I am never more at home than when I am in the Sonoran Desert, but I suppose it’s because I was born and raised there. The heat, the sounds, and the smells seem to make me feel better, more alive. Sequestered in Los Angeles the past ten years this became more apparent when I was back there for my sister’s wedding in September (see my wishy-washy post below).
The wedding was at an enormous compound on the far west side of Tucson, an isolated location for sure and perfect for a wedding. You literally drove for fifteen minutes due west to get there, never straying from the road. Then the road turns to dirt, and there was the house. Amazing directions: turn right on the road, then take it until there is no more road. No, really.
One of the many pre-wedding prep trips I decided to go for a wander into the twenty-acre backyard of the house to do a little photographing. I was really hoping to bump into my old friend the Gila Monster. Sadly they are still as elusive as ever, but the bug up my ass to take a picture of one quickly turned to shooting the terrain instead.
My father was always the photographer of the family. He’d spend hour after hour in a dark room, creating some of the most impressive art I have ever seen by way of photographs. When he’d finally exit he would always stink of chemicals and his brown hands had turned orange from the soaking in Fixer he’d given them. Dad, I thought putting your hands in Fixer was bad? It was, as he would say, but he didn’t give a shit, it was his process. He was never on for rules.
Though I know I’ll never be as good as he was I gave it my best shot. Nothing fancy, no stained hands or a chemical contact high just an iPhone 4 and some editing apps. After all I am my father’s son.