there be dragons

Mt Laguna snowIt had snowed in the local moun­tains late last month. By the time I got up there you could still find big patches of snow on the ground.

Snow over the desert

At the crest of the Laguna Moun­tains you can look down down down over the edge of the escarp­ment of the Elsi­nore Fault to the Val­lecito Val­ley imme­di­ately below. It’s a quick ver­ti­cal mile of dropoff, a height com­pa­ra­ble to many vis­tas along the Grand Canyon. The change in ele­va­tion is impres­sive, but so is the rad­i­cal change in land­scape. A fairly well-watered green-and-brown moun­tain plant community–think pines, cean­othus, moun­tain mahogany–careens into a sere desert land­scape, all of it in muted brown and pur­ple and pink and gray tones. Down below the col­ors of geol­ogy quickly over­power those of biol­ogy. Some­one who doesn’t love deserts might liken the descent into Anza Borreo Desert State Park as a descent into Hell.

On this early Jan­u­ary day Hell was pleas­ant, in the low 70s, sunny and dry. Some­thing I hadn’t vis­ited before was a big instal­la­tion of sculp­tures by Ricardo Bre­ceda. Installed on a flat expanse on the edge of Bor­rego Springs you’ll find a rusty steel menagerie of var­i­ous crea­tures. I rec­og­nized the camels and horses, includ­ing this horse with an unfortunately-placed sup­port column.

Camel scuptures in the desert

Horse with rectal probe

Archduke Charles sculpture
(Note to artist: It is pos­si­ble to model rear­ing horses with­out rec­tal probes, as this sculp­ture of Arch­duke Charles in Vienna’s Helden­platz shows. (Photo by Peter Ger­st­bach and used here by the terms of the GNU Free Doc­u­men­ta­tion License.))

I rec­og­nized some of the crea­tures but a few started to get pretty fan­ci­ful, like they’d escaped from a Mau­rice Sendak picturebook.

Beheaded beast

This one had either just lost its head or was still in the process of being installed.

Horse escaping creature

Head­less or not, it was scar­ing the horses…

Ricardo Breceda sculpture creature

And what the heck is this crea­ture sup­posed to be? What­ever it was, it appeared to be mom with a lit­tle one on her back.

Dragon head

Dragon with mountains

And now we come to the dragon, a big and fancy and fear­some num­ber with five dif­fer­ent seg­ments that go from one side of the road to the other. (Edit Jan­u­ary 20: Ricki points out that it’s prob­a­bly a sea ser­pent and not a dragon, and I agree with her.)

Dragon segment as gate

Here one of the seg­ments func­tioned as a really lovely lit­tle gar­den portal.

Dragaon vs cholla

But in the end the most fear­some thing of all out in the desert that day wasn’t the dragon, but this “jump­ing” cholla cac­tus, one of the local Cylin­drop­un­tia species (maybe C. gan­deri?). I’ve never been hurt by a dragon, but this bit of botan­i­cal evil is a dif­fer­ent story. Be afraid, be very afraid.

highlights from 2012: disney hall garden

Sort­ing through last year’s pho­tos I ran across many lit­tle piles intended for blog post­ings that never happened.

One of the roads paved with good inten­tions led to Los Ange­les. We were up June 1 to the Walt Dis­ney Con­cert Hall for one of the pre­mier con­cert per­for­mances of John Adams’ new ora­to­rio The Pas­sion Accord­ing to the Other Mary, a big and sprawl­ing work with many amaz­ing musi­cal moments. (The piece is being reprised in early March in a ver­sion staged by Peters Sellars.)

Disney Hall exterior reflecting the sunset

Disney Hall exterior with evening sky

Disney Hall southwest side
Dis­ney Hall has estab­lished itself as an archi­tec­tural land­mark, for rea­sons that you can see here. But less pub­li­cized is its lit­tle roof gar­den.

Disney Hall Garden big rose fountain for Lilly Disney

The main cen­ter­piece is a delft blue-and-white rose foun­tain Frank Gehry designed for con­cert hall bene­fac­tor Lilly Dis­ney. Dur­ing mid­day the fountain’s blue col­ors play off the blue of the sky reflected in the thou­sands of reflec­tive facets of the con­cert hall’s stain­less steel exte­rior. But we were there at dusk and the reflected col­ors formed a back­drop of warm tones.

(Writ­ing now, in Jan­u­ary, when these short win­ter days sees dark­ness falling in late after­noon, it’s com­fort­ing to see that within a few months the sun will still be up late into the evening, sum­mer manic to counter the win­ter depres­sive. I can hardly wait!)

Disney Hall Garden big rose fountain for Lilly Disney alt

Disney Hall Garden Lilly Disney fountain

Disney Hall Garden plants

Disney Hall Garden Heuchera maxima

Disney Hall Garden coral tree and building

Disney Hall Garden coral tree and building alt

There was a nod to native Cal­i­for­nia with this clump of coral bells, Heuchera max­ima, but the other plants drew on the imported botan­i­cal palette that you see around South­ern Cal­i­for­nia. This bloom­ing coral trees were prob­a­bly the most promi­nent among them.

Disney Hall interior with the french fries

Going inside the hall, the wacked out organ pipes behind the orches­tra always amaze me. The archi­tect refers to them as his “French fries.”

So ends this delayed lit­tle tour of a sight from last year. If my blog host­ing ser­vice spares me fur­ther times with­out ser­vice, I’ll have a few more glimpses back ahead, along with what some South­ern Cal­i­for­nia gar­dens are doing in the length­en­ing days of late winter.

sunburn–the good kind

Until a cou­ple weeks ago I hadn’t bought any art or photo books this year. In today’s online age some­thing really has to speak to me for me to want to make space for it at home in tan­gi­ble, doorstop form. Chris McCaw’s new–and first–book, Sun­burn, was the release that broke this year’s book­less streak.

Sunburn book cover
Sun­burn / Chris McCaw.
Rich­mond, VA: Can­dela, 2012.
Dimen­sions: 10 1/2 x 11 1/2 in.
96 pages, 43 plates
ISBN 978–0-9845739–2-9

From cover to cover this is a book of pho­tographs incor­po­rat­ing one main sub­ject: the sun. But this is the sun pho­tographed in a way that’s never been done before.

Chris uses giant lenses, many of them weigh­ing dozens of pounds, and aims them at a sheet of vin­tage photo paper inside big cam­eras of his own mak­ing. All that light gen­er­ates a lot of heat, and the paper inside the cam­era often scorches the areas where the sun’s image falls on it. Most of the expo­sures are many min­utes to many hours long, so that as the sun moves through the sky it burns lines and arcs onto the paper in the cam­era. Some­times lit­tle fires break. Photo paper isn’t used to all this light, and in addi­tion to flam­ing out every now and then it can do some wacky things with a process called solar­iza­tion, where some parts of the image are flipped from neg­a­tive to pos­i­tive. In a few of the images you can also see some rich col­ors oth­ers than black or white or gray in the dan­ger zone around the sun’s image, a reac­tion of the paper’s chem­istry to being used in ways it wasn’t designed to be used. (The book’s cover image above demon­strates this nicely.)

The method of work­ing would remain an inter­est­ing anec­dote if it didn’t result in some pretty star­tling pho­tographs. Be sure to click and enlarge these images to begin to see all their beau­ti­ful lit­tle sub­tleties. You’ll be glad you did.

Chris McCaw Sunburn Number 65 (Nevada)

Chris McCaw. Sun­burned GSP#65 (Nevada), 2007. 16“x20” unique gelatin sil­ver paper neg­a­tive. Pri­vate collection.

This early piece shows the clas­sic burn-through with the sun’s path.

ChrisMcCawSunburnNo190

Chris McCaw. Sun­burned GSP#190, 2008. 20“x24” unique gelatin sil­ver paper neg­a­tive. Fidelity Invest­ments Collection.

In this and the next image the sun didn’t scorch through the paper, but it did some cool things with the branches in the foreground.

Chris McCaw Sunburn 325

Chris McCaw. Sun­burned GSP#325, 2009. 4“x5” unique gelatin sil­ver paper neg­a­tive. Pri­vate collection.

Some pho­tog­ra­phy con­cerns itself with the world out­side the cam­era. It’s pho­tog­ra­phy about peo­ple, places, issues and ideas. Other kinds of pho­tog­ra­phy do a lot of navel-gazing obsess­ing about the process of pho­tog­ra­phy itself. This sec­ond camp expresses itself in lots of dif­fer­ent ways, includ­ing images pro­duced using antique pho­to­graphic processes, toy cam­eras, camera-less pho­tograms, or images cre­ated by the chem­i­cal reac­tion of the entrails of bun­nies with color pho­to­graphic paper. (No, I’m not mak­ing this up. The pho­tog­ra­pher Adam Fuss has a body of work that appar­ently ended up with his fam­ily and friends eat­ing many meals that fea­tured rab­bit as the main course.) I think Chris’s work falls a lit­tle more on the camera-geek side of the equa­tion, and his work is instantly appeal­ing to pho­tog­ra­phers famil­iar with the mate­ri­als he works with. But the result­ing pho­tos of land­scape with a sun’s path burned out of the sky, with mys­te­ri­ous flips of pos­i­tive and neg­a­tive, dark and light, are pretty won­der­ful things that view­ers attuned to beau­ti­ful objects will imme­di­ately con­nect with.

ChrisMcCawSunburnNo541Galapagos

Chris McCaw. Sun­burned GSP#541(Galápagos), 2012. 8“x10” unique gelatin sil­ver paper negative.

The sun’s path changes with the sea­sons and with your loca­tion on the earth. If you want to have your sun rise up the cen­ter of the photo in a per­fectly straight line you have to do some trav­el­ing to the earth’s equa­tor, which is exactly what Chris did, tak­ing this photo off the coast of the Galá­pa­gos Islands ear­lier this year. Wow, huh? The sun’s reflec­tion really makes this image.

And there’s a sort of com­pan­ion piece to this one, a big multi-panel panorama he shot up in Alaska’s Brooks Range, where the sun never sets as it marks a long, slow parabola over the moun­tains on the hori­zon over the course of more than a day. Dou­ble wow. (It’s on pages 68–69 of his book.)

And did I men­tion Chris is a really cool guy? A few years back I was on a lit­tle desert camp­ing trip to Anza Bor­rego with four other pho­tog­ra­phers, and Chris was one of them. At that point he’d fig­ured out that there was some­thing really inter­est­ing when you burn a pho­to­graphic neg­a­tive, but hadn’t yet worked out his cur­rent method that uses big sheets of pho­to­graphic paper that serve as the final art­work, scorch marks and all. To think, I knew the Chris way back when before impend­ing greatness.

So…if you have a big, rec­tan­gu­lar stock­ing to fill later this month, this might be the per­fect thing to put in it!

ChrisMcCawFrontispiece

Oh, and I for­got to men­tion this impres­sive fron­tispiece to the book. The image is Sun­burned GSP#573(eclipse), 2012. Cool enough, but the page has been die-cut to give you a sense of how it would be to han­dle one of these pho­tos. I didn’t shoot the back of the page, but there you’ll find repro­duced the back­side of the image with scorch marks and Chris’s nota­tions. It’s for things like this that the word-elves invented the word “awesome.”

All images in this post are copy­right the artist, and are used here with his permission.

it’s a girl

Maybe three years ago I started some coy­ote bush from local seed. This species, Bac­cha­ris pilu­laris is a pretty easy plant to repro­duce this way, pretty close to “just add water.” It pro­duces plants that are either entirely male or entirely female in the kinds of flow­ers they pro­duce, or “dioe­cious” in botany-speak. When you grow them out from seed you have a pretty even chance that a sin­gle plant will be male or female.

Each gen­der has its uses in the gar­den. The males are great if you want a fast-growing reli­ably green mound of foliage that keeps requires close to zero added water in a gar­den sit­u­a­tion. Vir­tu­ally all coy­ote cul­ti­vars are boys.

The females are also fast-growing reli­ably green mounds of foliage that keeps require close to zero added water in a gar­den sit­u­a­tion. But unlike the males pro­duce thick foliage-obscuring quan­ti­ties of white seed heads in the late fall and early win­ter when most other plants aren’t quite so glam­orous. They’re spec­tac­u­lar, but come with the down-side that the seeds can flit about and land all over, pop­u­lat­ing your gar­den with lit­tle coy­ote bushes. This is why most named cul­ti­vars in the nurs­ery trade are males. The sole excep­tion, which was pointed out to me by Bar­bara of Wild Sub­ur­bia, is Cen­ten­nial, a believed hybrid of the this species and B. sarothroides.

Some close­ups of the seed heads…


I’ve waxed poetic about the hill­sides shot with flashes of white like this one that you see at this time of year.

Now I guess I’m putting my money where my mouth is. How bad is it hav­ing a female coy­ote bush in the gar­den? I’m about to find out, and I’ll report back here. But I doubt it’ll be any worse than a few other plants in the gar­den that spread them­selves about. And if a few plants find their way into the bleak rental next door where the only things the renters are grow­ing in their dirt-patch of a gar­den are mas­tiffs and bull­dogs, how can it be a bad thing?