Practice what you preach

I was recently told that I’m a hypocrite. That my actions don't match my words. This statement stung a bit, then I remembered that not many hypocrites realise they are acting as such, until it’s pointed out to them.

Self reflection can be difficult. 2019, Pentax MX.

The problem was, this statement came from a person whom I care about and whose opinion and values I respect. If it came from someone I didn’t really know, I could simply ignore it. Even as it is, the easiest thing would be to deny the claim and keep on living as I have. But for some reason I feel that I need to take the difficult way, the way of truth.

I talk about the importance of patience, but my actions reflect a lack of patience. I say I admire the beauty in simply letting things unfold naturally, yet I can’t help but wish to impose my will on certain situations, in order to achieve a desired outcome. I make a show about upholding certain ideals, but the reality is that my actions fall short of them a lot of the time.

Dark and light. 2019, Pentax MX.

Humanity’s behaviour is riddled with double standards. We are walking paradoxes on two legs. We often contradict ourselves, and never even realise it.

I don’t wish to defend myself against the claims that I am a hypocrite; that would be an attempt at discrediting the original claim. I must accept this person’s view as their version of reality, and live with the fact that in their eyes, I am indeed a hypocrite. A walking contradiction. Perhaps not all the time, but at least some of the time. Despite the difficulty of hearing this claim, I can’t help but continue to view the person who called me a hypocrite as a friend.

A friend isn’t simply someone we spend our spare time with or have fun with; a friend is someone who holds us accountable, a friend is someone who challenges us, someone who points out to us when we are in the wrong. And a friend is someone who listens, no matter how difficult the things are that are being said.

When the way forward is difficult. 2019, Pentax MX.

Mountains are friends. Mountains have a way of teaching us about ourselves in ways we least expect. We strike out on trips with what we think is strong determination. But when the storm blows in, and our tent rattles in the night, we get scared and wish we were somewhere else. We might think ourselves fit, until we start to climb a mountain, and we realise how heavy our bones really are. We have these grand visions of conquering and success, but when our toes are numb with cold, and we have eaten all of our snacks, and we are lost in the scrub, we realise how small we are, how pathetic, how weak, how completely irrelevant. It feels terrible to face our own shortcomings, our mortality.

Fuzzy bones. 2019, Pentax MX.

As a culture, we deny the most obvious, we deny death, we deny our love for the world that we are destroying and we deny our humanity when we oppress, when we subjugate others to our will. We deny the truth when we trick ourselves into thinking our actions are less harmful than they actually are. We refuse to accept a version of the world where we are capable of evil, of harm, of hurt, and actions that destroy rather than create. Latent in us, there lies a mixture of powers, and we don’t really know how or when they might arise, until circumstance drags it out of us.

Toward discovery. 2019, Pentax MX.

It is difficult to face the truth. But I wish to face it nevertheless. Or at least, so I like to believe. The reality of the matter lies in the evolution of this great unfolding that began with a big bang so many years ago…

Memo to self...

Lest I forget…

Remain present.

Be patient.

Relinquish attachments.

Nurture hope, discard expectations.

Love the world you live in.

Seek balance, beauty, love, understanding, art, novelty and adventure.

Maintain healthy relationships with all people in your life.

Expand your awareness.

Eat well.

Sleep well.

Do not procrastinate.

If you procrastinate, make sure it’s worthwhile.

Laugh.

Be grateful.

Take joy in the little things that happen in your everyday life.

Remember, love is the essence of redemption.

Embrace the great mystery.

Just before dawn.

Dawn Dawdles

The birds wake me

I close my eyes

Here comes the never-ending dream.

A.S. 2017

O’Possum

It’s a windy day

The tree stands and swings wildly

Possum sleeps mildly.

A.S. 2017

Together or Apart?

Morning brought the question,

Delivered with sweet sunlight.

“Blow!” The wind replied.

A.S. 2017

For Banjo Patterson…

Rain, she drops,

tip,-tap-toes,

here she comes knocking

on my kitchen door.

Out the back door I went,

to find a forest.

It was burnt and black,

but hope was still alive.

There is a cure

Without the lie.

In the green of the leaves

our only future lies.

Come breathe the air

here in the mountains,

in the wilds,

and in the rapid

of the river’s dark.

A.S. 2017

When it's too quiet…

On the future of Lake Pedder.

Calm day over the Pedder impoundment. Oct 2021, Pentax MX, Portra 400.

There is something very strange about a place that is too quiet. It implies stillness, the absence of movement. And when things remain still for too long, they stagnate. Movement brings life, in particular, the movement of water is the crucial requirement for life. Water wants to flow, toward the sea, then evaporate, fall as rain, and begin its journey again, down from the mountains, toward the endless sea.

We may find a place beautiful, but that doesn’t mean that it contains a healthy and functioning eco-system that supports a diversity of life. There is a stark beauty to a frozen glacier, or desert, where life hangs on by the skin of its teeth. Similarly, we may find an artificially created lake beautiful, and appreciate the recreational opportunities it provides, but if we listen carefully, we will discover that there is something fundamentally wrong when we alter a landscape so dramatically.

The South-West mountains tend to be made of quartzite, which is sharp and pointy. It is the slow process of erosion of these quartzite rocks that has created the incredible beach of the natural Lake Pedder. Oct 2021, Pentax MX, Portra 400.

I recently made a trip out to what we call Lake Pedder, which is an impoundment 25 times the size of the Lake Pedder that was flooded in 1972. (Yet we still call it by the same name. This seems strange to me.) I had borrowed my friend Lou’s kayak and gear, and was making the most of a three day weather window in the fickle South-West. This year, our spring here in Tasmania has been one of the wettest and most turbulent. I had a moderate headwind on the paddle in from McPartlan’s Pass to Terminal Peak, 28km all up. I had incredibly calm, clear and warm weather for the remaining two days of the trip. My plan was to ascend the Frankland Range and find a certain vantage point from where a photograph of Lake Pedder was taken in 1972 by Lindsay Hope.

View from kayak while paddling on the Pedder impoundment. 2021, Pentax MX, portra 400.

What I noticed during my three days out on and around Lake Pedder was that this landscape was very quiet. It was too quiet. Moving life, capable of emitting sounds, was scarce. I would hear the occasional bird call, but it was far and few in between. The silence, to me, demonstrated absence. I was in a serene setting, but something was amiss.

When we flood a large river’s valley, and turn flowing water to still water, we are drowning an essential part of a functioning eco-system; its waterways. We have turned an incredible complex and vast network of arteries into a pond, water that sits still.

I’m not discounting the benefits of large bodies of water sitting still; from a human perspective it makes a lot of sense. Especially with our gradual awakening that fossil fuels must give way to renewables, dismissing hydroelectric power generation would be foolish. But even hydroelectric power requires the destruction of what was once a healthy and functioning living system, in the case of Lake Pedder, the destruction of the headwaters of the Serpentine and Huon Rivers in Tasmania’s South West.

Morning light and mist over the Pedder impoundment. Oct 2021, Pentax MX, Portra 400.

Lake Pedder National Park was established in 1955, deep in Tasmania’s South-West, accessible only on foot and by light aircraft. This national park was created to recognise the stunning beauty of the original lake, which featured an amazing pink-white beach, 800m wide 3.5km long. That’s nearly three hundred footy ovals worth of fine quartzite sand.

In the late 60s, the National Park status of the land surrounding the lake was revoked, to make way for a hydroelectric development. Three dams were built that saw the valley in which Lake Pedder sat flooded beneath about 15m of dark, tannin stained waters. The beach has not been seen since, except for the bits that some people took out in jars before the lake was inundated.

Lake Pedder was the beating heart of the South-West, a place that had a profound effect on anyone who visited it. Even the people who flooded it called it ‘a pity that it had to be done, for it was a pretty lake indeed’. Thousands visited the lake in the final years and months before it gradually became submerged in 1972.

It’s been 50 years since Lake Pedder was flooded. The dams were built with a 50 year lifespan. Hydro Tasmania is planning to spend a lot of money to reinforce the Scott’s Peak and Edgar Dams in the next decade. We are talking upward of fifty million dollars. Surely, now would be the right time to ask: is this money worth spending on the dams to keep them going?

Lake Pedder is a symbol of hope. Hope does not have a dollar value on it, but it’s vital to us nevertheless. As a global society, we have some serious challenges ahead of us, within our own lifetimes. If we can show that it’s possible to restore vast areas of previously degraded landscapes into more healthy and functioning eco-systems, giving home to diverse forms of life, then we have some hope of remaining on this planet for many more generations. Diversity means resilience. The more diversity of life that can coexist with us on this planet, the more resilient we ourselves will become to change, be it catastrophic or otherwise.

If we continue on the path of the conqueror and the coloniser driving the mass extinction process happening right now, we are going to make greater and greater parts of the Earth uninhabitable. Humanity will need to retreat to the remaining oasis areas. If we don’t change our ways, times are gonna get tough.

If humanity is to survive for thousands more generations, our culture needs to contain symbols of hope that everyone can recognise. We need to collectively believe that we can take care of the land, our water, our air and the sphere of living things, which includes us, people.

We have taken so much, surely we can learn to give this one lake back? Not for our sake, but for everyone’s sake.

Let the heart of the South-West beat again. Let’s restore Lake Pedder!

‘What was once, will be again.’
This is a composite image, made from two pictures taken from the same vantage point in the Frankland Range, 50 years apart. The original photo was taken in 1972 by Lindsay Hope, and is overlaid by an image taken by Andy Szollosi in 2021. The shoreline of the original lake is therefore revealed beneath the current impoundment. The mountains have largely remained unchanged, therefore they perfectly overlap in both photos and merge seamlessly.
(Thank you to Lindsay Hope for contributing and to Matt Jones for helping with the edit.)

Tools of the Trade II

Part II: Picture Framing

The devil’s in the bevel.

My nailing gun, aka, the frame joiner. Driven by an air compressor, not electricity. 2020, Hasselblad 500 C/M, 70mm.

At first, I looked upon picture framing as a necessity, an obstacle that had to be overcome in order to be able to present my photography to an audience. One might say this was familiar to the way I used to treat the act of climbing a mountain; it was the obstacle that stood in the way of acquiring the view. In the last few years, I have managed to flip this view on its head to realise that the mountain is not the obstacle, it is the enabler, the very thing that allows the view to unfold. From the bottom, the mountain is daunting, and actually blocks the view. And this is how it is with picture framing too. I no longer think that getting a picture framed is an annoying obstacle blocking my way; it is now an inherent part of my creative process.

The mighty mitering machine. A guillotine, of sorts, that cuts the frame mouldings. No sawdust generated. 2019, Pentax MX.

In order to take photos, we need a camera. In order to frame pictures, we need a workshop. And not just any workshop, but one that is set up specifically for picture framing, with specific tools that can minimise the amount of dust that is generated. This is how a picture framing studio differs from most workshops. Dust is the framer’s enemy. This is a wonderful limitation that has necessitated the invention of some tools that work without generating sawdust.

This means that to create a frame, two workshops are required. A machinery workshop where the timber is shaped into the frame mouldings, where all the big machinery like table saws, thicknessers, and spindle moulders live and operate, as these machines all generate a lot of sawdust. Once the frame mouldings have been machined however, they can be taken to the studio where the assembly of the pictures will take place. Here the mouldings can be cut and joined to create the final product.

Workshop Mk I. 2020, Hasselblad 500 C/M, 70mm.

The first step in the process is to acquire the timber.

Claiming that any timber is ‘ethically sourced’ is hazardous moral territory. Timber is simply the term for a tree that has been felled and cut into usable bits. If we treated the trees the same as we treat people, no timber would be labelled ethically sourced. Can we really call a product ethically sourced if the original living organism must be killed in order for us to utilise it?

Tasmania is perceived as the ‘natural state’, and attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors each year to its beautiful natural areas. Nevertheless, utilitarian views of exploitation are slow to change; the colonists’ attitude still linger: ‘this is all here for us to do with as we please’. Ancient ways of ‘we are all part of this, and we must look after the whole, not just ourselves’ is close to being forgotten. My belief is that any business that claims to be sustainable or to use ‘ethically sourced materials’ needs to demonstrate the possibility of transition from the attitude of the colonist to the custodian.

My interpretation of ethically sourced timber is this: it must be locally sourced, to minimise the amount of transport required; the timber must be salvaged or reclaimed; or if a tree must be cut down, that tree must be a quick growing species and be found in plentiful amounts in natural living systems (not plantations).

And so once these limitations are placed upon acquiring the timber, the viability of the business model shrinks by a significant factor. However, it still remains within the realm of possibility. Most of the timber that is in my workshop has been ‘salvaged’, which is still not the ideal solution, but definitely one step better in my book than using commercially available timber provided by ‘Sustainable Timbers Tasmania’ (Sus Timbers for short)’.

So how is salvaged timber different to recycled or reclaimed timber?

Salvaged timber is still ‘fresh’ timber, as in it hasn’t been used for a purpose before. When forestry goes in to clearfell a coupe, they only take a fraction of the felled timber. But before they set the wasteland that used to be a forest on fire to exterminate any residual seeds from the original eco-system, the salvaging contractors to go in and save any timber they wish. After the salvagers are done, the wood hookers go in, to collect fire wood. Then the whole coupe is fire bombed in order to make way for the seeds of the plantation that will replace the original forest.

This model is pathological on so many different levels, and I have reservations and internal conflict about using salvaged timber in the first place. Nevertheless, salvaged timber is a by product, it is not the reason these forests were felled in the first place. For me this is a clear distinction. One day, I hope to be able to source timber that has been generated through selective logging, where individual trees are selected for felling, rather than entire eco-systems wiped out in order to generate timber. And I want to work towards using more and more reclaimed and recycled timber that has been used before for a purpose (floorboards, benchtops, etc). Working with recycled timber has its hazards though, in that it usually contains bits of metal (nail heads, etc). When recycled timber is being machined up, if a blade spinning really really fast hits a nail in the wood, it can ruin the blades and create hot bits of steel flying at bullet speeds. Not an ideal scenario.

The other consideration with using timber that is ‘ethically sourced’ is to ask the question: how long did it take this tree to grow? Using a two thousand year old huon pine to make something out of, then planting a new one is not a sustainable business model. If the timber our business has used in a single lifetime is not replaceable in a single lifetime, then our business is not sustainable. For this reason I primarily work with silver wattle and blackwood, as these trees grow reasonably fast and are found plentifully around Tasmania.

One of the artworks from my first exhibition, A Journey to the Western Wilds. Pentax MX 50mm.

Once we have our artwork, and all of our framing materials, including backing boards, mat boards and glass, and a functional workshop, the rest is simply a matter of following a process. A process that is fraught with danger. Endless potential disasters await the framer. It’s a simple process, but there are a lot of ways in which things can go wrong, with irreversible results. I’ve joined frames, and knocked them apart again, I have cut glass too big, too small, I have wasted many matboards after not measuring artworks properly, and there always appears a bloody nosehair inside the frame just when I have sealed up the back of the frame with staples and tape. That’s how it goes, like any creative process. Two steps forward, one step back.

But every now and then, it all comes together, in fact, most pictures come together, at some point, after various amounts of labour. And when they do, the result is very satisfying. An artwork, correctly framed, will be preserved, and presentable, for generations to come. Unless the picture falls off the hook on the wall and the glass shatters into a hundred little pieces.

Tools of the Trade

Part I: Photography

The Hasselblad 500 C/M perched above the Pedder impoundment. Oct 2021, Pentax MX, 50mm, Kodak Pro 100.

Any venture, be it business, art or AD-venture, begins with an idea. A certain vision, if you like, underlaid by a strong desire to manifest that idea, to bring it into the world, from the swirly thought space to tangible reality. It’s one thing to visualise an image in our mind’s eye, and it’s another to present a large photographic print in a frame and have it hanging in an exhibition. The visualisation is necessary, but it’s not enough. The gap between idea and reality is the process of creation, and it generally involves a lot more work than we anticipate at first.

The Pentax MX. Oct 2021, Olympus Em-1, 12-40mm.

In this day and age, there is a lot of equipment and knowledge that is required in order to do just about anything that’s deemed worthwhile by society. Tradesmen will have their ute and vans loaded with the correct tools to do the jobs they need to do. Being a photographer/ picture framer is no different. There is a complex combination of tools required to get to a point where I’ve got a printed photograph hanging on someone’s wall. The first of these tools in the process is the camera.

I used to shoot on an electronic Olympus Em-1. Then it carked it, after 5 years of diligent service. It survived a crossing of the Australian Alps and a skyline traverse of Tasmania, but then died in 2018, on the top of Mt Picton, while I was taking a timelapse. I was surprised it lasted as long as it did, to be honest. That thing has been soaked through, rattled around in my pack, although I have never dropped it. It stopped working one day. The shutter appeared to be stuck. I took it in to a repair place and they said it’s probably not worth fixing. That’s generally what happens with complex technology. One day, something breaks within the mechanism that is deemed too difficult to fix. So we replace our broken item with something new.

In this case, I made the decision to replace my broken camera with something old. Older than me in fact. I purchased my first 35mm film camera, the Pentax MX from a friend for just over a hundred bucks (Thank you Jugsy!). Manufactured sometime between 1976 and 1985, the MX has always had a reputation for being a bit of a bombproof camera. What I liked about it was that it looked really good, it took really nice photos, and it was all mechanic. Meaning no batteries required for its operation. There was a light meter built in which needed a battery, but I figured if I’m a photographer who is going to earn his bread from his trade one day I shouldn’t rely on a light meter for getting the exposure right. I used a friend’s lightmeter at first, but after shooting a few rolls of film I tuned my eye in pretty quick to guessing the correct exposure each time. Gauging low light was difficult at first and I under exposed a few shots for sure. But eventually, guessing the exposure became second nature. And the wonderful thing about shooting on film is that it captures something that digital can’t. A certain mood, atmosphere, or feel, that is nearly impossible to replicate through 0s and 1s. Then there is the anticipation of waiting for a roll of film to get developed before I know what I’ve got. It all adds up to a rather different process than shooting digital. But this doesn’t mean I have stopped shooting digital.

Looking toward the ‘Matterhorn of the SW’, Mt Anne. Oct 2021, Hasselblad 500C/M, 150mm, Ektar 100.

Eventually, I was given a second reincarnation of my Oympus Em-1, by the kind hearted Charles Chadwick. Charles had upgraded to the MkII of the Em-1, so he was no longer using his original Em-1. There may have been a knob missing from the top of the camera, but it was in good working order, in fact probably a lot better than mine was before it carked it. And since I still had my three Olympus lenses, i figured what the heck I may as well keep shooting on digital as well. After all, there are some things that I can capture with my digital set up better than I can on film. The macro lens on my Olympus is ridiculous. It brings the individual hairs on the leg of a caterpillar into sharp focus. I don’t have a lens like that for either my Pentax or my Hasselblad…

Caterpillar in the Sumac logging coupe, takayna. Olympus Em-1, 60mm macro, 2017

Once a photograph is captured onto film or a sensor, only half the job is done… To complete the photographic process, a positive print must be obtained somehow. A physical copy of the image, usually simply referred to as a print. In the old days, this would be done by ‘burning’ the negative image onto photographic paper then using chemicals to develop the photograph. I have gone through this process in a dark lab using analogue techniques, to create black and white silver gelatin prints. (Many thanks to Steve Lovegrove at the Kickstart Arts Centre in Moonah.) However, to create a colour print, the process is a bit more complicated, the chemicals are more dangerous to inhale, and more things can go wrong, in order to create a true to colour rendition of our negative film. As a result, I outsource the processing of my film to Stallard’s Camera House, who provide me with digital scans of my film, which I get to edit at home on my PC, send to the master printers at Full Gammut and voila, just like that, I have a print.

Then I go back to Walch Optics, and buy more rolls of film to shoot. And the beautiful cycle of creation continues.

Theia Pictures studio, Mk III. Sept 2021 Pentax MX, 50mm, Kodak Pro 100.

Stay tuned for next week’s post to find out how a print turns into a picture.

Fragments

Realisation

My words are not my own,

And the more I write

The more I realise

They never have been.

2015, A.S.

Joe Slater Hut, Gingerbread Track, Central Highlands. 2021, Pentax MX, 50mm, Kodak Pro 100.

The well

I write what I want to write,

So if you read what you want to read,

Perhaps this is not

The right poem for you.

I know you are reading this for a reason;

You have been looking,

But haven’t found,

You’ve been hoping,

That the gaping hole in the ground

You seem to have fallen through

Is not permanent,

Or deeper than you thought

When you tripped

And sank below the surface.

Unfortunately, I’m not here to tell you

How to get out,

All I can tell you

Is how you fell in.

2015, A.S.

Looking west from Mt Rufus, Central Highlands. 2021, Pentax MX, 50mm, Kodak Pro 100.

Maria

Explosion

Gas

Fire

Numb, she sits there,

Blank stare,

Deadened mind,

Her 12 year old

Crushes the beer can under his heel,

The fire burns all night.

2015, A.S.

Summit cairn, Mt Rufus, Central Highlands. 2021, Pentax MX, 50mm, Kodak Pro 100.

Renegade Parade

Here come the pink trumpets

Blowing a tune to which your feet

Will dance till dawn

Rejoice, we have no choice.

Here comes the pirate ship

The cool breeze

The white capped waves

Here comes the memory,

Soon to become eventuality.

Take me back to the time

Before we fell into this ditch

You and me and everyone.

15.9.2017, A.S.

Coherence

The first time I learnt about the idea of coherence, it was in the context of physics, in high school.

We were learning about light, which I was taught to be an electromagnetic wave; a wave that consists of an electric wave and a magnetic wave oscillating perpendicularly to each other, therefore propelling each other forward. Electromagnetic waves are characterised by having a particular wavelength (the physical length of one cycle of the wave, measured in metres, denoted by the greek letter, lambda, λ) and a frequency (or rate of oscillation, denoted by the letter f). The speed (v) of a wave can be attained by multiplying the frequency by the wavelength, v=fλ.

Albert Einstein postulated that the speed of light is constant in space. This means that as the wavelength of light shortens, the frequency increases. The shorter the wavelength, the faster the wave has to oscillate in order to propel itself forward at the constant speed of light. Which is a stonking three hundred thousand kilometres per second. That’s roughly eight times around the equator of the Earth in one second. So light travels pretty fast. But this is also the same speed that microwaves, radiowaves and X-rays travel. The only difference between all these different kinds of electromagnetic waves is the wavelength and the corresponding frequency.

What this all boils down to is that the colour of light is determined by the wavelength of the corresponding electromagnetic wave.. Red light consist of longer waves, violet light of shorter waves, oscillating at a higher frequency. At least this is what the wave model of the light tells us, which is one way of gaining a rudimentary understanding of light. Like all models, it isn’t completely right, but it also isn’t completely wrong. I’m not going to dive into quantum theory here, which would be exploring a more recent model, where light is considered to be discrete units of energy, or quanta. This would imply that different colours of light correspond to different energy levels. Since pursuing quantum theory would involve at least one thought experiment where a cat is locked in a box with some radioactive material (Schrödinger's Cat), let’s instead continue exploring the wave model of light to understand the idea of coherence.

First light. 2021, Pentax MX, Kodak Image Pro 100.

For light to be coherent, it needs to have two qualities: identical wavelength, and perfect alignment. So for light to be coherent it needs to be the same colour, and originate from the same source, which would have to be a single point in space. In a real life scenario, this can be rather difficult to achieve. The light from a laser, however, is a good approximation of coherent light.

Most of the time, the light we see is actually a mixture of a broad spectrum of different colours, therefore it’s incoherent. There is a mixture of different wavelengths and these waves all criss-cross each other as they travel, sometimes cancelling each other out, other times superimposing. The light from a standard bulb in our home would be an example of incoherent light. Similarly, the light from the sun contains a variety of different wavelengths, or colours and is therefore incoherent.

Morning glow. 2021, Pentax MX, Kodak Image Pro 100.

Now, the other meaning of ‘coherent’, is not in the field of physics, but in linguistics. If someone is coherent, it means they have a clarity of expression. If someone is coherent, they make sense, and the message they wish to communicate to us is clear and easy to understand. Being coherent means being consistent, continuous and sensible.

The author has written a coherent story when the plot can be followed by the audience. It has characters, places and events that are believable, in the context of the fictional world that the author has created.

If our story is coherent, others will find it easy to listen and understand us. Coherent storytelling is where there are a series of images that all seem to fit together.

Some beautiful non-coherent light, looking east from the top of kunanyi. 2021, Pentax MX, Kodak Image Pro 100.

Not being coherent implies gaps which are difficult to bridge. If someone falsely jumps to conclusions, they have lost their coherence. It means they are difficult to follow. The drunkard, stumbling down the street, cursing the lord almighty is one example. The person speaking a language we don’t understand, to us, would also be incoherent. And this is an interesting point. Rarely does the person who is perceived as incoherent actually thinks they are being incoherent themselves.

So how can we know when we are being incoherent? Well usually, there are telltale signs in our audience. Furrowed eye brows, glazed eyes, and various other body language can point to our message being lost in translation. Of course, for us to notice these signs we need to be paying attention. If someone is being incoherent, then there is a good chance that they are not looking out for these signs in the first place.

Some days everything we say comes out right, some days everything we say comes out wrong. That’s just how it goes. Sometimes we are coherent, and sometimes we are not. Some people are coherent less of the time than others, and that is all right. We can’t all be coherent all the time. Just like the light from the sun, we do not consist of a single wavelength. We resonate on various frequencies.

But we are capable of momentary coherence, from time to time.

Forest on lower slopes of kunanyi. 2021, Pentax MX, Kodak Image Pro 100.

PS: I hope the photographs in this post will make for a coherent post, even though they depict incoherent light.

Actually giving up on cheesecake

The cheesecake chronicles continue!

If you happened to read last week’s post, titled ‘Giving up on cheesecake’ then you may remember Johnny, our protagonist from a hypothetical scenario. You may have noticed that Johnny never actually gave up eating cheesecake.  And so even though last week’s post concluded with ‘The End’, it turns out that it wasn’t really the end at all.

This is how the rest of the story played out.  

‘Cattle Gate’ Cape Grim. 2018, Olympus Em-1, 12-40mm.

“After boycotting the milk from large dairy farms, and consuming milk from the farm of an older couple who milked their cows by hand, Johnny led a very happy life for some time. He felt that his cheesecakes tasted better for he believed that his dependence on milk did not result in the suffering of cows.

 Then one day he happened to be walking home, carrying a bottle of milk in his hand. Coming the opposite way on the road toward him was a cow. As they neared each other, the cow spoke to Johnny.

 -’Human, why do you keep stealing our milk from us?’

 Johnny came to a halt, astounded. He did not understand how a cow could talk to him. He was speechless.

 -‘Stop looking dumbfounded, human’. The cow continued. ‘We know what happens to our milk. You make cheesecake with it’.

 Johnny couldn’t deny it, for indeed he was planning to use the milk he was carrying to make cheesecake.

 -’Human, we would prefer to keep our  milk for our young. Whether we are milked by hand or by machines, we are separated from our young forcefully. This causes us suffering. Representing all cows, I ask you to stop eating cheesecake.’

 Johnny was too shocked to say any words. So he passed the cow on the road and walked home.

 From that day forward, Johnny never ate cheesecake made from the milk of cows again. And no cows ever spoke to Johnny again.”

‘Hungry Calves’, Cape Grim. 2018, Olympus Em-1, 12-40mm.

The story allows for some questions to remain… Did Johnny actually give up on cheesecake or did he simply turn to making cheesecake from goat’s milk instead? Perhaps Johnny was less compassionate toward goats than cows, after an incident in his youth in which a billy goat charged him and this event has implanted Johnny with a natural distrust for goats. The story doesn’t actually tell us whether Johnny really gave up eating cheesecake.

Enquisitive goat, Cape Grim. 2018, Olympus Em-1.

It is easy to trick ourselves into thinking we have given something up when we actually haven’t. As humans, we have an incredibly complex system of justifications that back up our actions. It is much easier to alter our habits than it is to completely change them. Ask someone to give something up and they are likely to replace their destructive habit with a slightly less destructive one, rather than stopping that habit completely.

My point is, decisions in life are rarely black or white. Decisions are an ongoing process.

But our decisions do betray one thing: they show what it is that we care about most.

And for what we care about most, we need to be willing to give anything up.  

To cheesecake or not to cheesecake, that is the question! 2020, Pentax MX, 50mm, Portra 400.

Giving up on cheesecake

To say we have given up on something tends to mean we have stopped trying to make something work that we initially thought was worthwhile. In this sense, giving up could be synonymous with failing to attain our heart’s desire. 

 On the other hand, to say we have given something up tends to mean we have decided to eliminate a habit which we have found to have a negative influence in our life. In this sense, giving up promises to bring us personal growth and a fulfilled life.

 Isn’t it fascinating that the idea of giving up can bring such different effects into our lives?

 It is the latter meaning of giving up that I wish to explore a bit more in this post.

The Pyengana Valley, idyllic dairy country, carved out of the bush in the early 1900s by European settlers. 2020, Pentax MX, 50mm, Portra 400.

 To give something up, means to relinquish a habit which no longer serves us. Giving up addictive habits, giving up the use of fossil fuels, giving up a neo-liberalist view of the world, giving up the attitude of commodifying nature, giving up the habits that make us ill, these are all examples which could fall into this category.

 There is a series of events that need to happen before we arrive to the point of being ready to give something up. The desire to change a habit which has become engrained in our daily practice comes from conflict; we do not see the need to relinquish a habit that we have come to find beneficial unless it clearly diminishes something that we value.

The road into Rainbow Valley. 2020, Pentax MX, 50mm, Portra 400.

Let’s take the idea of eating cheesecake for example. People eat cheesecakes because they taste good, especially when they are served with some berries. However, we intuitively know that cheesecake is not necessarily good for us or for the cows that produce the milk from which the cheesecake is made. But because cheesecake tastes so goddamn good, we tend to indulge from time to time.

 Now let’s consider a scenario here.

 Johnny has been eating cheesecake for as long as he can remember. One day he visits the dairy farm where the milk is produced for his cheesecakes. He sees the anguish the cows go through when they are separated from their young calves. Johnny is quite shocked at the level of distress and suffering the animals have to endure in order to produce the milk required to make his cheesecake.

 Johnny is now faced with a difficult decision; does he continue eating the same cheesecake now that he knows the suffering that is involved in the making of it?

And this is the heart of the matter. The extent of how much we care for something or someone is defined by what we are willing to give up for it or them. If Johnny cares more about the welfare of cows than he does for the taste of cheesecake, he will give cheesecake up. However, if he values eating cheesecake over the cows, he may choose to ignore the suffering that goes on behind the scenes.

Let’s find out what happened to Johnny in the second half of this scenario.

After his discovery, Johnny stopped eating all dairy products. He drank no more milk, and he ate no more cheesecake. But after a few months, he really started missing the taste of cheesecake. So he began to investigate the quality of life of cows on various farms around the town where he lived. He found that all the big dairy farms treated their animals pretty much equally horribly. Then, he discovered the farm of an older couple who ran a small scale operation in which the cows were treated much more fairly and were milked by hand. And so Johnny asked to buy his milk from the old couple from that point forward.  And from that milk, Johnny was able to make a cheesecake that tasted much better than the cheesecake he used to eat.  The End.

Cheesecake or not to cheesecake, that is the question. In this case, we were bike touring and I couldn’t eat enough calories, so the answer had to be… cheesecake! 2020, Pentax MX, 50mm, Portra 400.

 At the end of the day, we choose that which we care about most. And sometimes, if we choose to keep the thing or person we love the most, we need to be willing to give something up. It is through our willingness to give up certain habits that we can show how much we truly care.

A.S. 9/10/2021, Lenah Valley