Autumn Falls

What?! Three short days ago I was wearing a halter dress and peep-toe shoes and today I’m wrapped up in a coat, gloves, hat and a scarf. Brrrr, transition from summer to “autumn” in Oregon can be abrupt.

The weekend - spent not only in a different zip code, but in an alternate weather universe - held delights and surprises for us during the 37th annual Corvallis Fall Festival. The atmospheric conditions in terms of Egyptian blue skies, citrine colored leaves as well as purse-friendly customers helped to create a profitable and satisfying couple of days.

Corvallis, Oregon received its lovely name from the Latin phrase cor vallis, which means Heart of the Valley. Appropriate, don’t you think, as it sits smack in the middle of the Willamette Valley. Before Salem, Corvallis was the Territory of Oregon’s capital in 1855.

Enough of the history lesson. Today, Corvallis is home to OSU (Oregon State University) and the Beavers. They luv-a their orange and black. And their tattoos. So much so, perhaps one enthusiast dyed her pit hair for the home game.

Looking at the photos we take, it’s occurring to me that they reveal as much about us, what we notice, how we see the world, as it does of the place du jour er, week. This next little arty piece inspired no doubt by Edvard Munch’s The Scream is a partial percent self-portrait. I’m cor vallis, that is in the heart of the valley between keeping an open mind and being continually surprised by others and say, their orange armpity hair-ness.

It isn’t until the digital film is developed that we notice that day’s theme and focus, repeating patterns and overlapping colors and textures.

While at an out-of-town show, Groom and I take turns slipping out of the booth and wandering the environs, ever on the hunt for things that catch our eye. We rarely have the opportunity to walk around together, so our way of navigating this separate-togetherness is to each take our own photos and then sit around the glowing computer screen by night, offering our day’s treasure to the other.

We are continually surprised by how much we think alike and yet how one will capture an image unseen by the other. Angles, perspectives and subject matter continue to call us and we are excited as our own hearts (and minds) open to answer.

We refer to this one as “blue chair in green ivy.” And as anyone who’s walked around with me while I’ve had the camera will attest, I loooooove mannequin faces. I’m currently building an entire series on them, to be revealed at a later date.

Ha! This amazing vendo-matic postcard machine, well, let’s just say I didn’t know taking photos at an art show could be considered hazard duty. The “amazing” part of the vendo-matic postcard machine was that it produced bubbles and squirted water. I got hit right in the face with a shot of water, so I renamed it the Blasto-matic. Picture me dripping wet on the other side of the camera, my Sunday coif wilting and my stern face smiling. Sort of smiling. Later.

Speaking of water and cameras, as it’s raining and I’m pouting, we haven’t figured out yet what to do about taking photos while it’s coming down in buckets, cats and dogs, or any other euphemism for precipitation. So who knows what we’ll discover in the next seven days…

Transition Into Light

While “transition into light” may sound a little deathly, it’s actually rebirthlier. Last Wednesday, on 09-09-09, we had to drive 9 hours through the high desert (our gas bill was $28.28). To save time, or so we mistakenly thought, we decided to post a visual blog instead (more photos, less talk).

To our surprise, the response was highly enthusiastic and in fact, we were encouraged to shift from Frida’s perspective to that of His and Hers. In a flash, the idea for “The Language of Light” was born.

What is photography but a reflection of light? In fact, photo is Greek for light, and quite literally, photography means “light writing.” Aaaah, writing in light, I love it!

Sometimes the most obvious is the last thing to be noticed.

Groom and I have been taking photographs for years, it’s just something we love to do. Yet it took several somebodies to point it out and it finally dawned on us, that perhaps doing what we love is the direction we should go.

You are witness to our new path.

Here are a few pictures from our week in Spud City, otherwise known to most of you as Boise, Idaho. We have been going there for the last 15 years to sell our jewelry at Art in the Park. As we’ve become quite fond of “The City of Trees,” there are several places we love visiting year after year.

On this expedition, we literally followed light and encountered some magic. We pulled over for an interesting looking Thrift Shop, connected to St. Michael’s Cathedral. The gothic bells were chiming and the two people we met, Mel and Yvette, were charming.

They heartily welcomed us and we were honored by a private tour of the Cathedral and sighed over an original Tiffany stained glass window (which we respected their request not to photograph) and Yvette humored me while I took a picture of her gorgeous tattooed arms in the columbarium. Mel made a special trip to the art show on Sunday to visit us.

After the Cathedral, we ate our annual lunch at Jim’s diner (chicken on the roof), wandered around downtown, visited Dragonfly and Eyes of the World.

We ate dinner at Barbacoa and had this lovely view from our deck-top table. I must apologize now to the vegans, for we participated in what the popular T-shirt laments… “Meat is murder. Tasty, tasty murder.”

When our entrée was served, I had a negative, visceral reaction. It looked like a death scene, the fig jam looking to me like the entrails of the poor little quail. I told Groom that the chef must have a wicked sense of humor.

The next evening, we channel surfed - a luxury - for we do not have cable at home. We stopped on the Food Network and to our horror, we were shown a restaurant where the chef was pleased with himself for creating an edible death scene. Perhaps our chef from the night before had already watched it. Whatever the case, I surprised myself for “reading” the plate before hearing about such a culinary endeavor.

The last four pictures were taken in Julia Davis Park, host to the art show. He in the sculpture garden; She in the rose garden.

While I’m not committing Frida to retirement, we are transitioning into The Language of Light.