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The forms of marketing at our fingertips today are quickly becoming the digital Twelve Days of Christmas (its the Holidays right? So I had to make a connection). I’m wondering when the same analysts that price out the cost of the Twelve Days of Christmas will focus their sites on the total cost, both time and dollars, for businesses in todays marketing venues. Certainly it varies by size, type and goal of each individual company. As a small business, and I mean singular small, as in, well, it’s yours truly and yours truly alone, the time investment is often the gargantuan hurdle faced. Frankly, some of the venues for marketing I don’t break into an Irish jig for, but occasionally I’ll feel the music and bust a jig, or two. (Thankfully only my closest friends and family have ever witnessed my “sense” of rhythm)

I’d heard about Instagram, but didn’t completely grasp the concept until brought up to speed by my kids, isn’t that so often the case these days. Evolution of our society eh? There was a day when the kids helped sow and harvest the crops, now they train their parents on technology. So now the interesting, humorous, thoughtful and inspiring images I look to capture with my iPhone have a home and hopefully an audience to enjoy. If you’ve made it to this point of this blog post and so inclined to follow along on my Instagram journey, look me up at c_hatter_photo and catch a glimpse behind the scenes of the images on the website.

Fall colors change in the Northeast, a tourist destination, an annual economic spike drawing individuals from all over the world to view the green foliage of Spring and Summer turn to yellows, oranges and reds of all shades and tones. Under the colorful canopy lies a world of kaleidoscope warmth as sunlight filters through, providing the last kiss of warmth to the cooling ground.

The Rocky Mountains boast Aspen trees that transform to shimmering silver dollar leaves of gold and bronze as temperatures descend toward their winter slumbers. Without question, a grove of Aspen is a tranquil sanctuary as the breeze gently blows through and the orchestra of colored leaves moves into song.

The California coastline has a magical Fall occurrence as well, not well publicized, it doesn’t draw tourists, in fact it drives them home. It can be dangerous, prompting warning for low visibility along the spaghetti mazes of roadways traversing the “Golden State”. I first recall being seduced by the encroaching fog in Santa Barbara while attending Brooks Institute of Photography. The summer throngs of visitors meandering up and down State Street and Stearns Wharf had all returned to their abodes and a resident could once again travel across town via the 101 and main roads without the crowds. I still often chose the back roads to return home atop the Mesa neighborhood I called home for three years. I noted the thick blanket that appeared to be rolling over the Mesa as though it was tucking a young child to sleep. As I slowly traveled up the two lane road along the back side of the Mesa I saw the patches, rolling, sliding….flying through trees, across yards, soft patches that had broken from the main blanket. By the time I reached home, visibility was minimal, pairs of glowing lights becoming slowly visible as cars tread carefully to and thro. I walked the few blocks down to the beach access, Thousand Steps, known affectionally for the number of steps required to feel the sand between your toes from the elevated mesa perch. I couldn’t see the Pacific, but was drawn down the steps to its edge.

Since that day, as Summer turns to Fall, and the air temperatures fall rapidly atop the Pacific, I look to the coast as the day turns to dusk, searching for signs…..signs that my love may be approaching. In November 2009, I saw the blanket in the distance beginning its descent, I headed to the coast. Often, extreme tide coincide with the Fall fog, and this evening greeted me with the perfect pair. I visited alone this first evening, reveling in the sound of the sea, unseen but heard coming from the west. To the east, the sound of unseen cars traveling the coast highway, an occasional voice as someone comes into view, but speaking in soft voices. The softness of the fog, the silence of it, brings it visitors to a quiet peace. A sanctuary of unseen clarity truly, nothing to distract from ones thoughts, simply a blanket of gray and distance sounds. The following afternoon, I invited a guest, my wife. I wanted to share with her, hoping she would “see” what I “saw” in the vastness of nothingness. That evening, inspired by her and the elements, I captured this image, a visual representation of the feelings within. The lone seaweed patch, like I, before the soft tones and movement of the sea through the vision of the Fog.

Do I hope the Fog of the California Coastline becomes the next tourist attraction in the Fall season? Selfishly, no, I don’t, but just like that quaint new restaurant or unknown artist you discover, you want to share with others so that they too can experience and admire your found passion.

I was raised in Oceanside, California at the height of the 80‘s Cold War nuclear fears. To the north lay Camp Pendleton and to the south, numerous military installations; Miramar, North Island, and the Naval Training Center to name a few. I recall the aircraft hangars along the west side of I-5 as we traveled to downtown San Diego. I listened in awe of the stories of small town Oceanside during WWII, the lookout towers along the oceans edge, constantly scanning the horizon for signs of Japanese submarines. Like so many others, my grandfathers were both involved in WWII, one served in the Pacific, one worked to build the initial structures that make up Camp Pendleton today. And as most from the Greatest Generation, they never spoke of their experiences, only short subtle recollections as I grew older, but never anything that would truly communicate the horrors of war they must have experienced. Country served. Sacrifices made. Stories untold.

These weren’t the only sacrifices made or stories untold. I’ve always remembered my first grade teacher, Ms. Nagata, for the simple fact that she let me explore learning with the zest of a curious, excitable, six year old. I loved math, I loved numbers and I thoroughly enjoyed the work books filled with problems awaiting answers. She allowed and encouraged me to work through the book at a pace that fed my hunger, all the while checking to make sure I was doing the work correctly and understanding the necessary concepts. Thirty years after leaving Ms. Nagata’s classroom I experienced an admiration for her as a person far beyond any math lessons. You see, Ms. Nagata’s family is Japanese and faced imprisoned in the internment camps of WWII like thousands others of Japanese decent. For decades I lacked the knowledge to the depth of the warm welcoming smile I recalled each morning of first grade.

A little piece of history I didn’t learn from a history textbook at any grade level, rather I was first introduced to this history by the photographs of Ansel Adams. Ansel Adam’s image, Mount Williamson, Sierra Nevada, from Manzanar, CA, 1944; the large granite boulders backlight by the setting sun and towering Sierra Nevada range in the distance was my first introduction to the internment camps. His images focused on the Manzanar Camp, one of 10 throughout the Western United States. There were other images as well and a published collection of photographs entitled Born Free and Equal,  Ansel’s statement on the terrible injustice he saw occurring. I suppose at age 16 I still didn’t grasp the depth of this historical event or period in our nations history. Though Manzanar became a place I hoped to visit one day, in my mind it was still about retracing the steps of an admired photographer; not a first grade teacher or complete group of people identified and imprisoned only by their heritage.

The stories of the Greatest Generation and the movies depicting the horrors and heroism of WWII have become quite prevalent over the past decade. They are stories of tremendous sacrifice and service to our country, deserving to be told so that future generations will be reminded of what others who walked before them sacrificed for them today. I believe, there is a story yet to be told in its entirety, that of the Japanese internment camps. Possibly it is due to the lack of attention those who suffered through it have raised, as many felt it was part of their duty to country. Even those that were born in the United States and held complete citizenship made the sacrifice to willingly board the buses and trains that carried them from their homes and business to remote areas throughout the West. Possibly the remoteness of these camps have kept them hidden from the mass public. Possibly the fact that once the prisoners were freed, the camps were quickly cleared of any signs of the saddening history, the guilt of our own shame.

I visited Manzanar in the Spring of 2010, as my family enjoyed Spring Break exploring Death Valley and the Eastern Sierras. I had read more about this historical site and thought I had a greater understanding, but as often occurs in life, real life experience brings about a change within our soul. One building remains on the 500 acre site that housed 10,000 men, women and children from 1942 – 1945, of which two-thirds were born in this country. The gymnasium where teenagers once enjoyed dances and socials as an attempt to forget the binds that held them. Today this gymnasium serves as the museum for Manzanar National Park. The grounds still hold relics of internment, one remaining guard tower, monuments that were created by its temporary inhabitants and the bones of once beautifully designed Japanese gardens. You could sense the souls still hovering in the crisp afternoon light cascading over the towering Sierra peaks. The voices that told the stories of life at Manzanar brought chills throughout my entire body. I felt warm tears roll down my own cheeks as the now aged American told of his life in Manzanar, his memories as a child, “It was like summer camp, all the time, so many children.” But his tears flowed as he spoke of his father, an American citizen, a man that owned a business, a home and loved his country, that had all of it stripped from him because of his ancestry.

The photographs included in this post are from the Manzanar site. The afternoon at Manzanar became more about the emotions and experiences than the photographs. The images serve as reminders for me, they hold greater meaning to me personally because of what they represent. A soul changing day, experienced with my wife and children, all our lives changed. An untold story heard by the four of us and digested deep within our souls.

Yes, I realize, sadly, this is not a first in the history of mankind, unfortunately its an all to common occurrence in the history pages of our planet. Is love or fear the almighty of feelings? Both have the power to spread like wildfire when the winds are stoked and can be used as rationalizations for our actions. In the end, we all must look within to answers these challenges, which drives our heart and soul, love or fear?

In closing, my mind drifts to the words of Bono, the lead singer for U2, just another artist, like Ansel Adams, who continues to bring social injustices and concerns for mankind to the publics view. In a concert in Italy in 2005 shortly after the terrorist bombings in London, Bono introduces the the song Miss Sarajevo, a song dedicated to the horrific ethnic cleansing that occurred following the fall of the Soviet Union. To quote my favorite Irish lad in his intro, “We would like to turn our song into a prayer, the prayer is; we don’t become a monster in order to defeat the monster”. Let us all keep an eye on the past so that our future is free of monsters.