introduce you to my blogging and life 
08
29
2010
These images didn’t make the cut but I am posting them now for documentary purposes, in a more down-to-earth look at Rockport and the Cape Ann area. Truly lovely, still.
Photoblogs: Photo entries. The bulk of this blog, obviously. The best of these are featured on the main web site.
08
24
2010
As a photographer, I am a child of the 21st century. I love color. I crave it. I couldn’t be or do without it. So I tend to underexpose a touch and to slightly boost saturation, or rather the newcomer vibrance*, because 
that better reflects my inner view of the world. I don’t really dissect a scene into zones like Ansel Adams did. What I look for are balance, color, contrast, shape, texture, question marks, surprises and puzzles. I let them talk. I analyze how much they move me. If they tip the scale towards the positive, I press the mental shutter first and the camera’s second. If not, the mind looks elsewhere.
But every once in a while, color fades and abstraction and mood prevail. The time has then come for black and white, or any monochromatic tone. It sometimes happens in the field and others back at the ranch, in the comfort of my digital lab. I have caught myself staring at a shot for an eternity, uncertain of what was wrong or missing, only to realize later that nothing had been - there was just too much color. I’d take that distraction away and the shot was reborn.
Any way. Here’s a monochromatic look at Rockport, with more color photos on the way soon.
* Vibrance is the new chic variable in color correction. While the old saturation adjustment would boost color saturation of ALL colors - actually clipping those already quite saturated, a rather destructive result in terms of quality - the new vibrance smartly boosts the saturation of the less saturated colors and leaves the saturated ones alone, achieving images that are much closer to what the human eye perceives in its infinite wisdom of intelligent universe translation.
08
23
2010
In October of 1991, the quaint little town of Gloucester, MA, was put on the map at the epicenter of a highly mediatized maritime drama when one of the strongest extratropical cyclones in Eastern Seaboard history, fed by the 
remnants of hurricane Grace, unleashed its fury at coastlines and scrambled open seas, engulfing boats and randomly taking lives. It was a « Perfect Storm » that sunk the Andrea Gail and lifted Sebastian Junger to the top of charts.
Yet all things weather-wise are rarely that intense around Gloucester and casual summertime visitors would never know the region hides such a terrible temper under its clever cover as a touristic but pleasantly quiet coast. There are many gems to be discovered, neat little places that seem to have avoided the pitfalls of over-development and remain as they were five decades ago, tranquil, well-behaved and picturesque.
One such rarity is Rockport. Located 15 minutes north of her big sister Gloucester at the northeastern tip of Cape Ann, Rockport could easily be missed as one takes a sharp left towards Essex Bay and pushes on to New Hampshire. The town bears its name well, consisting of little more than a small harbor nestled within a cove between natural rock formations and a man-made breakwater. Leading out along the port is the Bearskin 
Neck, a mostly pedestrian stretch of eclectic art galleries, sinful fudge and candy stores and various eateries.
By some twist of fate - or maybe the actions of a smart town council - Rockport has thus far skipped the typically North American infestation of fast-food chains and strip malls. The town seems to be 95% residential and obviously survives from tourism alone as a seasonal industry. There are plenty of options for those seeking summer accommodation and although it gets pretty busy during the warmer months, crowds never seem to be out of control and decibel levels remain acceptable. The fact is that one doesn’t come to Rockport to party, but rather to relax.
A series of beaches interlaced with rocky shores gives Cape Ann a moody character. While nearby Gloucester charges a whopping $25 for parking at its two main sand strips, the beaches of Rockport are free and less crowded. Whether it is at the sandy downtown Back and Front beaches or further south at the long mix of pebbles and sand of Cape Edge, the summer ocean remains chilly all year-round. It smells fresh and pungent and is usually clear and inviting. Locals are nice, too, smiling a lot and greeting 
everyone, and once behind the wheel they respect pedestrians in a very West-Coastedly manner. In a word, Rockport... rocks.
So Marie and I decided to escape the Big Apple frenzy for a few days and hook up with a few of my relatives who ritually spend a couple of weeks by the sea. Car rental rates being outrageous in New York, we opted for the trusted Amtrak train that took us to Boston in 4:30 hrs. There, we hopped on the subway, crawled stealthily underneath the city and emerged at the North Station where we caught a wi-fi equipped commuter train to Cape Ann. We were stepping down onto the Rockport station dock at 3:30 PM.
I had messed up our arrival time notification and no one had come, so we did what most people do all day around there, we walked. Our guesthouse was located about a half-kilometer away but not having visited the town in at least 20 years, I took us on the long way home, suitcases in trail and photo gear on my back.
But Rockport is a small place and it wasn’t long before I spotted a cousin walking towards us with a welcoming smile. We were escorted to our shelter where more 
welcoming notes awaited with explanations of everyone’s current location, mainly the beach (mom), taking naps (undisclosed) or playing PSi (my nephew Yann.) Word of mouth was in full swing and with family members staying all over town, it was going to be a fun week of friendly gatherings here and there, the older children roaming freely between houses and beaches and everybody maintaining an deliciously independent schedule within the general momentum.
Lazy days were spent perfecting the sacred art of doing nothing. Marie and I stayed in a charming small room right across the road from Back Beach at the Beach Knoll. In the morning, we had breakfast on the porch looking at the sea, coffee in hand, feet up, analyzing tides, watching divers on their check-out dives, counting cormorants and letting our thoughts drift and our hearts calm down.
There were various daily beach rendez-vous, there were games of pétanque, there were swims in the cold water and wild body-surfing 
sessions, and lobster picnics with Gitte, and pizzas and fudge sampling and ice cream extravaganzas. There was a proper meal with my adorable mom at My Place By the Sea, sitting outside at the very end of the Bearskin Neck as the sun went down, and it was almost like sitting at Harbour House in Kalk Bay with our other adorable mom, half-a-world away in the southern hemisphere.
There were drives out of town to Gloucester and the marshy estuary of the Essex River. There were sunrises and sunsets - and pitiful attempts on my part at recording them, as I succumbed to the seaside town’s incredibly slow rhythm and began to replenish my soul with peace and laziness turned wisdom.
Then all-to-soon we were on a train again, and as we left the ocean behind and rolled rapidly towards 8 million of our fellow New-Yorkers and a 
single black cat, my blood pressure rose a bit and my heart sank. Just as Da Vinci said it so well for the skies and love of flying, so it goes for one’s attraction to the sea: once you have slept for a while in salty air, rocked by the gentle sound of waves flirting with their beach, the ocean will flow in your veins forever. It never gets out. Your blood becomes salty and when stranded far inland or near dirty water, you can only lick your lips and remember the taste of everything maritime, the motion of swells, the cry of sea birds and the eternal cycle of tides.
The ocean might have given birth to life itself but if we do not take care of it, it will take life back. For now, though, it keeps sustaining my dreams.
»
08
22
2010
A short interlude while I’m working on a more picturesque rendition of Rockport...
These tree swallows (ID?) were swirling in a dense flock around the Good Harbour Beach, which we only visited because the outrageous parking fee had been lifted on a cloudy week-day afternoon.
07
26
2010
Not all is ever smooth and peachy with Cape Town’s weather. Table Mountain acts as an incredible torturer of skies, focusing the impact of conflicting air masses and unleashing strange downdrafts and pouring rains unto the city it dwarfs.
Below is an example. Approaching from the south and stuck in slow-moving traffic, we had ample time to marvel the mountain’s magnificent impact on every aspect of the city’s mood.
Posted at 12:39 AM in On the road: & Photoblogs: & South Africa:
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Back in January this year, when the Southern Cross was still filling our South African nightly skies and the FIFA World Cup was no more than a distant 
future thrill, we took the trusted Kombi for a drive around False Bay. Leaving Cape Town behind, we crossed the Cape Flats, zipped through Somerset West and wound our way along the edge of Cape Hangklip towards Betty’s Bay.
The ocean was just delightfully turquoise and the sky streaked by rare cumulus. As always when exploring South Africa, we saw our share of wildlife. From the top of a hill, I spotted a great white shark cruising near a rocky shore, less than half a mile from a beach where surfers paddled through wave sets.
Then in Betty’s Bay we visited yet another South African penguin colony, less idyllic than the one in Boulder’s Bay, but as prolific and definitely smellier. I haven’t yet gotten over my surprise of mingling with the comical birds in a 
temperate environment. With my eyes half-closed, I could almost pretend that the sun-bleached and guano-covered rocks were in fact ice and snow. There was something odd to the scene, as if a giant blunder had been done at the Creation level and a drop of arctic life had splashed into African heat.
But the penguins seemed well-adjusted and happy, and despite relative tourist activity and the clicking of cameras, they just didn’t mind our presence and did what penguins do best: mostly nothing.
Read 66 Square Feet for a more extensive post about the drive.
07
20
2010
The terrace is beautiful and lush, but its 66 square feet don’t allow for much movement or lookout. At dinner, crossing my legs is a challenge and the Japanese grass keeps tickling my back. So once in a while we climb to the roof 
and picnic there, among satellite dishes, skylights and chimneys, with the wind in our face and the lifeless old windows of the hospital building for our only top neighbors.
The cat comes and joins us after a little coaxing. This is his kingdom and at first, he is reluctant to share it. We sit facing the Orient, spread one kikoi as a seat and another for a table, and we eat our feast watching the sky and the planes and the rising stars. To the west, the New York Harbour basin shines in the vanishing light and we can see ferries dance back and forth between Manhattan and the islands.
The Battery Tunnel building immortalized in Men in Black stands strongly in the center stage, brightly lit and massive. In the background and to the left, a short Lady Liberty tiredly lifts her flame into a world of overwhelming obstacles to her stance.
Not for a minute are we allowed to forget where we are as the invisible BQE highway sends a continuous low-pitch roaring towards us, major player in what we call the New York hum, the ever-present surrounding noise typical of large cities and 
whose absence strikes us as so incredibly wonderful when we get to such heavenly places as the Namib Desert or Table Mountain.
A few feet behind us is the Farm. Marie’s new horticultural effort has rapidly grown from modest experimental proportions to a full-fledged potager and we are watching with fascinated anticipation as our vegetables grow hurriedly in the summer heat.
Eventually, when night has fallen and our wine dried up, the plates empty and all stomachs content, we squeeze back down the trap door and into the welcoming light of our apartment. The cat follows from the outside, rounding the terrace and glancing nonchalantly at the street below, and he comes into the room with the manners of a king returning from the Crusades, victorious, hungry and tired, and after assessing the fleeting possibility of more food donations, he chooses a sleeping spot for the night and settles in.
07
10
2010
In a little over 24 hours, the eyes of the world will focus on a single football, as an estimated* half a billion fans watch the FIFA World Cup final live from even the most remote corners of Earth. No broadcast event on the planet manages to capture the interest of so many people simultaneously.
I personally think that FIFA is too large a beast, probably rotten by corruption and in the simple business of making sheer profit. If as little as 5 percent of the advertising time it sells to major sponsors for what must be astronomical sums was instead given to charity organizations with an international scope - or, why not, to those serving the continent in which the Cup is being played - then some real good could come from the event. It should be the duty of any highly successful enterprise to give back to society, as much for a balance in operations and avoidance of the capital sin of greed as for simple and effective self-promotion purposes, and I believe that FIFA could shine better at this.
In any case, South Africa has been receiving more worldwide attention in the last few weeks than ever before, and that should be a good thing. The country will now have appeared in the awareness of many who previously ignored it and stands to gain from exposure and the success of a brilliantly hosted Cup.
But there is so much more to South Africa than frantic 
crowds in a stadium pulsating to the sound of vuvuzelas. It would be a terrible mistake for any World Cup spectator to so limit their exploration of a newly discovered country. I hope that those who attended in person will have gone off the beaten path and sampled the less traveled roads and beaches. I hope they will have strolled and walked and hiked. I hope they will have smelled the flowers and tasted the sea salt, and enjoyed wonderful food and superb wine. I hope they will have taken in the crisp light and absorbed the peace.
And for those who visited through a TV set, may their imagination and curiosity be tickled into picking up a South African novel, watching another documentary, Googling the origin of a word or even, why not, toying with the idea of a call to the travel agent.
South Africa is a land of extremes, and while not everything is rosy and pretty down there, I know of very few places anywhere on the globe that will fill the traveler with such a sense of wonder and amazement.
Here are a few snapshots of a wonderful family picnic on 3rd Beach in Clifton, the same beach that saw Marie and I drinking Champagne on a memorable afternoon two years ago. It has a sweet spot in our hearts, of course, but truly is a beautiful enclave of sand and ocean, nestled at the foot of Lion’s Head, a few minutes from the heart of Cape Town.
Now let the game be fair and may the best team win.
* Half a billion is a very conservative figure taking into account the recent admission by FIFA that their previous numbers may have been largely overestimated.
07
07
2010
I’m not one to celebrate nor appreciate National and Independence days much, whether a 4th of July, a 14th or a 1st. While people drink and party, I tend to ponder. It is so easy to raise a flag high and forget the atrocities that have led us where we are. I do not feel that ancient blood baths are anything worth celebrating, especially when they are actually being perpetrated all over again on some distant land. If anything, a day of mourning and remembrance would be more appropriate. To feel sorry for a necessary evil and convince ourselves we have grown. But have we?
This 4th of July was equal to itself. I worked most of the week-end and had to deal with drunks and fights. The fights were fueled by ideology conflict, intolerance and latent racism. If a country’s national holiday meant anything serious, one would think that the masses would find something more intelligent to do than get trashed.
And was I in France, I wouldn’t look forward any more to the upcoming 14th of July, for exactly the same reasons.
In any case, a walk along the Brooklyn Promenade with Marie was uneventful and I managed to get a nice-ish shot of our Manhattan skyline from the new park in Brooklyn. Peace to all.
07
01
2010
South of Cape Town, all the way down the Cape Peninsula, part of the Table Mountain National Park and next to Cape Point, is the famous Cape of Good Hope, southernmost part of the peninsula and often (falsely) labeled as the bottom tip of Africa.
First rounded in 1488 by Portuguese explorer Bartolomeu Dias, 
the cape was initially named Cape of Storms and certainly has claimed its share of wrecks. Just a mile offshore, the warm Agulhas current coming down from the Indian Ocean clashes violently with its cold counterpart the Benguela as it heads up the western coast of Africa to a foggy rendez-vous with the Namib Desert.
Some tales claim that the legendary ghost ship Flying Dutchman was doomed to eternally sail the ocean while attempting to round the Cape into Table Bay. When looking out to sea from such harsh, desolate shores, it isn’t hard to imagine the sailors fighting against mother nature’s fury in the darkest of nights, the wind hauling through torn sails and waves crashing down on decks with maddening strength.
Yet on a sunny afternoon, as we walked down from the Cape Point parking lot with our picnic, leaving the crowds behind and entering a world of high cliffs and sandy perfection, peace was all around and soon inside of us, too. The many wooden stairs leading down to a secluded little bay just east of Cape Maclear are steep and high enough to deter most tourists and we found ourselves just about alone once we got to the bottom.
The wind was blowing steadily and we first sought shelter from the sun in the shadow of one of the great stone walls. Swimming is reputedly dangerous in the area, with strong undertows and ripping currents lurking in very cold water, but we 
wet our feet and walked the length of the beach before picnicking in the shade.
This is the magic of Cape Town. Less than an hour away from the city, in all directions, exist many oasis of pure, undiluted beauty, where one can be alone and feel like the real world has disappeared beyond a horizon of a thousand years of tranquility.
There are very few places in the world that carry as much romantic symbolism as the Cape of Good Hope. Standing there and looking out into the ocean is a bit like staring into the future and the past simultaneously.
There is nothing beyond but empty space and while at your back sits the hungriest, hottest and most tortured continent on the planet, the ocean in front seems to be calling for a truce, for a fresh start, offering a level playing field in which all men can measure themselves by the only value worth governing the world: courage.
« What a great place! And if those pics didn’t make a cut, # 11 specially, then I’m putting my camera down :) »
Date of comment: 2010-08-29 23:36 • Reply« Now if I didn’t know better, I’d say you loved the place...
»
Date of comment: 2010-08-30 11:51 • Reply