I was born, like most of us.
It was a while back, so I hope you can forgive me for not remembering that specific moment in my journey. Our grandmother seemed to rely on reminding me that it took 52 hours of labor for me to be born: I guess I may have been somewhat reluctant to join the river of humanity, just as I was reluctant to join the arena of professional photography.
I’d like to tell you that I’ve always been a photographer, and in a sense it’s true — our dad was one of those people who had only one dream for his life: photography. I wasn’t like that at all, rather the opposite, I come to the craft of painting with light as an avocation rather late in life, and far downstream from where I first picked up a camera thinking I might make something with it. That moment, when I’d attached myself to a band its member would like to forget, is still rather blurry — what I do recall is sprawling in front of the bandstand at the Lion’s Share in San Anselmo, hoping I could get an image or two worth printing, and that miracle of shy persons everywhere, a way of making the dream real. Some forty years later, I’m still dreaming.
Some of those dreams will be seen here as images. Some of the dreams and nightmares will be seen at http://otsog1.blogspot.com