Sometimes you can add a little tail to the end facing your direction if it makes you feel more like a real cowboy.) Now, when you're holding your rope, it has a natural shape to it, like a coil. You want to drop the loose end to the ground, but keep enough to have a small loop, and an extra bit by the knot to hold in your throwing hand. So you hold the loop part firmly in your fingers, and that extra bit beside it, outside the knot, with your thumb so they're together but still loose enough to slide out when you start to swing it up. Kind of like you're making the "hang loose' sign with your fingers. Swinging it in a circle slowly at first, until you get the hang of how the extra bit slides, while you keep the looped part beside it firmly tucked in your fingers. Once you get the feel of that bit sliding out, you can swing it up and build the size of your loop. This is where it can get tricky. Remember how I said not to wear a cowboy hat, now is where it would be wise to have on a ball cap with a sturdy brim ... Just a simple ball cap will keep the rope from singing your nose when it drops on you because you didn't build your loop correctly... oops...  maybe I should have told you that a little earlier. That rope burn on your nose will heal in no time, just put a little cream on it. So add a ball cap to your equipment list if you like.

Now then were was I ... oh yes, building your loop. Once you start swinging it over your head, it's the wrist motion that will benefit you most. With your hand in the 'hang loose' position, you want to flick your wrist so the rope swings up and over your head in a circular motion, with each swing, you let a bit of the slack, slip through your hand to make your loop bigger. Once your loop is a decent size, you throw the rope when your hand is up high, in the 'hang loose' position, with the trajectory of the rope already in the forward motion stage, you let it go once you extend your arm out in front of you. If you've built your loop correctly and built enough velocity to reach your target, it's always good to make sure you have enough length to reach the sawhorse... (insert cricket noise here ...) . Once you've spent enough time 'catching' the sawhorse's horns successfully, you can try it from the back of a horse... I recommend getting to know your horse really well before you do this. Some horses are not fond of stuff swinging around their heads and will show you what it feels like to land head first in a pile of manure at the first opportunity. 

So back to my story ... I was learning to rope from the back of a horse. Meet Big Buster, a big sorrel gelding that was super calm and really friendly. He was used to being a training horse so didn't even blink an eye when I started to swing the rope. It was the fact that every time I swung the rope to build my loop, I clipped his ears with the rope, just by a hair too. He gave me an air show I'll never forget. There's nothing like having your own little private rodeo with the quietest horse in the barn. I ended up, upside-down on the big metal pasture gate, knocked out cold for a few minutes. The fringes from my chaps dusting my face in the breeze. Didn't break anything, another miracle, but had to get right back up on Buster's back and do it again so he wouldn't think bucking the riders off was going to be a regular past time for him. In his defense, after I apologized for trying to trim his ear hairs, he was calm and quiet and let me try again without flinching a muscle.

That's my Stampede story for the week and I hope ya'll come back real soon, ya hear? 

And don't forget to check your Compass.

Cole

My first real Press Pass!

At this stage in the game, I really should be much like my contemporaries, getting ready to wind the career down. Slow down, think about retiring somewhere warm... well I'm just getting started.

Make no mistake, I've had a few press passes before, but they were paper,  handmade name badges, made hastily for the day. A few were made much like the backstage passes for guests of artists. Cloth stickers to attach to your clothes that last no more than the night.
Today I was delivered a true press pass, with my picture and a scan code, valid for the entire Stampede. I was so excited to get it, and to be covering The Greatest Show On Earth here at home for a local publisher. Would like to say who it is but I didn't ask their permission to write about it here so you'll all have to wait until they give me the okay.

So far, I'm just taking pictures, which we all know I can do well enough. They were really receptive to having me on board right away, and I'm not bragging or anything, but I have a pretty impressive portfolio.

The recent photos from my Canada Day road trip were a step forward to where I want to be with photography and this assignment with my new publisher is a great leap in that direction as well. I've mentioned before about my life as a kid, with National Geographic magazines strewn about, Jacques Cousteau on the TV, and Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. Of course, I have to say, most of my photographer friends have the same dream, to go on assignments regularly for National Geographic magazine. The traveling and living overseas I have already done, were just the warm up for what is to come.

As my ever changing Top Ten List continues to evolve, I take another step, or giant leap from daydreaming to making them all a reality. My amazing friends, new and not so new, I have to give them all a huge salute, because without their encouragement and kindness, I don't know that I'd be so far ahead. Some incredibly gifted clients have gone above and beyond to encourage and put me forward that I can make these leaps and bounds. It just keeps getting better and better.

So, I'm sitting here looking at my Press Pass and I can say to myself, I have earned this. I've worked the trenches, fought the battles and I'll leave you with my favorite quote yet again ...

"I firmly believe that any man’s finest hours – his greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear – is that moment when he has worked his heart out in good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle – victorious."


Vince Lombardi - June 11th, 1913 - September 3rd, 1970

The Top Ten List and the Reward...

I know I've mentioned my photography top ten list before, but for those of you that don't always have time to read the blog, every photographer I have ever met, has something of a top ten list. It's the top ten people you would like to photograph. I have one and have had to revise it every time I get one of those people or places on film. The original one I had squirreled away in my jewelry box for quite a few years was tattered and worn from reading and daydreaming and only recently, I have been able to make it a reality.

There are only a few notables left on my current list from my original list. One of course, had passed away long before I was in a position to get to India to photograph her. It was Mother Theresa. She will now be on the list at the top for all time as a reminder to never walk away from an opportunity when it's presented to you. That's a story for another time. 

The two other original names are Nelson Mandela and Fidel Castro. I may just get my opportunity yet. I have put in my paperwork for Fidel Castro's office and I'll keep you posted how that goes. Nelson Mandela  may be a bit trickier. I have friends looking into that avenue and hopefully we'll see some light on that soon. 

The original #1 on my list was of course, His Holiness, The XIVth Dalai Lama. After the two day assignments were over, I went to Tiffany's and bought myself a Tiffany's signature key. It was my reward for accomplishing my goal so swiftly and with little fuss. My experience with the RCMP gave me a little head start in that regard. I had already had security clearance done while in service so the process was quick for me. Take note anyone who has big names on their list, it's not that easy for everyone. It was streamlined for me as I had all the details in place for years, acquiring security clearance requires a lot of patience.

Back to the rewards part. As I mentioned, each major assignment that has lead me to reaching a photography goal is rewarded with something special. It's like a right of passage for me to manifest my dreams into reality and I feel this deserves a token to remind me of the work and preparation that goes into attaining these lofty goals. Some of the people on my list may not have any meaning or significance for the average reader, but their names and personalities may have touched my life at different times with something they said or did publicly that changed my way of thinking. I won't be specific about who they are for this reason alone, as I'm sure some of you would be surprised or looking at me cross eyed saying 'Huh?' or 'Really?' In just under the last 2 years, I have photographed one of my top 10 not just once but he has become one of my favorite clients and his staff are also part of my favorite team to work with. I just completed an assignment for him where a business associate of his, that became a recent addition to my list, was in attendance. Later in the evening, another female member of my list arrived and I photographed her as well. I noticed that most of my accomplishments in photography since I have been in Calgary, can be traced back to my favorite Top Ten client. Whether someone has seen the work I did for him and brought me onboard, or they heard I had worked for him and decided that was all the reference they needed. I wrote a note to thank him for all he has done, because sometimes, I think people don't realize how one little kindness can change a person's entire life as he has done for me.

With my portfolio of work I have done for him, and other's that have opened their doors to me because I photographed for him, I was recommended to get an assignment for Tiffany's of New York. Tiffany's has also been on my list for many years. At the end of the assignment, I was going to follow the tradition and buy something little from Tiffany's to celebrate my successful career moment. Tiffany's covered that for me and gave me a small pendant on a chain. It's an adorable trinket that I would have worn often and remembered the day with fondness. 

This June was my daughter's 22nd birthday. We went to a movie and celebrated quietly. I gave her this pendant, as much as it was my gift, I wanted her to have something that was a milestone marker for me. I though it was important that she see how I am realizing my dreams, even at this late stage in the game. That pendant is a symbol of what's possible if you just believe and make a plan to get where you want to go. I hope it serves her well and I hope she reaches for the stars everyday because she can. I hope she can look at that pendant and have gratitude for the path to get where she's going. I hope it reminds her to always express gratitude to the people that reach out to open doors for her as she makes her own milestones.

Don't forget to check your Compass!

Cole 

A Happy Father's Day story to all the Dads!

Growing up with Hippy parents was a blessing and a curse all rolled up together. We ate what we grew and raised. My sisters and I wore hand-me-down clothes. We walked a mile or two, and yes it was a mile, not a kilometer. Plywood floors, pumping fresh drinking water from the well out back, trudging 100 yards across the frozen lawn to the outhouse in sometimes 3 or 4 feet of fresh sticky snow, in the middle of the night. We did not have indoor plumbing, I think I've mentioned that before, and with 5 little girls running around and then as we got older... my poor Dad!

I was the last of 5 girls, I think they really were hoping for a boy. Once I was born, I think that was it for them. We were all expected to work as secretaries, or something similar, get married and have babies. Out of 5, only two of us ever married and had children. This is the difference between small town Canadian Hippy family to the bigger, more dramatic American Pop Culture versions. Have to say I was the shiny green apple in a basket full of sweet reds. This often was to the chagrin of my Father as he and I didn't see eye to eye for years. He was the pragmatist and I was the artist and the dreamer. I learned to adapt and make things work, even though I often had to compromise to make everyone else happy. I always saw the big picture and the next level. My family was not quite so broad thinking, and those that were, kept their silence and didn't know they had a voice too. I did what I was told but was doing it my own way, the result was often the same, the path was usually faster and more efficient though.

So the years go on, I do the babies and the marriage thing as was expected, but what I really wanted back then was to travel and see the world. Have adventures, learn new languages and cultures, experience life. I believe this was a product of my exposure to National Geographic, Wild Kingdom of Omaha, and especially Jacques Cousteau Undersea Adventures. (PS Dad made me watch those!) This was not acceptable from my family's point of view, so to appease everyone, I married a man that worked in the slick and dirty business of oil and gas. We traveled the world with the little ones in tow and I managed to see some of it while I was raising the kids internationally. I sort of made my Dad happy, but he really wasn't pleased about the kids being raised overseas. I was still the dreamer, and he was still the pragmatist. I don't believe he was ever proud of my accomplishments to that point. I was definitely the granny smith tart green apple then.

Last year, in February, we learned my Dad was really ill. He hid his discomfort from my sisters, who lived close by. When it was finally discovered, it was too late to do anything about it. His body was riddled with pockets of Cancer. I drove my children the three and a half hours North to see him, while he was in the hospital. Then the Doctors told my sisters that the Cancer was destroying his mind and fairly soon, he would not know us.

I made one last drive North alone to visit early one morning. When I arrived, he was sleeping quietly in his bed. The pain he may have felt in the night was etched in the lines on his face. He slept silently for 15 minutes and when he woke, he asked who all the friends were that I brought with me. We were alone in the room. It may have been his mind starting to falter, but then again when you're that close to the end, who knows what you see or feel.

For two hours, we talked about fun things from the days on our little hippy farm. Stooking the cut alfalfa in the field and riding on the top of the haystack wagon back to the barns. Hooking the old wooden sled to the back of the tractor and riding around the roads in the frosty white winters. (All without safety harness and helmets! Lol!) Building junk in his workshop. For those of you that don't know, my Dad's father built Grandfather clocks so my Dad's choice was to build harps. I have two full size Celtic Concerto harps in my living room, as well as a lovely old wooden Duesenberg toy car he built.  He was not pleased that I was a photographer. He felt it wasn't a valuable profession and I would never amount to much in that industry so I was bit surprised when he asked about my work, which he never did before. I told him about getting a contract in Central America, one in Seattle, a pending one in Europe for a bank at the time that never panned out. I finally told him about reaching my goal of photographing His Holiness, The XIVth Dalai Lama the September before. To this he crossed his long lanky arms to his chest and said, "The Dalai Lama!" . The comments from his mouth were witty and fresh and I won't repeat them, but as much as he made jokes and played it down, I could see the pride shining from behind his eyes. I had never witnessed that before and it was like a beacon of understanding to me. An instant peace settled over the room and we shared a moment that will last in my consciousness until I take my last breath. I finally understood who he was and he understood who I was.

The hospital kitchen was just sending up his lunch. I hugged my Dad and said goodbye for the last time. I told him I would not be back again. I knew he would not know me soon and in a few weeks he did not know any of us. He had always played the strong silent Dad and I now know he would never have wanted any of us to remember him as weak and helpless in a hospital bed. He passed away on April 26, 2010 and I flew out to Central America the next day. Dad never liked a lot of excess and emotions made him uncomfortable in the extreme so a big weeping dramatic funeral was not what he would have envisioned for himself. I stop by his graveside out in the sleepy little country cemetery every time when I go North, just to pay my respects, clear off his marker or pull out a few weeds.

I have no witty words of wisdom, no happy ending, and no prose for a smoothly worded Father's day card. The story should speak for itself.
To all you Dads, soon to be Dads, and future Dads, Happy Father's Day! Make it count each and everyday.
Don't forget to check your Compass!

Cole

The best job offer ever .....

I am working at the editing desk today, pushing a deadline for 4 pm and out of the blue I get a phone call. Now it's not from someone I know very well. In fact we met very briefly at a party in Central America last spring. This person goes on to tell me how he is looking for someone with my experience to manage the photography side of his little hotel chain in Central America. Now I have to say the description of "little' for this guy's hotel is laced with sarcasm. He owns most of the private luxury properties in Central and South America. For those of you that haven't had this experience, high end boutique hotels often have photographers on staff or on speed dial to cover celebrity guests, weddings and events on location for them. This saves so much time and money for them and the work is fabulous. Excellent remuneration, accommodation and meals paid for. It's really a sweet deal. If you work for a group of them, it's really quite the life.

So as he's talking, we get down to the bare bones of the conversation. I need time to travel elsewhere to get the pictures I really want and he wants me to travel throughout South and Central America to handle his other properties location work. There are still questions to be answered before I go forward.

When I asked him what made him decide to call , he had a tale to tell me. I photographed a young man and his family on the beach last year in a candid moment. I didn't know this man or his family, but they were playing volleyball on the beach and I had some great images of them laughing and enjoying themselves.

I remember the picture and how soft the lighting was, the waves were moving in, and taking over their volleyball game but they continued to play. A short wave and a long serve caught the ball and dragged it out so the teenagers had to swim to catch it. They returned to shore cheering the capture and strong swimming of the boys. With a heave ho and a shove, they piled on each other in the wet sand and another wave swooped in and soaked them all again. I was smiling as I watched their family game. I checked the images and this one stood out from the rest so I had to show them.
Me being me, I walked into their happy scene and showed them all the picture and collected the email address with promises to send it when I returned home.

When I arrived back in Canada, I had a few pressing assignments so I didn't edit the pictures right away. When I did finally send it down to them, the young lad was just very ill and they had no diagnosis. They brought him home to Canada and he was looked after right away. By Christmas time they finally knew what he had and were taking the necessary steps to help him fight the disease. I could hear the emotion pouring through the phone when he said they all, extended family included, often look at that picture I took because that's the last time everyone was really happy. The family I photographed was his nephew's.

He did a thorough background check on me and decided I was the one he wanted. The picture was some of my best work, and very lovely with 'late in the day' lighting. It wasn't just the picture, it was the fact that I sent it to a stranger, as a gift to remember this happy day without asking for anything in return. He said that anyone that would do this and share this compassionate and positive energy is someone he wants on his team.

I love my life here in Calgary, my friends, the city coming to life and being able to capture it in my lens is what I live for everyday. I can not dismiss his offer for this work very lightly. My head says to go where the money is to another culture, my heart is in love with Calgary and the friends I have here. Do I stay and continue down the path of starving artist?.... or do I jump at the opportunity and go back to living out of a suitcase and seeing the world again? ....

Hmmmm Don't forget to check your Compass!

Cole

My name is not Michelle ....

 When I was maybe 9 or 10, we moved from our quiet 'little house on the prairie'. No word of a lie, it looked exactly like the house from 'Little House on The Prairie'. The only difference was that the siding was flat red with white trim, not sun faded clapboard and my mother was an exceptional gardner. The area surrounding our house was full of flowers and blooming trees as far as the eye could see. The inside wasn't much different though and we had to pull water from the well out back.. but that's a whole other story.

 I had spent many years on the farm with my grandparents, aunts, and uncles and the rest of the time at our little house in the garden. Things were changing rapidly. From the safe, quietly insulated little farming community to to big city ( Edmonton had a whopping population of about 200,000 +/- ).  We first moved to my Grandparents city home in one of the upper class neighborhoods. (Mr. and Mrs Don Getty were our near neighbors).

 My first day in the new city school was interesting. Not only had I left Kansas without my little dog Toto, it was like a whole new planet. My little farm girl clothes were just not making the grade with the Big City kids. I was teased mercilessly about my hair, my boots, my jeans, and shirts. They may have been a practical choice on the farm, but not really stylin' for 1970 something Edmonton... the fashion mecca of the world apparently. I'd have to say this was a huge learning curve for me about human nature. I had no idea kids could be so mean. Bullying is a soft word compared to what I experienced at the hands of a few 9 year old Ghengis Khans. I'll skip the details because what they did will be in the book and I have to say, it will be a story not soon forgotten.

 The one thing that amused me the most was that people could not get my name right. I was admonished and scolded by the teachers for not answering when they called my name. I actually was sent to the principal's office because I did not respond when they did roll call in class. Let me backtrack a bit here. There was this girl at the school for maybe 2 or 3 years, and a few months before I moved to the area, she moved away. According to those in the know, she and I were exactly the same everything. Hair, eyes, height, etc. Her name was Michelle. I guess she must have been a bit of a bad ass, as she had a reputation for being in the principal's office a fair bit. I was called Michelle by everyone and had to live down this girl's attitude and reputation daily. After being there from January to June, I am sure I had a childhood version of post traumatic stress disorder. The teachers were ridiculous in their insistence at calling me Michelle and punishing me for not responding. Each time I tried to tell them that was not my name, I was sent to the principal's office. I tried to be diplomatic and not to get in trouble, so my voice became softer, my words were clear and precise. Between the teachers and the bullies (and their flock of sheep) it's a wonder I didn't lose it completely. My Mom was dealing with so much stuff at the time, I didn't want to add to her burden so I kept quiet about it all at home. Only at the end of the year did my homeroom teacher have a meeting with my Mom and found out what my problem was. Instead of sitting down and having a conversation with me about what she did, she came at me all angry and in my face, telling me I should have told her my parents divorced that January, I should have made her listen each time I was mistakenly called Michelle and I should have spoke up louder than I did. Not sure how much louder I could have been without being punished for yelling in class at the teacher.  I was never very sure how it ended up being my fault that they couldn't get my name right, but according to my teacher, it was.

We moved to a new neighborhood, a 10 minute bike ride away from my grandparent's city house, but in a different school district. On the first day of school, I was called Michelle by a few kids. This was creepy... I ended up in the principal's office because I didn't know what his little black book was for. He kept a little black book in his office and every time you ended up in his office, he wrote your name in the book. If he saw your name in there twice, you got the strap. My name was not in the book, but Michelle's name sure was. He ended up getting called away before he could strap me and the secretary hustled me out of there as quickly as she could. She was there the day my Mom registered me and she knew I was not Michelle. By this point, I'm thinking if I ever saw this Michelle, I may have to have a chat with her about her behavior.

Years go by, I went to private school and was home schooled. My music and photography were my majors of choice and managed to make it work for me. I had adjusted to city life but got back out to my friends and relative's in the country as often as possible. Things were going well. I was working in the Whyte Ave area of Edmonton at a club, trying to pay for school, and had many people call me Michelle. Once, someone stopped me and tried to make a joke about me (Michelle) picking up a tray in the club. I explained that they were mistaken and I was not Michelle. Having a second look through beer goggle eyes, the guy apologized and said I was definitely not Michelle but he had just seen her up in the back of the club. I actually dragged this drunken sod to the back to point her out to me, but through his pickled peepers, he couldn't have seen her if she was sitting on his lap.

The thread of this story is really about the bullying, not about the doppleganger Michelle. There is a cause I have just heard about through one of my favorite clients, called Dare To Care. It's about bullying in the school system. Something I experienced first hand. I will say this though. All the teasing, petty ridicule and plain cruelty I experienced as a kid, have made me a compassionate and caring adult. I work for my passion and never let anyone bully another. I raised my children to stand up for those who can not defend themselves, and I am not afraid to speak up for another who needs support and strength.


That's all for now.
Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

Laughter is the best medicine...

Growing up in a rural setting, one tends to have experiences that are not the average for the regular city kids. Here's one that always makes my Mom tear up with laughter whenever she has to tell it. I'm thinking from an adult perspective it seems quite a bit funnier than when I was 4.  At 4, this was serious business.

I'm playing outside on the lawn, we had a lawn that was a few acres back then so there was a lot of room. My Dad was home and working in the garage. Every so often I could hear a few interesting words and the sound of a wrench or a hammer falling on metal. I thought this would be a perfect time to go tell my Dad I was home and see what he was up to. Sometimes, Dad would give me a hammer, a box of nails, and point me in the direction of his scrap woodpile and tell me some random thing he decided it would be imperative that I build for him right away. Dad was no dummy. He knew how to keep me busy for hours.

I'm outside building a bridge for the duck pond we had yet to build, with 2" x 6" scrap bits of spruce... this bridge was going to take a while. When I look up from my intensive labors, my middle sister ( I have 4 older sisters ) is standing there glaring down like she has the most dire news to impart to me. She informs me that the ant bait in the little round can, just behind me is poison and if I touch it, I am taking a trip to "The Happy Hunting Grounds". That means dead for those of you not familiar with Bugs Bunny trivia. I give her my most annoyed look my four year old attitude can muster and continue on with my work. What seemed like a few hours later (but at 4 how long could that really have been, maybe 15 minutes?) I am bored with my task, I'm guessing Engineering was not in my future at this point, and I decide to hop across the double wide opening for the swinging barn doors on the garage. In the middle of aforementioned garage door threshold, is a 2 inch round can of ant bait. As I am swinging on the doors and jumping as far as my little four year old legs can carry me, my fingers lose their grip on the big wooden door and I slip. My tiny toes landed on the little can of death and as nimble as Baryshnikov, I leaped back on to the door and stole a glance at my Dad to see if he noticed. He was busy fighting with some contraption or another that he was building. My super brain started to digest the facts, I was swinging from the garage doors, probably that alone would be frowned upon by everyone for starters. I landed on the can of ant bait, granted it was only for a second and I was wearing socks, thick sturdy farm boots, and don't forget the really cool welding goggles that my Dad let me borrow... Lol! But still, I TOUCHED the can of ant bait. I quickly came to the conclusion that I was on my way to the happy hunting grounds. I must have turned 50 shades of white in a short amount of time as I dragged my dying feet across the yard and into the house to say goodbye to my Mom and wait for the end to come.  Would it be slow? Would it be fast? How will I know when I'm dead? All these things were playing through my head as I slowly took off my boots at the kitchen screen door, hugged my Mom while she was baking bread, and went to lie down on the sofa and wait for my last breath.

A short time went by and my Mom's  'spidey senses' were tingling that something was up so she felt a look was in order. She walks into the living room, and there I am. Lying on my back on the sofa, stiff as a board. The blanket my Great Aunty had knit tucked up tight under my little chin, my arms crossed solemnly across my sobbing chest. My face was white as a sheet, now Mom didn't know the story yet so she's wondering if I did something bad and am worried about getting in trouble.

She comes over to ask what I did and in my littlest voice, I burst into tears and strangled out that I was going to "The Happy Hunting Grounds" and then between broken sobs, a lot of sniffling, and questions, I managed to squeak out my story of the swinging on the doors, the ant bait, the happy hunting grounds, the slipping from the door onto the ant bait, ( might I add that even back then it was a childproof container). You would have had to  #1  shake it pretty seriously to get any of the bait to fall out of the teeny little holes made only for ants to crawl into. #2  you'd have to ingest a serious amount of the microscopic pellets to even get something more than a little upset stomach. So here I am totally destroyed by my perilous predicament, and my poor mother is trying to keep a straight face. At one point, I think she left the room to get some tissues for me and I could have sworn she was snorting while trying not to laugh too loud from the other room. Having already raised 4 curious and often precocious daughters, this must have been somewhat of 'old hat' for her. Maybe not quite so dramatic though.

I had totally forgotten that old story by the next day until one day, a few years back, my family was all together. My Mom decided she had to tell this story ( before she had the stroke ) She was laughing so hard in the retelling, she could barely get out the words. With everyone watching her laugh so hard, they of course started laughing too. Not so much from the story as Mom was quite hysterical, she was barely making sense, but from her enjoyment at the comical sight of 4 year old me with my arms crossed as if in my casket already. Eventually, when the laughter died down, and I crawled out from behind the sofa, everyone in the room had seriously exhausted themselves from the comedy routine and new stories were remembered and the retelling of those brought out more hilarity and jovial kinship. The bonds of family healed over laughter, old wounds cleansed of scarring by a new adulthood version of a child's folly. Seeing yourself as a child through your own adult eyes can be quite cathartic.

There are hundreds more stories and time to tell them all so don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

New or Used....?

 I am currently shopping for a new vehicle. I have been driving my Dad's 1991 Jeep Comanche since April of last year.  I gave the last little pick-up truck to my daughter to drive and she, being the smart, sharp business mind I raised her to be, promptly sold it to her boyfriend for $2000.00.

The Comanche is barely stock, no radio, CD player, or Bluetooth. Manual transmission, bench vinyl seat, and plain white. It had 31,000 original km on it when I started driving it, it's been quite mechanically sound until recently. During one of our last snowstorms, I had to jump a snow bank out of my driveway to get to an assignment and I think I lost a chunk of the already thin exhaust pipes right up under the driver's side. This can't be good for the truck. It loses power going up hills, and is making the trip to my friend's shop on 16th a little tedious in the early morning hours.

I started looking in the last few weeks. I briefly thought about resurrecting my dream of a little black zippy sports car. My girlfriends all talk wistfully about the perfect little black dress and I am daydreaming of ripping up the mountain passes at ungodly speeds in my little black sports car. (while wearing my little black dress and stilettos. Lol!) I shopped around for something sporty for only a short time. I checked out a few older Porsche Boxters that were well cared for, a Pontiac Solstice, a few other convertible rocket ships, and then the practicality of the situation became evident. I needed a vehicle I could carry my gear in. The little zippy black sports car faded away into the mist waving it's windshield wipers goodbye as it zoomed away into the fog. (insert big mellow dramatic sigh here)

Hmmm, the practical vehicle. What should I choose? I had the big shiny SUV and loved it until it started falling apart after 4 solid years of hockey tournaments and ski races. Many friends suggested the Range Rover Sport as a suitable candidate, I smiled and politely reminded them of the current budget, then we quickly moved on to the next category. I toyed with the Ford Escape, the Nissan Pathfinder or Rogue, a VW Beetle, Golf, or Jetta. Then we touched on the Smart Car, the inevitable Toyotas, and even looked into older BMWs and Mercedes. What does one do when one is faced with so many choices? I called my insurance broker and asked what vehicle has the best insurance rates for a skilled driver, no accidents or speeding tickets, or demerits in 26 years of driving. I was schooled on the process by my agent. Did you know that the resale price of replacement parts is the first thing that is considered in the price of your insurance? Some car manufacturers prices are so outrageous that the insurance broker said quite plainly "don't even think about that one."

I now consider myself educated about these choices and am on the hunt for my slightly older new car. It isn't likely that it will be zippy or sporty, but hopefully, it will fit all my studio gear when I need to take it on assignment, both my kids when we need to go make the obligatory visit North to the family, and maybe a few friends for a day trip to hike in Kananaskis or Banff. I'd like to have one that will fit the kayak and gear when I feel the need to be on the river too, but maybe I'll settle for a decent roof rack. (umm I'm sure the Porsche Boxter is out of the running with that task anyway. Lol!)

I'll let you know what the final choice is, but don't wait up! This could take a while. Lol!

Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

Mom's day ...

I stepped out the front entryway of my big old red brick mansion, Van Morrison's Moondance on my Ipod, sun shining, birds chirping. Yes I can still hear the birds through my headphones. I don't crank the volume up to the roaring blaring white noise that would make my ears bleed. Just background music to pace my walk.

The walk I was taking was not a long one, but as I walked in time with the music, I had a lot to think about. My Mom tried to raise my 4 sisters and I with little or no help. I know how she felt, I did the same but only with 2. She must have felt some relief after we all grew up and moved away. No stress, fun with her friends, hanging with her boyfriend John every other weekend.

John, being John Wayne, yes THE John Wayne. My Mom is a western addict, and anything with John Wayne is watched as if it were the first time she ever saw it. I tease her and call him her boyfriend. This is always a great way to start a conversation with her these days.

Life was going really great. Kids were getting ready to be adults and start their own lives. I had put a deposit on a zippy little two seater sports car. A guilty pleasure after driving the big shiny black SUV full of Hockey and Ski gear all over the province. I was making plans to run my photography studio full time, take a few well deserved vacations, and spend more time doing things for me. I was ready for the freedom that comes with my kids growing up. Then the most unexpected thing happened...

My Mom had a major stroke and I sold or gave away everything I owned to go back home to look after her. Let go of the dream of driving my zippy little black sports car through the rockies as well. After her rehab, she stayed with me for quite sometime. We were blessed to have my Uncle agree to house us so we didn't have to worry about finding a place to be. He is a saint in my eyes for all his help.

When I first saw her after her stroke, she was unable to speak, eat, or move unassisted. They kept her in the Emergency ward for almost a full week I think. There was a moment, when they had to perform life saving procedure on her with one of my sisters and I gently shoved from the small curtained bed. In those tense moments, my life with my Mom flooded back on me like waves on the beach. Everything said, not said, experienced, and felt. In those moments, the time she may or may not have to spend with my kids seemed to be most important. She was a vibrant, active person one day, and weak and helpless the very next.

With my plans for my own life on hold, we did the best we could to keep her going. There were times when she was in recovery in the Heart and Stroke ward at the U of A Hospital when she seemed to give up. Depression came and went, and frequently rears it's ugly head even now. It's in these times when my family may have seen a side of me they didn't expect. I was the black sheep, the wanderer, the artist and it was here they saw the tough single Mom come out.

With everything I had been through, the Mom in me kicked in and when my Mom was feeling particularly down and unwilling to do the work to get better, I would ask her if she liked being stuck in the hospital bed, not allowed to even get up to dress herself. She said she hated it. So I got in her face and said "If you don't want to be here then start doing the exercises from physiotherapy so you can get up and walk out on your own two feet." That lit the fire and she pushed through the tough stuff.
With the help of my sisters and my uncle, I managed to keep pushing her to be independent. One time, she refused to get in the truck so I could get her to the doctor's appointment. She was having a major temper tantrum. I told her to get in the truck or I would pick her up and put her in there myself, and she didn't weigh much more than a 100 lbs after her stay in the hospital so she knew I meant it. She nearly burned my Uncle's house down a week or so after that making apple pies a little too soon after she was released from the hospital, but she can walk, she can talk, and today she lives in her own little apartment in a seniors building close to my sister.

Now I'm not going to shine you on with a miracle story here. There were complications from the stroke that are irreversible. She is partially blind in one eye, she has limited movement of her right side, so she no longer is the active person she used to be and she can not drive her car. She does however, still have her weekend trysts with her boyfriend John. The biggest transition for us all to get used to, she is no longer the smart mouthed, sharp witted woman who loved a good naughty joke, and lots of laughter. We can no longer ask Mom about gardening, sewing, children, or cooking questions. She does not remember. The Mom we knew is not there, but there is a new one in her place. She is about 13 years old and the roles are now reversed, she as the child and my sisters and I as the Mothers.

So my advice to you, call your Mom wherever she is, say a prayer if she is no longer, and remember that no matter what she is right now, she is the reason you are here. This I am grateful for.
Happy Mother's Day!

Cole
Don't forget to check your Compass!