Christine Martinez: Photo Fix

Along the Rio Onzole

2012-01-08T16:38:00.000-08:00

Moment Before the Party

2012-01-02T16:27:00.000-08:00

Film, 800speed, Nikon F2

Fiestas de Guapulo: Running from the Flaming Bull (Film)

2011-11-10T12:57:00.000-08:00

Jack Stack: KC Barbeque

2011-11-08T07:19:00.000-08:00

Outtakes from a Wedding in the Kansas Countryside

2011-11-08T07:01:00.000-08:00

Christopher Elbow Chocolates; Downtown Kansas City

2011-11-08T06:57:00.000-08:00

Port Wine Fig

Ode to Light and Sound: Kansas City's Kauffman Performing Arts Center

2011-11-08T06:35:00.000-08:00

Images from a tour of the newly opened Kauffman Performing Arts Center, Kansas City

Kansas City Skywards

2011-11-07T18:53:00.000-08:00

Bliss

2011-10-26T19:36:00.000-07:00

my grandmother at my cousin's wedding. Bucyrus, Kansas

Fruit II

2011-09-30T13:56:00.000-07:00

Chirimoya

Chirimoya

Tomate de árbol (Tomatillo)

Fruit I Wish We Had Stateside I

2011-09-25T19:41:00.001-07:00

pitaya (pitahaya)

lima (ecuadorian lime)

pepino dulce (sweet pepino)

Views from a Saturday Drive

2011-09-25T19:31:00.001-07:00

Imbabura Province, Ecuador

Up in the Clouds: Searching for the True Center of the World and the Ruins of Catequilla

2011-07-17T08:19:00.000-07:00

Night with a View: Guanguitagua

2011-07-02T09:47:00.000-07:00

A Friday night barbeque in Northeast Quito, experimenting with 1+ second exposures and zoom effects.

Washing the Dog

2011-06-11T08:07:00.000-07:00

Bacalaitos and Fireworks, by photographer Arlene Gottfried

2011-06-11T07:46:00.000-07:00

I was excited to find this article on the TIMES magazine webpage today - a book by photographer Arlene Gottfried about the Puerto Rican community in New York's Lower East Side neighborhood. It had some significance for me, as my father and his sisters grew up in the projects of Avenue D, their family a part of the Puerto Rican exodus, just a decade or two before Gottfried started photographing for her book.

Bacalaitos and Fireworks, TIME LightBox

Bacalaitos and Fireworks, Powerhouse Books

Arlene Gottfried

Mariscal

2011-06-05T11:33:00.000-07:00

I was invited by a chagra friend of mine to Ibarra. He has two champion Andalucian horses who he trains, breeds and parades at provincial cabalgatas. I had the luck to see one of them, Mariscal, at the stable where he keeps his horses along the shores of one of Ibarra’s many lagoons. One of the most beautiful horses I have ever seen.

Monumento al Dolor

2011-06-05T11:15:00.000-07:00

Municipal Cemetery, Cayambe

What a strange thing, a cemetery. A monument to death, a monument to pain…where the culture of the living is clearly reflected in the objects they leave behind. I had never before entered a cemetery in South America. There was a baroque excess of detail in bright color, plastic and acrylic paint – cutsie cherubs singing out of tune for the duration of their dying double A batteries, names and dates of death painted by hand onto concrete, golden-framed photos, amateur frescoes of Catholic iconography, shriveling roses in dirty bottles, faded colors of weather-worn plastic, crumbling concrete, crooked crosses, weeds, overgrowing the graves.

It was depressing to me, that people should choose to linger in such a place. A gloomy reminder set by the church of the fear we should have, our cult of death.

Bizcochos del "Padrecito"

2011-06-05T11:04:00.000-07:00

Cayambe, Fábrica de Bizcochos San Pedro

“I’ll take you to where the real bizcochos are made,” said my travel companion as we entered Cayambe, a small pueblo in the mountains about an hour and a half to the North of Quito. “All the other bizcochos that you see in the shops along the highway are simply imitations,” she claimed.

We diverted off the highway and wove through the narrow streets of the town center. We parked on a quiet side street in front of the municipal cemetery and walked past a flower shop, a bench of elderly mendigos wrapped in their blankets, and followed the scent of the baking bizcochos through a doorway, a patio and into the shop where an oven stood at one end and an entire wall was filled with racks of cooling bizcochos. They were being baked, sold and eaten, right there, on the spot in a tiny house-complex that belonged to the Father of the local parish.

Bizcochos are something I’ve found to be particularly Ecuadorian – a cross between a cookie and a biscuit, flaky and savory, served in oil-stained paper bags and often eaten with sweet coffee and queso de hoja. They are typical to the area surrounding the Imbabura region.

These particular bizcochos had a smoky flavor and a texture that crumbled on the tongue.

Camping in a Crater

2011-05-24T07:53:00.001-07:00

Pululahua is an inactive volcano about 17km north of Quito. Approximately 40 families inhabit the area today living off agriculture, animal pasturing and tourism. There are various sites to visit in the crater and hosterías in which to camp, hike and ride horses. Our group stayed at the Rinconada de Rolando Vera - a small hacienda owned by retired marathon champion, Rolando Vera.

Having arrived in the dark of night, we were surprised to wake up to this view of cloud-kissed mountain peaks.

Pululahua is Quichua for nube de agua, or cloud of water.

Rolando Vera walks the fields of his hacienda.

Sunsets and Silhouettes of Sleeping Giants

2011-05-17T07:46:00.001-07:00

I I would imagine that anyone from here, the Ecuadorian sierra, would miss these mountains and these mountain sunsets...as I have come to miss the wide open sky and flat lands of the Midwest and the Erie Basin.

Chagras de Cotacachí

2011-05-16T08:08:00.000-07:00

"Chagras", Ecuadorian cowboys at the fiestas de Cotacachí. May 2011.

Around the Cuicocha Lagoon

2011-05-16T07:40:00.000-07:00

La laguna Cuichocha is a natural preserve just 10 minutes outside of Cotacachí Ecuador. The lagoon itself is a volcanic crater 4km by 3km wide whose name, of pre-incan origins, means "lagoon of the Gods". It is also a common site to spot the endangered and elusive Andean condor.

Dreams of La Foch

2011-05-13T21:49:00.001-07:00

Lights from Quito's bar district, La Foch, reflect in the windows of a penthouse apartment. The dark shadow of one of the city's surrounding mountains looms overhead.

Self Portraits

2011-05-08T17:17:00.000-07:00

Lacking other subjects, but still with the itch to photograph...

Double Exposure

2011-05-08T17:12:00.000-07:00

Quito's Parque Metropolitano, a peaceful grove of eucalyptus

Semana Santa, Quito

2011-05-05T11:54:00.000-07:00

Biking Outside Pedro Vicente Maldonado

2011-04-17T12:20:00.000-07:00

Morning Light

2011-04-02T18:30:00.000-07:00

2011-03-26T17:15:00.000-07:00

Last Day of POYi Latin America

2011-03-18T17:09:00.000-07:00

Judging the book category.

Randy takes a photo of the group after packing to leave the U. San Francisco.

Friday, after five days of judging on the way back to the hotel.

POYi Latin America

2011-03-17T10:46:00.000-07:00

The first Pictures of the Year contest in Latin America is being held in Quito, Ecuador all this week. Check out the site for a list of winners in 18 categories - singles and essays on migration, portraits, sports, daily life singles and stories, multimedia, photographer of the year and "our vision" - some of the best work by Latin American photographers and photographers based in Latin America from 2009 - 2010. Live podcast of judging from Nuestra Mirada.org.

Judges are: Ruth Eichhorn (Germany) director of photography of Geo group, Melissa Farlow (USA) freelancer who has worked for National Geographic for more than 15 years, Claudi Carreras Guillen (Spain) University of Barcelona, Francisco MAta Rosas (Mexico) Universidad Autonoma Metropolitana unidad Cuajimalpa, Walter Astrada (Argentina) who has worked for La Nacion, Argentina, AP and Getty images and whose work has been awarded by World Press Photo numerous times.

Nuestra Mirada, community for Latin American photographers

POYi Latin America, winners´gallery

Part of the Painting

2011-02-13T17:37:00.000-08:00

A Thursday night Seseribó, one of Quito's most seasoned salsa clubs. A group of friends shares a table and tequila to a backdrop of a wall mural of dancers.

World Press Photo

2011-02-13T17:22:00.000-08:00

Went to the World Press Photo exhibit(of the winning photos from the 2010 contest) in Quito's Centro Cultural Metropolitano. Amidst the light and the space of the museum's atrium, the photos - printed to the size of substantial windows - spoke powerfully and beautifully of war, mother earth and everyday life...

Here's the link for the 2011 contest that starts its tour this April in Amsterdam:

http://www.worldpressphoto.org/index.php?option=com_photogallery&task=blogsection&id=21&Itemid=292&bandwidth=high

Frost

2011-01-24T09:03:00.000-08:00

42nd Street - Focus

2011-01-10T19:07:00.000-08:00

Basement Improv

2010-12-26T17:01:00.001-08:00

I offered to do a portfolio shoot for a friend of mine - with a limited schedule, my sparse gear kit and the freezing cold weather outside, I cleared out boxes and cobwebs in a corner of my mom's basement and set up a work lamp and fan.

Frosted

2010-12-09T19:16:00.001-08:00

Tillman Nature Preserve, Clarence New York

Prints for Sale

2010-12-04T18:15:00.001-08:00

Offer ends January 2011

To all who may be interested: In an attempt to earn extra cash for some new camera equipment and my return trip to Ecuador, I'm selling some prints of my favorite work (Unique holiday gifts?). If you are interested, please contact me at christinemariemartinez@gmail.com for orders and pricing. Individual photos as well as entire sets are for sale.

Sets Include: Joyous America Series/ Discovering Ecuador Selects/ Northern Spain in Passing/ Monasteries of Armenia Collection/ Small Things

Joyous America Series

Sunset along the Missouri River (Joyous America Series 1)

Watkins Glen (Joyous America Series 2)

Rodeo (Joyous America Series 3)

End of the Night Shift (Joyous America Series 4)

Blues Festival (Joyous America Series 5)

Discovering Ecuador Selects

Flight - Cuenca (Discovering Ecuador Selects 1)

Camino del Inca - Pichincha (Discovering Ecuador Selects 2)

(Discovering Ecuador Selects 3)

Northern Spain in Passing

Carretera 1 - Pais Basco (Northern Spain in Passing 1)

Carretera 2 - Pais Basco (Northern Spain in Passing 2)

Zorionak - Bilbao (Northern Spain in Passing 3)

Gemelas - Navarra (Northern Spain in Passing 4)

Monasteries of Armenia Collection

The Altar (Monasteries of Armenia Collection 1)

Restoration (Monasteries of Armenia Collection 2)

(Monasteries of Armenia Collection 3)

Prayers 2 (Monasteries of Armenia Collection 7)

Prayers (Monasteries of Armenia Collection 4)

Priest in a Museum (Monasteries of Armenia Collection 5)

Stone Vines (Monasteries of Armenia Collection 6)

Small Things

Chestnut (Small Things 1)

Old Brick Wall (Small Things 2)

Inyaki's Shoes (Small Things 3)

Edibles (Small Things 4)

Order Prints? e-mail me at: christinemariemartinez@gmail.com

(Order by December 11th for prints to arrive before Christmas. United States shipping only.)

Autumn Leaves

2010-11-05T22:23:00.001-07:00

Clarence, New York

A Day in New York

2010-10-14T08:25:00.000-07:00

A Quiet day in midtown. Reflections.

Vista, hasta la vista mi vista

2010-10-11T13:16:00.001-07:00

The view from my apartment in Quito. Leaving the city and this view behind causes a bit of nostalgia.

The volcano Cotopaxí stands watch over Quito miles Southeast of the city. On clear days Cotopaxí appears stunning. It is the highest active volcano in the world.

La Virgen del Panecillo overlooks mid-town Quito from its perch on a hill whose name translates "the little loaf of bread".

Morning view from my bedroom window frequented by pidgeons.

Tear Gas and Tears

2010-10-04T10:22:00.000-07:00

I went to the protest at the police hospital on Mariana de Jesus in the middle of the afternoon on September 30th. I wandered around the crowd of Correa supporters who bore the hot green flags of the presidency and the primary colors of the Republic, shouted insults at the police and chanted slogans in support of Correa and la patria: ”¡El pueblo unido, no será vencido!” “¡Correa amigo, el pueblo está contigo!” Street vendors wove in and out of the crowd selling bunches of whistles.

I cut my way to the front of the crowd, facing a row of riot police. They were blocking off the entrance to the hospital with shields, gas masks, and tear gas shooters. The President, somewhere tucked away on the third floor, claimed they were holding him hostage. A group of photographers and videographers stood clustered against one wall on a bank of grass overlooking us all, waiting for events to transpire.

The crowd had gathered at the hospital since mid-morning, where the president sought refuge after being tear-gassed and rustled up by protesting police while speaking at a barracks in Quito.

The police were protesting a new public service law that would cut their (excessive) bonuses and benefits. It is believed that opposition factions had stirred up the police forces, most of whom had not even read the law. In their protests they had left the nation's streets empty and unguarded, leaving the cities and citizens open to theft, assault, and other crimes.

“¡Chapas de mierda!” “¡Cobardes!” “¡Cerdos!” shouted the crowd in various choruses.

At intervals, the confrontation became heated. The crowd pushed too close. A few young and foolish began throwing rocks. The immediate response of the chapas was to shoot rounds of flaming tear gas into the crowd, at which point, the people scattered like cattle.

The first round was the scariest; I heard shots but had no idea what they were shooting at us. The crowd started to stampede.

“¡Despacio! ¡Despacio!” a few cool-headed protesters shouted out to the chaos around them.

Then, I felt my saliva burning my throat, my mouth, my lips… It was impossible to close my eyes and impossible to keep them open. All I could manage was to blink and to cry fat, burning tears. It was difficult to breathe. The smoke had so enveloped us that I knew not how to escape.

The stampede created a buffer zone between the crowd and the police with only a handful of the most fool hearty remaining to throw rocks amidst streams of gas. Some even dared to pick up the burning gas and throw it back at the chapas. Others tore signs off nearby buildings and began using them as shields against the fire.

“¡No lanzen piedras!” shouted several cool-headed protesters, “¡Somos una gente civilizada!” (“Don’t throw rocks….we’re a civilized people!”)

In the hour or two that I remained in the crowd, we endured several rounds of this fire. Those who bore the brunt of it could be distinguished by their swollen, red eyes, their tears, their breathlessness…water could not wash it away, only more smoke.

More fires were lit: newspapers on street curbs, fallen branches in burnt-out tires…Kind members of the crowd offered to blow their cigarette smoke in the faces, the eyes and the mouths of those who were badly gassed. With every onslaught of tear gas, the vendors started to shout with all the fervor of their opportunism, “¡Tabacos! ¡Tabacos!”

I left the protest well before nightfall, long before any changes were to occur. It would end up taking a squad of militia with gas masks and firearms and several armored vehicles to escort the President from the hospital grounds to the capital seat, Carondolet, in the Quito’s Plaza of Independence. The President was extracted beneath an exchange of gunfire which all of Ecuador watched over national television. By this hour, the streets surrounding the hospital had been emptied of all protesters and most journalists and been transformed into a ground zero of deserted streets filled with an eerie mix of rising gas and dull, fluorescent street lamps.

Casualties were minimal – two policemen, two soldiers and one civilian – but unprecedented. In the previous coup attempts of the past decade, there had been no deaths.

“We have a tradition of protest but not of violence,” said Dolores Padilla, once a vice presidential candidate and an influential women in Ecuador's political scene, with whom I watched the events.

At the height of the conflict, when the gunfire began, Dolores started to wail in agony for her country – “¡Nunca! ¡Nunca!” she mourned. All she could do was offer the room glasses of whiskey to ease the waiting.

“Why did they wait until night to do this!” she asked. Another woman in the room had predicted that the worst would happen after nightfall – when darkness and shadow could obscure responsibility.

Earlier in the day, the President – who has a strong costeño personality and protagonistic governing style – had challenged the police and opposition, shouting from his hospital room, “Here I am! Kill me! Kill me if you are brave enough!”

It is difficult to call this a coup attempt since there was no one else the opposition had lined up to seat in Correa’s place. While it may have started as a protest, the conflict escalated – whether by the manipulation of the government or the opportunism of Correa’s opponents.

Coup attempt or not, four bullets were later found in the walls and windows of the President’s armored vehicle. Coup attempt or not, a sizeable faction of the national police had expressed aggression on a hospital (attacking an ambulance bearing patients), something not even allowed during wartime by international law.

Government manipulation or not, Correa would come out of the day’s events a hero, while no other institution in the country – the police, the military, the ministries who are supposed to be in tune with public opinion – would emerge strengthened. Government manipulation or not, all alternative television channels were indefinitely suspended throughout the day, allowing only the official version of events to reach the people: “A coup attempt!” “The President sequestered!” “A violent rescue!” Political spokespersons appeared, urging the people to appear en-masse outside the hospital and at the Plaza of Independence to show support of the president.

Twelve hours after the conflict began, a cheering crowd complete with flags, banners and band greeted the President in Carondelet. Just like that, with the President’s assumption on the palace balcony, the conflict was over.

From his balcony at Carondolet, Correa shouted to his supporters: "Tears fell from my eyes! Not tears of fear, but tears of sadness that Ecuadorian blood was spilt, blood of our brothers, in vain!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvQQ19CQDBk

Soledad

2010-09-28T16:13:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in every traveler’s experience when she feels not just alone, but lonely, uprooted, worn by the wind with insufficient strength to stand proud and an emptiness throbbing from the inside out. Her reasons that used to suffice to explain the many anomalies of her existence are somehow lost, no where to be found...“Why here?”, “Why this place?”, “Why do you remain here?”, "What do you want?" Moving alone, she is her own source of her answers - she has that power and responsibility - so when the source runs dry...what is there?

“…O white moon, you are lonely,
It is the same with me,
But we have the world to roam over,
Only the lonely are free.”

Sara Teasdale, from Morning Song

The Quitos of Guayasamín

2010-09-25T10:46:00.000-07:00

“The Pichincha mountains are a pure expression of my mood; sometimes it arises a pink Quito, filled with light; at times, a black Quito, a red Quito or that Quito from where breaks out a red that flows until the very deep.”

Images from the Capilla del Hombre by Ecuadorian artist Oswaldo Guayasamín.

Snow on the Equator

2010-09-15T15:19:00.000-07:00

Any travel guide about Ecuador will make note of its spectacular and diverse climates. Ecuador has no seasons – only different altitudes. It is possible to have breakfast on a hot and humid beach in Manabí, lunch in eternally spring-like Quito, afternoon coffee from a thermos at a natural park in the snow dusted Andes and dinner in the Amazon basin. Although this is generally known information and has been told to me time and again by every Ecuadorian with whom I have traveled, I am surprised to see snow in September and surprised to see my breath in August on chilly nights in Quito…

The morning after one particularly chilly night I accompanied a friend on a filming trip to the subtropical forest of Baeza, an hour and a half outside of Quito. We drove through a mountain pass dusted in snow and cloud…an hour later we were filming butterflies, orchids and waterfalls in our short sleeves, skin toasted by the warm sun.

Pare

2010-09-15T15:08:00.000-07:00

Graffiti, La Floresta, Quito

Arte Urbana - Plaza del Teatro Sucre

2010-09-13T18:44:00.000-07:00

One Sunday a month the Teatro Sucre in downtown historic Quito hosts a cultural event. This month was Arte Urbana (Urban Art) and featured various music groups from Colombia and Ecuador (one local group from Otovalo rapped in their native Quechua), skate, break dancing and live graffiti art. ¡Chevre, el evento!

¡Toma! Pewee torrero league

2010-09-13T15:05:00.001-07:00

No injuries incurred...it was a small bull.

Band Rehearsal

2010-09-10T11:05:00.000-07:00

In Spanish, band and orchestra mean two different things, just as they do in English. However, an attempt at a literal translation is confused by faux amis. For example, if this blog were written in Spanish, I could not title this entry ensayo de la banda; It would have to be ensayo de la orquesta although the group has no string section and is in every sense of the English term, a jazz band.

Walking into the auditorium of the Colegio Cotopaxí in Quito was like entering a time and space warp. It was an enclave of my own version of America, directed by a retired gringo conductor, who greeted his audience in English and gave instructions in English (phrases that only a veteran conductor would use such as “Take it to the woodshop!”). The music reminded me of something that Mr. Eicher, my high school Wind Ensemble instructor, would have chosen to play at the Mid West clinic in Chicago – something modern, complex, musically intellectual but generally unpleasant to listen to. I felt like I was back in high school as I sat watching one of the few jazz ensembles in Ecuador rehearse.

In God's Country

2010-09-01T19:33:00.000-07:00

...OR SO I FELT beholding the valleys below, lost in a golden sea of grass and its metallic sheen of wind and bright altiplano sun...

We climbed to an altitude of nearly 3,800 meters one Sunday morning - first in jeep (away from Quito, past Quinche and up through small cobblestone mountain roads) and later on foot (a steep incline through pastureland and the thick grasses of the high plateau) - to the ruins of Quitoloma. From the crest of this páramo is an expansive view of the valleys below and their roads trailing east, the serrated mountain peaks to the south with their peaks lost in clouds, and the blue horizon of Quito to the west. A pre-Incan people had used the site as a fortress. Remnants of their walls remain, crowning the highest hills, scattered stones hidden in the high grasses speckled with lichens the color of sage.

For more information visit:

http://www.edufuturo.com/educacion.php?c=1227

http://www.hoy.com.ec/noticias-ecuador/arquitectura-preinca-a-3780-metros-sobre-el-nivel-del-mar-349882.html

Portete, Esmeraldas

2010-08-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

While on the beach in Esmeraldas we became thirsty. It was an empty beach, known to the locals but not yet to the tourists. We were alone in our thirst until a boy on a horse rode by. We asked him where we could find coconut water. He told us to wait. Twenty minutes later he was back with three coconuts on a cart behind his horse. “¿Tienen un machete?” he asked us.

I didn’t know a machete was standard beach ware, but fortunate for us and for the boy, a couple of campers a few dozen meters away had one in their sack. The boy got 2 dollars and we got three fresh coconuts – drained and split, the milk and the meat. I’d never had fresh coconut before, let alone on the beach. It was the beginning of a love affair…

The Creative Process

2010-08-26T11:46:00.000-07:00

Claudia Burneo is an art student from Ecuador who studies in Montreal. Before her return trip she organized an art exhibit at the local bar No Lugar in Guapulo (Quito's version of Greenwich village). In the process of one and a half days the barren white-washed-walled and grungy concrete-floored space of No Lugar was transformed into a vibrant, colorful, creative space by Burneo, a small group of friends, several cans of paint, a ladder, brains, beers and a broom.

In the Workshop of a Master

2010-08-26T07:04:00.001-07:00

On a quiet, wooded street right before the crest of Turí - a steep hill overlooking Cuenca and its four rivers, equipped with a spotlit church, viewing platform and charming village - lies the workshop of Eduardo Vega, one of Ecuador's best known ceramic artists.

I discovered his work while at a café gallery off Cuenca's plaza Otorongo. While waiting for my order of organic tamales with my friend and her work colleagues, I leisurely perused the local handcrafts on display; amongst a host of embroidered scarves, leather purses and bright oil paintings, the rich colors and abstracted, yet natural forms of a display of ceramics immediately caught my eye. I was fascinated by an ashtray, a shallow, circular dish with a face split in two colors, coral red and cloud white, lined in turquoise blue and ashen black. The style was reminiscent of Picasso, cubist and minimalistic modern art but, at the same time, held a sensibility to the natural world and its forms borrowed from Ecuador's first nations.

"Who is the artist?" I asked.

Ten minutes later, mid-tamale, my friend's boss, a woman of connections, placed a hand upon my shoulder. "This is Eduardo Vega, the artist you asked about."

No elegant words of appreciation or intelligent questions graced my mouth, but nonetheless, Vega invited me to his workshop. He continued small talk with my friend's boss, they seemed to be well acquainted, and I visited his workshop the next day with my camera in hand.

http://www.eduardovega.com/evega.htm

Musings on a Theme II

2010-08-26T06:34:00.000-07:00

Vendors on the boardwalk at Pedernales, Beach Baroque, there's a necklace for every ideology!

El Alabado

2010-08-23T21:46:00.000-07:00

In Quito's new Museo del Alabado I found the antidote to the dead, self-righteous statuettes of the colonial Catholic Church. The name literally translates to "Museum of the Praised" and is filled with hundreds of pieces from Ecuador's prehistory unearthed in archeological excavations and set on display beneath spotlights of awe. These clay and stone pieces were more alive to me than the porcelain virgins and saints that I had encountered all morning during my tour of the city's churches and convents. Where the eyes of the saints were uplifted in an unattainable extasis and painted with the intention to appear as realistic as possible (somehow always falling short and leading to a creepy, zombic and less-than-human effect); The several-thousand-year-old pieces carved the abstraction of the human soul.

above: Valdivia 4000 a.C. - 1500 a.C

Carchi-Pasto 750 d.C - 1550 d.C

Valdivia 4000 a.C - 1500 a.C

La Tolita 350 a.C - 350 d.C

Valdivia 4000 a.C. - 1500 a.C "This ancestor with six faces, four facing in the cardinal directions, is itself a model of the cosmos."

El Prohibido...

2010-08-12T17:15:00.000-07:00

While in Cuenca, a local friend promised to take my friend, her boss and I to a bar like none other, called El Prohibido. I wondered how a place could merit such a name, "The Prohibited" - a bit hyperbolic, ¿no?

On our first attempt the bar was closed. The entryway was disguised in a mural of figures of fantasy, holes were carved out in the wall and filled with tiny mutant figures, a crying baby angel, two twisted dog-men, a Medusa head with all her curls hung over the entry way...our friend rang a bell and about a minute later, a barred window cracked open, and a man appeared to tell us the place was not open. Dolores, my friend's 60 + year-old boss declared it an intriguing site worthy of a return visit.

The next night we ventured into the Prohibited and I, for one, was moderately aghast by its hyperbolic fanfare - every inch was filled with some far-beyond-gothic, sudo-sacrilegious detail: dark oil paintings of women making love to demons or in ecstasy with snakes, altars of baby dolls with their eyes poked out and scalps filled with pins, chandeliers of human skulls and rib bones, smiling bathroom dwarfs with enlarged vein-laced penises - the satanic interpretation of baroque.

Tiestos, Inspired Cooking in Cuenca

2010-08-09T05:29:00.001-07:00

There's a small restaurant in Cuenca's historic district along calle Juan Jaramillo with a menu bold enough to revolutionize the idea of good food in Cuenca. Chef Juan Carlos Solano, who founded the restaurant only a couple years previous, serves only a couple dishes a day and has no printed menu. His menu, which is recited to guests, is a choice of two meat dishes cooked and served in tiestos, traditional clay platters placed over flame. His entrees are preceded by a menagerie of sweet and spicy salsas, variations on the typical Ecuadorian ají (chile)sauce served at meal times. The salsas feature surprising ingredients such as apple, pineapple, sweet pepper, cloves and the licorice-flavored local spice, ishpingo.

"We were created to break schemes and to change dining in Cuenca," says Solano. From Solano's point of view, the restaurants in his city offer the same menu and don't take full advantage of the rich culinary culture of the region.

Solano is a chef in the true sense of the word - an artist who plays with the different flavors, local ingredients and colors in his dishes. On our particular day at the restaurant, we were served steak seared in a deep purple blackberry, red wine and ishpingo sauce. Our second plate was a chicken dish served in a creamy golden curry sauce with crunchy hazelnuts. The dishes, each presented steaming and fresh from the fire, complemented each other in taste, texture and color and were served with several vegetable accompaniments: local new potatoes, steamed choclo, and semolina grain mixed with finely chopped peppers and herbs. Dessert was served on plates prepared by Solano's wife - designs of flowers or women in indigenous dress drizzled in chocolate and colorfully sweet passion fruit sauce.

Oil paintings of regional scenes hung from the walls, vases of bright white calla lilies rested on the counter tops and local woven fabrics covered the heavy wooden tables.

While his patrons enjoyed their meals, Solano played the role of gracious host and socialized with his diners, creating an intimate atmosphere. We ate our meal in relative silence, reveling in the flavors before us, only pausing to murmur an "mmmm" of enjoyment or exclaim a "¡que maravilla!" in surprise.

"I've never known a table of women to be so quiet at mealtime!" said Solano as he approached us.

In addition to Tiestos, Solano, a true Cuencano, hopes to open a café with limited service hours, serving, not the typical americano breakfast offered to tourists by most cafés on the plaza, but what is seen in the homes of Cuencanos - a simple sweet roll and good cup of café pasado.

For more information, visit: www.tiestosrestaurante.com

musings on a theme

2010-08-08T18:55:00.000-07:00

During an evening of tragos with friends in Cuenca I felt inspired to take notes on a napkin. "Este país es muy barroco..." Pablo began. I'm sure there is more to add to this list...

Fanzines on the Tomebamba

2010-08-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

Our first night in Cuenca, a friend of ours took Paz and I to a Fanzine exhibit at the Casa de los Arcos along the rio Tomebamba, one of Cuenca's four free flowing rivers. A fanzine is the graffiti of magazines, produced by individuals without editorial support and usually reproduced through the cheapest means possible, multiple black-and-white photocopies. The subject matter covers an entire ambit of themes and can be very saucy in its political commentary and artistic creation.

The house was historic (late 1800's) and recently restored with a beautiful view of the river and the southern end of the city. We sipped warm canelazo from the balcony while looking out over the night-lit city, listening to the river rapids below and commenting on the intriguing qualities of the fanzine...the creativity it encourages, its peculiar method of reproduction...

Mototaxistas

2010-08-08T17:25:00.000-07:00

Paz and I took the night bus from Cuenca to Mancora. It was a 12 hour trip down from the green mountains of Ecuador to the desert coast of Peru. I either slept or sleepwalked through most of it: the winding journey along mountain roads from Cuenca, the dark rain forests of southern Ecuador, the 1 a.m. bus switch at the frontier, the two-hour-long wait at the border crossing to leave Ecuador, the 3.30 a.m. presentation of documents to enter Peru...we arrived at 6 a.m. and the first thing I can remember is shoving myself into something I had never seen before in my life...a mototaxi.

This form of transportation - a motorbike with a small carriage of plastic tarp attached to its rear - is apparently very common in the coastal cities of Peru and Ecuador. Despite their shanty appearance, the mototaxistas are legit and creative. Their shirts and carriages bear emblems of the local asociación de mototaxistas and their plastic coverings are decorated with all sorts of personalized images, stickers and window pastings. We saw everything from Ché and Jesus to Mickey Mouse and Guns and Roses.

From the Heights of Pintag

2010-08-08T17:16:00.000-07:00

A nighttime walk on the edge of the paramo beneath the radiance of the full moon. The intense light of our night's sun was caught in the clouds and cast our shadows, long, upon the earth. Beyond these illuminated clouds were the stars, bright in a cold, clear sky. In the distance below us, on the dark silhouettes of faraway mountainsides and clinging to the shadows of the valleys shone the lights of Quito, Cumbaya, Tumbaco...shivering in the distance.

waiting for the birds to fly

2010-08-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

I guess any substantially-sized church with a prominent plaza and bit of history would be incomplete without its own honorary flock of pigeons. I noticed the pigeons in the plaza of Cuenca's Iglesia Santo Domingo every time I passed by on my walks through the city. Children played with the pigeons. Mothers fed them. Grandfathers shooed them away...it could have been the plaza of any church, anywhere. On one occasion, I was surprised by how much the scene reminded me of a picture my grandfather had taken on a trip to Venice in the late 1950's. In my grandpa's picture, a child stood in the middle of the flock, which swarmed around him or took flight, while adults stood alone or walked in pairs across the plaza.

Venice, 1960's

One day, I waited to catch the pigeons in flight. For ten minutes I stood on the street corner, a gawking tourist with camera in hand, waiting for a magic moment.

Dining Alone, Cuenca

2010-08-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

The Love and Culture Shock

2010-07-26T11:46:00.001-07:00

There is a club in Downtown Quito that people like to call "exclusive". My friend and host here in Quito doesn't go there very often, but we went one Friday night with a group of her high school friends, preppy young people with knit sweaters and polo shirts, the latest i-pod and a repertoire of American music and travel experiences, perfect English and private school educations...the frat boys of South America.

I didn't know what exclusive meant until our group of 15 or so poured out from several cars onto the sidewalk before the club. There was a crowd of people but no line.

How do we get in? I wondered. We made our way to a metal gate where a stern-faced man dressed in a suit stood with a clipboard and earphones. It took me a few minutes to realize that people were only getting past that metal chain through invitation. Several walked right on through the moment they arrived, greeting the bouncers, not thinking twice of the crowd on the street corner that parted to make way for them. It took about a half hour of waiting and standing idle, made up in my dress and high heels, for every inch of my ánimo and pre-party glow to dissipate. Why would people want to wait for this? Why would people want to be a part of this? Fed up, I walked down the street and sat on a stoop, pouting.

My delicate American sensibilities of equality and democracy (however, hypothetical they may be) were in the process of being thoroughly offended. In the next hour, Paz's knit sweater friends succeeded repeatedly in coaxing me back to the crowd after my proclamations of taking a taxi home, walking across the street to another club or sleeping on the stairs of a neighboring building until the joint closed. They had to tell me more than twice to be quiet as I complained out loud in a host of languages about the absurdity of the club's policy, loud enough for all the bouncers to hear. "You don't understand," the friends told me, "this is how things are done here."

"They only let you in if they know you, if you look like you'll spend a lot of money," another person in the crowd told me.

My friend was one of the first few to get in: familiar, well-mannered, made up in a black lace cocktail dress. Her sister, a club regular, was already inside. While we were waiting, they were working hard inside, talking to the owners, trying to gain the entrance of the rest. Apparently they weren't the only ones attempting to pull strings. It was an hour and a half before the last of us were "invited" to come in. A few smart ones had already gone home or found a better club to go off to.

Apparently my defiance was also hypothetical. In the end, I did get into the club. I did end up dancing with my friends awash in the pop music blaring inside. I did end up drinking from their glasses and paying the 10 dollar entry fee. I even ended up enjoying myself.

Josue and the forest of bamboo

2010-07-23T14:25:00.001-07:00

About twenty minutes down the dirt packed and potholed roads outside the town of Pedro Vicente Maldonado, is a forest of bamboo. Paz took me one morning; we bumped along in her jeep past fields lush with plants I never knew existed, over valleys swallowed in fog, tall, skinny palm trees emerging to scrape the sky. She pulled up to a dirt yard with a colorful little row of (how do I say, the structures don't merit the word houses or apartments)...a colorful little row of domestic quarters. A pack of dogs rushed out from beneath a stilted house, barking. Two young boys stood on the stoop at the top of the stairs, watching us, while a woman sat squat at the bottom, washing containers in a metal tub. Roosters and chickens ran free in the yard.

"Is it okay to be here?" I asked Paz. A silly question, but I felt like a trespasser. Paz parked the jeep, said her greetings to the boys and the women who responded very amicably. We proceeded behind the structures.

By a smoldering pile of dirt and rotten bamboo leaves stood a little boy, Josue.
"Josue!" Paz's greeting was surprised. She asked how his operation went, told him how handsome he looked, asked him if he would like to join us on our walk in the bamboo. Josue smiled wide. He had stayed with Paz's family at their hacienda after his cleft-pallete operation three months previous. It was the last in a serious of operations. His was a particularly tricky case, one that was so unappealing to the eyes of strangers that it kept him from school. He was eleven now, and learning mathematics, reading, writing...

I followed the two of them into the forest and its cool quiet and diffused light. The bamboo grew in bunches far over our heads - like tall trees with a dozen hollow trunks. A light rain fell, cutting through the canopy, echoing on the hollow trunks, falling on our bare skin and the earthen red carpet of decaying leaves. It was a sanctuary for contemplation.

We asked Josue to guide us and to keep us safe from the snakes. When the drizzle turned to deluge, we sought refuge under the awning of his family's quarters. We watched through the glassless window as he swung his baby sister in her hammock. We watched his mother perform her outside chores: pour buckets of rain water on the narrow concrete porch lining their complex, sweep the water out of earthen gutters with a broom, rinse out her son's boots. Her white dress was soaked to the skin, exposing her bra-less upper body. She wore thin plastic flip flops, nearly barefoot.

From the bamboo forest we drove another ten minutes to a one-way bridge overlooking a cascade of falls and rapids and a gorge of swirling water some 25 meters below our feet. The point, located at the convergence of two branches of a river, was called El Salto del Tigre. A few meters up the road, in a tangle of branches, vines, and tropical bushes we found two paths leading to a still lagoon amidst the falls. I followed Paz and Josué down the steep, muddy paths, over slippery boulders, grasping fallen trunks and tangled roots covered in velvet coats of moss.

The quiet pool between the cascades reminded me of something I had dreamt before. Tall vines hung down from the forest canopy, skimming the surface of the water. An island of river-polished boulders and stones stretched out into the lagoon. An ever-present hum of falling water and bird calls filled the air. A blue morpho butterfly floated by. We left our clothes and cameras on the rocks and slipped into the water, cold and fresh. Submerged, the water was a natural, transparent green and had a mineral richness that felt soft and nourishing to the skin.

At first, Josue entered the water with trepidation, claiming that he did not know how to swim. Ten minutes later, he was jumping off the rocks, belly first, and doggy paddling around gasping for air with a wide smile fixed upon his face. He was hesitant when we said it was time to leave and had to jump and paddle at least more than one "una vez más".

La Liebre: Live Jazz

2010-07-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

After a week in Quito, Maria Paz, my friend and host, asked me what was the thing I liked most about her city. I told her I had yet to discover...it would be the people, I supposed, the beautiful moments hidden in everyday life. I was still a tourist, my domain was still old churches, landmarks, breathtaking but inanimate views of mountains and valleys, pictures with stories that were not my own.

I met Paz's circle of friends later that afternoon. We shared wine at a local video rental store turned Jazz bar. Since most of the conversation was over my head, I sat there, soaking up the atmosphere and watching the musicians. I don't think I've ever listened to Jazz live before...and as I studied the faces of the musicians, the furrowed eyebrows of the guitarist, the wide-eyed concentration of the drummer, the surprising twists and turns the music took, I realized: Jazz is to watch at the very moment of invention.

Accident: One Casualty

2010-07-19T14:59:00.000-07:00

Horror is 9 a.m. on a sunny morning, highway view of the city, raging traffic, full of motion and promise. Horror is a toppled motorcycle bent backwards beneath an underpass, a body thrown against the concrete wall, blood streaming from beneath a hastily placed tarp. I couldn't help looking - Why did I look? As traffic continued, frenetic as before, aggressive as before, bumper-to-bumper as before...I could not.

Seseribó: El Hogar de la Salsa

2010-07-19T11:43:00.000-07:00

After attending an opera at the Sucre theatre on Friday night, Paz and I drove out to Seseribó, a salsa club on Calle 12 de Octubre and Veintimilla, known as the "Hogar de la Salsa" in Quito. A live band from Esmeraldas was playing, a group of sixteen or so men of various ages, the Chigualeros.

The club was crowded, an underground labyrinth of open-walled rooms with low ceilings, dim lights and large oil paintings of warm sumptuous tones and warm sumptuous people. The entry rooms were for tables and drinking, open floors and dancing. Beyond these dark rooms was a longer, brighter hall with a low stage where the band played. Here, the music took precedence. A few couples moved together in the midst of the crowd but the rest moved by themselves - a natural response to the energy that came from the mouths and fingertips of the six men, their unfaltering rhythm, their delicious harmony...It was as if the only way to listen to this kind of music was with the entire body, in movement, in a communion of rhythm.

As the group began to play, I had the sensation that one of my dad's old fania records was coming to life - and I was there to dance to it.

Playing Tourist in Downtown Quito

2010-07-19T10:53:00.000-07:00

LA PLAZA DE LA INDEPENDENCÍA (aka. LA PLAZA GRANDE), Quito's central Plaza

LA IGLESIA DE LA COMPANÍA, La calle de las siete cruces. It was prohibited to photograph the interior of this church, which was literally, as my friend described it, "una joya de Quito" (a treasure of Quito). Baroque decoration covered every inch of the interior walls and ceilings, arabesque designs (mudéjar) climbed up the pillars - All of it was coated in gold.

View from LA VISTA HERMOSA restaurant, Quito

Footman, HOTEL PLAZA GRANDE. As we toured Quito's main plaza we got stuck in the rain. We sought relief in the café of the Hotel Plaza Grande along with maté tea, coffee and rosero (a popular Quito drink of diced fruit and choclo, a type of corn). I thought I had a headache from lack of caffeine, but the coffee I ordered did not help. It was the altitude. Quito stands, the second highest administrative capital city in the world, over 9,000 ft.

Quito: Arrival

2010-07-19T10:26:00.000-07:00

I woke up at 3 a.m. in New York City and went to bed at 2 a.m. (3 a.m. EST) in Quito. I had breakfast over the vast gray ocean somewhere between Manhattan Island and Panama City, lunch somewhere between Panama and Medellín, afternoon coffee somewhere over the coast of Ecuador, and dinner in Quito at the dining room table with my friend María Paz, her mother, her sisters and her sister's cousins (Thank goodness airlines in Latin America still serve meals). I had after dinner drinks in the city with Paz and one of her good friends who had just had her car stolen - the second car in two weeks.

Before drinks, we made a stop by the police station to report the stolen car. As we stood in the chilly air of the street corner I listened to my educated friends discuss poverty and violence and the difference between the two. They hypothesized over "transition periods" and the strange increase in violent acts and petty crimes in the city over the past several months.

"Poverty is my purse that was stolen last week," concluded Paz. "Violence is the stolen car."

I asked my friends what usually happens with stolen cars - they are usually not found by authorities but transported over the border into Peru or Colombia. Reporting them is little more than a process.

It is cold in Quito, colder than I expected. I could see my breath as Paz picked me up from the airport. It was 6p.m. and night was already descending over the mountains, darkening the overcast skies and low-hanging wisps of clouds. I saw the same rain in Quito as I saw in Medellín, in Panama, in the hills of New York's Southern Tier...

The Blues

2010-05-08T06:47:00.000-07:00

Rocheport General Store, Rocheport, Missouri

Toronto Driveby

2010-01-08T09:01:00.001-08:00

Backyard Nature Trails

2010-01-08T08:48:00.000-08:00

Tillman Wildlife Refuge, Clarence, New York

Frozen at the Falls

2010-01-03T10:09:00.001-08:00

Nashville: City, Country, Whiskey and a happy grandma

2009-12-03T18:58:00.001-08:00

Street Crossing

2009-11-13T04:19:00.000-08:00

Ralston Moveout

2009-11-13T03:41:00.001-08:00

This past weekend my grandparents moved from their home of about 40 years into a smaller apartment. They raised all of their five children at Ralston, watched most of their old neighbors leave over time (to "new" and "better" parts of town),watched the horse farm behind their house go up in weeds, the old trees grow taller, and piled boxes and boxes of books, articles, pictures, gifts, souvenirs and every kind of household item in their empty rooms.

A view of 9413 Ralston (upper right), the old house, from across a field behind the house.

My Grandmother stands by one of her flaming plants in the front yard.

One of my grandmother's roses along the side of 9413 Ralston.

My cousin Tommy imitates a golf celebration with his team mates - his high school wrestling team came out to load my grandparents things into a moving van.

Grandpa asleep in his new room amongst his books.

Grandma looks, tired, uncertain, out the window of her new apartment.

Hallowehtje

2009-11-02T08:28:00.001-08:00

Grandpa William's Picture Collection

2009-09-30T06:59:00.001-07:00

I've been "archiving" my grandpa's slides and prints these past couple months. Here are a few of my favorites.

Israel, near the wailing wall, 1975

Europe, 1960's.

Venice, 1960's.

My mom at her 12th or 13th Birthday.

On Mom's Porch, Clarence, NY

2009-09-30T06:43:00.000-07:00

Travis sits with Shakira on the back porch of the house holding up a wine bottle Paul brought back with him from Spain (which he bought from a vending machine).

big leaf, little leaf. A tulip tree off our back porch.

The Last Days of Juan

2009-07-28T07:38:00.000-07:00

Sentience of a Summer Barbeque

2009-07-05T13:40:00.000-07:00

Thai along the sunset river

2009-06-27T10:57:00.000-07:00

¡Adelante!

2009-04-22T15:11:00.000-07:00

Portrait session for Radio Adelante, the only spanish-language news radio program in Mid-Missouri [am I doing a plug here?] After a semester of hard work, we took one of our meetings into the basement of Lee Hills Hall.

More Raptors...

2009-04-04T14:04:00.000-07:00

Raptor Rehab had some resident birds out for show today at the Vet School Open House. I went along for another morning of pictures. Here are some selects:

volunteer Elizabeth Mateye carries "JD" a resident Harlan's Hawk to a presentation at the nearby vet-school.

eagle food.

resident Kestrel, Haphaestus, had the lower part of his left wing amputated.

volunteer Gerred Knopf chases an eagle around a flight cage for flight rehabilitation at the Center.

frozen mice. center volunteers receive bags of frozen mice to separate and thaw for raptor food.

Horse Farm

2009-03-23T16:10:00.001-07:00

Six dogs and 2 barns of horses; my cousin's latest living space while still lingering in that funny place between college and "career". But limbo can look pretty good sometimes.

Eagle Blood

2009-03-21T08:06:00.000-07:00

Caged Birds

2009-03-19T19:40:00.001-07:00

birds for a blue day from a couple different assignments...

Top image is a parrot that the Flores family received from a cousin in Chicago several years ago. They say it is very common for people in Jalisco to keep such birds.

Bottom image is Kestrel falcon, Hephaestus, from another day at the Rapotor Rehab Center in Columbia, MO. We are bound to have a good relationship, I think...he's the only bird I know who will show off for the camera!

The Flores

2009-03-17T14:13:00.000-07:00

Lucifer

2009-03-15T21:31:00.000-07:00

"Lucifer", an eastern Screetch Owl, was hit by a car and suffered neurological damage that prevents him from flying. He has been a resident of the rehab center for almost 15 years.

Week 3 in Milan

2009-03-08T10:57:00.000-07:00

Saturday Night (Spanish) Mass at the Catholic Church St.Mary's.

Joe McCarty, 94, has lived in the same house in Milan since he was five years old. He has seen Milan change from a railroad hub to dying rural town to a meat packing center and recalls a time in the 20's when the Chinese were the newest migrants. He attends Spanish mass each week even though he doesn't understand the language because he likes to listen to the choir and congregation's music: "they sing and it's so beautiful," he said.

Friday night in a small town. The Pizza Hut truck makes its rounds around small-town missouri, each night stopping in a different town. The truck stops in Milan every Friday night frequented by locals and latinos alike.

I only skimmed the surface: Armenia Flashbacks

2009-03-08T10:15:00.001-07:00

For some reason I've been thinking about Armenia lately, here are some previously un-posted shots from my June 2008 trip and a beautifully complex place.

Feeding Cows Their Breakfast

2009-03-04T19:25:00.000-08:00

just for fun...

Week Two in Milan

2009-03-02T19:41:00.000-08:00

nothing spectacular...just getting a better feel for the town and its people :)

Gathering Soundbites

2009-03-02T19:04:00.000-08:00

We spent the weekend with an Argentinian couple on a cattle farm outside of Milan and the mornings in the truck with Oscar as he fed his cows; I'm still working on a sound slides...to be posted soon...

Thursday of thunderstorms

2009-02-26T11:01:00.001-08:00

Milan: First Impressions

2009-02-22T14:56:00.000-08:00

Dolores and I took a two-hour drive north to Milan this weekend to build some contacts and familiarize ourselves with the town. Dolores is hoping to do a series of features exploring how the town has changed over the past decade due to the creation of a meat-packing plant and the subsequent influx of migrants.

Centro Latino

2009-02-22T14:38:00.001-08:00

A new health program at the Columbia Centro Latino that I've been reporting on for the Missourian and Adelante. There were two families and several couples at this first event to meet the new health workers. I snapped around a bit; such lovely fluorescent lighting...(sure). This little girl is from California MO. Her parents drive an hour to Columbia to attend the Centro's programs. California, although it has a large population of Latinos because of the Turkey plant, has no Centro of its own. To all those who cringe at kiddie pictures: I couldn't help it. I really couldn't.

Captivity

2009-02-18T17:45:00.001-08:00

The Raptor Rehab Center, run as a club through the MU Veterinary School, handles and heals injured birds found by the community. They are staffed fully by volunteers from the community and university. A wide array of birds have been treated by the center: vultures, raptors, snowy owls...the ones who can heal are re-released while those who sustain permanent injuries must either remain at the center or me euthanized.