diary

lake hollywood

hollywood reservoir drawing, 2021

lake hollywood reservoir, also known as simply hollywood reservoir, is located in the hollywood hills in the santa monica mountains.

the reservoir is created by mulholland damn, which was built in 1924 by the los angeles department of water & power. it holds a maximum of 2.5 billion gallons of water, but since 1931 has been kept permanently lowered to a maximum of approximately 1.3 billion gallons. its deepest point is 183 feet.

william mulholland, the dam’s namesake, was an irish american civil engineer & the head of the department of water & power in los angeles. he was the engineer behind several dam projects throughout the state, & he even consulted on nevada’s hoover damn. he was the chief engineer of the los angeles aqueduct, which met with rebellion in owens valley in 1924. there were several attempts to sabotage the aqueduct by local area farmers & ranchers in a period known as the “california water wars”. the rebellion ended, however, with the collapse of the local county bank in 1927.

mulholland was haunted for much of his life by the st. francis dam collapse of 1928. just 12 hours after he & his assistant examined the completed dam it failed, sending 12.4 billion gallons of water in a wall 140 feet high & at speeds of up to 18 miles per hour, rushing into the scattered towns below. the water eventually spilled into the pacific ocean 54 miles from its point of origin. mulholland took full responsibility for the collapse & retired 9 months later. at least 431 people died.

the inquest recommended mulholland not be held criminally liable for the disaster, though in some of his testimony he stated: “whether it is good or bad, don't blame anyone else, you just fasten it on me. if there was an error in human judgment, I was the human, I won't try to fasten it on anyone else.”

mulholland spent the remainder of his life in seclusion, dying in 1935 from a stroke. he is buried in the forest lawn memorial park cemetery in glendale, caifornia.

last night at the reservoir

“last night I walked into the hills & kept climbing. came upon a hiking trail between the million dollar houses & wandered through to lake hollywood park. looped around to walk along the reservoir as the sun crept lower & lower. came back to the paved streets & meandered through the narrow roads in the hills until I ended up back at home in the early twilight of a hot winter day.”

yellow sky diary

no filter, shot on iphone. 10 september 2020.

no filter, shot on iphone. 10 september 2020.

the air is dusty but after a moment you reliase it’s not dust, it’s ash.

another blurred yellow morning. I couldn’t sleep because as the sun comes up the smoke gets worse. my throat catches. I rub my eyes.

no one ever said a transformation would be easy, but I wish it wasn’t quite so hard on those of us not insulated from its worse effects. maybe this is a wake up call & the world will be better afterwards.

maybe it will be much much worse.

everything inverted in my tarot spread this morning. an indicator of confusion. everything turned upside-down & opaque. maybe searching for beauty in the middle of all this is the task at hand.

maybe small, shimmering, moments of beauty is all we have.

pandemic days

we’re about to enter month five on stay at home guidelines here in california. as a freelancer who worked mostly from home before, my days haven’t changed too drastically, I just don’t have the workload I once did. thought I’d make a little video about how I’m spending my time at home.

the park

journal, mt. hollywood summit

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if butterflies are symbols of transformation then mt. hollywood must be a place of transformation because it’s always swarming with butterflies up here. they make me nervous.

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summit

I forgot

how to wear myself

comfortably draped

a swirl of cloth

tied at the elbows

& knees.

expectation of give—

I never learned

what holding firm is.

notes on ocean healing

el matador beach, malibu

the ocean is angsty today. churning & brown like dirt & dried blood.
the wind blows me about like a strip of burnt fabric.
the sea birds eye me warily.

I’m wary too. raw like the charred branches left behind as skeletons in the most recent fire. I let the salt waves slip over my feet—healing I think.

I have three crystals for my heart. I let the ocean cleanse them.

may the salt purify our wound.

I walk back to my car barefoot, picking around the broken glass & sharp edged rocks. I am sharp. I’ve broken off a long forgotten bottle. the soles of my feet anticipate the prick of sudden pain. I keep walking.

I remember walking barefoot & sandy alongside the rocky road between the beach & my grandparents cabin as a child. tired & parched from the cold sun. my skin pinked from the chill of pacific. the solitary cold didn’t bother me then.

Notebook: When Photographs are Poems

In my self-directed photography studies I find much overlap between photographic concepts & poetic concepts. I make notes as I read:

  • Photographer Robert Frank said that when people looked at his photographs he wanted them “to feel the way they do when they read a line of a poem twice”. I think there must be some fundamental link between photography & poetry. After all they are both a type of image making.

  • The etymological meaning of the word poetry is “something fashioned or made” which seems to me to be exactly what a photograph is as well. Richard Avedon said; “All photographs are accurate. None of them is the truth.”

  • When you freeze a moment, either in words or pictures, you make it into something unto itself. It’s not life but it’s also not not life. A simulacrum of being?

  • Perhaps poetry was the first kind of photography—before the camera existed. Suspending moments in blank air.

  • We make a poem to understand what words can do. We make a picture for the same reason. “I photograph to find out what something will look like photographed.” - Garry Winogrand.

  • “I see poetry as the medium most similar to photography… or at least the photography I pursue. Like poetry, photography is rarely successful with narrative. What is essential is the ‘voice’ (or ‘eye’) & the way this voice pieces together fragments to make something tenuously whole & beautiful.” - Alec Soth

Reading: The Documentary Impulse by Stuart Franklin.

Photos are from my recent photo essay, Jardin du Souvenir.