tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168550772024-03-06T21:01:54.075-08:00Life With And Without A CameraStarting over is always a leap of faith. But here I am one year free of cancer after a Stem Cell Transplant. It was a success! So now I find myself climbing back up a hill. Learning life all over again, it seems everything is new. So this is my new start, my new life, if you will... I hope you enjoy reading my posts, and I'll try to keep up everyday. Because everyday is different and so far everyday is better than the next.ISOSOShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471795419980686210noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16855077.post-5676560949789611382011-06-17T07:50:00.001-07:002011-06-17T07:50:08.309-07:00FridaySnuggled up, in my bed with the curtains pulled, I know it's dark outside. The early light is shining, but the clouds and mist are hiding it. <br />I woke up in the middle of the night and I fell back to sleep sometime a few few hours later. It was still Friday.<br />Today I seem to feel a little bit better today. I'm feeling some of the nervous energy that says "come on... Let's get something moving .. It's been days you've been sick and done nothing." how do I respond to that? Do I get a move on? Or, do I take it easy for one more day? <br />I decided I can wait for one more day. "baby steps," a good friend of mine said. I think she is right. There is no sense in rushing, just to end up getting sick again. I don't want to get sick like this again. I've been sick.. But this was crazy for a few days, leaving me as weak as a lamb.<br />And so it's Friday. I figure there is no reason I can't take care of a few creative ideas from right here. Safe and sound. Giving my poor body one more day of food and rest. Then next week I can catch up with all the things I couldn't do this week. Maybe it may take two weeks... That's ok.<br />I am so blessed to be here. To have what to do, and a worth while project to work on. The "Stem Cell," project is a calling and one that I hope will make a difference in the lives of those going through this traumatic time in their lives. It has become my joy, my passion, my love and my life. I believe I was born for this. It's a new beginning. It's a new life. Hoping for a healthy world!<br /><br /><center><a href='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=11/06/17/1365.jpg'><img src='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/11/06/17/s_1365.jpg' border='0' width='210' height='281' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />Always, <br />Tammy<br /><br />Tammy Abbott Fine Arts<br />www.tammyabbott.com<br />www.tammyabbottphotograhy.com<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><form action="http://www.photoshelter.com/usr-show" method="post">
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David picked me up about noon. And I was ready to go, so we zoomed up the hill listening to Bob Dylan, as we drove. He made a compilation of his music, rock and roll. The drive was fun on Mullholland. <br />
When we got their and parked the car, he said get in the wheelchair there were many of them their. So I did. The walker wouldn't have taken me very far. I would have been too slow, and in too much pain. So David wheeled me for <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ38PdtsR4rpTM3DvA-bJobmZQe5fUeiScWv8s0DLZLaGCw6qLeu-0PNV2cxe-nA90jG_iV8JBZy2ni9O55xXBquq_QUXCJfBznlpsR9EEWw0PKqIMLAc4vazRCw0gdGW29kchBA/s1600/IMG_0979.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="209" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ38PdtsR4rpTM3DvA-bJobmZQe5fUeiScWv8s0DLZLaGCw6qLeu-0PNV2cxe-nA90jG_iV8JBZy2ni9O55xXBquq_QUXCJfBznlpsR9EEWw0PKqIMLAc4vazRCw0gdGW29kchBA/s320/IMG_0979.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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, that's what he said. <br />
We had a little lunch, then went to see Evan Walker's Cuba. It was a wonderful show, and there where other photographers work displayed as well. I just can't remember their names. Sorry... I'm not good with names. I wish I was. To the gift shop we went, then home again. That was my day. It was so good to just be... for a change. <br />
So now it's after three, and it was time for me to get back to work. Typing away, filing paperwork, figuring things out so that I don't forget what I need to do. My list is so long after two years of illness you wouldn't believe it if I told you. But I'll get it done. That's all that is to it!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><form action="http://www.photoshelter.com/usr-show" method="post">
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After calming down and finding my subjects, I started to look around, imagining moments that have come and gone over what has been almost 50 years of sporting events, concerts and much more. The floor that I walked on was old and made for the Ice events, this was the home of the Los Angeles Kings. I tried to smell the air, for some sent of ice, but none lingered. I looked up at the scoreboard, imagining all the games that were played by the Los Angeles Lakers from 1960-67 and the Los Angeles Clippers from 1884 -1999. <br />The long byways and the structure of them made for interesting images,<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOF4jVX70uXaxsuMKcwZl-f9w65Bp23xR4wBRSoTfQiRf_Cp458n6Pa-NTWIr1eBSWCN5O64gyrfRjYrnM4sZggCKk-dMNqV_gf9dbhyphenhyphenAlB32uBIHi3I_izuTZppsksy2aYqI2Q/s1600-h/lamsa.6.030907w.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOF4jVX70uXaxsuMKcwZl-f9w65Bp23xR4wBRSoTfQiRf_Cp458n6Pa-NTWIr1eBSWCN5O64gyrfRjYrnM4sZggCKk-dMNqV_gf9dbhyphenhyphenAlB32uBIHi3I_izuTZppsksy2aYqI2Q/s320/lamsa.6.030907w.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5040457519949963026" /></a> with millions of people who have walked these byways, one can almost feel a faint excitement in the air.<br />A lonely telephone booth sat off in the corner on the main floor, simple, made of wood. I have no idea how long it has been there but I wondered about the many who must have made phone calls from behind the door, which is now open, the booth vacant. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhO9NZ36_6x2MLtV_nKM7-wYnA66CAajWAaGbTiEckgz_QQmrCV_5cvGUTZgp4QCU3bHCmLh5idzmGnkT2GaszvEGf6XZ5zvkU-PTYvvnLQ6r2AyKFi6gz8fUZ9M84At04ItDbWw/s1600-h/lamsa.4.030907w.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhO9NZ36_6x2MLtV_nKM7-wYnA66CAajWAaGbTiEckgz_QQmrCV_5cvGUTZgp4QCU3bHCmLh5idzmGnkT2GaszvEGf6XZ5zvkU-PTYvvnLQ6r2AyKFi6gz8fUZ9M84At04ItDbWw/s320/lamsa.4.030907w.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5040457945151725346" /></a>What did we do without cell phones? There was a lot more to tell our friends and family when we got home wasn’t there?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIL3iqUCa2j5wliifVub76_IcaZrcVYYk3jr2ZkVWinUpYjNhvlYJbcabgLTfaQ4ORiIEYdWYwahP7Lhp9XHIHrdDftWd542q0ysaPvNeYlKoczzS4rxMvYCGGscoiUXIoTPMnWA/s1600-h/lamsa.3.030907w.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIL3iqUCa2j5wliifVub76_IcaZrcVYYk3jr2ZkVWinUpYjNhvlYJbcabgLTfaQ4ORiIEYdWYwahP7Lhp9XHIHrdDftWd542q0ysaPvNeYlKoczzS4rxMvYCGGscoiUXIoTPMnWA/s320/lamsa.3.030907w.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5040458413303160626" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The portrait of Nixon surprised me and looking closer I discovered that The Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena was dedicated by Vice President Richard M. Nixon July 4, 1959.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiPfQOOX2m__ePpoevg8y1vRhJCcph9PNfOkwYH_Fc_GBKgDwLCFkhxnMBewk7-GNNyS7trQfl-XrLhlnUIqZweaDxkPTj3nGA2hUzyJBxo-wBSJj3I2nml8YUta7Cfql0DKPsg/s1600-h/lamsa.2.030907w.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiPfQOOX2m__ePpoevg8y1vRhJCcph9PNfOkwYH_Fc_GBKgDwLCFkhxnMBewk7-GNNyS7trQfl-XrLhlnUIqZweaDxkPTj3nGA2hUzyJBxo-wBSJj3I2nml8YUta7Cfql0DKPsg/s400/lamsa.2.030907w.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5040458997418712914" /></a>The portrait of John F. Kennedy inspired me, “We stand at the edge of a New Frontier, the frontier of unfulfilled hopes and dreams. It will deal with unsolved problems of peace and war, unconquered pockets of ignorance and prejudice, unanswered questions of poverty and surplus."<br />John F. Kennedy made his acceptance speech in 1960 to the Democratic National Convention at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum in July of 1960 as the Democratic nominee. <br />Little pieces of history are all around us and sometimes it’s nice just to stop and take a closer look.<br />The plaque dedicating the Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena inscribed at the top reads, “In Recognition of all who served their country in all wars and in special tribute to those who gave their lives in service.”<br />At the bottom reads “When the one great scorer comes to write against your name, he marks not that you won or lost, but how you played the game,” by Grantland Rice.<br />The arena holds 16,000 fans, but the parking lot only holds 6,500 and anyone who has gone to a recent event there or a USC game knows that is a major downfall of both event sites.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPuNmYQYZwLNnxsaVbgwcePhSREpYAw-Upz9g8HS-xnQlh7Lfqqyg4DYVZQRimbyMJcLvyeJpHG2H6LB0eQe4oHJwpl5HO-TNCZzppVA5ErR9RxbEzgoQyF3-JLjr8X7LvNkn7kw/s1600-h/lamsa.7.030907w.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPuNmYQYZwLNnxsaVbgwcePhSREpYAw-Upz9g8HS-xnQlh7Lfqqyg4DYVZQRimbyMJcLvyeJpHG2H6LB0eQe4oHJwpl5HO-TNCZzppVA5ErR9RxbEzgoQyF3-JLjr8X7LvNkn7kw/s320/lamsa.7.030907w.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5040462918723854194" /></a> <br />Another interesting fact that I found is that it only cost 7 million dollars to build in 1959, money that was raised from bonds. Knowing this, I would think that someone would build a proper parking structure since both arenas are wonderfully historic and great places to go, but I digress.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicz5eLWuuu5qGDnz2wf6r6ZTzhlDj0hJHkQwv0cG-dL1hb0d6hiTlDVCFRh9u63Tg5O8vJMDQLNrCbnyNNg6XtnBIdIPok0lU4mBXGIraLa1Jjqjz9yfe8Ourvrq3cjyBCYSQTNQ/s1600-h/lamsa.5.030907w.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicz5eLWuuu5qGDnz2wf6r6ZTzhlDj0hJHkQwv0cG-dL1hb0d6hiTlDVCFRh9u63Tg5O8vJMDQLNrCbnyNNg6XtnBIdIPok0lU4mBXGIraLa1Jjqjz9yfe8Ourvrq3cjyBCYSQTNQ/s320/lamsa.5.030907w.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5040459306656358242" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><form action="http://www.photoshelter.com/usr-show" method="post">
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And why?<br /><br />photography<br />Exploit and Click<br />The fuss over the photographer who makes kids cry.<br />By Jim Lewis<br />Posted Friday, July 7, 2006, at 6:35 PM ET<br /><br />Like many people, I dislike having my picture taken, and the fact that I love to look at photography, to think about it, and sometimes to write about it, has done little to leaven my antipathy toward participating in it. Having a camera pointed at me makes me self-conscious, a feeling I do my best to avoid; and it prick! ! s my vanity. (I used to tell myself I was simply unphotogenic, but in time I came to realize that, no, in fact I just look like that.) Moreover, I always wind up feeling slightly violated: My countenance is among my most intimate possessions, and when a photographer makes off with an image of it I feel like I've been fleeced. Anthropologists have described isolated tribes who would not allow themselves to be photographed by Western visitors because they were convinced that some part of their soul was being stolen. There is something to be said for such a belief.<br /><br />Exploitation is photography's true métier: I take that to be a fact, though not such a damning one as it may appear to be. There are other professions, after all, that traffic in similar kinds of advantage-taking (psychoanalysis is one; journalism is another), and exploitation, like anything else, can be well or badly done. Some photographers negotiate it nimbly, with a kind of moral intelligence, and the art th! ! ey make is brilliant and enlightening; and some are clums! y or cra ss. Which brings me to the work of Jill Greenberg and the quarrels that have sprung up around it in the past few weeks.<br /><br />Greenberg is an L.A.-based photographer whose work, judging from her Web site, the all-too-aptly named www.manipulator.com, has generally been commercial and editorial: ads for Target, portraits of celebrities, that sort of thing. But she also has a small art career, showing more conceptual work in galleries, and she has an exhibit up now at the Paul Kopeikin Gallery on Wilshire Boulevard. The show is titled End Times, and it consists of a few dozen large photographs of infants and toddlers throwing tantrums: sobbing, red-faced, staring furiously. Fair enough. But they're not meant to be read as mere baby pictures; they're meant to be a statement. As Greenberg herself explains in the gallery's press rel! ! ease, "The first little boy I shot, Liam, suddenly became hysterically upset. It reminded me of helplessness and anger I feel about our current political and social situation." "As a parent," she continues, "I have to reckon with the knowledge that our children will suffer for the mistakes our government is making. Their pain is a precursor of what is to come."<br /><br />This is the sort of art that makes one groan and roll one's eyes. It's political in the worst way: literal-minded, preachy as a bumper sticker, and, well, infantile. Moreover, the pictures themselves don't look very interesting (for one thing, Greenberg seems to think that size—the photos are 42 inches by 50 inches—is a substitute for power). But lots of people make bad art without inspiring the kind of fury that Greenberg drew down upon herself. Her mistake was not in her meaning, but in her method.<br /><br />It turns out that Greenberg doesn't just hang around her studio waiting for one of her toddler subjects t! ! o melt down: She induces the tantrum, by, say, giving the! child a lollipop, and then suddenly taking it away. When a photography enthusiast who goes by the pseudonym of Thomas Hawk discovered as much, he pilloried Greenberg on his blog, in a post that can be summarized by its headline: Jill Greenberg is a Sick Woman Who Should Be Arrested and Charged With Child Abuse. The post generated a few hundred comments, and the discussion spread to Flickr, and then to other blogs, and then finally to BoingBoing. Most of those who weighed in came down on Hawk's side. Greenberg responded in an interview on PopPhoto.com.<br /><br />It looks like what's going on here is the standard "can good art be made by bad people" debate, but to the extent that that's so, it's uninteresting. As Faulkner once said, "If a w! ! riter has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' is worth any number of old ladies." But Greenberg isn't Keats, and bad art neither deserves nor receives the kind of moral pass that Faulkner was endorsing. An asshole who makes great art is an asshole who makes great art; but an asshole who makes lousy art is just an asshole.<br /><br />On the other hand, Greenberg isn't Leni Riefenstahl, either. Small children, as she points out in the PopPhoto interview, often have tantrums, and they usually blow over quickly, and are just as quickly forgotten. To provoke tears in order to take a picture is objectionable, and worthy of some condemnation. But it's not as if she beat them with a belt because she wanted to photograph their bruises. On this front, it seems to me, Greenberg was wrong, and Hawk overreacted, and there isn't much more to be said.<br /><br />But an insight can be sifted out of Greenberg's peccancy and Hawk's cant. Photography tends to magnify and di! ! stort both deeds and misdeeds—more so than other art fo! rms, and in fact more than almost any activity I can think of. The specter of exploitation hovers over it, and it's this, I think, that accounts for Hawk's disproportionate outrage. If Greenberg were making infants weep in the service of a psychological experiment, one might feel uneasy, but the dismay would no doubt be tempered by one's sense that a greater good was to come of it. If she were doing it because she wanted to, say, draw them, or write poems about them, many people might still find it objectionable, but not, I don't think, to quite the same degree. Indeed, if she were doing it just for the hell of it, we would consider her cruel and culpable; but the fact that she made them cry so that she could take their pictures somehow makes it worse.<br /><br />The point becomes clearer, or at any rate starker, by comparison with pornography. In most states, the age of consent is 16 or 17, but federal law stipulates that you can only be photographed having sex if you're 18 or older. Two ! ! 17-year-olds can copulate to their hearts' content, and their friends can watch: However creepy it may be, no laws would be broken. But they can't be photographed in the act, nor can anyone, of any age, so much as look at such a photo. The picture has a legal status quite different from the thing it pictures.<br /><br />This is as it should be, for many reasons; but one of them is simply that photography is, in its essence, a form of predation, and its being so transforms the meaning of the scenes it shows. The power of the photographer over his or her subject is immense, and not just because one can manipulate the other, or even because one acquires and owns an image of the other. A photograph is, as the vernacular has it, something you "take," but the taking isn't simply material: It's metaphysical, and it's moral (I would say it's spiritual, if the word didn't seem vapid).<br /><br />Exploitation lies at the root of every interaction between a photographer and a human subject, and ev! ! ery photographer worth a damn knows this. It is unavoidab! le, it i s intrinsic to the very act taking pictures, and the most sophisticated photographers work their understanding of it into their practice, in various subtle ways. I've watched dozens of them at work, and each has a different method: Some bond with their subjects, some boss them around, some flirt and seduce, some ignore, some distract, and some just watch. But with the best of them you can see something in their eyes, and in their work, that proves their trustworthiness and creates a kind of complicity. Jill Greenberg is decidedly not one of the best, but her clumsiness inadvertently reveals a fundamental truth: Taking a picture is a deep and ethically complex thing to do, and everyone who engages in it is compromised, right from the start.<br /><br />I don't mean this as a condemnation of photography. On the contrary, I love the medium, and it fascinates me endlessly, precisely because it's so freighted with the problem of power and responsibility. It is born in a bed of plunder an! ! d abuse; but in the right hands it can end in beauty, and how we get from one to the other is as profound a grace as any art can manifest.<br /><br />Jim Lewis is the author of three novels, most recently, The King Is Dead.<br /><br />Article URL: http://www.slate.com/id/2145277/<br />Copyright 2006 Washingtonpost.Newsweek Interactive Co. LLC<div class="blogger-post-footer"><form action="http://www.photoshelter.com/usr-show" method="post">
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</form></div>ISOSOShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14471795419980686210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16855077.post-1138514882436449042006-01-28T21:54:00.000-08:002006-01-28T22:11:07.926-08:00DINNER AND A MOVIE!<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1416/1611/1600/abbott.holga.65w.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1416/1611/320/abbott.holga.65w.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>My Web-Mistress...and very good friend Cloe Dawn and her husband came to work tonight on my up-coming website.... but they also arrived with a little surprise, well, not so little.... a Large T.V.... I was overwhelmed of course, and adding to that they brought dinner too! Well, they wanted to make sure that I eat. Hey, I eat, just not that much these days with my crazy schedule.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1416/1611/1600/abbott.holga73w.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1416/1611/320/abbott.holga73w.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>My Holga shooting been wanting these days, finding the time and energy for that is a challenge as well, but I gave it a shot... just for you JB! So here it is, just a hint of a "Dinner and a Movie," before we started to work on images.<br />So, once again, I will try to get back into the saddle and see what I can come up with in the coming days. The image that I would really like to get is Rachel's face when she sees this new wonder in our home.<br />Michael, being the genius that he is, set up the T.V. in not time, after all, I don't have the high end needs of his clients... THANK YOU WITH ALL MY HEART MICHAEL AND CLOE!<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1416/1611/1600/abbott.holga72w.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1416/1611/320/abbott.holga72w.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><form action="http://www.photoshelter.com/usr-show" method="post">
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