garrison beau scott

I met Rolfe Horn in the summer of 1993. I was just about to start my second term at Brooks and entered class that day high on a cloud. I had survived the first term, made a bunch of new friends and had this feeling that everything I wanted was slowly and methodically being laid at my feet. I guess you could say I floated into that BA-2 class.

The way Brooks is run is a little different than most college systems. Before you even begin class, you’re asked to make a choice between the 2 different programs offered; still photography or motion/film. I chose still and because of that, I would progress through lower division with the other students I started with (I think there were 11 of us) who selected the same program. This created a tight knit group of fellow students who’d go through all the ups and downs of a very intense program together.

So on that first day of BA-2, it was a little bit of a surprise to see a new face in class, a face belonging to someone who’d not been there with the rest of the class during BA-1. The face belonged to Rolfe. Being technically sound, he advanced placed into our class, and first thought was, who does this guy think he is?

But something inside said put that B.S. aside and introduce yourself, invite the guy to your party Friday, introduce him to the rest of the gang, be an ambassador, be cool. And I did, and Rolfe has been one of the greatest friends I could have ever hoped to have. The only thing I’ve ever questioned is why he only advanced placed into BA-2. Looking at his work, I’m surprised they didn’t just hand him an honorary degree and save him the 3 years of time and tuition.

I’m truly thankful though that fate, or the gods, or whatever you subscribe to, placed him in that class at that time. As I said, the way the school ran it’s lower division programs, we’d spend the next year and a half together and in that time, I leaned on Rolfe more than any decent friend should, but without fail, 100% of the time, when I needed anything, anything, Rolfe was there to give it. Knowledge, tri-pods, Polaroids, mat board, rolls and rolls and ROLLS of Velvia, laughs, kindness and a friendship that has lasted 14 years.

In the time since we graduated, Rolfe has been my neighbor, mentor, best man, Godfather to my daughter, critic, darkroom enabler, DOA combatant, trip guide, fellow farmer, sounding board, life preserver, shuffleboard teammate, and dearest friend.

Whenever I look at this picture (that’s Rolfe on the left, Keith Nordahl in the center and Jim Hughes on the right) I think of his place on Grand Avenue where this was taken and how, indeed, everything was laid out at our feet. And how it was Rolfe who showed me the value and the gift of sharing it with your friends.

Please, if you haven’t already, take a look at Rolfe’s amazing photography. The story of how Rolfe became the King? A story for another time.

I woke up this morning thinking about that song from the Sound of Music, “My Favorite Things.” Don’t ask. I’m pretty sure even my sub-conscience was going, “What the fu…”

But now that I’ve had my morning coffee and feel somewhat human, I look at this picture and if I were to re-write the lyrics, this is the picture that I’d start with. It’d have something to do with bike rides and sand, Holga-why-the-hell-not-snaps, the 420 session that transpired immediately prior to this shot, hanging with Dan, and absolutely no responsibility other than taking pictures and not running one over on said bike.

I know it’s not quite the twirling on a mountaintop, being chased by nazis material made for movies, but then again, I’m not a nun with second thoughts wearing drapes, so cut me some slack.

To just kind of expand on yesterday’s theme of memory…

…when a little bit of time passes between you and whatever scene you wish to recall, the details get a little fuzzy, maybe some multiple exposure gets thrown in as well as a certain color shift.

That’s Holga, pure and simple. A scene that at one time existed, but when it’s recalled, it’s not always the way we remember it. The device allows for our interpretation to be projected onto the memory, or in this case, the scene.

Photography is memory. And no, I’m not talking hard-drive type memory, though that happens to be true as well, seeing I have gigabytes of the stuff, but I digress. I’m talking travel back in time and smell the salt air and feel the bonfire warmth on your exposed limbs and taste the melted chocolate marshmallow concoction type of memory. All that echoed laughter spilling out from your family and friends, the ability to gather in the way the entire sky looked as the popping sparks climbed into the darkening blue.

When I look at pictures I’ve taken, even ones like this with no direct link to my past memories, I can’t help but recall the times, still shivering from the Pacific, covered in my towel and treated to a hot-dog, an ice-chest chilled Coke, and a s’more. Moments of my life that endure, thankfully, as they’re what I am.

One of those instances when looking over your shoulder during a walk around town yields what it is you’re looking for.