http://www.utata.org/ UTATA is a salon; a collection of photographers who share a love of the craft and a genuine ability to "play well with others". From shiny new amateur to grizzled old pro, we're about being a tribe, doing cool things with photography and, to steal a phrase, "pushing the envelope". We produce regular photography projects and publications, publish a daily photography blog, and offer both feature-length and short articles as well as regular columns. We invite you to visit the Utata tribe. Publisher: Catherine Jamieson, Operations Manager: David Wilkinson en Copyright 2008 Thu, 08 May 2008 16:13:44 +0000 http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/?v=3.2 http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3169/2475371239_2b5c838d7d_m.jpg http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20775.php Photo By: abismo | Blog By: Meera Sethi - Food is life. Food is love. Food is light transformed into feeling. A table spread with the simplest, freshest foods represents the most profound of comforts. You don't have to worry, it says. Everything you need is right here. Show me a person who doesn't look forward to eating and I'll show you someone who has forgotten what it means to be human. The pleasures of the table are the pleasures of the spirit as well as the body, for two glasses of milk sit before us. Two companions will break bread together here. Food is friendship. Food is faith. And home is not where you hang your hat, but where you have your obiad. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20775.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20775.php Thu, 08 May 2008 16:13:44 +0000 Photo By: daveograve | Blog By: Greg Fallis - There are paintings by 17th century Dutch artists showing children blowing soap bubbles from a clay pipe. So we've been doing this for at least four centuries. Four hundred years, and it hasn't gotten old yet. Maybe it's because soap bubbles themselves are so ephemeral...so delicate and transitory that we never have time to grow weary of them. We create them, but they don't belong to us. They drift away on the slightest of breezes. They evaporate and pop, or settle on something and collapse in on themselves. Oh, a few scientists will preserve them and study them; that's not a bad thing, but it runs counter to the spirit of soap bubbledom. We all say that soap bubbles are for the children, and surely their delight in them is more effusive and vocal. But don't let that fool you. Teens love soap bubbles too, and so do older folks, and those geezers sitting on the bench. There may be less squealing involved, but the joy is the same. So long as the soap bubble bloops out and drifts around like Tinkerbelle's quiet sister, the joy will always be the same. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20772.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20772.php Wed, 07 May 2008 21:27:30 +0000 Photo By: 07c | Blog By: Jamelah - This is a place where first dates happen. Where your feet shuffle nervously underneath the table -- did I kick you or was that the table leg? -- and great amounts of concentration are focused on whether your jokes are funny at all and if your hair is doing something odd now that you can't see it -- shouldn't have gotten that haircut today -- and please, please don't let there be anything stuck in your teeth. It's a place where last dates happen, where you try to make a joke and are met with nothing but a cold stare in response, where all the food -- the food you can’t taste -- sticks to the roof of your mouth even though you don’t want to ask for more water and you don’t know why you said you’d show up in the first place. It’s a place where friends go to talk, for lunch, for dinner, before or after a movie, before or after a first date or a last date, a place for you to laugh, to gush, to commiserate. It’s just a place. A place like so many others, and it could be anywhere, it could be any place, but it’s not, it’s this one. And it has an empty chair, waiting. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20769.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20769.php Tue, 06 May 2008 21:40:14 +0000 Photo By: bluechameleon | Blog By: Greg Fallis - We've all got our hopes, we've all got our problems; the city makes both of those better and worse. The city teaches us anything is possible and but it doesn't show us how. The city shows us dreams can become realities, and the same is true of nightmares. The city reveals that ugliness and cruelty are endemic, and that beauty and kindness can never be suppressed. The four seasons are shrugged off; the city is indifferent to the turning of the calendar. The winds blow colder and warmer in the city, and the rain falls only at right angles. The fog mutes the city's sharp edges, but the city never lets you forget the edges are there, always surgically sharp, always ready to cut you down or cut you loose. Either way, the city doesn't care; there's always somebody else to take your place. There's always somebody who'll love and hate the city. It's been this way forever. It's what draws us to the city and what turns us away. It's what keeps us there and what drives us out. It's the city and it will always break your heart and it will never turn you away and it will always invite you back. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20767.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20767.php Mon, 05 May 2008 20:48:56 +0000 Photo By: countessofmaybe | Blog By: Greg Fallis - It is a little known fact that California is derived from two Nahuatl words: oaxal, meaning 'pond,' and afornha, meaning 'land of scantily-clad women so astonishingly beautiful the very earth trembles with desire.' Among the Nahuatl-speaking Aztlán peoples there was a legend of a territory...Oaxalafornha...located somewhere to the north, populated almost entirely by golden-haired sun-worshipping women (the men were said to be either aging, balding smokers of tobacco or handsome boys curiously indifferent to women). This legend posed a considerable dilemma for the 16th century Spanish conquistadors. Should they continue their holy slaughter in search of gold? Or turn north to locate this legendary land and bring enlightenment to those poor, ignorant, under-dressed women? After much debate the matter was settled by Hernán Diego de Cuéllar, who uttered the famous words Oro primero, dudes, mujeres en segundo lugar.* California has changed much in the intervening five hundred years. The natural ponds have been replaced by swimming pools, traffic congestion has gotten worse, and it's harder than ever to get somebody to look at your screenplay. But the earth still trembles periodically. *: Gold first, dudes, women second. Editorial note: It should be noted that it is very possible the editor, like, totally made this up. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20762.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20762.php Fri, 02 May 2008 20:22:33 +0000 Photo By: _jimcrackcorn | Blog By: Meera Sethi - schadenfreude "malicious joy in the misfortunes of others," 1922, from Ger., lit. "damage-joy," from schaden "damage, harm, injury" (see scathe) + freude, from O.H.G. frewida "joy," from fro "happy," lit. "hopping for joy," from P.Gmc. *frawa- (see frolic). "What a fearful thing is it that any language should have a word expressive of the pleasure which men feel at the calamities of others; for the existence of the word bears testimony to the existence of the thing. And yet in more than one such a word is found. ... In the Greek epikhairekakia, in the German, 'Schadenfreude.' " [Richard C. Trench, "On the Study of Words," 1852] "The saddest thing I ever did see/ Was a woodpecker peckin' at a plastic tree./ He looks at me, and "Friend," says he,/ "Things ain't as sweet as they used to be." [Shel Silverstein, "Peckin," 1974] see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20749.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20749.php Thu, 01 May 2008 15:06:28 +0000 Photo By: klifton | Blog By: Greg Fallis - Children experience the world with such intensity. Theirs is a Shakespearian world, full of fierce emotion; passionate drama, high comedy, absolute terror and all-consuming joy. It is a world comprised of equal parts of bright skies filled with fireworks and dark, demon-haunted shadows. Every meal is a feast...or torture so malevolent that Torquemada would quail at the idea of it. The consumption of a single green bean can become a contest that would put the three hundred Spartans to shame. Every trip is an adventure...or a soul-crushing burden. A trip to the Dollar Store is more exciting than any museum. Every minor disappointment is a disaster equal to an Earth-killing comet and every small success is an event worthy of a complete Roman triumph. It must be exhausting to be a child. It's no wonder they need to nap so often, and no wonder why they resist those naps; they might miss something. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20747.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20747.php Wed, 30 Apr 2008 22:06:28 +0000 Photo By: serni | Blog By: Jamelah - We have lost even this twilight. No one saw us this evening hand in hand while the blue night dropped on the world. I have seen from my window the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops. Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand. I remembered you with my soul clenched in that sadness of mine that you know. Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away? The book fell that always closed at twilight and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet. Always, always you recede through the evenings toward the twilight erasing statues. --Pablo Neruda, "Clenched Soul" see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20744.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20744.php Tue, 29 Apr 2008 20:24:01 +0000 Photo By: aloha_lavina | Blog By: Greg Fallis - It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration Wordsworth wrote the poem from which those lines were taken after walking on the beach with his ten year old illegitimate daughter. The girl, he noted, didn't seem at all moved by the beauty of the setting sun...and yet her youth and innocence kept her more attuned to the wonder of the world than all his knowledgeable awareness. She might not have been touched by the solemnity of the moment, but she was more in touch with the moment itself than he could ever be. These young Buddhist novices, sitting quietly at their studies, are poised on a balancing point. The more they know, the more they'll understand. And yet the more they understand, the more they'll think and thought is a filter that retards experience. Thought takes you out of the moment. What Wordsworth understood...and what these novices are learning...is that there are many ways to love being in the world. Whether you're the old poet walking along the shingle beach, the young girl walking guilelessly beside him, or the pink-robed nuns reading on the steps, this is the holy time. It's always the holy time, even if you're not aware of it. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20742.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20742.php Mon, 28 Apr 2008 21:23:32 +0000 Photo By: curlsdiva | Blog By: Greg Fallis - A smile and a camera. We talk a lot of pretentious nonsense about Utata. We say we're a tribe...and it's true in many ways. We say we're all about creating a supportive environment where people can try new things without fear of failure...and that's true too. We say we're interested in promoting creativity and sparking the imagination...and that's as true as can be. But mostly Utata is this: a smile and a camera. We take photographs and we talk and we smile. We often talk more than we shoot. We take our talking as seriously as our photography, which means we sometimes take it very seriously indeed and sometimes not seriously at all. But above and below all the talking and the photography, we're smiling. Because if there's one true thing about Utata, it's this: if we're not having fun, we're not doing it right. So this is us. This is who we are and why we're here. A smile and a camera. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20740.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20740.php Fri, 25 Apr 2008 21:08:29 +0000 Photo By: c0ntr0 | Blog By: Meera Sethi - When the grass gets as high as your knees it changes. There's nothing tame about it then, nothing manicured or managed. It's not a backdrop for other plants anymore. It's the main attraction. A cliché is a cliché for a reason, and this photograph proves there are all kinds of reasons the phrase "ocean of grass" rings in your ears like a siren's call. This is grass through which waves move. This is grass that is luminous as liquid, whose colors shift and return with the wind. This is grass upon which people are as tiny as tugboats. The horizon above this emerald ocean is as distant as time; who knows what new lands these two will encounter if they just walk on. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20735.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20735.php Thu, 24 Apr 2008 16:19:22 +0000 Photo By: tahphelan | Blog By: Greg Fallis - This is where the piano was. Pianos are strange, percussive instruments. You hit a key causing a small felt hammer to strike a steel string. The string resonates at a certain frequency which is transmitted through a bridge to a soundboard, where it's amplified. The vibrations not only travel through the air, but also through the piano itself, down the legs and into the floor, and from the floorboards into the walls. Into the walls. And in the same way the slow dripping of water will wear away at rock, the vibrations of the piano find their way into the fiber of the wood itself, microscopically changing the structure of the interior beams. This is where the piano was. It's gone now, but the music still remains, hidden in the walls where only the old house can hear it. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20730.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20730.php Wed, 23 Apr 2008 18:30:45 +0000 Photo By: jspad | Blog By: Jamelah - Alone in the afternoon with nothing but free time, she goes to the museum, pausing at the exhibits or passing them by. The weather outside is warm, but the breeze still has a bite, so she drapes a sweater across her shoulders before she goes. And the museum is perfect on afternoons when she has nothing but free time, perfect because she can stand, unconsciously crossing one leg behind the other, pause with a hand on her hip, and let her mind wander while she looks. She can be distracted or engrossed, and no one is the wiser, no one knows if she dreams about what’s right in front of her or what’s far away.And she is not thinking of you, not at all. She is not thinking of you. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20728.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20728.php Tue, 22 Apr 2008 22:25:52 +0000 Photo By: fariac | Blog By: Greg Fallis - And here's me, burdened with a pair of empty pockets, taking my ease on a day the devil himself wouldn't expect a man to be working. There's no shame in being poor, so the nuns at St. Agnes are telling me; the shame is in being idle. But it's idle I am, idle and shameless, here as the sun lays itself down and all the decent and diligent people are looking at the untrustworthy office clock waiting for the bell to turn them loose. My skint-wallet loafing is only laggardly on the outside. My body, bent between post and plinth, may be motionless but my eyes are not. I see the sun and shadows move, and I am moved in my turn by the slow solar elegance of the revolving earth. As meticulously as my betters monitor the minute-ticking office clock, I observe the sliding shadows. They see only the pathetic passing of the second hand; I witness the entire planet eternally rotating. Look at the birds of the air, the nuns in their innocence taught me. Neither sowing nor reaping nor gathering, neither toiling nor spinning. Do the birds of the air watch the clock? Or do they watch the movement of shadows, with their idle hands thrust into lint-filled pockets? They could learn a bit from me, the nuns at St. Agnes, about the wee birds and slow spinning of the world beneath their practical feet. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20727.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20727.php Mon, 21 Apr 2008 21:09:20 +0000 Photo By: elephipelephi | Blog By: Greg Fallis - With a few minor changes, it could be 1948. The wars in Europe and the Pacific are over and the men who survived have all come home. Things are changing, of course. The women who'd been working the factories and offices have all been sent back to their homes and kitchens. It hasn't been easy; there have been a lot of divorces. But here in the beauty parlor the women can say all the things they can't say to their men. It's a sanctuary of sorts. It's nice to be made all pretty...but they'd come here even without that. They can relax here. Or it could be 1968. Half a decade has past since the president was shot, and things are changing. The war in Vietnam is getting worse and worse, despite what the government keeps saying. The women worry about their children, half of whom are in uniform and the other half have become hippies and moved to San Francisco. Their daughters are threatening to burn their bras and the clothes they wear are just a scandal. All the kids, it seems, are taking drugs; what's to become of them is anybody's guess. Their husbands are spending too much time at the office, but that's the way to succeed in business. Still, if it weren't for the beauty parlor and the Valium, it would be difficult to cope. But it's not 1948 or 1968. It's 2008 and things have changed, oh yes they have. There's a war on, of course...but there always is. The women are still worried about their families, but their families have changed too. Their son is getting married to another man, their daughter is thinking about joining the Marines, their husband's company is talking about laying people off. Where else could you talk about those things, except at the beauty parlor? But fewer women are coming these days...not to get their hair done and not to find a sanctuary where they can talk freely. Things are changing. Except for the war, things are changing. Things are always changing. see illustrated entry utata.org http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20722.php http://www.utata.org/frontpage/20722.php Fri, 18 Apr 2008 21:49:25 +0000