Tag: family

Happy Mother’s Day to my mother, the artist

My mom sometimes worries – as many moms do – that she hasn’t been the best mom.  But “best” in this case, as in every case, is just relative.  Who in this case would be the definitive judge of all moms in terms of being “the best?”  Donna Reed? Michelle Obama? Angelina Jolie?  The idea of a “best mom contest” is kind of hilarious, maybe because it is such a personal role.

True, my mother was not waiting for me when I got home from school with freshly baked cookies.  Or tagging along on my school trips. Instead of living her life through me and my activities, my mom was pursuing her passion for art, and bringing me along on that ride of discovery.  I can think if no better way of learning about life and living than through art, and for that, my mom is the best mom, for me. 🙂

When I was in her belly in Togo, West Africa, she was scouring the African beaches for the most beautiful shells, and taking them home and sketching them.

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My mom with me as a newborn on the steps of our home in Lomé, Togo, West Africa.

When I was a toddler, she was pursuing her masters in photography at Indiana University and using me as her model as she experimented with large format photography.

When I was in grammar school, she was forging new artistic territory in our border home in Southern California, setting up photography exhibits of her hip-shots in Mexicali and large format photography of Mexican families.   She would often bring me with her to Mexico when she was shooting.  Even as a six-year-old I would get nervous crossing the border, and worry that I would forget where I was born when the border patrol agent asked me.  She would always patiently remind me.

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Another one of my mom’s classics, this one of me and my cousins.

When I was in high school, she was working long hours as a newspaper photographer, documenting the stories that needed to be told in our low-income community.  She would bring me along on stories she knew I would especially love, like watching baby pigs be born late one night, and visiting a buffalo farm.

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My mom shooting the desert outside my hometown.

She painted in the little spare time that she had.  Now, my mom’s art is sculpting the environment of her backyard, a garden oasis in the desert.

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A recent shot of this year’s spring blooms in my mom’s garden.

I thank my mom for giving me a love and ability for art both through nature, and nurture.

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One of my mom’s beautiful shots of her garden.

But better yet, the drive behind my mom’s pursuance of art is perhaps the best qualities she has – curiosity, passion, intelligence, and independence.  Having had a mom that waited for me to get home every day would have given me a lot of security, but instead I was given something that I think I needed more.  Independence and curiosity are instrumental qualities for being a successful traveler and photographer, and I don’t think I would have ever been able to realize my life of traveling without these skills my mom taught me as a role model and as her apprentice.

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My mom enjoying shooting for fun on a trip we took to London.

So on this day I hope my mom, and all moms, know how much they have given us, and can challenge themselves to enjoy that, without worry or doubt, for at least the twenty-four hours of this awesome day, Mother’s Day.  Happy Mother’s Day Mom!!

Illustrious Instants: An Afternoon Stroll in Bologna

This photo is perhaps the most “illustrious” of my “instants” so far. The photo isn’t meant to demonstrate fabulous composition, color, movement, etc. The photo taking is normal, but the subjects are wonderful. 
  
I took this photo because this relationship – daughter and mother taking a simple afternoon stroll -represents Italy for me in a special way. The unconditional love and family ties that still run deep in this country are a joy to witness. 
I am always grateful for the perspective that witnessing moments like these in countries other than my own have given me, and I hope for the same opportunities for you as well!

Reloving America Summer 2013: On the Hudson River

This is my summer of re-love. I have returned to the United States for a mere two months, as I have done each summer since I relocated to Bologna, Italy three years ago. And I have been gifted a unique opportunity to be a tourist in my own country in the places that I once took for granted – places that I visited often for my whole life, and places that I lived. New York, Pittsburgh, Washington DC, and Southern California to be exact.


My father always told me that if I wanted to understand my relationship with a place I lived or a place I loved, I need to leave that place for some time before I can really have a good perspective on that place. Boy, was he right.
Every year that I have returned to America I have had a new perspective on it. But this summer is different. This summer is the summer that I have finally understood and accepted these places into my heart and how my connection to these places is forever embedded into my hard-wiring. And I am returning and truly appreciating everything, even the bad.


My first stop since arriving in America this summer is New York. My father’s side of the family immigrated to New York in the early 1900’s and lived in Brooklyn. My godmother and godfather moved out of the city decades ago to a tiny city along the Hudson River called Ossining.


The snapshot above is my favorite on my trip this far. Taken on the bank of the Hudson river, I am at left with my godmother Suzanne on the right, who is a second mother to me. In the picture below, thirty-three years ago, my godmother is holding me in almost the exact same spot where we are standing above on the bank of the Hudson River.

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Me and my godmother enjoying the Hudson sunset in 1980.

To think of everything that has happened in the 33 years since this picture was taken is pretty overwhelming. But this beautiful place is the same as it has always been, to me at least. Just an hour’s train ride from Grand Central Terminal, this other world of rolling hills and majestic lake views is sometimes easier to get to than Brooklyn. I realize I am lucky to have this beautifulness in my life, a place my dad has gone back to for decades, and a place my godmother still calls home. But I think we all have these beautiful places in our memories and in our hearts that are part of what makes us who we are. Sometimes it just takes some time to re-love them again.