Early exposure to Jonathan Swift, followed by years of damp Pacific Northwest weather have shaped my sense of humor. I lack the canny street smarts of Red Green, but also the dreariness of Ibsen. It’s a nice balance.
I’m a photographer by trade, but this has varied. A few years back, you would have found me in a classroom at Auburn High School, teaching Visual Communications. Before that, there were years as a finish carpenter, boat builder, roofer, cannery worker, “Santa Shack” photographer (and consequently chief Santa wrangler/stand-in/elf).
But the profession I always drift back to in between the random career shifts – the work I love – is photography. Perhaps I was just lucky, but I feel privileged to have watched the craft change from wet darkroom to digital, so I’m comfortable kvetching with the cranky, hunched old timers reminiscing about the days when potassium ferricyanide was the secret to bringing out the details in the shadows of a print, but I also feel comfortable debating with 20-something designers the pros and cons of working in L*a*b color mode. But don’t get me started on Holgas. A man has his limits.
And I run. My wife’s a personal chef (and a good one at that) so we run. We run a ridiculous amount. In the first 18 weeks of 2010 I ran 18 races of marathon distance or longer, finally at the Tacoma Marathon achieving my goal of qualifying for Boston. Did I mention that we run?
We live in Seattle near Greenlake with a couple of spoiled-rotten cats.
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