This is from a couple years ago, the day after a fire devastated Ash Canyon, just south of Sierra Vista. We have had a dry, warm, Winter, so we are likely to have a hot, fire-filled Spring and Summer. Please heed all warning signs, don’t toss your cigarettes out the window and always put your campfires completely out. (Tossing your cigarettes out the window is inconsiderate at any time.)
An abnormally warm and dry winter this year, but this prickly pear is on a drip system, so it doesn’t know we are in a drought. I love how the spines begin as little soft rubbery protuberances. I’m not sure what they are called or what their purpose is, but I love how they look and feel.
People from the North and East like to say “I prefer the see the change of seasons” when I talk about 80 degree weather in March. The thing is, we do have seasons here. We have cycles of dormancy and growth. We have changes in temperature and precipitation. We even have snow occasionally. Many of our plants are evergreen, but not so the desert willow. It loses its leaves every Fall, and grows them again the next Spring. It also has these beautiful flowers that hummingbirds love. Speaking of which, we are at the Northern migration point of many tropical hummingbirds, and also the Southern migration point for many from Canada, so we have them year round.
Look. Really look. How many times have you been driving home in the afternoon and suddenly realized that you missed the sunset? You were listening to the radio, or talking on the phone, or thinking about dinner, or whatever. You missed the sunset. That brilliant beautiful thing that fills the sky every night. If you can miss that when it’s in front of your face, imagine all the small inconsequential things of beauty that you miss all day long. That is part of what being a photographer is. Your job is to see the things that other people overlook, record them, and put them where they can see them again.
I don’t use Facebook socially except for playing Scrabble. I have, however, started a new page for my photography over there in case you are interested in seeing more images. It consists now mostly of photos of local musicians, but I plan to expand it to portraits of people I have taken around the world. Who knows where it will go beyond that. Here’s a link if you want to go like it: David Scott Moyer
Like a bird on a wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
Like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If I, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you.
Like a baby, stillborn,
Like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
And by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
He said to me, “You must not ask for so much.”
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
She cried to me, “Hey, why not ask for more?”
Oh like a bird on the wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Leonard Cohen
25 years ago, Susan Kay Johnson’s dad died. She decided to honor him by means of a procession on All Souls Day, as is traditionally done in Mexico. A few of her closest friends got together (I think it was 5 or 6), made costumes, and marched through downtown Tucson. I had to man my gallery that evening, but they did stop by. I don’t know exactly how many years it took, but that little procession grew every year until it got to the point where the streets had to be closed off. At some point, Sue decided it had grown beyond her and gave over control of the parade to Paul Weir and Nadia Hagen of Flam Chen. Last year, some 50,000 people dressed up, painted their paces, built floats, created drum circles, or just walked along the route, which now culminates in an extravaganza of pomp and fire symbolizing the release of all souls’ troubles. Sue still participates, but she also has a small procession in which a few of us parade unescorted through the streets to the Tucson Museum of Art, where the community has set up shrines of remembrance like the one in my photograph above.
Bill Maher is very good at hitting the uncomfortable nail on the head. What he misses here, I think, is that many of the conservative elite would be quite content with both of those things, people making sub-poverty wages and no safety net. Essentially, there is a group of wealthy Americans who dream of being feudal lords and ladies.
The guts of a piano are a marvelous thing: gorgeous curves, perfect geometry, use of space – and memories uncounted. I helped lift this upright on to the back of a pickup. It was beyond repair and my friend was taking it home so his baby girl could play with the strings. He demolished the case and left the sounding board on the porch for her amusement. My first thought upon seeing it was wow, what a beautiful composition (pun intended). Now, looking at this photo, I wonder what it has seen, what songs it has played. Did some young child plunk away on it dutifully for an hour a day only to give it up with adolescence? Or maybe did they become a more accomplished musician and graduate to a full sized piano? Did it sit in the foyer of a home as decoration, or was it regularly played at parties? Did it play ragtime? Boogie Woogie? Hymns? Maybe it was the piano in a small church that couldn’t afford an organ, giving vehicle to the musical offerings of the parishioners. Maybe it had several of these lives. Now it is the occasional plaything of a small child, strummed idly by passing adults and photographed by me.
davidscottmoyer 