Another one of those subjects I can’t seem to stay away from - American Motels. Maybe it’s the nostalgia or all the time I’ve personally spent in them? Not sure. Said this in a recent post, but it was shocking to see how many of these old places had shut down during a trip out to Texas a few weeks ago. What a shame.
There’s nothing staged about the kind of cowboy photographs I make. No hired models in brand-new hats. No one pretending to ride for the brand. Just real people doing real work day in and day out, in weather that doesn’t care if you’ve got a camera slung over your shoulder.
For the past 5 years I’ve been photographing working cowboys on ranches across the American West. Not for the sake of nostalgia or myth-making, but because this way of life still exists, and it’s worth documenting. It’s early mornings, long days, sore horses, busted hands, and wind that doesn’t quit. It’s also pride, precision, and an unspoken connection between the people, the animals, and the land.
Most of the time, I’m just trying to stay out of the way. The goal isn’t to direct or interrupt—it’s to be quiet, to watch, and to make images that feel true. The kind that a cowboy can look at and say, “Yeah, that’s how it really is.”
These photographs aren’t just about cowboy hats and boots (though those are in there too). They’re about culture. About people whose lives are shaped by purpose, place, and tradition. And if you spend enough time around it, you realize it’s not just a job. It’s a commitment. A way of seeing the world.
If you're interested in cowboy culture—not the romanticized version, but the actual, hard-earned life behind it, this collection of photographs is for you. No frills, no filters. Just the truth of the West, one frame at a time.
Click HERE to see more of my cowboy photography.
Click HERE to shop my collection of cowboy photography prints
Photograph of a cowgirl sitting in her horse in beautiful morning light on a Nevada cattle ranch
Cowboys sorting cattle in early morning light in Smith Valley, Nevada
A young girl looks at horses tied to a trailer in early morning light on a cattle ranch
Photograph of buckaroos working cattle on a Nevada ranch
Black and white photograph of cowboys roping cattle on a ranch in Nevada
A cowgirl riding her horse through sage brush on a ranch in Smith Valley, Nevada.
A home made roping dummy on a bail of hay on a ranch in Nevada
Photograph of a calf running after being roped around the head
Photograph of a cowboy covered in smoke while branding cattle
Cow testicles in a bucket after a cattle branding on a ranch in Nevada.
Black and white photograph of a cowboy laughing will sitting on his horse tied off during branding on a cattle ranch
Close-up photograph of a cowboys rope going aroud the heel of a running calf
Color photograph of cowboys branding cattle in a pen made with trucks and horse trailers
Blood covered cowboy chaps
Black and white photo of a Nevada cowboy in dramatic light
If you’re not interested in hearing more talk about personal projects than skip this one. It will be a familiar topic forever though, so get used to it if you’re going to stick around. Shot these images back in July of 2019 during a road trip out to Colorado. There was a final destination in mind but the route was unplanned. One of the small towns that popped up along the way was Saguache, CO. And by small, I mean population 424 small. Driving down “Main St” I noticed a very peculiar yet unmarked storefront. Inside the front window was an unidentifiable machine that looked like it came from a different age. (Findings like this are one of the many romantic draws to small towns). The screen door was open so I went in and was greeted not by a person, but a space filled with unexplainable life. A monstrosity of metal, tools, and papers from front to back, but I couldn’t figure out what year it was or what it all meant. There was nobody inside so I tried the jewelry store next door hoping for an answer. Sitting calmly behind the counter was the man I later found out ran the business I had so many questions about. That business turned out to be the town newspaper, the last of it’s kind still being printed on a linotype machine. A what? A linotype machine. The industry standard before the invention of computers. Now they are dinosaurs. Dean was very lackadaisical toward my request to photograph him at work, but nevertheless we made plans to meet again after my 4th of July camping trip. So about 5 days later I was back in a town I had never previously heard of, working on a story about Dean Coombs and The Saguache Crescent. My two days with Dean and the town of Saguache was quite memorable. It all seemed like living in a time capsule. Life there happens in a bubble because Saguache has nothing to draw any tourists, so the only people you’ll ever see are locals. Learning about Dean’s process what both educational and humbling. The patience required by one person to put out a weekly newspaper on a linotype is unfathomable. Hats off to Dean and all the people around the world dedicated to similar tasks.
One morning at the local cafe I sat quietly at the bar waiting for a breakfast burrito that turned out to be the size of a piece of firewood. Haven’t found anything even close to that size since. But just as memorable was a 90 year old man in conversation with a friend, who picked up a jar of sugar and did a 10 second pour into his cup of coffee. Kinda threw all the science about health and longevity out the window.
A while after the trip an edit of images was put together and sent around to a few places and got picked up by The National. We were happy with the placement as The National is a very reputable/long running publication. Then Covid hit and everything went to shit. The piece needed a new home. We received warm feedback from a contact at National Geographic. She liked the photos/story even though it wasn’t a good fit and suggested we pitch it to the Smithsonian Magazine. So we did and 1.5 years later here we are. It can be hard waiting so long for a piece to find a home. The wait is well worth it though when that home winds up being The Smithsonian.
If someone handed me a billion dollars tomorrow I’d still be working on these type of projects. Telling stories about people like Dean and the last newspaper in the world being made on a linotype machine. I’m grateful for the opportunity to tell his story my own way and to collaborate with Nick Yetto on the writing. And to have a personal project end up at a place like the Smithsonian.
Long live the personal project!
THE BAD:This past week was the first time in a while since I’ve been on this particular route through Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. The findings were not good economically. It was hard to see so many familiar small town restaurants and hotels closed, boarded up, or in the process of being demolished. Maybe the timing was a coincidence, but you have to wonder if it was all the result of COVID? Either way it’s a shame.
THE GOOD: Road trips are always so much fun, educational, and therapeutic. This one had me shooting on a cattle ranch (The Four Sixes) in the Texas panhandle where I met some great people and had a hell of a lot of fun shooting with them. Will be a while until I can post those images. So for now you can click HERE to see more of my Cowboy photography.
Another post about personal projects…….
If you’re a fly fisherman then you know The Drake for it’s exceptional photography and writing. So I’m very proud to say that this article you see from the latest issue contains not just my photographs but my words as well. A first for me. Beyond that I’m also grateful that the article is about my friend Zach Benson - an Alaskan fly fishing guide, hunter, duck decoy artist, father, and New York State Trooper. It would be hard to find something more satisfying than hanging out with a friend in Alaska and turning that experience into something like a magazine article, ad campaign, image license, etc. As my career goes on though, this type of thing has become a huge focus. Using my passion/skill as a means to help people I care about. People that deserve it. People as passionate about their craft as I am about mine. For many years I got paid to photograph famous athletes, which is really cool as a young photographer looking to make a name for himself. Then as time goes on you realize it’s all bullshit. And most of the time clients want to create boring images that will do nothing but sell a boring product. That’s not to say there aren’t some really great brands out there that are fun to shoot with. For the most part though, nobody wants to take any chances. They want to play it safe. I don’t know what the Drake’s circulation is? Minuscule when compared to that of a company with reach like the Nike’s of the world. Still though, I’d rather shoot this stuff 8 days a week. And just for the record, The Drake didn’t hire me to shoot this story on Zach. It was a self assigned project that I pitched to them and they bit. No pun intended.
Long live the personal project.
If you’re in the fitness world then chances are you follow brands like Rogue, Nike, 2XU, Rhone, and Reebok because of the guaranteed stream of fitness related content. They are easy follows. I realized a while back that I’m a hard follow. My photography is focused on my interests, which are quite varied. Just look at the blog post previous to this one. It leads off with an older women in a white fur jacket and hat riding her bicycle down a cobblestone street in a postcard European town. So what does that have to do with gritty images of an athletic girl working out? Nothing other than both subjects interest me. Admittedly the woman riding her bike could be classified as a fashion photograph, a subject that bores the hell out of me. I’d classify it more as a culture or travel photo though. The point is, if you’re following someone like me, it’s because you like my photography, not necessarily all of the subject matter. People will always say “you have to specialize”. Why? It certainly make it easier to market yourself that way, but why limit yourself to shooting one subject matter your whole life? I love photography and using it for various purposes like documenting life, not just to create ad campaigns for clients. That’s fun too, but there’s got to be more than that. Stay tuned for the next post on a subject unrelated to fitness that will no doubt preach about the value of personal project, again……
Boulder, Colorado Fitness Photography
Photograph of a female athlete working out on an Airdyne Bike
Fitness photograph of a female athlete performing over the bar burpees
Fitness photo of a girl working out at a CrossFit gym.
Fitness photo of a girl doing deadlifts at a gritty gym
Photo of a girl sweaty and exhausted after a workout - Boulder, Colorado
A girl doing a barbell workout at warehouse gym - Fitness Photography
A female athlete working out at a CrossFit gym - Fitness Photography
Fitness photo of a girl exhausted after an intense workout at a CrossFit gym.
Round two of sharing old work from the archive. One of the positives to come out of COVID is the gratitude we gained for things previously taken for granted. Never would anyone believe that something as simple as eating at their favorite local restaurant would be outlawed for more than a year. For Emily and I, travel is always on the top of the list. There is nothing we enjoy more than aimlessly exploring new places. Doesn’t matter if that “new” is a neighborhood in Southern California or a foreign country. Europe in late December 2019 was our last international trip before the lockdown. The only problem with trips like this is it just stokes the fire for the next one. Which is always a topic of conversation on the long plain ride home. Travel bans almost makes it better because you know there literally isn’t an option of going overseas. 2 years later though, we are itching. And looking through these images only makes it harder, but it will also make us more grateful when we finally do take another trip.
Lund, Sweden
Lund, Sweden
Copenhagen, Denmark
Copenhagen, Denmark
Copenhagen, Denmark
Copenhagen, Denmark
Copenhagen, Denmark
Copenhagen, Denmark
Nijmegen, Netherlands
Copenhagen, Denmark
Copenhagen, Denmark
Copenhagen, Denmark
Copenhagen, Denmark
Copenhagen, Denmark
Copenhagen, Denmark
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Copenhagen, Denmark
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Nijmegen, Netherlands
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Bremen, Germany
Germany
Bremen, Germany
Nijmegen, Netherlands
Bremen, Germany
Nijmegen, Germany
Lund, Sweden
London, England
Over the past few years, I’ve been documenting basketball hoops throughout Europe—not the polished ones inside arenas, but the forgotten, improvised, and well-worn hoops you find in alleyways, apartment courtyards, village parks, and industrial edges of cities. These photos show the global reach of the game in its most local forms.
Each image carries the texture of its surroundings—cobblestone streets, Soviet-era apartment blocks, medieval stone walls, graffiti-tagged fences. The contrast between architecture and asphalt makes these hoops feel different from their American counterparts but no less soulful. They reflect how basketball adapts to the space it’s given, whether in a quiet plaza or behind an old church.
This series is available for editorial and commercial licensing, and it’s a great fit for brands or publications looking to tap into global basketball culture in an authentic, visually arresting way. Whether you're working on a story about international basketball, designing a campaign around street culture, or sourcing imagery for a global brand, these photographs offer a fresh take on the game—and its reach far beyond the NBA.
Interested in licensing these photos?
Please reach out for pricing and usage details. High-resolution files are available, and custom image sets can be curated based on your project’s needs - rob@robhammerphotography.com
Click here to see more basketball imagery from my American Backcourts series.
Photograph of a basketball hoop with a plastic net in Denmark
Photograph of a European style metal grate basketball hoop
Gritty basketball court in Europe
Black and white photograph of a European basketball hoop
Basketball hoop in a rural part of the Netherlands
Moss growing on a basketball court in Europe
Basketball court in Copenhagen
City basketball court in Denmark
Black and white photo of a basketball hoop in a unique European location
Copenhagen basketball court
Basketball court near a European castle
Basketball hoop in Sweden
Basketball court at a church in Europe
APA is a great organization for photographers that I’m proud to be a member of. It’s filled with good people that support and help each other rather than looking at one another as competition. I recently did an interview with them which you can read here:
If you ever get the chance to fly fish in Alaska, don’t think twice, just go. It’s one of the last truly wild places left, and every trip feels like stepping back into a world untouched by time.
Up there, adventure isn’t a side note, it’s part of the deal. The rivers that hold the biggest rainbow trout, the brightest Dolly Varden, and the hard-fighting king and silver salmon aren’t lined with parking lots or lodges. They’re remote, winding through endless stretches of wilderness where the only way in is by float plane. You lift off from the lodge in Iliamna, and before long, you’re flying low over dense forests, braided rivers, and snow-dusted peaks, searching for a sliver of water that could be the site of your next great story.
When that plane skids to a stop on a remote lake or river bend, it’s just you, your gear, and the wild. No roads. No crowds. Just the sound of the current and maybe the distant call of a bald eagle overhead.
Of course, you’re not the only one fishing those waters. Spend enough time wading a remote Alaskan river, and you'll likely be forced out by a grizzly or two doing a little fishing of their own. It's humbling, to say the least. Encounters with bears are a part of the experience — a sharp reminder that you're a visitor in their kingdom. Give them space, respect their presence, and you’ll walk away with stories that last a lifetime.
The fishing itself is nothing short of legendary. Big, bruising rainbow trout that crush mouse patterns in the twilight hours. Dolly Varden dressed in their fall colors, flashing pink and orange like living jewels. Silvers leaping clean out of the water, their sides flashing like mirrors. And kings — heavy, relentless, and every bit as powerful as you’ve heard.
But beyond the fish, it's the feeling that hooks you the hardest. Standing waist-deep in a crystal-clear river, surrounded by wilderness that stretches to the horizon in every direction, you realize Alaska offers something rare: true solitude. True connection to the wild. No cell service. No distractions. Just you, the river, and the fish.
If you’re looking for something more than just another fishing trip — if you want an adventure that shakes you up, fills your lungs with clean air, and leaves you with memories stamped deep into your soul , Alaska’s remote rivers are the answer.
Click HERE to see more of my fly fishing photography.
Click HERE to shop my fly fishing prints and contact me directly about licensing these Alaska fly fishing photographs for editorial or commercial usage
Sunset over volcanoes in Alaska
Alaska Fly Fishing
Alaska Grizzly Bear
Aerial view of Alaska
Alaska grayling fly fishing
Fly fishing in Alaska
Float plane ride - Iliamna, Alaska fly fishing
Iliamna, Alaska fly fishing guide
Every day carries in Alaska
Fly fishing a remote river in Alaska
Silver Salmon fly fishing - Iliamna, Alaska
Fly fishing lake Iliamna, Alaska
Feel free to disagree with this, but the cost of being brilliant, truly brilliant, is that some parts of your brain are vacant. The important parts required for you to deliver your gift to the world require so much energy that the remainder is in a constant state of atrophy. Somewhere on one of my many shelves there's a great book that shares the “wisdom” of the world’s most brilliant people. Aside from the obvious takeaways I was struck by a man infinitely smarter than the rest of us who said that dogs don’t have a soul. “That’s just what you want to be true”. It’s fine to believe whatever it is you believe. We don’t all have to agree on everything, but how could a guy of unquestionable greatness, of unparalleled success, not understand something so obvious? He just didn’t get it.
I’ll never forget a woman stopping us on the street because Mojo reminded her of the dog she used to have. Without solicitation she said “We started taking care of him when our friend got sick (short pause), but really he was the one that took care of us”. That’s what it means to own a dog whether you realize it or not. Doesn’t matter if you think you’re on top of the world or barely scraping by. They are your rock. Seeing that wagging tail through the front door as you approach is the best thing since back roads. They don’t care that you got drunk and made an asshole of yourself at the company Christmas party, how many Instagram followers you have, or what kind of car you drive. Their job is to love and they take it very seriously.
Ask any proper dog owner about their pup and they’ll tell you he’s the best in the world. The funny thing is, they’re all right. Obviously bias is at play but the bond that can occur between human and K-9 if you let it is indescribable. So to say that our relationship with our dog was special isn’t a matter of competition or superiority, it’s just a fact. Makes no difference if that fact is only true to Emily and I. Something worth noting is that we don’t have or want children. So Mojo, who was once a pawn for prolonging marital engagement, became the centerpiece of our happy family. Everything revolved around him. And from his first days with us we began a life that was different. Not for the purpose of being different, but to live the way we wanted. The way that came natural to us. That “way” just happened to be on the road. He went everywhere with us. Literally. 200,000+ miles of everywhere. To 45 of the 50 states. Days, weeks, a month at a time was spent in the truck, together. He was there for every road trip from San Diego to the east coast and back. For every family vacation to Cape Cod, Christmas in upstate New York, fly fishing trips, camping, snowboarding, and of course our wedding. He’s stayed in more cheap hotels and seen more of this country than most humans we’ll ever meet. Talking about it now only reinforces how lucky we are. So how can I do him justice with words? How can I describe the bond we shared? I can’t. That’s not a skill I possess. Even if I did, would it be something people couldn’t understand? Our life on the road has been one that very few people experience. Most probably wouldn’t want to, and that’s ok. For me though, it’s the only way. A special life made truly monumental only by Mojo’s glowing presence and the countless people he’s affected along the way. Through it all he never once complained. Not even after 20 hours straight on pothole infested roads. Never. He just wanted to be with us.
What was Mojo like? For starters he was as majestic a dog as you’ll ever meet, which was an odd thing to address. Random people always commented on how handsome he was. Well, thanks, but we didn’t make him!? He loved adventure, especially in the snow. He was a stoic observer, gaining a lot of enjoyment from taking it all in. He loved but didn’t give away his love frugally. Even with us, outwardly showing love was rare, which made it all the more special to receive. He was a slave to food. A fault I’ll have to take blame for because he always got fed from the table, counter, campfire, tailgate, whatever. My mother didn’t help in that category either. He was always happy but also unimpressed with most things we did. If you tried to make him a puppet or the butt of a joke he would just look down his nose with a stare that made you question who was higher on the food chain. He cared. If ever we had a bad day he knew it and came to help by leaning his body into ours. Try to ignore it or tell him falsely that you were ok and he would paw to make you rub him until fully persuaded you really were ok. The rubbing wasn’t for him, it was for us. On days he truly wasn’t convinced, he’d eventually give up the pushing and sit at your feet. His presence alone made us better. He was protective. Especially of Emily. He was peaceful.
The list of things we will miss about him would require too much of your time and attention span, so i’ll keep it brief. His hair was a welcome nuisance. It’s everywhere and will be for the rest of our days, ensuring that we never forget him. On that note, he had the best neck of any dog I’ve ever met. Never was there a problem that couldn’t be fixed by burying your face in that thick mane of hair. People say that dogs don’t smile. That’s untrue. When either of us was gone for more than a week, upon our return Mojo would gift us, if we were lucky, with a smile that went from one of his giant ears to the other. Same goes for our friends that he selectively grew to love. As great as all the long trips were, it’s the simple things that will probably be the hardest. Morning walks, his calming presence, cleaning up his pork induced drool piles, the way he tilted his head when asked a question, the fact that he smelled like Frito’s after a stint in the truck, or maybe his stupendous resume of outstanding accomplishments like being sprayed 3 times by 3 different skunks and eating an entire case of Clif Bars in one sitting. Wrappers and all. He had plenty of shortcomings that frustrated us daily. They too will be greatly missed.
Death is inevitable for us all. Even more so for the pets we’re lucky to have throughout the course of life. You try to tell yourself you’ll be prepared when the time comes but that’s impossible. We lost Mojo just shy of his 10th birthday. Up until the very end he was happy and healthy. Nothing out of the ordinary that led us to believe he wouldn’t be around for another 4 years like we asked of Alladin’s Lamp. One day the week prior he dragged on an evening walk but was right back to normal the next day. Then on Saturday, March 20th Emily thought he was acting strange after dinner. As usual I brushed it off to her overreacting and the three of us went up to sleep like any other night. An hour later he made an odd commotion that woke me. So I sat down next to him and he immediately laid into me with his whole body. Not sure if I was comforting him or the other way around? Looking back I think he was telling me it’s all going to be ok. Either way I fought as hard as possible against everything that told me he was absolutely dying, and got back into bed after his breathing slowed. My crying woke Emily who took her turn laying with him in the dark next to my side of the bed. The stress of the what-if made the minutes crawl by as I went from watching the two of them, to staring through the ceiling. The nurse in her allowed for a calmness while whispering that he was having seizures and might not make it. She’s overreacting again!! But what if she isn’t?? I joined her on the floor as we both laid alongside him, our heads in his warm mane, crying. With continued calmness she urged me to relax so he didn’t take on my pain too. Minutes later his breathing stopped and he gently drifted away. The following 45 minutes weren’t pretty as we took turns breaking down, one consoling the other, until it was obvious a move had to be made. As much as we didn’t want to say goodbye, looking at a cold corpse the next morning would only further the agony. So we dropped him off at the 24 hour vet, drove home in a daze, cried a lot more, then got back into bed. Sleep wasn’t an option. Lying there in disbelief, tangible stages of emotion came on one after the other. Denial came first. No way that just happened. Had to be a nightmare. Then came the anxiety of reality followed by anger which was the worst and most selfish of them all. I thought, what the fuck, he can’t give us a few more years?? Then, after a moment of dwelling, I realized he already gave us everything.
The following day was a blur. Mojo was gone. Our rock was gone. So what were we left with? Only the positives. Sure we were devastated but our thoughts keep coming back to the magnitude of his countless gifts. 10 years of total joy is so much stronger than any of the hurt we are temporarily feeling. And his greatest gift of all was leaving the way he did. No health issues or diseases that caused a slow decline in quality of life. He wasn’t in prolonged pain emotionally or physically, which means that we were also spared the trauma. How does it get any better than that? We were able to live his entire life with him almost like it was scripted. The amount of life lessons, happiness, and gratitude he has taught us are immeasurable. That doesn’t mean the crying is over, but the memories will always win.
On Mojo’s last day with us I was on the computer screaming at the monitor about a series of professional problems that seemed to have no logical answer. It probably sounded a lot like the furnace scene in A Christmas Story. Right on cue he came in and pushed himself firmly against me. I told him I was fine. He didn’t believe me. So the pushing and petting continued until he could tell from my eyes that I had calmed down. Twelve hours later he was dead. And you’re gonna tell me dogs don’t have a soul?
Much love,
Rob Hammer
PS: we found out soon after that Mojo’s mom died on the same day he did. Not the same day of a different year, the same exact day.
P.S.S. I had never heard about the Rainbow Bridge until a good friend sent it over days later as consolation. The morning after Mojo died it was raining, but we walked anyway, and there was a rainbow over the Pacific. That has to mean something good.
Suggested reading: Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck
Some frames from the last road trip up to Idaho and back. Seems like I’m always saying “______ is my new favorite place” and I can’t help that because I love this country so much. For now though, Nevada is becoming that new favorite place.
Looking at this set of images is interesting because they all fit into the different major ongoing series that have taken shape over the last few years. “American” , “Hotels” , “Barbershops of America”, and the latest “Roadside Meditations” which comes out in June. Only one missing is “American Backcourts”. None of these images were intentional. I didn’t set out with the thought to add to those series, it just happens. Grateful for that.
It’s crazy what BBQ can bring into your life besides good times and a happy belly. There are countless images made on the road that have been a direct result of my love for smoked meat. In December 2013 I was cruising around downtown Cincinnati in a huge snowstorm when a (meat) smoker caught my eye in front a non-descript store front. If it weren’t for the huge plums of smoke coming from it I would have went right on by. Luckily it was about the only form of life on those empty streets that day. So I stopped for some food which happened to be next door to a beautiful old barbershop, which at the time, was closed despite the listed hours stating it should be open. I remember asking the owner of the bbq joint about the barber - “Good luck. That guy comes and goes whenever he wants to. Who knows when he’ll be back.” I had to take a gamble though, hoping he would indeed be cutting the following day. After spending the night I showed up at his stated “opening” time, but there was no sign of the barber. So I sat in my car wondering if he would show. Quite some time after, he did.
Over the past 10 years of working on this project I’ve encountered an almost endless list of characters. Mr. Fausto Ferrari is at or near the top of them all. Despite being in this country some 50+ years, he still spoke very broken English, so our conversations were fun to dissect. One of his long time customers came in shortly after he arrived and it was obvious that they had quite the history together. Halfway through the cut Fausto went into the back room . The man in the chair could see how much I enjoyed the barbers antics and said “I keep a file on my computer of all the stories he tells me”. Fausto was entertaining on his own, but watching the two of them was a gift. The kind of chemistry that can only happen between old friends. They carried effortless conversations that were often interrupted by the barber abruptly saying “Seeeñññoooooorrr” and the man in the seat volleying back with a smile “Faaaauuuussstooo”. Then the conversation would continue like it never stopped until the next volley. A special interaction that I was luck to witness.
Señor Fausto recently passed away after 94 years. A beautiful ride that any of us would be luck to match. Rest in Power Mr. Ferrari. Cincinnati will miss you.
Click here to grab a copy of Barbershops of America
Photo was made on 12/7/13
It’s really interesting to look at what you do and don’t shoot over a long period of time. Way back when I first got going it was only people. That’s all I would shoot. Then at some point drifted away from that to basketball hoops and people-less places in small towns. It was never a conscious decision, but it happened. It was a conscious decision to start again however. Not sure why, although it occurred to me that subconsciously I was missing human interaction from COVID? Don’t know. Either way, it’s a plus. I love America so much. And just this second as I’m typing, a commercial comes to mind of John Cena saying “To Love America, is to love all Americans”. While that’s not a reality for most, it’s true. And talking to people from all over this country can teach you so much, about people, and the country. One of my favorite things in the world is being on an empty road for long periods of time, but nothing can replace the interaction between someone that lives, thinks, and believes in things opposite of yourself. It’s also an opportunity to give. To help change a person’s mind about a possible misconception they have of “people from California”, which as I’ve found out is not a liked stated.
On a photography related topic, you also learn a lot from what you can’t have. The first shot here of the woman in the Minion coat was made about 7:00am while she was out walking her dog/smoking a cigarette. Her response to being asked for a picture was “as long as my face isn’t in it”. That frustrated the hell out of me. What good will this portrait be without her face ? Then she put her head down and the Minion eyes/mouth appeared and solved the whole problem. And on top of that you can still see the cigarette sticking out. So the result wound up being way better than the image I originally set out to make.
Winters are typically when I spend the most time on the road to get as much snowboarding in as possible. This has been a very dry year for snow but that hasn’t kept the miles off at all. The better part of the last 30 days was on the road for two different trips filled with a weekend getaway to Tahoe for Emily and I, a commercial shoot, two editorial shoots, personal shooting (of course), and a “ski” trip with old friends in Sun Valley, Idaho that turned into a fly fishing trip due to the severe lack of snow. More on all this later.
There is no end to the pleasures that fly fishing can provide a person once they get past the initial suffering that comes along with the sport. That’s not to say it ever gets easy, you just learn how to screw up less. For me, one of the great pleasures is watching the way light, or the lack thereof, can transform a river. Might not look like it, but this was a cold December day on the South Platte River in Deckers Canyon. The solitude a canyon brings is great. It also brings endless shifts of light that can be equal parts beautiful, tricky, and frustrating from a photography perspective. One of my biggest difficulties with fly fishing is a positive one; deciding whether to fish or to photograph. After years of deliberation the obvious conclusion presented itself - fish when the light sucks.
Always blows my mind to think about the simple act of talking and where it can lead. A while back I stopped in Laramie, Wyoming to say hi to a barber I’ve known there for a few years. Afterward while walking Mojo around town I came upon a gunsmith shop (not this one) a few blocks off the main street. A gunsmith at work is something I’ve been wanting to photograph, so we popped in and introduced ourselves. That interaction didn’t result in the desired outcome but it was still informational/entertaining. The owner didn’t want to be photographed for a variety of reasons. Some of them valid. The rest were…….irrational??!! The somewhat brief conversation consisted of his opinion on the world today and how “you can’t even go to Denver anymore because everybody is getting shot.” He asked if I had a gun and was upset to hear that I only kept it in my truck. “That’s not good enough. You have to keep it on you! That’s when they get you, when you’re getting out of your truck !”. I’m not disagreeing that the world is a sort of a disaster, but it also seemed like his thoughts were that of a person who might not ever leave their small town. Maybe I’m wrong?! And no disrespect to small towns. They are my favorite. Afterward I asked if there are any other gunsmiths in the area. He replied with very vague information about a guy that possibly works out of his house on a dead end street down near the highway. So I went looking and somehow found the place only recognizable by small stenciled letters “Gun Shop Parking” on the chimney bricks near the front gate. Otherwise the house was totally nondescript and didn’t show any other signs of life. A knock on the door confirmed nobody was home. Not a big deal. It was on my radar for the next trip through Wyoming.
There aren’t a lot of positive things things to say about American highways. Whenever possible I try avoid the soulless stretches of poorly maintained pavement that teach you very little about the country and the towns/people that inhabit it. The 15 on the other hand is something special. It’s one very long stretch of highway that’s as fascinating as any “blue highway” (backroad) in the USA. I’ve personally been traveling this road since 2006 during the move from Upstate, NY to San Diego, CA. It blew my mind then and still does today. Once you get north of the clusterfuck that is Los Angeles /Riverside County and into the desert, there’s a lot to love. Images can be made from the highway or, if you want to get more intimate, try ducking off into one of the many small towns along the way.
Last month I was working on a a few stories up in Montana without a ton of time to get there, so The 15 it was, straight up north from southern California. Regardless, I ALWAYS find time in-between destinations for one or many of my ongoing series. This trip found images that will fit nicely into the “America” and “Hotel” series.
Places like Lima, Montana are endlessly fascinating no matter how many small towns I see. As someone who lives in a frustratingly populated place, it’s stimulating to stand in and see the beginning and end of a town only 75 yards long surrounded by nothing but rolling hills. You can’t help but wonder what everyday life is life for the people of that community.
The second set of images were made in St. George, Utah. Also interesting for different reasons. Although much bigger than Lima, it’s still a small town “in the middle of nowhere”. One thing that stands out is the way they build homes there to blend in to the environment. The color palette matches almost seamlessly.
As has become standard, the miles are piling up this season even with it be an extremely dry winter around the western states. Really unfortunate for the ski industry. I’m sure Vail is doing ok though!!??
Seems repetitive to say that this “last” road trip was great, memorable, productive, etc. etc. etc., but reporting otherwise would be a lie. Time on the road really is a special adventure that should never be taken for granted, nor should it ever be rushed. Grateful not just for the time spent in Montana, but also for the two stories I worked on and will be sharing more of soon. After Montana it was south to Colorado for a hut trip in the Gore Range which was truly unforgettable. The longer I snowboard the less desire and patience I have to ride at a resort. Being in the backcountry is always rewarding, but being in a hut with good friends miles and miles away from everything else is in a whole different category.
Images coming soon.
When you’re a kid the “golden arches” of McDonald’s are a beacon. Recognizable anywhere at any time of day or night. You can see them without even looking. It’s probably been 15 years since I’ve eaten at McDonald’s but it comes to mind every time I work on this project. Weird correlation? Probably, but basketball hoops have become very similar to those famous arches. A shape so distinctive that my mind subconsciously registers it and tells me to hit the breaks. American Backcourts the series has been going on for about 10 years now, yet even after publishing the book it’s a subject that never seems to get boring.
Click here to see more basketball photography from the American Backcourts series. And contact me directly with all print inquiries for your home, office, and commercial space.
