The Attack!

photo: Man on the Amtrak, Tacoma WA, 2012: J.W. Zirschky

Riding the rails, riding through cars, planes and on foot. Seizing the light at a moment's notice takes over our vision; takes the heart and runs it through! Oh how I wish all would feel this - experience the rush of a moment come and gone - a moment of agony and ecstasy, for all those publishers who write articles upon articles on gear and techno know-how; for all those people crammed into photo-supply stores looking for the new, ten thousand dollar, do-it -for-you, cook you bacon and eggs, piece of equipment!  For you, I write this:  Let the heart and eye work together and seize upon the moment!  It may not be the best piece of work your trained brain has ever done, or people may not even recognize or give a damn. But is this why you photograph?  Is this why you paint? Is this why you stay up long nights and type, scribble, and type again!  NO!  You do it because your heart and eye are connected, and they seize and then create!  Sometimes throughout all of our photographs, all our paintings and writings we have to do normal, day-to-day, humdrum, have-to's, and through this we find others who create as much as we do - and even more - and we wonder..."why"?  Why do I do this?  The market is crowded.  There is no work.  Newspapers are dying. The medium is shifting.  A fellow at a party a week or so ago asked me "Is there any work in photography anymore?  Can you really get magazine work?"  The naiveté killed me!  Yes, there is work!  But we must ATTACK IT!  And even so, if we do not find the work right away, which in most cases we do not, for our modern world has this notion that success will just somehow show up. If the work doesn't come then we continue to push ahead - we build, we pound nails, we haul your trash, we fish the sea, we pour your coffee, we cremate you when you die, we paint the house, rake the leaves, and clean the toilets!  Yet we do not stop THE ATTACK!  We capture with our creative eyes and hearts!  We create our bodies of work and we do it because this, my dear fellows, is God's gift to us (among many other blessings).  We put in the hours, the seconds, the rays of light upon the moment......because this, my dear fellows, is our calling.

A Professional Is Patient, from the War of Art by Steven Pressfield

Resistance outwits the amateur with the oldest trick in the book:  it uses his own enthusiasm against him.  Resistance gets us to plunge into a project with an overambitious and unrealistic timetable for its completion.  It knows we can't sustain that level of intensity.  We will hit the wall.  We will crash.  The Professional, on the other hand, understands delayed gratification.  He is the ant, not the grasshopper; the tortoise, not the hare. The Professional arms himself with patience, not only to give the stars time to align in his career, but to keep himself from flaming out in each individual work.  He knows that any job, whether its a novel or a kitchen remodel, takes twice as long as he thinks and costs twice as much.  He accepts that.  He recognizes it as a reality.  The Professional steels himself at the start of a project,  reminding himself it is the Iditarod, not the sixty-yard dash.  He conserves his energy.  He prepares his mind for the long haul.  He sustains himself with the knowledge that if he can just keep those huskies mushing, sooner or later the sled will pull into Nome.

Photograph:  A waiter cleans tables at the Hilt bar in NE Portland, OR.    by J.W. Zirschky

Author: Steven Pressfield

Another block, Another Chapter, Will West plays tonight.

A call to the crew: restless, wandering of the mind, "Skip won't pay the boys".  Empty pockets. Her love is like a crazy cup of cool orange juice.  Red notebook.  Plans, plans, plans  The Rose City, hot and fresh to breath.  Black, white, yellow - they walk the neighborhood - ocean to concrete. Another chapter done, a new chapter to ride.  A fresh, new aperture-clicking, clicking: one, two, three until the sun kisses the moment - the vanishing moment.  An inspiring man: "live with passion my good man!" To suck my mind out of the familiar, to look as though others would see. What do you see?  Tattoos, black hair, jack boots, blue collar, food carts, broken signs, colored skirts; kids, kids, kids. Where has the greatest generation gone?  Where are the fathers?  Who will teach us?  Another block down, another block to another bar.  Where are the workers?  We can't all be social.  Gum on the street. Hula-hoops spin.  The river flows.  Does Portland even have jobs?  Another block, another chapter.  "I'm lucky because I work hard".  Thoughts rage from other men, the city.  What lays here?  Opportunity, they say - opportunity to make a better life. "Oh, but the country is kissed by God".  Pull back. Visions of a bush pilot - slow down and bring her in softly.  The city will open up, all in due time.  Heaven is there.  Smoke from the grill.  The homeless need beers.  Another block and another chapter to walk through......for now, this night, Will West plays.

The Art of the Seine 2012, Pictures of a Tradition

"Let Down Your Nets"

"We've worked hard all night and haven't caught anything. But, because you say so,  I will let down the nets".  Tears flow on the stern.   The body goes through the motions; food is tasteless. Where is HE when I speak?  Men grind upon the open sea, rocking and rolling as their heads do.  Pour another tumbler.   "We must sail, sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it, but sail we must and never lay at anchor".  Another line from the notes; another one to get you through.  Put another pot on, make it grinder this time.  Stomach in knots.  A rusty knife through the heart, carving it out and feeding it to the fish.  Stuck on this delta, this grey beast.  "Where did he go"?  "Find the whale boys"!  Another one stuck in the net, another problem.  Somali cannery workers rock their bodies to the east.  Moldy pudding. Dirty showers.  Smells like slime, blood fish slime.  Nowhere to go; like a chained dog to these waters.  A slow trickle, fish here, fish there.  No fish, just a deck of logs and kelp. It's never good enough.  Skips marry into wealth.  Can I get a draw Sir?   Twenty bucks - enough for a coffee,  The industry will die.  How about Northern Ireland?  Or the Japs?  Where are there Junks now?  Bumper stickers on boats - "NO OBAMA 2012".   "FISHERMEN FEED THE WORLD".  The heart pumps for hers, yet it bleeds dry salt.  Head is heavy; we can't end this way.  For God's sake men, take heed and dig deep; fight for the hearts and minds of people, fight for the justice!  What would the Founders do?  How have we become so fat?  Another jumper; one, two, there's another for three!  Maybe we'll get a big set this time, a four bagger.  "Pull boys! Pull"!   Red marker, blue, red, here it comes.   Nothing again, they scream aloud, "God Fucking Dammit"!  Another jelly in the eye - it burns hot, as though a match struck into the eye.  Sorry, Father, for they know not what they do.  Please forgive us. Break bread, pray to Jesus.  So many worlds, so many places, a world away from worlds.  Tears have dried, throat is soar.  She answered, finally.  The road continues - bridges can be rebuilt, pour 'em another light one.  One, two, head is heavy, time to get up.  Anchor bangs the bow - 3:30 AM.  Coffee breath and smoke, an American prose.  Oh, Phillip, why have you gone?  You just write, man, write and write until death.  The wind roars, chop is up, everyone is in the bunks.  The Dutch had fleets of men, rations of dried fish.  One shot of the fire water and some bread, and a lime to keep the scurvy away. The old world, the new.  "Give me some of those candy bars"!  Onto Kasaan.  Where did the run go?  Salmon come with power - two thousand pounds over the thighs.  Slime in the face; it burns.  We rock and roll; the Ocean commands authority.  No bath, no girl.  Another evening in Southeast.  The colors fly high, ripped and frayed.  Let's get Congress out here.  Have them smell the smell of their dirty panties!  America, where is it?  What would the Fathers have done, chopped a cherry tree?   They knew their sweat.   She laughs now, her sweet, sweet laugh, her small feet.  A sweet disposition. Another walk upon the tar-soaked docks.  Lights burn and flicker; a lonely life.  Olympics finish in London.  Royal buc-teeth and big ears.  Stars and Stripes take the cake.  Rain again.  Pork chops on the grill and they call this a Tradition....It's time to come home.

Vermin and Saints

Rain, Rain, Rain, walking on a dream plays over damp clothes, traveling to the same old spot, fishing the same old waters, wet socks and smokes, dreams of Africa, those red roads and mud huts, oh those vibrant colors, oh those vibrant souls.  "I can't do well when I think your gonna leave me.  Shouldn't you be leaving now?"  Modern iPods and fishing gear, nachos for lunch, the salmon are nowhere, the money is always little, why oh why? A nightmare at best. Vermin and Saints. The rain continues.  Drug addict searches for his knife, his new pocket knife, the one his mother bought him.  He is forty and can't read. Vermin and Saints.  Prayers to Jesus, a knock on wood, just another good luck charm, how about the number thirteen or a horse shoe?  What's the difference?  Nothing.  Just vanity.  Putting your hopes in trinkets at best.  Yelling, dissent among the men and a drunken crying moment.  Oh boy, you think your so tough?  Bullies are sad and weak, they will never rise; a coward at best.  Vermin and Saints.  Forty-eight hours of work, breathing each others stink, riding the calm waves of the South East, black bears and eagles, no more red man, gotta find the run, tender men and their honky-tonk contraptions, multi-million dollar rust buckets, harvesting the sea for profit.  Ripped up beer cans, watch 'em sink.  How many of us burn our planet?  Growing into bar stools, growing cracks upon the face, toothless women bat their eyes. Vermin and Saints - both go to the well, all smoke and mirrors, mud-soaked streets, laundry in a trash bag, rubber boots all day, luke-warm coffee, wet rain gear, hot tempers.  "You don't put fucking Joy soap on the deck with the fish!" Where is the PC now?  No respect.  Vermin and Saints.  Dissent among the men.  Sun will rise someday.  Rain, rain, rain.  Four AM comes early boys.  A pink sky morning, heavy head, muscles ache, addiction calls again, Sisyphus at best, ragged boots, father's words cripple.  The struggle is in the art - it turns to cold oatmeal when the belly is full.  Boys fight the tears, tears for true manhood, the everyday South East Alaska.  Have another cigarette.

American Concrete: Volume I. Chapter I: We the People...2012. What exists on the American Soil, who makes up this country and where is it going? The people, the landscape, the movements. This is the first chapter of a long study, the portrait of America, from the gravel roads to the city streets. What is to come of this nation?