Pink Lotus

Even though I've never specialized in the genre of botanicals, and it's never been my style to carry around a spray bottle, I know enough about shooting flowers to know that they always look better after a rain shower or nice morning dew. Well. as so often happens on the road I had a serendipitous moment. I was having lunch with my favorite travel partner (my camera) one rainy afternoon inside the beautiful grounds of the Pura Taman Saraswati Temple in Ubud, Bali. In between the patio I was dining on and the front entrance to the temple was a lotus pond spanned by a bridge made from the same brick and sandstone as the temple. I knew it would be the perfect vantage point for some great shots of the lotus blossoms. Having a few years worth of experience with tropical showers in Southeast Asia, I figured the deluge wouldn’t last long. I was right and before I had even finished my iced coffee the sun was back out once again turning the forests of Ubud into a giant steam room. Nature having done most of the work for me, it was simply a matter of finding the most perfect blossom, setting up my tripod, getting the right readings and... snap!
For centuries, the lotus has been the spiritual flower of Buddhist and Hindu cultures all across southern Asia. Buddha himself is often depicted sitting in a meditative pose on a lotus flower and when Thai people greet each other or "wai" they press their hands together, slightly cupped in the shape of a lotus bud in front of their heart. It not only has religious significance but not unlike sakura blossoms in Japan, it also has a philosophical one. The great Eastern philosophers have often used the lotus as a metaphor for it's ability to grow something so beautiful out of such muddy, stagnant water.  Indeed, I find myself looking at this photograph I made to remind me that sometimes the we have within ourselves comes out during the most challenging of times.

Two Geishas

This photograph has special meaning for me. Not only has it become one of my most popular portraits, it also serves as a reminder of several core principals that have helped me over the years. That is, persistence and stepping outside of your comfort zone can sometimes lead to great luck.
As the name would imply, I took this photograph in the Gion district of Kyoto. In its prime, Gion was the most exclusive "hanamachi" (geisha community) in all of Japan. In fact, working in Gion was so prestigious that the geisha of Gion were referred to more respectfully as "geiko" or a woman of art. Nowadays, Gion is famous for being one of the few "hanamachi" left in Japan. Due to the rapid development, modernization and globalization of Japan, ancient cultural traditions and art forms have suffered atrophy. This, coupled with the fact that very few girls are willing to make the sacrifices necessary to carry on this unique tradition and it seems to be only a matter of time before geisha slip into historical lore like the the samurai.
I spent hours each afternoon in Gion strolling up and down the narrow streets lined with "ochaya" (tea houses), hoping to catch a glimpse of the famously illusive geisha. After two days of shooting everything geisha except, well, a geisha, I was beginning to think that they were just a figment created by the Japanese Ministry of Culture and Tourism. Then, in the late afternoon of my last day in Kyoto, a chance encounter of a photographer's dreams. As a rounded a corner I saw them, two of them! I walked slowly behind them taking some environmental and detail shots as they shuffled down the street, careful not to disturb the harmony. Once they sensed my presence, stopped and turned towards me I thought my ideal photo shoot was over for sure. After all, I have no idea how geisha feel about being photographed and even I felt a bit uncomfortable, like some kind of geisha paparazzi. Realizing this was my only opportunity, I smiled, showed them my camera and non-verbally asked them for a quick shot. Surprisingly, they giggled at each other and almost seemed flattered by my eagerness. I worked quickly around them, instinctively finding the best possible light and background and then took two frames before giving them a deep bow and letting them once again slowly shuffle towards their destination. "Arigato goziamasu" (thank you very much) indeed!

Fuji in Pink

For the first year and a half of my three years in Japan I lived in the town of Gotemba. Gotemba is mostly famous for sitting right at the foot of Japan's most famous landmark, Mt. Fuji and I was fortunate enough to live in an apartment with this view out my window. Fortunate indeed, for without that window and it's spectacular view I would have probably committed "seppuku" (ritualized suicide also known as "hari kiri") living in that tiny bento box that the Japanese call an apartment, well, "aparto" anyway. Quite to the contrary though, I grew to love that little apartment by focusing on two of the aspects often used in Japanese gardens; reduced scale and borrowed view. I learned (as usual the hard way) to appreciate minimalism, which believe me, for someone raised in the United States doesn't come naturally. I also realized that if you sat in just the right spot, that rectangular window of mine doubled as a perfect frame for one of the world's most beautiful and chameleon like mountains. Actually, now that I think about it, my window was really like a giant version of those digital picture frames that changes photos every few seconds. O.K. so the view didn't change that quickly but "Fuji San" is notorious for always looking different and I must say, considering the four distinct seasons, unpredictable weather and various lighting angles of the sun throughout any given day, the mountain never looked the same for long. Over my eighteen month stint in Gotemba, I never lost the small thrill of walking into my apartment and immediately taking a glance out my own personal frame to see what Fuji was revealing. Often times I even set my alarm for pre-dawn to check the weather and clouds and if it seemed promising, have enough time to set up my camera and tripod on my balcony for the morning "golden hour". I made this picture on one such morning when I was rewarded for shaking off my slumber and freezing temperatures. Fuji's winter white coat was reflecting the inordinately pink hue of the sky behind me just before sunrise. Luckily, I was already set up, hoping for a spectacular view like this one to happen and when it did it made it all worth while. Not only did I get my money shot, I was also reminded of the value of anticipation in photography. Sure many shots are the outcome of serendipitous moments your lucky to capture, but you can certainly increase the frequency of those moments by knowing your surroundings as best you can and trying to anticipate what the light or even people may do ahead of time. Sometimes, I find myself whispering to myself trying to manifest the vision in my head. Of course, a great deal of the time it never pans out. Even professionals may shoot dozens or even hundreds of photos to get those few precious "selects" but this pre-visualization is one of the components that separate professionals from amateurs. It has been my experience that you can actually increase your luck through preparation and anticipation and your alarm clock can be your most important piece of equipment. A few minutes after this image was taken the light changed and the mountain looked completely different and oh yeah, I went back to bed!