July 24th, 2010
Santa Barbara, California
Mother Daughter Photo Shoot
Ginny and Mary Howard
"I love my mother as the trees love water and sunshine - she helps me grow, prosper, and reach great heights."
~Terri Guillemets
I still remember when my Mother and I were photographed for her 60th birthday. We had put the photo shoot off for years hoping to be in better shape, to be toner, thinnner, younger and so on. Then we realized that it may never happen. We weren't getting any younger and there would always be something that we didn't love about ourselves. The most important element was rejoicing in the now of our relationship and loving ourselves body and soul whatever age. Now of course, when I look at the photos I think of how courageous we were to have the photos taken and, of course, I think I look wonderful!
It's truly a special treat to be in front of the camera and a truly magical process to share it with your mother.
How I love to photograph women! Especially mothers and daughters. I'm very close with my own mother and our relationship--through good and bad--has shaped so many of the relationships I have with people close to me. To me the bond between mother and daughter is especially indelible...our roles often juxtaposing throughout our lives. We begin as daughters and occasionally take on the mother role with our own mothers then settle into a comfortable sisterhood during the best times in our relationship.
I was contacted by Ginny Howard through a mutual friend. She was drawn to my style of portraiture and wanted to treat herself and her mother to a 60th and 80th birthday present! Her mother was an absolute sweetheart and a very good sport. When I arrived, she had no idea that Ginny wanted to have "intimate" portraits taken but Mary tentatively and courageously stepped up to the plate. By the end of the shoot, I could see in her eyes that she had had begun to trust me more. I'm so happy with how these beautiful women "showed up" in these photographs and for the photo shoot.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
June 28th, 2010
Mer's Bridal Shower!
Thankyou to those of you who were able to make it on Sunday! It couldn't have been a more beautiful day between the gorgeous weather, delicious food, and beautiful energy that you each brought. I look forward to continuing the celebration together this fall with Meredith and Tim!
Enjoy the slideshow...if you'd like any of the photos, you can click on "View Gallery." Once in the gallery you can view the pictures. In the upper lefthand corner of the picture will be an option to "download photo." You can also download all of them at once.
Much Love, Rachel
P.S. Mer~ I thought you'd really get a kick out of the song I used! ;)
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Review of Hollywood Film, "Rendition," by New Line Cinemas
Starring Reese Witherspoon, Meryl Streep, and Jake Gyllenhaal
Set in Morocco, North Africa
Although watching torture scenes of a husband and father at a far-away prison in North Africa isn't usually at the top of my list for things I'd most like to do on a Friday night...I have felt immensely curious about this new form of state-sponsored terrorism. A couple of years ago in an Amnesty International Magazine, I read about one German man's experience of "extraordinary rendition" at the hands of the CIA (kidnapped, tortured, and humiliated before being dropped off in the middle of nowhere on a country road in Albania...how's that for a European vacation?).
Post 9-11, it's truly incredible to see a Hollywood film bringing such a heavy and clandestine operation to the big screen and it's evident that award-winning director, Gavin Hood (Tsotsi), has done his research on the subject. Often, films can oversimplify the mess that is war and propaganda but "Rendition" gloriously succeeds in humanizing all of its key characters--from the overbearing Muslim prison warden who oversees the "interrogations" to the senator's aid who is pulled between saving his career and aiding his ex-girlfriend's struggle to track down her husband--and their struggles to fight for their loved ones.
Basically, the film centers on an Egyptian-born American engineer (Greencard) husband/father who doesn't make it back home from a business trip in South Africa. His wife (Witherspoon), pregnant and distraught, soon discovers that the government--which claims he never boarded the flight--is lying to her. Meanwhile, a city in Morocco (shot in Fez and Marrakesh) is being torn apart by recent "terrorist" attacks by fundamentalist Muslim groups and a young, green post-traumatic stress CIA agent (Gyllenhaal) is placed in charge of "overseeing" the Egyptian-American's secret torture. Throw in a ruthless Muslim prison warden, a cruel and ambitious CIA-linked politician, and a young Muslim girl falling in love against the wishes of her oppressive father...and you've got ample fuel for tension.
From the very beginning, Rendition is gorgeously shot and pays special attention to develop its characters' needs and desires. The dialogue is impeccably-written and authentic and the casting is spot-on. One of the greatest treats was to see both Muslims and Americans human and flawed in their own individual ways.
In its final scenes, Rendition is haunting and compelling in showing how through the process of "hunting" down terrorists--often innocent people with families-- we are creating victims. Often, the chosen "jackals" or interrogators will torture until prisoners are compelled to "confess" to relieve themselves of unerring pain and torture. One man advises a growingly dubious special agent (Jake Gyllenhaal),
"We have a saying in Morocco, if you beat your woman every day and you don't know why, then she will." Gyllenhaal's reaction is priceless.
The film also pokes fun at the U.S. government's repeated denials of institutionalizing torture. Gyllenhaal--high on opium and deeply troubled by the week's events--confesses in a phone conversation to his supervisor (Streep), "This is my first torture."
"The United States," hisses Streep, "DOES NOT torture." Although it's cliche, one can't help but be amused by her venomous denial.
If you do rent this movie, make sure to take an extra bit of time to view "Outlawed," a documentary on victims of rendition that is included in the special features section. If you had any doubt that rendition is taking place, this will be the final nail in the coffin. It will be well worth your while to listen to a few stories of men who have been "kidnapped," transported from prison to prison, tortured, and held for months and years without any legal representation or access to a court or contact with their families.
Wake up. This stuff is truly scary.
Check out the American Civil Liberties Union article on Rendition.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
"Infidel: Looking for Asylum In A Country Near You"
A review of controversial Dutch-African activist Ayaan Hirsi Ali's memoir
"If you are a Somali woman alone," Hirsi Ali remembers her devout grandmother's words, "you are like a piece of sheep fat in the sun. Ants and insects crawl all over you, and you cannot move or hide; you will be eaten and melted until nothing is left but a thin smear of grease." In Somalia, a woman is nothing without a brother, father, or uncle to protect her. She is vulnerable and powerless…nothing without her family or clan's honor.
After a recent and conflicted trip to my first Muslim country—see my blogs on Morocco--both my mother and I have been truly curious about the life of a woman behind the veil. As a writer and photographer, I want to say that we were respected as women and that the Western stereotypes of oppression that we have of Islam are overinflated. I'd like to say that my first experience in a Muslim country was a pleasant one. But I can’t. Ever since our trip, I’ve been struggling to walk the line between hasty judgment and overly-exagerated moral relativity.
That said, Hirsi Ali’s memoir was like a sharp shot in the arm that shook me out of my politically-correct stupor. She’s a vibrant and courageous woman in an era when religion is more politically-charged than ever before. The first Muslim woman to be elected to Dutch parliament, Hirsi Ali quickly became known for her vocal criticism of Islam through various public interviews, editorials, and an inflammatory documentary--Submission--she made with filmmaker Theo Van Gogh (think of an irreverant, Dutch version of Michael Moore) depicting the Quran's treatment of woman. Shortly afterward, Van Gogh was brutally stabbed to death in broad daylight by a Muslim man. Speared on his chest was a religious letter condemning Hirsi Ali’s life as well. She has been in hiding ever since and opinions of her are mixed ranging from the belief that she’s a hero—Time Magazine has named her one of the "100 Most Influential People of 2005"-–to claims that she is a thoughtless neoconservative intent on gaining fame and stirring the political pot for her own selfish aims.
Whatever your political beliefs, it’s difficult not to be pulled into the story of her life’s struggles or to not feel the slightest nudge of compassion for a woman growing up in a culture of violence and oppression.
Infidel follows Hirsi Ali’s vivid childhood spent between Somalia, Saudi Arabia, and Kenya. She grows up beneath the heavy hands of her traditional grandmother and a mother who was often abusive. She experiences excision--or female circumcision--as a teenager when her mother was away on a trip--, a forced marriage she wasn't even present for, and escapes from Mogadishu before rebel forces take over the city and destroy most of her clan's members (her native country has since spiralled downhill).
Without giving away the course of events, she makes her way to the Netherlands, a country quite unlike her native Somalia. In her eyes, the Dutch extol the virtues of reason, practicality, and open-mindedness. She immerses herself in these new concepts and faces her questions of Islam. How can a religion evolve if its followers are not allowed to question? Why are woman expected to submit completely to a man and to Allah? She finds that as Holland is welcoming Muslim refugees, its Dutch citizens' are weary to criticize the values the religion conveys.
To her, the real root of social problems among immigrants in the Netherlands "is abuse, and how it is anchored in a religion that denies women their rights as humans."
Hirsi Ali has been called many names. I've spoken with many Dutch friends who dislike her immensely because they believe she's brought many problems upon herself. But Infidel is truly compelling. It is a vivid account of a woman struggling to recreate herself after having been conditioned in a religion and culture which makes her needs and rights the lowest possible priority. She doesn't mince words and, by the end, it is apparent that although she embraced fundamentalist Islam during periods of her early youth, she is no longer a fan of Islam.
Infidel is truly a fantastic and alarming look at one woman's life in Africa. This is a time to be compassionate and tolerant but also not to be blind. As Hirsi Ali says, "What matters is that governments and societies must stop hiding behind a hollow pretense of tolerance so that they can recognize and deal with the problem [of conflicting faith-based values and governments]."
I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in learning more about women in Islam, the Middle East, modern politics, terrorism, and freedom of speech. It's truly compelling.
After reading Infidel, I watched several speeches and interviews that Hirsi Ali gave. Here is an excellent short speech she gave that I found on youtube and especially liked.
*If the video does not appear below, you may need to try viewing this in Firefox or Internet Explorer. Blogger is having problems with Safari and embedded videos. You can also view the interview on Youtube.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Tulum, Mexico (Yucatan Peninsula)
"Mid Thirties Wanderlust Crisis"
Is it possible that a self-professed adventurer could actually be sick of travelling?
How is it that I am with the love of my life in a tropical location with gorgeous views of the Caribbean, enough sun to melt Greenland´s ice caps away, and an agenda-less week and actually yearning to be home in Santa Barbara with a hot shower, my kitty kats, my laptop, and endless access to wi-fi. Hell, I have friends who'd give their left pinky to be here right now on 'vaction' in a place like this.
Yet I'm hot, sticky, and covered with so many bug bites that my upper back looks like a Braille version of "Beowolf." Slathered in a potent concoction of citronella bug juice and cheap candy-scented sunblock mixed with sweat, I've been grumpy until tonight. Annoyed by the sand that's been blowing into our cheap, sand-floor bungalow...the fact that our hotel doesn't even have the pride to repair our broken windows and instead replaces them with ripped netting....never cleans the communal shower or toilets....and has the greedy audacity to advertise its "flotation chamber" which we later learn doesn´t actually have any water at all! Are you kidding me?! Why not slap a slab of butter on a waffle cone and call it ´ice cream?´
I call it "Feco-Tulum" cause they offer you a bunch of crappy services, slap an "eco" label on it and then sell it to you at a premium. The showers are actually ocean water they pump out straight. They don't have electricity.
They should call it "Copal: Just like camping only sandier, windier, dirtier, and more expensive!"
So back to my original fear. Is it possible that I'm getting burnt out on travel? What if, instead of just needing a ´break´ from travel, I´m actually losing my edge and becoming soft. Becoming, dare I venture to ask, "high-maintenance?" I used to brag about being able to sleep on a windshield and camping out on rocks without sleeping pads. When I did use one I was fiercely loyal to a quarter inch pad that had been torn a bit and written on when it was separated from me on a river trip. Years later, I graduated to a thicker therma rest pad with ridges. I prided myself on never having a blow up pad. Now I have an awesomely comfortable inflatable and most times, I'd just prefer to return at the end of the day to my own bed.
So am I going soft? Like my sleeping pads....is it going to be a slow degradation of my adventurous spirit? Or is this just a phase? After travels to Indiana and back for the holidays and sleeping on a deflated air mattress on a cold slab of concrete beneath three dogs and a cat to riding for days across the Sahara in a mini-van to driving across the Mojave Desert twice to visit my Mamacita to braving the mozzies on Isla Holbox...I just feel, simply, tired.
The thought of another bus ride, another haggering for a taxi ride, another delayed plane ride in which "paperwork has to be completed" and we, the passengers, are grounded without food or water for two hours before we even take off....the thought of another afternoon spent dragging myself along a dirt street beneath a searing sun trying to find the best deal on a hotel room in a resort area where the peso has risen and the dollar has fallen....I think I´ve about had enough.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Isla Holbox, Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico
Feels like I'm on the set of Pirates of the Caribbean...off-the-beaten-path island North of the Yucatan Peninsula...staying down the coast from a town made of dirt streets, golf carts instead of cars, Italian street-side cafes, and miles of blindingly-white sand set against a turquoise ocean. Staying with my boyfriend's family at a gorgeous, peaceful eco-resort that's solar run surrounded by fuscia blossoms of bougainvillea, Madagascar periwinkle, and a giant iguana named Oscar.
Falling into island-time...sleeping to the rhythm of palm fronds clicking against the sides of our hut, the whir of the ceiling fan, silhouette of our mosquito netting, the salty fragrance of hot tropical air, the tingle of cool saltwater on sun-baked skin, the softness of cotton sarongs against your legs, mango smoothies served in giant glasses, crushed mint mojitos at sunset, and aimless wandering down streets of pastel homes....peach, lemon, coral, mint, tangerine, carnation....swimming in cenotes (blueholes) where pirates once quenched their thirst....fingers dripping with mango juices...melting in your mouth like sun-ripened butter....
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Morocco Tales 7: "Pain and Couscous at 7,000 feet"
February 3rd
Recovering from long trek in the Atlas Mountains in Marrakesh...
After countless days weaving in and out of the markets, stuffing ourselves with soup and salad, and choking on the exhaust fumes of Marrakesh, Mom and I decided to escape from the city for a couple of days and go trekking in the High Atlas before Steve arrives in Morocco.
Our original plan was to go half way up Jebel Toubkal, Morocco's highest mountain, spend the night in a refuge there and return the following day. It's still the middle of the winter here, however, and much of Toubkal is covered in ice and snow, requiring crampons and mountaineering experience. Our guide Mohammed instead recommended that we take an alternate route to a nearby 'valley' and stay in one of the Berber villages there.
"We'd love to do a nice hike through a 'Valley!'" we said rather naively.
It sounded quite reasonable and refreshing to me and Mom....evoking serene images of walking along a cascading river, stopping for hot tea and biscuits, listening to the birds, and photographing the changing countryside. Although we absolutely love trekking around the world I now admit that there's some sort of amnesia that occurs shortly after all of our trips...where we forget how the word "hill," when used by either a highland local or any author of a Lonely Planet trekking guide (those bastard sandbaggers!) actually translates into enormous mountains we'd never attempt climbing at home, where "three-hour walks" translate into five hour-long grueling climbs uphill, where we forget how cold it really is to sleep in January at high altitude in buidings without heat on old mattresses beneath used blankets wearing fleece hats and long underwear as a bitter wind blows through the cracks of a window, of how dirty your hands and nails become no matter how many handiwipes you use and blacken, and how tired your entire being is at the end of the day when you want to collapse in a heap of fleece clutching a cup of tea in one hand and a bottle of ibuprofen in the other.
But somehow, miraculously, we do forget, and we convince ourselves that a trek might be easy and relaxing.
Starting in the small village of Imlil (where all of the Jebel Toubkal summit attempts start from in the spring/summer), we made our way up through serene fields of barley and orchards of apple, walnut, and cherry trees. We stopped and ate freshly peeled mandarin oranges which Mohammed had bought in Imlil, munched quite blissfully on handfuls of fresh roasted peanuts and waved to a Berber woman who sat with her two children as their cows grazed in one of the fields. (Ahh, the happinesss of a fresh hiker's ignorance!) Below us, the mountains stretched out towards a low blanket of cumulus clouds, their west-facing flanks dusted with snow. The landscape opened up like an outdoor theatre and from our rocky perches, we could hear the cry of baby goats looking for their mothers to milk, laughter from kids playing, and the occasional truck transporting goods along the road to guesthouses stocking up for the spring trekking season. A few villagers worked fields of barley or cleared brush from new fields.
Still blissfully unaware of the trek ahead (Mohammed had told us that we only had a two-hour hike to the pass), we snapped photos of herds of goats scampering up the hillside above the river and soon the path became steeper and steeper. The setting was gorgeous....a warm winter sun in a nearly cloudless sky over a slope of pine trees giving off a sweet scent...evocative of the pine forests in Northern Arizona and the East Sierras of California.
We trudged onward, becoming quieter and more focused with every labored step, our legs and backs weary from our full backpacks. I hadn't hiked in over a six weeks and it usually takes a couple of days to break my muscles in to the endless hours of mountain trekking. Although I had brought a five pound first aid kit with me, I had somehow left the bottle of ibuprofen behind in Marrakesh. Mohammed kept telling us "another hour" for what seemed like an eternity but the views were so spectacular, beyond our expectations, that it was hard to complain. We were finally in the High Atlas!
Nearly three hours later, we reached the pass at over 7,000 feet. Like the passes in the Himalayas, a lone stone hut manned by a local Berber was situated on a ridge overlooking a staggering view of snow-covered mountains and Berber villages nestled on their slopes above a faraway river. It was so incredibly immense that its grandeur rivalled views we've had in Tiger Leaping Gorge (China) and on various treks in the Nepali Himalayas. It's difficult to compare the magnitude of this immense valley and mountain range with anything I've seen in the U.S. Although we were only at 7,000 feet, we were above the tree line and half of the mountain slopes were covered in sheets of densely compacted snow and ice.
For lunch, he served us rounds of Moroccan bread and a plate of fish, olives, and slices of a canned meat much like Spam only bright pink. I was so hungry and tired after lunch that I kept imagining that the muddy road we walked along was made of hot chocolate and that the half-frozen earth was fresh baked brownies, crumbling beneath my feet.
Mohammed kept pointing towards the end of the valley to one of the villages that looked as if it could be a part of another mountain range. We passed a man dressed in a jellaba and worn shoes walking a small herd of goats among the pastures...over small streams past a couple of men waiting with another herd of sheep, sipping their mint tea to ward off the cold. Now over five hours into Mohammed's "easy three hour hike," and with our village still across the immense valley, we begged Mohammed to take a short cut so we could arrive before we either passed out or got caught in the chill of darkness. We took a short cut and slid down icy slopes of hardened, refrozen snow, across a low river where rugs were hung to dry and back up into a village. Groups of kids ran in front of us eager to tell the family whose "gite" we were staying in that we were on our way. 
We had the best couscous of our trip that night. One of the men who also guides out of this village, presented us with a plate of couscous big enough to feed eight to ten people. The couscous was moist and fluffy, the carrots, potatoes, and parsnips were all infused with the juices from the beef brochettes and various Moroccan spices like cumin, turmeric, salt, and fresh black pepper. After dinner, we drank freshly brewed chamomile tea, fragrant like a light perfume and utterly superior to any other chamomile tea I've ever tasted. Mom and I passed out under a pile of blankets wearing most of our clothes, fleece hats, and socks. I had completely forgotten how tiring hiking is in the mountains and knew I'd be in pain when at the end of the trek.
I was so tired and cold that night, I could easily have passed out with a cup of tea in my hands, perched against the wall wearing all of my long underwear, fleece, hat, and gloves. We ate by candlelight (literally one taper candle stuck in a used Fanta bottle) as the town doesn't have electricity and the generator was out.
The next day, we hiked again for nearly six hours and limped into town (I stubbornly refused to let Mohammed carry anything from our backpacks, including my camera gear). Mohammed had wanted to take us over another pass for our return trip the next day but he discovered that a local couple had recently attempted crossing it as well. Sadly, the man had fallen to his death along the icy slopes and his wife was in the hospital with a broken leg.
Just for masochistic kicks, we looked at our Lonely Planet guide to check out the miles we had hiked and if we had done at least three days' worth of hiking in two. I stopped reading when it said, "The hike from Imlil to Ouneskra is a gentle first day of hiking..." and slammed the book shut. The damn sandbaggers! I could just kill those sadist rats! (They must be the same writers who wrote all the guidebooks on trekking in China, Tibet, and Nepal.)
So why do we keep doing it? Amnesia, I suppose. That and the fact that it is always these "treks" (in every sense of the word) which yield the most vivid memories...Every view and experience is earned and every footstep magically rewarded with breathtaking views, sweet air, and blissful moments which catch us at unexpected moments (peeling oranges and sharing them with children, trying to catch baby goats, sipping spring water from tin cups). Every taste of tea and bite of bread is ten times more flavorful than any feast bought with money and cars in the city.
But I still would like to have a word or two with those trekking writers... :-)
Namaste and much love,
Rach and Karen
