The Dark Slide :: presented by Matt Mendelsohn Photography

Rites of Spring

2008-03-25T21:25:00.009-04:00

No rants today, I promise.

Spring is in the air here in the nation's capital, and ranting would just spoil the karma. The cherry blossoms are about to bloom, the Nationals are about to christen a new stadium, and the White House lawn was filled yesterday with thousands of children, most of them giddy at the prospect of having their pictures taken with Mickey Mouse or Strawberry Shortcake or Snoopy.

(Any character, that is, except Teddy Roosevelt, the goofy nine-foot Washington Nationals mascot my daughter is absolutely terrified of. "What is he doing here?!?" asked Alexandra, as we entered the White House grounds. I honestly believe that I can lay claim to the only four-year-old in America who has nightmares about a dead president.)

The White House Easter Egg Roll aside, we're fortunate to have a more subtle, more personal harbinger of spring each year, and we don't have to even leave our house to see it. As if keeping to a train schedule, every March a bird takes up residence in the nest a foot or two off our kitchen window. Sometimes a robin, usually a mourning dove, I watch each day with fascination as the mother patiently sits on her eggs, oblivious to everything around her.

I'm not bird expert, and so I always wonder how these birds find this same nest. Word of mouth? Is there some bird equivalent of Yelp! or Craigslist, where a cardinal can find a nice duplex in North Arlington for not that much? (In fact, go ahead and compare the two images, from this year and last, and I'd swear it was the same bird returning.)

Last year, as some of you might remember, the chick's arrival came on a sad day indeed for those of us here in Virginia, just minutes after a moment of silence for the 32 students gunned down at Virginia Tech. I didn't want to read too much into it at the time, but the touching coincidence stayed with me for a while. This year, we wait again, just as eager to see a couple of scrawny necks peeking out of their nest. In a world filled with so much sadness and war, it's always amazing to me how much joy I can get out of some baby birds being born outside the kitchen window.

And while we're on the topic of birth, I did want to share a beautiful maternity image I shot in the Old Town studio a few weeks ago. I photographed Alicia and her family a few years back and was delighted when they told me they were expecting again. Sometimes women are unsure of what to bring to these portrait sessions and my standard response is something along the lines of, "don't think too hard about it." Well, Alicia brought along some wrappy thing (a very technical fashion term) and within an instant transformed herself into a perfect incarnation of a Greek goddess. That was a neat trick. (As usual, double-click the images for better viewing.)

I'll close this short post today with a couple of photos from yesterday's White House event. The first picture is of our friend Denyce with her daughter, Ella. The last time Alexandra and Ella saw each other they were munching on chocolate crepes under the Eiffel Tower. Now both girls are a few years older and it was fun to hear Ella's talking voice, which is rich and distinctive--just like mom's. I have this dream of shooting Denyce and Ella in costume someday at the Kennedy Center, Big Carmen and Mini Carmen.

The second picture is Alexandra, of course, who might have a thing against Teddy Roosevelt but never met a fairy she didn't like. No, Alexandra is all about fairies and we were happy to see such a convincing one on the South Lawn.

Hope you all had a happy Easter and I wish you all a happy spring. Wedding season begins this week, so we'll be back with some fun pictures in no time.

Matt

In a handbasket

2008-03-11T20:17:00.014-04:00

As I get ready to fly to Las Vegas on Thursday, where I will be staying in that "other" Paris, the one that, sadly, many Americans will happily substitute for the real European city-- the one we visited just last month-- I couldn't help but think about the ever-blurring line between reality and manufactured reality.

There's nothing like staying at Paris Las Vegas, where the facade looks like it's made of foam core and the shops all sell French bric-a-brac, which usually means rooster serving dishes and rooster coasters and rooster pitchers. What is it with the roosters? It's like someone told the Las Vegas folks that French country style is all about roosters and they haven't looked back since. But if it makes people feel more French and if it makes them gamble a bit more, who's really to mind? After all, Las Vegas has always been about fake reality, from the New York skyline to the Venetian canals. Even the lighting in all the shopping areas makes it feel like perpetual dusk.

I'm going to Las Vegas to judge the photojournalism category at the Wedding and Portrait Photographers International conference. And as you can imagine, there are a few wedding photojournalists--just a few--for whom the line between reality and staged is already fairly thin. Those walking-down-the-country-road-and-dipping-the-bride pictures might fool them but they don't fool me. I've shot 450 consecutive weddings and have never seen that happen for real. So maybe Paris Las Vegas, with all those roosters, is the perfect venue. And then again, maybe I'm a good person to ask to judge.

I had already been in this frame of mind, of distinguishing real from fake, after my brother's brilliant op-ed piece in this past Sunday's New York Times. In that column, Daniel discussed the rash of fabricated memoirs that have plagued the publishing world of late, beginning with James Frey "A Million Little Pieces" a few years back, and ending with last week's revelation that the highly touted autobiography of Margaret Jones (in actuality, Margaret Seltzer), "Love and Consequences," is a complete and utter fraud. (She said she was a half-white, half-Native American member of a South Central gang. Turns out she was an all-white valley girl, which, I guess, is close enough for government work, as I like to say.)

As Daniel pointed out, the crimes of these fabulists is not that they've plagiarized work, but rather plagiarized experience. The sadness, the suffering, the horrors of these respective memoirs belong not to them but to other people. Even the genre of Holocaust memoirs has been sullied--a field my brother and I know something about--with the revelation that a bestselling 1997 memoir by a Polish Jew was all made up, right down to the sympathetic wolves.

(In hindsight, one would think that would have been a giveaway. Kindly wolves? It sounds like an after school special. There's a an old Woody Allen stand-up routine I used to listen to when I was a teenager, the one where he's "discovered" at a Klan rally. As Woody tells it, he's at this rally and they ask for donations and when it comes his turn he says, "I pledge fifty dollars." About to be killed, he relates how his whole life flashes before his eyes--growing up in the South, buying gingham for Emmmy Lou--until he realizes that it's the wrong life that's flashing.)

Believe it or not, though it will all seem apropos in a moment, none of this was on my brain this afternoon, when, as I was driving my car on the George Washington Parkway, I realized this country was going to hell in a handbasket faster than a speeding bullet. And it all has to do with more fake reality. Yup, it was right near the Key Bridge, as I listened to a WTOP radio report about a new vest that is being marketed to "hardcore gamers," those people who spend their entire lives waving their arms at their fifty inch LCD televisions, that I knew it was time to hoist the Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter banner.

Why, you ask? What could be so wrong with a vest for video gamers? Well, you see, this particular vest, made by a company called TN Games (I was driving and trying to scribble notes, the horror of which even a video game can't replicate), uses puffs of compressed air into various pockets to simulate the effects of....ready?....being shot or stabbed or even Bazooka'd. So when the cartoon Nazi pulls his trigger, you feel it in the chest.

Well, if that isn't exactly what the youth of this country need right now: a more enhanced, more real simulation of what it feels like to be gunned down. It's not enough that this particular report of WTOP was done during a jovial exchange between reporter and anchor, as each gushed about the coolness of such an accessory. As my mind raced around the recent reports, on the very same radio station, of the deaths of two accomplished young women, both shot, on the campuses of Auburn University and Chapel Hill, I kept waiting for the kicker. Surely, one of these journalists would bring up the issue of the sanity of such a gaming device. Surely one of them would mention Virginia Tech or Northern Illinois or the mall in Omaha. Surely.

Nope, no such luck. Just a fun exchange about the latest gotta-have-it gadget from the gaming industry. As the anchors and reporter finished their banter, one of them did raise the issue of whether a vest like this could lead to "desensitizing" people to the effects of gun violence. The reporter assured said anchor that he had been told by the manufacturer that the vest could actually be a good tool towards "sensitizing" people to violence.

Well, there's logic for you. It's not just a vest which heightens a video gamer's sense of violence, it's a teaching tool. Heck, why not bring it around to elementary schools, so all youngsters in America can have an early simulation of what it feels like to be murdered in the cafeteria.

Look, I know I'm supposed to write fluffy pieces about weddings but tonight's not one of them. We are a culture that is losing it's grip. Our children already spend so much time playing their Xbox 360's and their PlayStation's that stories abound of overweight kids who go to a real tennis court and find they can't hit a ball like their televisions promised they could. (Just last week The Onion featured a headline that read, "Federer shows up to Grand Slam event with Wii controller.")

Add to this the fact that so many of these video games are not about tennis and golf and baseball, but rather murder and car theft and war. Does anyone really believe that the images these kids are seeing--game after game after game--are not leaving an indelible mark? Well, if not, they now have the simulated indelible mark, thanks to the folks at TN Games.

Pathetic. Truly pathetic.

*******

I want to switch gears completely here and give a little holler to my friends Stephanie and Stewart Brown. I shot their wedding some nine or so years ago--I can't even remember anymore--in an adorable little church in Maryland. It was one of the earlier weddings I photographed, come to think of it, but I still remember, all these years later, cursing the microphone that was coming out of Stephanie's head.

We've stayed friends through all these years, and they have two great boys. In fact, Stewart and Stephanie know another couple whose wedding I photographed, Diane Halpin and Kevin Cordell, and we all went to dinner at Blacksalt a few years back. (Diane Halpin is the world's greatest pediatrician, by the way, so we see each other every time Alexandra has a cough.)

Stewart had a little medical issue come up last week and he was incredibly brave and
tough through a very, very long surgery. So was Stephanie. And I'm sure the boys as well! So I just wanted to say, hang in there, Stewart, beer is on the way. Well, maybe not this week but soon enough. Get well soon.

******

And one last tidbit:

The other morning, the Washington Post ran a big story about the state of our national Mall. In a word, it's a disgrace, and I applaud the Post's Marc Fisher for taking the time to write about it. What began as a celebration of our nation through parks and monuments, cherry trees and statues, has turned into an endless sea of jersey barricades, chain link fencing and permanently parked construction and police vehicles. Security bollards are placed without thought, public areas are cordoned off, and snow fencing has replaced manicured walkways. (The scenes below were all taken within twenty feet of the actual White House border. The White House!)

September 11 was in 2001. It is now 2008 and someone needs to take charge. I'm not in favor of more government, but we need an aesthetics czar and fast. For years I've shaken my head as construction equipment is left encircled by chain link fence on the Ellipse. For years, I've sighed heavily as I've watched tourists have to photograph the White House as they're surrounded by chain link. And ever since 9/11 I've desperately hoped for some consistency with regard to the placement of those stubby things called "bollards." (In front of the Federal Reserve they are the wrong color and placed so close to the original steps that they create a visual claustrophobia. In front of the Senate offices they don't match the right architectural style.)

I know it's not fashionable to speak highly of the French, but that's just nonsense. We should look to Paris for guidance here. The notion that the French would allow their beautiful city to be so cluttered with Jersey barricades is laughable. Take a stroll through les Jardins du Luxembourg and see how much chain link you see. This past winter, there was story about a new tradition started by the National Park Service, the lighting of tremendous "yule" logs in a pit on the Ellipse. It seemed like a fun idea--people gathering around a huge fire pit before the holidays, singing carols and sipping hot chocolate. Then I saw the photo that accompanied the story: the pit was surrounded by chain link fence. Currier and Ives just rolled over in their graves.

According to the Post story, Chip Akridge, a big developer and avid runner, wants to do something about the uglification of this once beautiful part of our nation's capital. He's created the Trust for National Mall and hopefully some of these issues can finally get the hearing they deserve.

Paris, and no Hilton

2008-02-07T20:31:00.000-05:00

I know we're all supposed to love Paris in the springtime, but trust me, January ain't all that bad.

We made our second January excursion to the City of Light in the last three years, and I can see making it an annual pilgrimage. After all, what's not to like? The city is just as beautiful, the lines at the Louvre are are a breeze, and there's nothing better, quite frankly, then sitting outside a bistro in St-Germain-des-Pres on a cold winter night watching people walk by. (I can't for the life of me figure out why Americans can't figure this part out. The space heaters make it nice and toasty and the view can't be beat.)

And this trip held the added bonus of staying not in some random hotel, but rather the apartment of a friend. It makes all the difference in the world. Hotels force you to go out to eat each meal, to have your clothes pressed at absurd rates (and if you want to know what absurd means, check out the dollar against the euro), and to go out on some concierge-approved plan each day. They make one think like a tourist.

An apartment, on the other hand, forces one to live; to buy groceries each morning at the Monoprix or the cheese shop, to figure out those damn European washing machines (is it the sun symbol or the umbrella symbol or the half moon symbol??), and to wander smaller side streets. I guess the goal of any traveler is to blend in, and on this trip we came closer than ever.

(Not to mention that our address, 3 rue Jacob, came with a history. We learned that Madame de Lamballe, Marie Antionette's best friend lived here. And, without getting too grisly, it was from this location that she was famously taken by the revolutionary mob, beaten and dismembered, before having her head paraded on a pole for her friend to see. Well, I guess that was grisly.)

This was Alexandra's third trip to Paris in her four years, and I can't tell you how adorable she was saying "bonjour" and "merci" to everyone she met. It took her all of three minutes at the Jardins du Luxembourg to latch onto a French school field trip. Only one of these kids, who had traveled three hours from central France, spoke a word of English but that didn't seem to matter at all. By the end of an hour they were all ready to adopt Alexandra and bring her home with them.

Between the pony rides at Les Tuileries, the hot chocolate at Angelina (again!), and the seemingly endless cavalcade of carousels (no city could possibly have more), Alexandra was having a blast. We were too, though the aforementioned Euro exchange rate is enough to give anyone the blues.

The reason, by the way, we were in France was to help my brother celebrate the great success of the French translation of his book, Les Disparus. Winning the Prix Medicis is huge, obviously, and we got to see for ourselves: when we entered a cafe one evening Daniel was immediately surrounded by book-wielding fans looking for an autograph.

(I should also mention that it was my father's first trip to France (or Europe) at the tender age of 79. I think he liked it, though he kept saying that Starbucks had bigger and better coffee. How do you say oy vey in French?)

Anyway, here are some pictures:

Take care,

Matt

p.s. A quick shout-out to our good friend Katharine Weymouth, who was named publisher of the Washington Post today. (I'm not even sure if one can still qualify for a shout-out if said person is now a publisher of a legendary newspaper.) We've known Katharine since our dogs, Cooper and Max, were best buds as puppies. Yikes, that was ten years ago. Anyway, we couldn't be more excited for you, Kath!

I photographed Katharine two weeks ago in the Old Town studio and think she looks fantastic here.

Hash House Harriers

2008-02-03T17:03:00.000-05:00

A little bird has been whispering in my ear that my posts of late have been a tad on the ponderous side. “Get back to weddings,” this bird keeps chirping.

Well, okay. I try and keep a good balance on The Dark Slide, alternating between a bit of weddings and a bit of history, and as the pendulum swings once again, we now return to our regularly scheduled program. (But first, do check out my latest column at www.sportsshooter.com regarding the bombshell announcement last week that Robert Capa’s long lost negatives of the Spanish Civil War—known as the “Mexican Suitcase” in photo circles—has finally been found. Whew, got that in!)

And just to prove that we can go two in a row without drifting into weighty territory, I promise that this post will be followed shortly with some fun pics from our recent trip to Paris. We love Paris in the wintertime; the crowds have thinned, the weather is mild, and moules frites abound. Plus, I know you guys always like to see what new cultural landmark Alexandra will be jumping in front of.

So, on with the weddings!

It seems to me that I should begin any post about a couple that had a three-mile fun run for all of their wedding guests on a cold winter morning with, well, the run itself. Because that run seemed to represent everything that is important to Doug Sackin and Jessica Adelman: family and fun.

I got to the Willard Hotel on the morning of Jessica and Doug's wedding to find just about every guest--guests I would later see in suits and ties--laughing in the lobby, dressed in sweats and hoods and gloves. Jessica, bride-to-be-was decked out in running attire, complete with a veil. As I was warned before the wedding, Doug is a hashing enthusiast, and he and Jessica have become followers of the world's most eccentric running club, the Hash House Harriers. (Say that three times fast.)

What's hashing, you ask? Well, without getting technical to the point that someone will write in an correct me, hashing is basically a way of turning competitive running into a much more inclusive, fun, and adventurous pursuit. I Googled and here's the best all-around definition I could find:

"Hashing is a state of mind- a friendship of kindred spirits joined together for the sole purpose of reliving their childhood or fraternity days, releasing the tensions of everyday life, and generally, acting a fool amongst others who will not judge you or measure you by anything more than your sense of humor."

Everyone is welcome on the fun runs, old and young, in shape and out. (In fact, some of the participants were not even walking yet!) The point seemed clear to me: have fun, laugh with friends, get some exercise. Hashers (and I'm not sure if I'm using these terms correctly) follow a trail that has been left earlier in the day, along with some clues designed to throw the scent off, so to speak. Once again, from the Hash House Harriers home page:

"The Hash House Harriers is a more social version of Hare and Hounds, where you join the pack of hounds (runners) to chase down the trail set by the hare or hares (other runners), then gather together for a bit of social activity known as the On In or Down Down with refreshment, humor, song and sometimes a feast."

Who could argue with that? And what better way to spend a chilly Washington winter morning? As the entire wedding party gathered in the middle of Pennsylvania Ave. for a group photo, I thought to myself, this is a fun way to begin a special day.

I returned later in the day for Doug and Jessica's actual wedding. Sweatshirts and scarves were replaced by tuxes and gowns, but the sense of fun was still there. As I walked into the room where Jessica was getting ready I found her mom taking a nap on the sofa, her dog snuggled beside her. Jessica and Doug's pooch was ambling around the room as well. My kind of wedding.

The ballroom at the Willard looked spectacular, with the chuppah in the center delicately balancing scores of votives. And because the ceremony configuration was in the round, all guests had a good vantage point for the proceedings.

People always assume that January is a "slow" month for wedding photographers, but I have to say some of the most fun I've had at weddings has been in the winter. There's a cozy feeling that hangs over a winter wedding, something that's a bit hard to explain. And needless to say, things heat up a bit as the first strains of the hora are played.

And in this case, Jessica and Doug had some extra help. Jessica's sister, Jocelyn, plays violin with the Richmond Symphony and she and her pals joined in to lend the band a hand. Even later, she dazzled the guests with a beautiful rendition of a piece called "Invocation." (Jocelyn probably didn't expect a wedding photographer who would talk her ear off about the Shostakovich Fifth Symphony, the greatest orchestral work of the twentieth century. But how could I resist, knowing that her thesis revolved around the question of Shostakovich's subversive/compliant relationship with Stalin? I alluded to this longstanding debate way back here.)

I probably should wrap this up: It's 11:00p.m., the Giants have just won the Super Bowl (my dad is very excited right now), and I have to teach at Boston University's new Center for Digital Imaging campus in Georgetown in the morning. I'll be back in a day or so with some of those Paris pictures I promised earlier.

See ya,

Matt

p.s. As always, double-click images for better viewing.

Bird Bites Dog

2008-01-23T20:49:00.000-05:00

Just five days ago I wrote a column about the odd things photographers collect, and how one of my most treasured possessions is a signed print of Nick Ut's 1971 Pulitzer Prize winning photograph--without a doubt one of the most recognizable photographs ever taken.

I worked with Nick when I was in Los Angeles in the early nineties and, like most photographers of my generation, had idolized him for years before ever meeting him. Nick called me yesterday from Los Angeles and said that he hopes we can get together when he comes out to Washington for a ceremony in which some of his cameras will be given to the Newseum. I can't wait.

I've always tried to make The Dark Slide less of a wedding blog ("and Jennie wore a gorgeous Vera Wang dress...") and more of a ongoing exercise in connect-the-dots. I try to make connections--from the wedding world to photojournalism and from the current back to my past--that lead somewhere. Learning today of the deaths of two great photographers, I was again reminded that life truly does follow such a path of connectivity.

My signed copy of Nick Ut's photo is something I cherish. Needless to say, it's a photo every young news photographer knows well, an image I can remember looking at over and over again during lunchtime at Mattlin Junior High School on Long Island. But I have lots of other photos that mean a great deal me, photographs that may lack the recognition of Nick's image but are equally as important. One such photo, taken in 1961--one year before I was born--has to be one of the oddest, a bizarre encounter between one truly peeved bird and one dopey golden retriever.

It's signed by the photographer, right down there in the right hand corner: George Honeycutt, 1961. It's a remarkable picture--a weather feature, I'm guessing. Remarkable, of course, because, well, you just don't see a lot of birds taking on dogs ten times their size. When I started my career in Binghamton, New York we used to call these photos "enterprise." As in, "Matt, we need some enterprise art for 1A." For the non-newsies here, that usually gets translated as "Matt, we don't have a clue what to put on page one tomorrow. Can you go drive to a park and find us a sunny day photo?"

I did that a lot but I never got a picture this good.

George Honeycutt died on Tuesday of a stroke. His son, Kevin, who runs a company which produces massive charity events and who gave me this picture some eight years ago, wrote to tell me, as well as point me to an appreciation piece in the Houston Chronicle, where his dad served served as director of photography for thirty-three years. Thirty-three years. Wow.

Kevin has always been very proud of his father. I knew it way back when he gave me the bird photo. We were sitting in a diner near the town of North Pole, Alaska (which is nowhere near the north pole but makes a lot of money selling postcards to tourists who couldn't care anyway), eating some of the best pie you'll ever have, when Kevin started telling me about his dad. We had time to kill, as the thousands of cyclists who were taking part in the Alaska AIDS Vaccine Ride still had fifty miles to ride that day. Kevin told me about this photo his father had taken, the one of the bird and dog, and promised to send me a signed copy as soon as we got back to civilization. He kept his word.

But today, when I clicked on the link Kevin sent me, I learned a lot about George Honeycutt that I didn't know: How he saved a fellow photographer from drowning with only a camera strap, how he won accolades for a 1966 piece on poverty in Texas, and that he loved to fish. I love hearing stories about photographers, especially those of the generation before me, and I'm glad I had a chance to learn more about the man behind this photo that has always made me smile.

*******

Another great photographer passed away this week, one whom I did have the pleasure of knowing, if just for a few years. If Nick Ut's photo blindsided a nation with the horror of the war it was waging in Southeast Asia, Bernie Boston's iconic 1967 image of an anit-war protest single-handedly captured the growing tide of discontent with that war. Like Ut's picture, Boston's picture is timeless: a young man in a turtleneck sweater placing flowers in the barrels of soldier's guns. It's a photograph that became spokesmodel for an entire generation, much like the image of a lone protester waving off a tank in Tienanmen Square would some twenty-two years later.

I had the pleasure of working alongside Bernie Boston when I came to the nation's capital in 1988. To say that he was a true gentleman would be an understatement. Politeness oozed out of the man. He treated younger photographers with incredible kindness and generosity. And other than veteran Washington photographer Doug Mills, whose bald head has been recognized below more congressional hearing tables than perhaps anyone else, Bernie Boston was not a difficult guy to spot in a scrum. His ever-present cowboy hat was a hallmark of the Washington news media.

In fact, Bernie's cowboy hat is one of the reasons I'm writing this photography blog today. Back in 1984, when I was still a clueless English major in Binghamton, New York, reading "Absalom, Absalom" and "Look Homeward, Angel," Ronald Reagan made a campaign swing through the Triple Cities. By this point in my life I was spending far too much time working for the college newspaper and far too little time reading Faulkner. I covered Reagan's stop at Union-Endicott High School and was mesmerized by the presence of the traveling White House press corps.

"There they are!" I thought, as I watched the photographers whose photo credits were legendary to any budding photojournalist: Dirck Halstead, Bernie Boston (yup, he's the one in the cowboy hat), Barry Thumma, Wally McNamee. Ronald Reagan was on the stage but somehow I was shooting pictures of the press corps! (It wouldn't be the first or last time in my life that I'd miss the main picture.)

When I read this afternoon that Bernie had passed away I knew exactly where to find that old contact sheet from Endicott, New York. It's one of those relics that I stumble upon from time to time, one that always reminds me how I got from point A to B.

Matt

p.s. As always, double click photos for larger viewing. And if you can identify anyone else in the press corps photo, extra credit! Top picture by George Honeycutt, Vietnam protest by Bernie Boston.

It's about time!

2008-01-22T21:32:00.000-05:00

Fun news to report tonight: a childhood friend of mine, Marco Beltrami, a composer who has become the go-to guy in Hollywood for horror and action films, received his first Academy Award nomination today for his score to 3:10 to Yuma. Many critics say it's long overdue.

I'm quite confident that Marco wouldn't recognize (or even remember) me at this point in his life. But back in the late sixties and early seventies we saw each other several times a year. Marco's dad, Nino, is a mathematician and one of my father's oldest friends. We used to visit the Beltrami boys out near Stony Brook, Long Island, where we would have races down the enormous wooded hill in the backyard of their home. One weird memory: I remember coming down with chicken pox at the Beltrami home one year.

Anyway, Marco vaulted to stardom after he wrote the score for a small film in 1996 called Scream. It made a few dollars, if I remember correctly.

Congratulations, Marco!

*******

Also from the Dep't. of Overdue Praise: My dear friend Kelly Corrigan, whose wedding I photographed many years back in Radnor, Pennsylvania, is now officially a best-selling author, having popped up on this week's New York Times bestseller list with her newly released memoir, The Middle Place.

I first wrote about Kelly back in October of 2006, after she had started her cancer website and had written a children's book about cancer called "Last Year, This Year." You can find that post here.

Since then, Kelly has been hard at work on The Middle Place, a memoir that touchingly (and, not surprisingly, knowing Kelly, humorously) deals with both her own breast cancer as well as the bladder cancer that her father, Big George, was struggling with. One doesn't ever expect to share chemo treatments with a parent but Kel did just that.

Last week I had the honor of hearing Kelly read from The Middle Place at Thyme Out in Gaithersburg. Thyme Out is a place where folks can prepare delicious meals for their families (thereby avoiding expensive take-out) and happens to be owned by Kelly's dear friend, chef Missy Bigelow Carr. Yup, I shot Missy's wedding as well!

It was fantastic to see Missy's business doing so well and Kelly's book gathering incredible word of mouth. (Kelly did a segment with Ann Curry on the Today show last week.) To get a feel the effect this book is having on regular people, read this story.

So skip on over to Amazon.com and pick yourself up a copy of The Middle Place. We're proud of you, Kel!

Matt

Double Exposure: What happens after the shutter is released?

2008-01-15T16:49:00.000-05:00

Photographers are a curious lot when it comes to the things we collect. Every shooter I've ever known has a closet filled with boxes upon boxes of odd mementos, faded press passes sporting more youthful (and thinner) headshots, and favorite photos made by our friends and idols.

I'm no different. Though I have copies of my own photos signed by the likes of Oprah and Jimmy Carter, I'd be more likely to share with you some of my more offbeat collectibles, like the official candy bar of the Million Man March (it always seemed a bit off-message to me), a cigar I picked up near the bombed out Commandancia in Panama that reads "Antonio Noriega" around the band, or the signed copy of Catch-22 I secured when I photographed Joseph Heller at the USA Today building in Arlington. (Oh, wait. I gave that to my childhood friend, David Fischer. You so owe me, David.)

One of my all-time favorites comes courtesy of the international airport in Riyad, Saudi Arabia. It's a bright orange puffy envelope used by the airline for items that can't be brought aboard an aircraft. The items, presumably collected from passengers before a flight, would be given back to said flyers upon landing. A pen knife, you're thinking, or a pair of scissors, right? No. Printed right there on the envelope, in big, bold letters is the following warning: "If item removed from passenger is valuable, like a gold dagger,..."

Like a gold dagger! I'd love to see the folks at TSA deal with that one.

I do have a couple of things that aren't frivolous, of course. One of them is a print of one of the most famous photographs ever taken, signed by the photographer. In fact, it's so famous an image that I really didn't need a photo here. All I really need to say is "girl runs down street screaming after napalm attack" and you'll instantly conjure the image. There aren't too many photographs that have that much visual recognition.

The photograph was taken by Nick Ut, one of the true living legends of photojournalism. I consider myself incredibly luck to have worked next to Nicky for the couple of years I was in Los Angeles during the early nineties. I was shooting for UPI and Nick was with AP, of course, the same outfit he made the napalm photo for. We were competitors, technically speaking, but Nick doesn't see anyone as a competitor once the scrum is over. He is a teddy bear of a guy, someone so polite, so caring, so lovable that you sometimes have to remind yourself that he took one of the most haunting photographs of the twentieth century.

In fact, I simply need to point to the inscription, which I'm somewhat embarrassed to report reads, "To my best friend, Matt...Nick Ut" to illustrate my point. As much as I would love to think otherwise, the truth is I'm not Nick's best friend. Not even close. But that's just it. Nick sees everyone as his best friend and vice versa.

I shared a lot of laughs with Nicky in Los Angeles. He was never one to turn down a free meal, especially the big Rose Bowl media dinner held at an L.A. steakhouse. I think they called the event the Beef Bowl or something. And I'll never forget a press event to introduce a new perfume line from Elvira, the late-night TV vamp. We photographers love our swag and I can still picture Nick stuffing twenty bottles of free Elvira perfume into his Domke bag.

"Nicky, what the hell are you going to do with all of that stuff?" I asked.

"I give to wife!" he said with a huge smile.

I haven't seen Nick in a while (the last time, I think, was chasing Monica Lewinsky around Washington. Nick is such a veteran of the Los Angeles courtroom beat that his editors sent him here to see if he could work some magic on the east coast). But two recent back to back stories about him caught my eye and reminded me what a great human being he is. They also reminded me of the great compassion that photographers often have for their subjects.

The first appeared a couple weeks back in the Washington Post, by Phillip Kennicott, headlined, "Poles and Decades Apart, Two Silent Screams Issue Discomfiting Reverberations." The story analyzes the odd bookends that now seem to define Nick's career: that iconic image of a young Kim Phuc running down that road in Cambodia in 1972, coupled with another great photo taken by Nick Ut thirty-five years to the day later, a teary Paris Hilton being hauled off to L.A. County jail. To the day, ladies and gents. Is there some cosmic irony at work here or are the parallels purely poppycock?

Kennicott writes: "...placed side by side, these two images begin to take on meaning, slowly, in counterpoint, in part because they seem weirdly uneasy in each other's presence. The proximity of something so serious (war) with something so trivial (celebrity sightings) should create sparks of cultural blasphemy. Enumerate everything these two images might possibly have in common, and you quickly find they resist each other almost like the poles of a magnet."

The story is really a fascinating read, one that shrewdly examines the widening chasm between serious journalism and celebrity obsession that has developed in the intervening years. Again, Kennicott's own words:

"But there is this: On both the basic, factual level and in a broader, more metaphysical sense, we made them. Kim Phuc's misery was the collateral damage of a war we made. Paris Hilton's vanity and fame and preposterous sense of entitlement is the collateral damage of a society we made. Before filing these two images into their proper categories -- the tragedy of war, the vacuity of the home front -- we should acknowledge the one thing they have in common at the deepest level. We own them, they are us, and they define the odd limits of our silly, foolish, bloody-minded species."

Another story that same day in the London Telegraph by John Preston, titled "Nick Ut: Double Negative," covers much the same ground, though it somewhat annoyingly fails to make the distinction, as Kennicott's does, that Nick is not a paparazzi but a working news photographer who, quite often, must cover the same celebrity events that the paparazzi are chasing. It is this intersection of serious journalism and frivolous tabloid pursuit that is at the heart of both pieces. (In fact, the beauty of Nick's Paris Hilton picture is that he not only beat the younger, rowdier paparazzi in getting THE picture but that he also made it seem carefully composed and thought out. Tabloid photographers want a picture; a photojournalist wants the picture.)

The Preston story does go a bit more into depth into Nick's lifelong relationship with Kim Phuc, the girl in his famous photo, now 44 and running a charity for children in Toronto. Seconds after making his photograph, which of course won him a Pulitzer, Nick did what any human being would do in a similar situation: he cared for her burns and drove her to a hospital where she would receive care. There's no issue of crossing lines or ethical boundaries here. Being a journalist doesn't mean one gets a Get Out of Jail Free card when it comes to being a compassionate human.

"Uncle Ut definitely saved my life," Kim Phuc tells Preston. "When we arrived at the hospital, the doctors all thought I was going to die. I had third-degree burns over 65 per cent of my body. After everything that had happened to me, he was the one person who restored my faith in human nature."

Only a few months back, the Los Angeles Times published an amazing two-part story by staff photographer Luis Sinco titled "Two Lives Blurred Together by a Photo." It examines the unique bond often shared by photographer and subject, in this case a weary Marine forever immortalized by Sinco as the "Marlboro Marine" of the Iraq war. One seemingly innocuous click of a shutter can change lives, as evidenced in Clint Eastwood's Flags of our Fathers or Frank Johnston's devastating search for the haggard Marine in his famous Peace Church photo from Vietnam, a topic I discussed here a few months back. The road from obscurity to universal symbol is almost always fraught with land mines. In Sinco's case, the ambivalence he feels for "creating" a media icon of Lance Cpl. James Blake Miller, no matter how well intentioned, ultimately leads to a near-intervention in Miller's post-Iraq plunge into PTSD. Like Nick decades earlier, Sinco treads carefully upon the line between journalistic objectivity and basic human compassion. I may have gotten him into this mess, can't I at least help him get out of it? he seems to be asking.

Well, what would a Dark Slide post be without just a bit of serendipity? As I was pondering these stories about Nick Ut and Luis Sinco et al. I received an email from one of my former bosses and mentors at USA Today, Frank Folwell, telling me he was leaving the paper after 21 years. Frank is another legend in photojournalism circles, someone who has led the nation's newspaper through every single technological advance of the last two decades--from an early analog transmitter in a Haliburton case called a Leafax through Sony Mavica still video cameras to today's megapixel-loaded Canons and Nikons. He's scouted every Olympic venue dating back to the ancient Greeks themselves and is as even-keeled as they come. (He came from the Des Moines Register, what do you expect?) All this without ever forgetting that it is always the photograph, not the technology, that is paramount.

So it's no surprise then that one of Frank's photographs, taken on a cold day in Croatia in 1991, is one that had an enormous impact on my development as a photographer. The photograph is of a little boy and a grandfather walking down a road, the old man lugging what has to be the sorriest Christmas tree since Charlie Brown presented his lame specimen to Linus and the gang. Of course the beauty of the image is that the little boy is beaming like he had just chopped down the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. War was ravaging his homeland and he has not a care in the world. Pure joy.

I'll never forget the day I saw that picture run in USA Today. It left such an impression on me--the juxtaposition of sadness and hope--that I knew right then and there that I was on the right path. The picture became a gold standard of mine for years, something I never told Frank all these years until we spoke last week.

Here's what Frank wrote:

I took the picture in December 1991 on the way to covering the massacre of 43 civilians by Serb paramilitaries in the small village of Vocin in Croatia.

It was ironic to encounter young Dario Rahle and his (step) grandfather Juro Botincan walking along with a newly-cut Christmas tree. At least one reason for the big smile might be that Christmas was not officially celebrated in communist Yugoslavia. Croatia had declared itself independent and despite an ongoing war, the citizens began to observe the holiday.

I think most readers were struck by the scraggly tree and Dario's jacket with the broken zipper. Several people sent me new jackets for him.

I got letters and calls for several years asking for copies of the photo and inquiring about how they could help Dario. In February 1992, Sherry and I took several boxes of gifts to the family - all sent by readers. Also, there was a pretty substantial amount of money sent to me that we were able to give the family. On our next visit we found they had bought a freezer, something that makes a big difference because they can preserve their produce and meats. They had chickens, geese, pigs etc.

Over the years we have tried to keep in touch with the family. Grandfather Juro has died. Dario was doing odd jobs since he could not get a job as a baker. We have tried to give him help and support but he is probably still doing day work.

In order to communicate we have to go to his home, which is a 90 minute drive from Zagreb. They don't have a phone and don't respond to mail. We hope to visit him this year.

Once again, a great photographer whose heart is in the right place. Photojournalism will no doubt face more and more pressure from its bastard cousin, the tabloid press. But the paparazzi don't care about their subjects any more than a seal hunter cares about the pup he's about to club. Great photographers like Nick Ut, Luis Sinco, Frank Johnston and Frank Folwell care and that's what will always separate the good guys from the mob. I'll leave it to Nick Ut, whose mastery of the English language has always been a source of good-natured ribbing from his colleagues, to wrap this up with what has to be the quote of the year, a simple yet staggering reflection:

"It's a strange feeling because I know I will never take another photograph that's as good as this - not as long as I live. When I look at my photograph of Kim and my photograph of Paris Hilton, I think they are both good pictures, in their way. I suppose the big difference is that I grew to love Kim, whereas… well, frankly, I don't give a damn about Paris Hilton."

Well said, Nicky.

Matt

Hapy New Year!

2008-01-03T10:40:00.000-05:00

I'm rushing today as we're leaving for Paris shortly. As I mentioned in my last post, the French translation of my brother Daniel's book, "Les Disparus," recently won France's highest award for a non-French author. It's called the Prix Medicis and previous winners of the prize include Milan Kundera, Philip Roth and Umberto Eco. Daniel has some speaking engagements and we're going to go over and join in the fun.

(Paris in January may not be Paris in the springtime, but it's actually a nice time to visit. You can see the Mona Lisa as often as you like and drink hot chocolate at Angelina to your heart's content. The usual hour wait outside on the Rue de Rivoli vanishes.)

I didn't want to leave without posting a few pictures from the gorgeous Christmas wedding of Cara Magee and Patrick Leroy. I say Christmas but the wedding was actually on my birthday, December 22, which, for anyone born on the days immediately preceding and following Christmas will tell you, is a rotten time to be a kid. Everyone always assumes you get twice as much but most kids will tell you that there birthdays on those dates just get lost in the shuffle.

I won't tell you how old I am but the knees are starting to creak a bit. Put it this way: the other day ESPN Classic was showing Game 4 of the 1969 Wold Series between the Mets and the Orioles and I knew all the Met players by name. (My favorite piece of baseball trivia: Did you know that Tom Seaver once struck out 19 batters in a game, including the last ten in a row to end the game. Ten in a row!!!!!!!)

But I digress, as I always do.

Patrick and Cara had an absolutely gorgeous wedding at The Ritz Carlton in Washington. The weather was perfect, Christmas lights were everywhere, and the reception room at the Ritz looked like a ice palace.

I'm sure Cara has heard this many a time before, but she bears an uncanny resemblance to Arlington's very own Sandra Bullock. All brides are radiant on their wedding day; Cara just radiates at 110%. Like her lookalike, she has movie star thing going in spades. And while I've repeatedly told you all that I know as much about fashion as Borat, I do know that there's something about a winter wedding dress with a beautiful wrap. The white winter wrap always manages to conjure Dr. Zhivago for me, Lara and Boris on their way to the ice castle in Yuriatin.

Patrick and Cara were married at one of my favorite churches--I say favorite for purely selfish reasons--Holy Trinity in Georgetown. It's one of the few churches where no one bothers me (read: no dour church lady) and the light is nice and even. My assistant Matt, who was just married a month ago himself, was on hand to make the critical balcony coming-down-the-aisle-from-above picture.

(You could tell it was the weekend before Christmas because the street in front of Holy Trinity was devoid of cars. I assumed that there were emergency no parking signs up but it was simply that everyone was out of town! believe me, you don't see an empty street in Georgetown very often.)

Anyway, congratulations to Patrick and Cara on their beautiful wedding. They're in Tahiti right now, where I'm sure the tempertures are dipping into the 20's like they are here in Washington.

Also a big thank you to Cara's mom, Christine, who was so easy and fun to work with. And a reminder to Cara's brother, C. Max Magee, creator of one of the most impressive
literary blogs around, The Millions, to unwrap the copy of The Lost I sent-- the one that's gathering dust-- and start reading. :)

*****

Some housekeeping notes: I'll be out of town for the next week and half but I will have email access. Please don't leave phone messages, as the phone doesn't work over there. (Another reason to get an iPhone!)

If you're a prospective bride or groom looking to set-up an inteview, just shoot me a note and we'll meet in Old Town when I return. there are still a couple of dates open for 2008!

And finally, a big happy new year to all of you faithful readers. I never imagined that a blog could draw as much traffic as it does--and from so far away. Thanks for all your great comments and emails.

Matt

p.s. As always, double click the images for better viewing.

A list truly worth checking twice

2007-12-16T14:55:00.000-05:00

We've been so busy trying to fulfill holiday orders that I was fairly certain I wouldn't have a chance to write again before the holidays. But then I happened upon Oprah's annual "Favorite Things" installment last week and I couldn't wait to get to the keyboard.

Now I like Oprah as much as the next guy. As wildly successful and rich people go, what's not to like? Her show is always fun to watch, whether it's Dr. Mehmet Oz dissecting a spleen or Tom Cruise self-destructing in mid leap. And her charity efforts in places like South Africa always get me teary-eyed. Oprah's okay with me.

Except, that is, for her annual holiday episode, in which the art of giving is always reduced to its most vulgar form. To see grown adults flailing away and gasping for air after being told that they're all receiving a set of plastic juice tumblers or the latest Mp3 player is just too much for me to handle. Yes, I know Oprah always handpicks the audience for this day of material worship, just like Willy Wonka and his golden tickets, and yes, I know the audience is always comprised of deserving people, but none of that lessens the degree of cringeworthiness I feel when watching each year. Perhaps it's not so much that audience members faint over being given juice tumblers; it's that they cheer and stomp usually only after being told the retail price of said gift. It's the declaration of price--the proof that their gift has value--that prompts the hysterics, not the gift itself.

There's not a lot more to be said about Oprah's Favorite Things episode. Saturday Night Live did the definitive parody years ago, complete with bodies being launched into the air, and not much has changed since. Oprah does spend a lot more time, it seems, reiterating that her favorite gifts are the ones that have no commercial value--"appreciation" is the greatest gift, she recently said--as if to lessen the obvious distaste that this one episode can conjure.

Seeing people hyperventilate over a free panini press (from Williams Sonoma, $99.95!) can only help focus oneself on the truly important things in life. We don't have a list of cookware we endorse here at Matt Mendelsohn World Headquarters, but we do have a list of favorite people who are deserving of your thoughts this holiday season. Forget about applauding for iPods--let's hear it for these people.
____________________________________________

Lindsay Ess

Over the years, I've been fortunate to work with a lot of fun and talented professionals in the wedding business. One of my favorites is Kim Giammaria, the best wedding make-up artist in the region. I've been bumping into Kim for years and years, from messy bedrooms in private homes to presidential suites at the Four Seasons. I always smile when I see her upon arriving, because I know that we'll have lots of good gossip to catch up on.

A few months back, Kim began telling me about an extraordinary young woman she was very close with named Lindsay Ess. Lindsay, 24, is a recent graduate of Virginia Commonwealth University, where she majored in fashion design. From all the stories I've heard from Kim, Lindsay is the kind of person you don't forget--beautiful, full of energy, and, most of all, always exuding kindness.

Lindsay went into the hospital this August for what should have been routine surgery to help her manage with her Crohn's Disease, a chronic inflammation of the digestive tract. But a few days later sepsis set in, an extremely serious condition in which organs begin failing. I'm no doctor, obviously, so I will instead direct you to a story about Linsday's condition in the Richmond Times-Dispatch here. The bottom line is that as a result of the sepsis and the circulation loss caused by it, Lindsay lost both her arms below the elbows and both her legs beneath her knees.

I know from Kim's frequent emails that Lindsay is both struggling and fighting mightily, something one could only expect from such a catastrophic event. Her emotional swings will be as tough to conquer as her physical needs. Lindsay was recently transferred to a rehab hospital in Baltimore where she will begin the very long road to recovery. She will need all the support she can get. A fund has been set up to help her family deal with what will likely be staggering medical costs. Visit her page at www.loveoflindsay.com. You can make donations to help directly online at the site. And even if you can't make a financial contribution, please sign the guest book and let Lindsay know you're thinking about her this holiday season.
_________________________________________________

Alexis Goggins

Alexis Goggins is not your average seven-year-old kid.

Earlier this month the young Detroit girl threw herself in front of her mother in order to protect her from a carjacker, a former boyfriend of her mom. When the gunman shot her mother in the front seat of their SUV, Alexis instinctively lept from the back of the car to protect her. Mom was shot twice, but it was little Alexis who bore the brunt of this violent crime. She was shot six times, with wounds to the temple, chin, arm, cheek, chest and eye. She lies in a Detroit hospital right now in critical condition, her eye already lost, though able to squeeze her mother's hand.

When I read about Alexis' plight last week I was amazed at her selflessness, even at such a young age. In the split-second before being shot those six times, Alexis yelled out the words that would make any parent weep: "Don't hurt my mother!" We live in a very sick society where roles are reversed and children must sacrifice their bodies to protect adults from gunmen.

In a world in which the word hero is applied perhaps a little too liberally these days, Alexis is the real deal. In reading editorials about her acts in newspapers around the country, I came upon these words by Lester Holmes, a writer for the Journal newspapers in Wayne, Michigan:

During the holidays we are told to express our love by buying the most expensive gifts we possibly can. While receiving a nice gift is memorable, there are expressions of true love from the young people in our lives that we pass by every day without acknowledgement.

The way your daughter seems to give you a hug after a hard day, even through you didn’t mention one word to her about what happened. How about the way your son tries to help you with the groceries despite the bag weighing more than he does?

While we are busy in our lives and sometimes view the eagerness of our children, nieces/nephews to help as more of a nuisance than assistance, maybe we just need to be grateful that they think of us so much that they want to help.

Just like Alexis, your child has no income. Just like Alexis, the child in your life finds a way to give an expression of love that trumps any gift money could.

Please keep Alexis in your thoughts this Christmas. Donations to a fund set up for her can be sent to the Alexis Goggins Hero Fund in care of Campbell Elementary School, 2301 E Alexandrine St, Detroit, MI 48207. And you can read more about her story here and here.

________________________________________________

Everyone who helped with Photo Marathon

I know I've said this many time before, but I really do feel incredibly lucky to have such a great client base. Over the past few years you guys have helped us raise money for MS research, tsunami relief, and, most generously, the college funds of several young children whose fathers were killed in Iraq. I can't believe that I'm even typing this, but we're right around $45,000 in money donated to these great causes. $45,000!!!

I want to thank all of you who have pitched in to help, from strangers donating money to friends buying coffee and doughnuts. I never dreamed that giving away money would become part of my job description as a portrait photographer but now that is, I couldn't imagine doing it any other way. To Laura Gonzalez, Julie Newell, Bill Auth, Carolyn Alers, Matthew Girard, the folks at Alpha Fotoworks and Black and White, and all the wedding and portrait clients who keep returning each year to donate money, I thank you deeply.

A special thanks to Charlotte Freeman, the wife of Capt. Brian Freeman, who was killed in Iraq this past January. We don't deposit any money raised from our Photo Marathons, instead opting to send our beneficiaries all the checks we collect. It ends up being a lot of checks, mailed in one FedEx shipment. I've been getting a lot of calls of late describing the touching thank you note they've received from Charlotte. I never expected--or wanted--her to have to write so many notes. But the fact that she has speaks volumes about her character.

Lastly, to my wife, Maya, who not only puts up with my crazy ideas on things like Photo Marathon but has to process all the images to boot. I wouldn't be able to do it without you.

Happy Holidays to all!!!

Matt

Leave the gun. Take the cannoli

2007-11-15T16:32:00.000-05:00

Years ago, I went to see an exhibit at the Corcoran entitled "What Remains," by the legendary photographer Sally Mann. Usually associated with provocative large format images of her children, this time Mann had turned her camera to a more ethereal subject, the paradox of what effect time and the earth have on our bones, and, conversely, what effect our bones have on the earth and time.

I was fascinated (and grossed out, truth be told) by Mann's haunting images of femurs and fibulas slowly turning into ash. In a peculiar twist, an escaped convict was shot and killed on Mann's Virginia farm and she began photographing the spot where the man had died, looking for any clues that the earth changes just a bit each time it witnesses such an event. Not exactly a crowd-pleasing topic, but Mann has never been one for pleasing crowds. Years after seeing that exhibit, the concept of "what remains" has stayed with me with me longer than the photograph themselves.

It certainly popped to the surface the other day after a series of bizarre coincidences had unfolded. As you all know, bizarre coincidences follow me almost as much as my neighbor's cat, Sparkle. I sometimes feel like Rod Serling is going to pop out from a corner and tell me that it's all been one long Twilight Zone episode.

So the other day was November 13th. It was Cooper the Wonder Dog's 10th birthday. Did I remember? Of course not. I reminded myself to remember all week but forgot when the actual day came around. The funny part is that the night before, on November 12th, I stumbled upon my 1997 pocket diary. I have no idea why it suddenly turned up on my nightstand, though I'm assuming the cleaning ladies found it in the closet or something. So there I was, sitting on my bed, perusing this ten-year-old artifact of dates and contacts, a glimpse back into every appointment and assignment I had that year. According to my book, on January 20th I photographed the inauguration, on April 22 I met the Dali Lama while shoting an assignment on Larry King, and on October 7th I went out to buy a silly rocking horse for a Chris Rock shoot the next day at the Four Seasons hotel. Don't ask. I laughed as I tried to figure out who half the names in the address book belonged to. It's both amazing and disheartening to realize just how many people were prominent in your life ten short years ago, people whose whereabouts today are a total mystery.

Anyway, there I am looking at this freshly certified relic, when I thought I should see what I was doing exactly ten years ago. The answer should have been obvious: We were arriving, at 7:35 a.m on Air France 29, in Paris for our honeymoon. The only other notation was for the next day, November 13, a big asterisk that said "Katy Kelly's BD!" (It didn't say "Cooper's birthday," obviously, because there's no way I could have known Cooper was about to be born the next day.)

Katy is a great friend of mine, dating back to my USA Today days. We used to go out on assignments together in the early 1990's. Then one night we had to drive to Baltimore to cover a convention of adults who collect Barbie dolls and we haven't stopped laughing since. And since I forget so many birthdays, I felt like there was some divine influence at work here. I thought, how cool is this, I would have never remembered Katy's birthday the next day if not for finding this ten-year-old date book.

Well, guess what? I forgot to call Katy the next day. So now I'm 0 for 2. I forgot my dog Cooper's birthday, as well as the birthday of my friend Katy. Serendipity, shmerendipity.

And what does this have to do with "What Remains?" Well, on the day before my day of forgetting things, I happened to bump into a friend on the street in Georgetown. I was crossing R Street into Montrose Park, a place I've shot so many portraits over the years that Sally Mann might want to come over and see what effect one playground can have on an individual, when my friend Alexandra Kovach pulled up and said hi. Alexandra is in charge of events at Evermay, just down the block, one of the most beautiful places one can be married in Washington. It's an old mansion in Georgetown that oozes a different kind of history than most other important landmarks in our nation's capital. Unlike, say, neighboring Dumbarton House, with its Federal era mannequins and its Society of Colonial Dames, Evermay's history is all family, all personal.

Evermay was home to the Belin family for much of the last century and their presence can be felt all over the grounds, including the final resting place of several family members. Photographs of the Belins can be seen all throughout the house, from the day in 1923 they moved in to some of the overseas conferences Mary Belin, the family matriarch, attended when she was a translator for the State Department in the 1930's. (An accomplished tennis player, she also played on center court at Wimbledon in 1938!)

Every time I photograph a wedding at Evermay I find myself staring at Belin family photos all day long. There's something about the staying power of one single image, of one fleeting moment in a family's life, that makes me marvel. It's the opposite effect of walking into a Pottery Barn and seeing all the living room setups lined with fake books and fake photos. At Evermay, all of those people in the pictures actually once called this place their home. This isn't a museum, it's a home. And without the photographs, it would just be another venue.

And so the day after my day of forgetting meaningful things, I Googled Alexandra Kovach to get her number at Evermay and follow up on our chance. But Google gave me something other than a phone number.

The first thing it listed was a story written in the Washington Post by one Alexandra Kovach, titled, "What Fire Couldn't Destroy." Intrigued, I began reading. Dated October 27, just a couple weeks ago, when fires were ravaging Southern California, the story is a first-hand account of the effects another terrible fire, the Oakland Hills wildfire of 1991, had on a little girl. Kovach writes:

I still visualize our house on Vicente Road. I have dreams that take place there. I can still feel the lace on my mother's wedding veil, which my sisters and I would sneak out of its box when we were little girls with big ideas. Or the texture of my parents' bedspread, as we read "The Wind in the Willows," leaving my dreams filled with visions of Mr. Toad floating down the river, night after night. And that giant box where my mother would proudly store the artistic treasures we brought home from school. I would love to see now, or to show my children one day, how I drew the sun when I was 5.

Before I could even finish I picked up the phone and called Alexandra.

"Hey, funny bumping into you on the street yesterday. Um, I was trying to find your number and I Googled you and found this beautiful and sad story about the Okaland Hills fire of 1991. Is that you??" (I mean, how many Alexandra Kovach's can there be, right?)

"I did write that," she said.

"Um, you won't believe this, but I was there that day," I said. "I covered the Oakland Hills fire. I was up from Los Angeles for the Cal football game. I've never seen anything like that. There were only chimneys left as far as the eye could see."

Just another coincidence in my life. Here is someone I know writing movingly about a fire that took her childhood home away in a flash--and with it all her toys and books and photographs--and it turns out I was in the very same place those sixteen years ago, looking at the same devastation, though from a very different perspective. 3,000 homes were burned that day in 1991 and now I felt odd, hoping that Alexandra's house wasn't one of the ones I photographed.

And if you think the Rod Serling stuff is over, think again.

Like many of the people who asked me when my own piece was in the Washington Post in September, I asked Alexandra how she came to write the story for the Post. She told me that she had mulled it over while watching the news, but that it was reading my story in the Post that gave her the courage to pursue it. I was floored. Even by my standard of coincidence and serendipity, this was getting downright spooky.

If you haven't already, please read Alexandra's touching essay. It goes right to the core of "What Remains." What do we keep? What do we lose? What are the remainders?

As Alexandra tells it, the only photo album her family was able to save from the burning house was the one that she and her sister had made of "reject" pictures no one else wanted to save. The ones with the bad expressions, the bad complexions, the eyes closed.

"Overnight, these snapshot disasters became our greatest treasures. Today's digital photos can be modified or erased within seconds of being taken, wiping away all signs of human imperfection. These albums had held the outtakes of our lives so far, but in their flaws, they were true testimony to the children we were and the adults we became, making them all the more precious."

For years I've been trying to explain to people the importance of photos that are real, not staged and manipulated. I've bitten my tongue when the occasional wedding client rejects a stupendous photo because his or her hair was out of place, or when a Georgetown mother rejects a gorgeous photo of her child because he has a scrape on his chin. You're missing the forest for the trees, I usually mumble to myself. And now Alexandra Kovach, the friend who I bumped into on the street that day in Georgetown, a chance encounter that caused me to Google her, an internet search that led to the discovery that her own home was burned to the ground in a fire sixteen years earlier, a fire I witnessed, and an emotional story she felt confident in relating partly because of my story in a newspaper sixteen years later, that Alexandra Kovach was now perfectly summing up my very own feelings about photography itself.

One of the great ironies of the digital era is that in the end, only paper will survive. Faced with raging fire, no one ever runs to save their hard drive. People run to save their photographs. A photograph on a laptop is data. But when printed on paper it is a relic, a prized possesion. It's these photographs that have so much meaning to us, the ones that we put in frames and tape to our monitors and store in the attic. The printed photograph will never die, even in 2057, when we're all driving flying cars and the metric system will have finally arrived, because it will always have one leg up on its digital counterpart. Like humans, the printed picture is alive, gets beat up, and becomes frail and brittle over time. Data is just that--data.

She may not have thought much about this, but I now realize that Alexandra is the perfect person to be at Evermay, a house filled with so many important family photos. In fact, each time I'm photographing a wedding at Evermay, I feel drawn to read and re-read the same letter that is on display in one of the cases. It's a letter from Harry Belin to another family member describing the night he went to pick up his son who was arriving from Germany. Something terrible happened that night. Thankfully the son survived, but the account of the tragedy is so gripping, so riveting in its fountain pen cursive script on yellowed and torn paper, that I often drag wedding guests over to make sure they've seen it. It's incredible: The fire, the "burning hulk crashing to the ground," the desperate search for and reunion with family.

Oh, did I mention? The Belin boy was on the Hindenburg.

Matt

p.s. Speaking of important keepsakes, the pictures that accompany this post are all from last month's Photo Marathon. Click them to make them bigger.

The Great Joni Mitchell Cover-up

2007-11-13T22:02:00.000-05:00

A rant, a rant and a rave tonight.

And to get to those items faster, I'll dispense quickly with the obligatory apologies for taking so long to blog. As I said last time, this is crazy time in the life of any photographer, the holidays just around the corner, and I've been a tad busy. This past weekend, for instance, I shot seven portrait jobs. Like I said, a tad busy.

Now that's we're clear on that, on to rant number one.

Many of you know that I'm a bit of a Joni Mitchell nut. To say that I consider Joni to be a part of my family--as odd as that sounds--would not be a stretch. I've listened to Blue so many thousands of times in the past 25 years that I sometimes think I'm the one who needs a river to skate away on. Like a security blanket, Joni is always there for me. From Hejira's Coyote (love that Bay of Fundy) to Turbulent Indigo's Magdalene Laundries, I've stayed true. None of this fair weather stuff. (That great scene in Woody Allen's Stardust Memories, where the space aliens tell him that they love his films--"especially," says the martian, "the early funny ones.") Nope. I've been with Joni for the long haul.

Now, friends can be hard on a lifelong Joni fan. You get teased in ways that, say, a lifelong Bruce Springsteen fan might not. One friend who shall remain nameless, unless, of course, you've read my last blog entry, has accused me of listening to "mopey chick music." Fair enough. Coupled with my love for Aimee Mann and Nanci Griffith and Gillian Welch (the mopiest of them all--Maya once attempted to throw herself from the car when Gillian started singing The Revelator) I guess I can see the argument. But Joni isn't really mopey at all. I mean, how could you not love someone who can write like this:

I met a redneck on a Grecian Isle/ He did the goat dance very well/ He gave me back my smile/ But he kept my camera to sell.

When I read in the New York Times recently that Joni was set to release a new album, Shine, as well as lend her songs to a new work by the Alberta Ballet, I was excited. I wasn't too thrilled to learn that the album was being marketed exclusively on Starbuck's Hear Music label, as corporate synergy has worn me down of late, but excited nonetheless.

So a week or so ago, as I waited for my venti hot chocolate at the Macarthur Blvd. Starbucks, a joint where the baristas work so damn hard and still get your order wrong all the time, I noticed the album for the first time. I scooped it up, knowing I had a nine hour drive to Savannah in front of me, and hit the road.

That's when Maya noticed the cover. Or should I say cover-up?

The cover of Shine is a beautiful photograph of dancers with the Alberta Ballet engaged in a lunar leap of sorts. It's evocative, it's moody, and it's a noticeable departure from many of Joni's albums that feature her own artwork. I feel ridiculous stating this, but for the record, the muscular male dancers are all wearing tights. There is not a nude body to be found.

But in the spirit of John Ashcroft, who was so offended by the sight of a woman's breast that he ordered a new set of drapes, someone at Starbucks clearly has some issues. How else can one explain the hideous band of blue paper that covers, quite neatly, every single tush in the photograph? It's as if buying a Joni Mitchell album has suddenly become akin to leaving an adult bookstore with a paper-clad girlie magazine.

Would someone wake me when this all ends? Have we become so absurdly prudish as a society that the bodies of male dancers--clothed!!!--can't be shown on an album cover? Is someone worried that a child might see these dancers and, god forbid, dream about going into the arts? Nigel Tufnel couldn't understand why the "Smell the Glove" cover was censored in This is Spinal Tap. But that was a movie farce--this is real life.

I went back into Starbucks to see if any other album they sold had an added "wrapper," but couldn't find one. And to head off any explanation that the wrap was added to give more visual clarity for sales purposes, Joni's own Blue, which features one of the hardest to read titles of any album--blue on blue type--is also sold at Starbucks, sans wrapper.

That someone in the corporate world would actually worry that ballet dancers' derrieres might be offensive--only in America, right?--is not surprising. But I am very surprised that Joni would go along with such a harebrained scheme. We're talking about a woman who, by her own admission, didn't go near a piano for the last ten years because she so despised the record industry. Et tu, Joni?

Back in the late 1970's, when I was attending Mattlin Junior High School on Long Island, a music teacher named Miss Sparrow was trying her best to be hip. She was teaching a lesson about "modern" music and was about to play Jimi Hendrix's version of the Star Spangled Banner. (Other favorites included overly deep analysis of the Beatles' incredibly simple "Michelle.") But before she let the needle drop onto the record player (record player!), Miss sparrow cautioned our class that the music we were about to hear was so powerful that we could be potentially be harmed. As if she was about to give us all LSD, she dutifully asked if anyone wanted to leave the room. One of my classmates, David L., sheepishly raised his hand and left.

Jimi Hendrix would no doubt get a kick to learn that ballet dancers have joined his club.

Rant #2.

Last night Maya and I went to see Bruce Springsteen, courtesy of my friend and former bride, Laura Gonzalez. Laura knows that I'm as big a Bruce fan as I am a Joni Mitchell nut. I won't forget her kindness very soon.

The concert was sublime. I first saw Bruce at the Carrier Dome in 1985, on the Born in the USA tour, and it's hard to think that almost 22 years have past since that show. And even if I factor in the handful of times I've seen Bruce since that first show, none of them can top last night. Sure, the Verizon Center felt a tad geriatric, as middle aged bald guys maneuvered down the stairs clutching their beers, but big deal. The true believers showed a little faith and there truly was magic in the night. As Jon Stewart said last night, a Springsteen concert is about nothing but pure joy.

(Alexandra's great parlor trick, as four-year-old parlor tricks go, has always been her rendition of Thunder Road. I love the way she blissfully skips past lines like "Lying out there like a killer in the sun...")

As the show progressed, Backstreets morphed into Thunder Road. Thunder Road into Born to Run. All the anthems you could have asked for, and all framed by the incredibly powerful songs off the new album. I'm not sure what constitutes an instant classic, but I was almost moved to tears by Devil's Arcade, a heartbreaking song told from the perspective of an Iraqi war widow.

Remember the morning we dug up your gun
The worms in the barrel, the hanging sun
Those first nervous evenings of perfume and gin
The lost smell on your breath as I helped you get it in
The rush of your lips, the feel of your name
The beat in your heart, the devil's arcade

So, if everything was as great as you describe, Matt, what's to rant about?

Cell phones. And for a laugh, not because of their noise.

As if I didn't have to deal with enough dopes and their ever-ringing cellphones at weddings each week, I now can't go see a live music event without seven hundred people holding up their phones for the entire event, all of them trying to not-so-secretly record some absurdly low-res video to post on YouTube. Do these people know how incredibly distracting this is? (Or do they even care?) For the record, I don't want to watch Bruce Springsteen as he is illuminated by the ever-present glow of your cell phone's LED display. I want to watch Bruce Springsteen, live and in front of me, not reduced to some minuscule mpeg movie.

I know, just forget it, Matt, watch the show. But it's really hard to watch the show when the guy in front of you is holding up a lit phone for two hours. And for what? Is there really so much of a rush posting a grainy, inaudible video clip for one's cell phone on the internet? And this was in a huge arena. I've seen the same thing happen at the Birchmere, an intimate music hall that seats only a couple of hundred. The room is dark, the mood is electric, and there's that damn glow of a cell phone being held aloft. Argh.

I always made fun of the tourists who arrived at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon and descended from their tour buses with cameras in front of their faces. Didn't they want to just look at the canyon for a minute before they started snapping? It's not like it's going anywhere. But there's an odd obsession with capturing something, with taking something back with you. It makes no difference that the video is jerky and pixelated and garbled. You've got a little bit of Bruce in a bottle, and if it means pissing off the hundreds of people around you for a few hours, well, by god, it's worth it.

The old commercial used to go, is it live or is it Memorex? The implication was that the tape was so good it practically felt like you were there. These days I'm convinced that more people would just rather have the tape.

*****

And now, finally, a couple of raves.

Yesterday, The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million (or Les Disparus, as it's known in Paris), by my brother, Daniel Mendelsohn, was awarded the Prix Médicis étranger, France's most prestigious award for a work by a foreign author. To give you an idea of the company Daniel is now in, previous winners of this prize include Milan Kundera, Umberto Eco, Philip Roth and Doris Lessing (who just won the Nobel Prize for literature a few weeks back). Not bad.

In a country that takes reading quite seriously, Daniel was treated like royalty. He dined last night across form the former prime minister, who insisted that he be seated next to Daniel, as well as greeted by microphones and cameras the minute he steeped into the hotel. If you're going to have your fifteen minutes, you might as well have them in Paris.

Congratulations, Daniel.

***

We've all been working hard here at Matt Mendelsohn World Headquarters. We have two new employees, Katie Persons and Ashley Dally, whom we hope will speed up our workflow a bit. Ashley hails from Defiance, Ohio and will tell you the entire history of that town if you ask her. So don't get her started. Katie has only been with us a short time and she's already chchangedur lives by introducing us to www.pandora.com, a site that instantly creates a personalized radio station based on your musical preferences. Really neat.

But without a doubt, the hardest worker has been Maya. She has the tough job of making every image look as good as it can. And I can say that our images have never looked better. Most people don't understand the digital process very much, their only point of reference being the old days of dropping film at a lab. But these days there frequently is no lab. We're the lab. And all of the care that a lab once gave to making images look beautiful has now fallen back to the photographer.

It's counter intuitive, I know, but most digital images require more, not less, work than their film cousins. Every image we process gets intensive individual care to bring out contrast, tonality and vibrance. There are no quick fixes.

So I'll leave you tonight, as the clock here strikes 2:00 a.m., with some of our fall portraits.

Take care. (And, as always, double-click the images for better viewing.)

Matt

Four Weddings and a Fundraiser

2007-10-23T18:40:00.000-04:00

Yes, I know it's been far too long between posts.

I know this because my sister Jennifer will usually call me after a certain period of time has elapsed and whisper into my ear, "Um, I think you need to blog again." But I don't need Jennifer to tell me this. It's been a very busy month--one which started with our annual fundraiser, Photo Marathon, not to mention four consecutive weddings and oodles of portrait sessions. I love to keep this blog, as you all know, but the folks at the Dep't. of Tail Wagging The Dog keep reminding me that it's the taking of photos--not the writing about the taking of photos--that pays the bills around this joint. Hence the slight delay in posts.

So let's get right to the great news: Photo Marathon '07 was a huge success. In one day of shooting portraits we raised....(drum roll, please)....$10,800! Yup, that's right. Today I had the pleasure of mailing two FedEx envelopes containing the entire proceeds to two very deserving families. The children of Capt. Christopher Petty and Capt. Brian Freeman, both killed in Iraq, will have those funds to use for their college educations. All four children are very young and it's my hope that this money will have ample time to grow in the bank.

Photo Marathon would not have been possible without the kindness of all of you who took part--including those who couldn't be present at the studio but still sent in donations. Every year I do this I'm truly floored by the generosity I witness. Whether former brides and grooms, friends and neighbors or total strangers, people always rise to the occasion.

For the first time we even had a little media coverage! Fox News and Newschannel8 both came out and did little features on Photo Marathon. We also had some very special visitors: Capt. Petty's dad happened to be in D.C. that morning and stopped by, moving all of us to tears as we watched some home movies Chris had made in Iraq. Later in the day his mom stopped by as well. We thank them both.

For any of you who still want to help out, you can always mail a check payable to either the Owen and Oliver Petty College Fund or the Brian Freeman Memorial Fund to me at: Matt Mendelsohn Photography, 3823 N. Chesterbrook Road, Arlington, VA 22207. I'm more than happy to forward them along.

(You'll remember that Capt. Freeman spent months trying to secure a visa for a little Iraqi boy who needed heart surgery in America. And Capt. Petty was involved in school rebuilding at the time of his death. You can still read this emotional piece about Capt. Freeman here in the Washington Post, as well as this follow up story about Charlotte Freeman meeting the boy, Ali, after his successful surgery in New York. And for more information about Capt. Petty, please go here.)

Photo Marathon kicked off October with a bang. That same weekend I had the pleasure of photographing the wedding of Samantha Sterling and Chris McCormack in downtown Baltimore. As I walked into Sam's hotel room and saw her adjusting her dress underneath this striking painting hanging on the wall, I knew things were going to be great. It reminded me of a perfect scene straight out of Vermeer.

After a ceremony at St. Leo's in Fells Point, we all headed over to the Peabody Library, the site of my sister's wedding many years ago, for a great reception. If you haven't been there, the Peabody is really one of the most stunning venues in this area. Floor upon floor of bookstacks, crowned with a gorgeous conservatory ceiling, it is simply breathtaking.

A few months back, after shooting their engagement picture, I wrote about how much respect I have for nurses like Sam. Their dedication and professionalism is always something I admire. It was a pleasure returning the favor.

Next up was the wedding of Jennifer Dlouhy and Christopher Doering. Jennifer is a journalist and it was fun bumping into my friend--and great photographer-- Linda Creighton at St. Peter's on Capitol Hill. (St. Peter's is one of my favorite churches for purely selfish reasons: it is bright and airy inside, a stark contrast to most other Catholic churches of that era.)

Like Chris and Sam, Jen and Chris opted for a classic reception venue, the grandeur of the headquarters of the Daughters of the American Revolution. A stone's throw from the White House, DAR is a regal place for a wedding if ever there was. Guests drank cocktails outside, always in the shadow of the Washington Monument. And as the sun started to set, Jen and Chris danced their first dance amid the soaring white columns of the portico. It's no wonder the producers of The West Wing used to use DAR as a White House stunt double!

And we're only halfway!

The next day was a new experience for me. After ten years, one thinks he's seen every venue Washington has to offer, but that wasn't the case with the wedding of Sarah Greenberger and Matthew Engel. They threw me for a loop by choosing the fantastic Music Center at Strathmore. Located in North Bethesda, Strathmore Music Center is a 1,976 seat concert hall, home to the Baltimore Symphony and its dynamic new conductor, Marin Alsop. The first woman to lead a major American concert orchestra, Alsop has re-energized the BSO. (I had to laugh, too, when I read in the program that she's a big fan of John Adams' incredible opera Nixon in China. Name aside, it's one of my favorite works. I listen to it constantly, though it drives Maya crazy. If she could just get past the name, I think she'd love it.)

Anyway, Sarah and and Matt had a glorious day for their outdoor ceremony. It's been absurdly hot this fall in Washington, a trend that forebodes terrible things for our gardens and lawns but has provided for a rain-free streak of weddings going back several months. Lucky for everyone, the ceremony was late in the afternoon, just as the temperatures found a perfect comfort level. And as Sarah was led down the aisle by her mother and father, the setting sun (notice a trend here?) perfectly backlit her veil, providing one of those moments where I whisper to myself, my Canon 5D clicking along, "Ohhh, this is killer light."

(One other thing: I am the last person you want commenting on fashion. The folks at Project Runway would gasp if they knew that my wardrobe, outside of weddings, consisted of mainly jeans and t-shirts. But I have to say that Sarah had one of the most beautiful dresses I've seen in a long time. Bucking the strapless trend of the last few years, it was something right out of a Greek myth. Way cool.)

Okay, gang, almost there!

I can't forget the fabulous Virginia wedding of Christina Princi and Michael Outten, who were married on October 13. Both graduates of Mr. Jefferson's university, Michael and Christina had a UVA blowout, culminating, quite amusingly, with all the guests dancing the Virginia Reel, a dance that dates back to 1695! (My sister, also a UVA grad, would have explained the whole thing to me. She was a guide back in her Charlottesville days.)

So stay with me: it is hard enough for a DJ to keep everyone happy at a reception. After all, some folks like Cole Porter while others prefer hip-hop and rock. And it's not the easiest thing in the world transitioning from "I Get a kick Out of You" to "Sweet Home, Alabama." So if you told me that someone could get an entire wedding reception to stop dancing to "I Will Survive" and start do-si-do'ing to Thomas Jefferson's favorite line dance, the hot, hot, hot Virginia Reel, I would said you were crazy. But it happened.

Thanks to the energy of one of Michael and Christina's college friends, who looked like he was going to have a coronary as he shouted instructions to guests, everyone learned the required steps. And those steps, I should add, are far more complicated than your average Arthur Murray routine. I was trying to focus but I could swear I heard instructions to "stare your partner down like a bull." Maybe I got it wrong. Anyway, my first thought upon seeing this commotion was to echo the words of my four-year-old, Alexandra, whose favorite saying these days is "this is not going to be good." But you know what? It was great. People were, as they say, a-whoopin and a-hollerin. Thomas Jefferson would have been proud.

And there you have it: four weddings and a fundraiser. Not a bad three weeks!

Once again, a big thanks to everyone involved in Photo Marathon. We'll do it all again next year, hopefully under the auspices of our new 501(c)(3), The Bronia Fund, named in memory of my twelve-year-old cousin killed in the Holocaust. Look for details here.

Thanks for reading, and, as always, double-click the images for better viewing.

Matt

Something in the water

2007-10-08T10:32:00.000-04:00

When Scott Claffee and Lily Fu told me many months ago that they were planning on getting married on the Jersey Shore, my ears pricked up a bit. When she was twelve, my wife Maya and her mom moved back from their home in Athens, Greece. Though they settled in Port St. Lucie, Florida, they spent many a summer on the Jersey Shore, the stomping grounds of Maya's grandparents, Joseph and Gladys Catenaci.

Joseph Catenaci, who turns a healthy 94 today, was in the construction business after World War II, among many other things, building sewers and jetties on Long Beach Island. (He also worked on the Verazzano Narrows Bridge, which I think is incredibly cool.) Known simply as LBI these days, Long Beach Island was, in 1948, a far cry from what we now think of when someone says "Jersey Shore." Largely undeveloped back then, Grandpa Catenaci and his workmen would stay at the only hotel on the island that was open all year long, Wida's, which is no longer there.

(Oddly, I'm told the toughest time on the island was after the Storm of '62, the year I happened to have been born. My mother always told me that I was born in a blizzard, on Long Island, so I'm sure it must have been that same storm.)

Even today, after decades of development, Long Beach Island is still a much simpler place than its counterparts like Asbury Park in the north or Atlantic City to the south. Other than the occasional Ben and Jerry's or 7-Eleven, just about every restaurant and store on LBI is family owned and operated. There is no Chili's, no Applebees, no McDonalds.

So when Scott and Lily told me they were contemplating a shore wedding, I asked them where exactly?

Long Beach Island, they said excitedly.

Well, add another notch in the serendipity belt.

It turns out that Scott's family has deep roots in Long Beach Island as well. For decades, they've been coming to the same tiny cottage originally purchased by his grandparents, Charles and Florence Peterson. And when I say cottage, I mean cottage. If you've ever been to Corrolla, on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, and have stayed in one of the beautiful homes on the ocean that sleep 34, shake your head and erase your memory. Long Beach Island doesn't have homes that sleep 34. In fact, some of the homes are so tiny--perfectly preserved artifacts of a post-war era--that they barely sleep 3.4. And that's what makes them so charming.

Scott's family comes back each year to the Cum-a-Dee, named so because when his grandfather's grandfather, with a thick accent, would call to one of his grandchildren to "come to me," it would come out as simply as "cum-a-dee."

Scott's grandfather, known affectionately as Pop-Pop, the same term of endearment that my daughter refers to her great-grandfather with, passed away earlier this year. But given that he was such a fixture on Long Beach Island, one can only assume that he and Maya's grandfather surely must have crossed paths at some point, during one summer or another. After all, they both were born in the same year, 1913, and both married for a period of time that often feels like a typo: Charles and Florence for seventy years, Joe and Gladys for seventy-two. Seventy-two years! There must be something in the water.

The morning of Scott and Lily's wedding, on a glorious off-season beach day, I drove down the island a bit, to the Holgate section, where Maya's grandfather once lived. I wanted to take a photo of his last house. I knew I was close when I saw the street sign for "Joan Road." After all, the "Joan" of Joan Road is my mother-in-law, Joan Vastardis. It's neat to have a street named for you.

(Two weeks ago, in a post here, I joked about the mysterious circumstance surrounding how Maya and her mom came into possession of the street sign from their neighborhood in Athens. I have since been assured that there was nothing nefarious about its acquisition. Apparently the sign was in a pile of construction rubble. As for Joan Road, well, that sign is municipal property.)

I drove a block or so further and came upon a group of older men, all laughing as they chatted. I asked them if they knew which house once belonged to Joe Catenaci and they laughed.

"All of them!" one joked.

We talked for a while and they shared some nice stories.

"Joe Catenaci was the only man to ever say anything nice about my boat," one remarked. I though that was sweet. One of the other men described him as "the prince" of LBI. I got out my cell phone and called my mother-in-law so she could say hello. Small world.

Lily and Scott were married later that day. As we drove from the church to the reception, a hip hotel named Daddy-O, I tried to avoid flying out of Scott's brother's convertible. I've learned from my daughter that it's hard to take pictures while standing backwards on a carousel. It's even harder to stand backwards in a moving car, on a windy day, while trying to photograph a bride and groom. It seems fun, but it's actually quite tricky.

During their dinner, as the sun set on the sound side of the island, we made a quick decision to try and get a picture. Luckily, the distance on some parts of Long Beach island from ocean to sound is about, oh, one quarter of a mile. We raced across the street and with not more than sixty seconds to spare made a beautiful picture. A minute later we would have missed it.

The morning after the wedding, I stopped into Ferarra's Bakery (the yellowed newspaper clipping on the wall from decades earlier told me this place has seen a lot of history) and bought some of their "famous" stuffed breads. I then met up with Scott, Lily and the whole Claffee clan outside the Cum-a-dee. We took some pictures on the beach and I began the drive back to D.C., glad to have had this brief nostalgic weekend.

Today, while mentioning this column to my mother-in-law, she laughed at the mention of Wida's, that island hotel where her father had stayed so many nights, so many decades ago.

"You know what Daddy-O used to be, don't you? That used to be Wida's!"

Small world.

Matt

p.s. Stay tuned for a wrap-up of last week's Photo Marathon, a great success! And as always, double-click on the images for better viewing.

Happy birthday, Grandpa!!

Photo Marathon '07 is here!!

2007-09-27T12:50:00.000-04:00

Well, if there's one bride I know who will forgive me for hijacking her wedding story with a fundraising plea, it's Lisa Butenhoff. Why? Because Lisa works for one of the truly great Washington charitable organizations, Food and Friends, a non-profit that has been serving meals to people with HIV/AIDS and other life-threatening illnesses for almost twenty years.

I know a lot about the great work that Food and Friends does. For many years I rode my bicycle alongside thousands of others in order to help Food and Friends provide their services. Starting with a Philadelphia to Washington three-day ride in 1996, I pedaled thousands of miles over the years to help Food and Friends and organizations just like it. In the end, I did three Raleigh/Durham-Washington rides and three New York/Boston rides in six years. And in the process I got to know lots of folks from Food and Friends, the greatest of whom is Craig Shniderman, the organization's director. Craig is not the kind of guy who lets thousands of people ride hundreds of miles without breaking a sweat himself. On the contrary, Craig rode the same 275 miles in three days that the rest of us rode. And always with a smile.

When Lisa told me where she worked many months ago, I knew we would click. She and her husband, Derek Bandera, had a wonderful wedding last week, on yet another glorious weather weekend (unless, that is, you ask my dying front lawn) without rain. This drought we're suffering through here is terrible for a lot of reasons, but as for wedding photography, I can't exactly argue.

Like so many of my brides, Lisa is the kind of person who just radiates laughter and warmth. She could be addressing envelopes or taking out the trash and she'd still be smiling. Couple that personality with the organization she works for--nine million meals served to over 13,000 clients in the past 19 years--and you feel somewhat humbled.

That's why I say that Lisa would be the last person to object to me using her "space" here to talk about our own fundraising day, Photo Marathon. We may not have the organizational power of Food and Friends, but our hearts are in the same place.

So let's go to the point: Photo Marathon is here! Starting this Sunday, 9/30 at 9:00 a.m., I'll be shooting portraits all day, nonstop. Every individual or family coming to Photo Marathon will be asked to donate $250 directly to the college funds of the children of Capt. Brian Freeman and/or Capt. Christopher Petty. In return for your kindness, you'll receive a signed and dated 11 x 14 print.

A word about our beneficiaries: These two brave men were both killed in Iraq, roughly one year apart, and neither was content to simply do his job adequately. Both men went above and beyond their mission. Capt. Freeman spent months and months trying to secure a visa for an Iraqi boy in need of heart surgery in the U.S. The day that visa was finally approved, Capt. Freeman was killed. Similarly, Capt. Petty was involved in a school rebuilding project when he was killed.

These two men left four young children behind. As I said last week, we're going to honor their efforts to help children in faraway lands by helping their own children back here in America.

To read more about Capt. Freeman, go here.

To read more about Capt. Petty, go here.

So please drop on by this Sunday. You don't need a time slot--we're just going to go as fast as we can! And if you can't come by, please consider making a donation anyway. Mail a check made payable to either the Brian Freeman Memorial Fund or the Oliver and Owen Petty College Fund and mail it to me at 3823 N. Chesterbrook Road, Arlington, Virginia, 22207.

For those of you who are planning on participating, a few reminders:

Photo Marathon is a charity event, first and foremost. This is NOT a replacement for a full-blown portrait session with me. Think of it more as an opportunity to help four young children with a cool souvenir attached. As we've done in the past, we'll shoot portraits as fast as possible to accommodate everyone. This is a speed-a-thon for a great cause. Please don't come with special requests!!

Also, please remember to leave the ties and jackets at home. This should be a relaxed portrait, not a stuffy one. Dark colors work better bright whites and solids much better than busy patterns. And finally, please limit the number of people in one portrait to around four. We'll give you instructions on which fund to write your check (we'll simply alternate) and how to get your print. (We'll schedule a pick up date sometime next month. If you want your print mailed, please bring $6 to cover shipping.)

Other than that, come on down. Bring your dog, bring your boyfriend, bring the kids. I'll shoot anything!

The studio is located at 600 Madison Street in Old Town Alexandria (22314), coveniently above the Royal Restaurant. Look for the black door on the side of the building.

Thanks in advance for helping out.

Matt

p.s. We're not big enough to have sponsors, but I do want to thank some folks for their kindness:

Sam at Alpha Fotoworks, our lab in California, who has generously donated printing services. Michelle and Jeff at Lexar Media, for sending extra memory cards. Anne Bell, my old friend from way back in the UPI days, for helping with guest books and food. To Jodi Macklin, whose donation check came the day after I posted about Photo Marathon last week, setting a record for generosity. To our parents, Jay and Marlene Mendelsohn and Joan Vastardis and Dudley New for their geneorus contributions. And the usual suspects, who always stand ready to help, year after year: Laura Gonzalez, Julie Newell, Bill Auth, Dan Boston, Melissa Bonier, Tony Fletcher, Kate Karafotas. And most of all, to my wife, Maya, who not only helps with all of the processing for Photo Marathon but puts up with me during these crazy times.

On Alkyonis Street

2007-09-20T08:46:00.000-04:00

My wife Maya grew up in a neighborhood in Athens called Palio Faliro. The street she lived on was Alkyonis Street. I know that because we happen to have a street sign that reads Alkyonis hanging over our back patio. Maya always told me that the day she and her mom moved from Greece back to America, there was a storm
that blew the sign over and they kept it as a souvenir. I have another theory of how the street sign came into their possession, but why quibble, especially when your mother-in-law is involved. I love that little sign, if for nothing else than it gives me a chance to see if my grasp of the Greek alphabet has improved any over the past ten years. (Answer: not so much.)

I mention this street sign because, in my world of serendipity and kismet, it came into play at last week's wedding of Mario Kontomerkos and Helise Owens. Mario and Helise were married at St. Sophia Greek Orthodox Church in Washington, one of the most beautiful cathedrals in the region. If you ever attend a wedding there and don't have the fortune of speaking Greek, don't worry. You can pass the time staring at the amazing ceiling above. I've done it myself.

I met Mario's parents in his hotel room before the wedding and they told me that they lived in Athens.

Oh, I said, my wife grew up there. In Palio Faliro.

Palio Falio? Mrs. Kontomerkos asked. That's where I'm from!

I desperately racked my brain to remember the name of the street Maya lived on but I was drawing a blank. The street sign, I thought! It's on the street sign in our backyard! But to avail. I'll call her later and find out, I promised the Kontomerkos clan.

Later that evening, during the cocktail hour, I quickly phone Maya and asked her about that street in Athens. "Alkyonis," she replied. I quickly found Mrs. Kontomerkos and told her and she said, "It's the next street over from mine! The very next street!"

Years ago I would have marveled at the small-world-ness of this. But this stuff happens to me all the time. (Remember, someone once came up to me in the middle of the Saudi Arabian desert during the Gulf War to ask me if I went to SUNY-Binghamton.) So with each new encounter of chance, I am less and less surprised and more and more amused.

****

Helise and Mario had one of the most gorgeous late summer/early fall weather days of the year for their wedding. They also had, through kismet, one of the kindest clergymen I can remember to marry them. A conflict had arisen for the family priest in Connecticut and Rev. Steve stepped in. Without getting into details which might be considered "inside baseball"--too behind the scenes--let's just say that St. Sophia is not known for being particularly accommodating to photographers. But Rev. Steve was so kind, so polite, so accommodating I almost felt guilty about the wonderful access he was providing me.

Later in the evening, at the reception, I thanked Rev. Steve for his approach.

"Brother, we all have a vocation. I have a vocation, you have a vocation. The fact of the matter is that because I trusted you, I didn't notice you the entire service."

I'm not the most religious guy on the block, but I say amen to that.

****

Well, as Helise and Mario soak up the sun in Fiji right now, I've got some quick housekeeping stuff to take care of. First off, and most importantly, our Photo Marathon is only a week and half away. It will take place on Sunday, September 30 at the Old Town Alexandria studio. I sent out a massive email letter yesterday, but I'm so unscientific that it mostly went to anyone who happened to be in my inbox. So I'll repeat it here for those of you who need more info. Anyone who can't make it to Old Town on the Sunday can still make a donation. Please read below for info:

Dearest friends:

It's that time of year again! We're going to be staging yet another installment of Photo Marathon, our annual day of photographic giving, at the Old Town studio on Sunday, September 30. I'll be taking portraits from 9:00 in the morning until 7:00 in the evening without a break. (Not as impressive as Houdini dangling from a high-rise, I know.) And as always, every cent we raise will go to a worthy cause. This year we've designated the college funds for the children of two soldiers killed in Iraq.

Here's how it works and here's how you can help:

Photo Marathon began a few years back with the death of Michael Kelly, a journalist, in Iraq. I know Michael's sister Katy dearly and was at a loss as to how to comfort her. Without much thought, I decided to hold a photo fundraising event for Michael's two young boys, Tom and Jack. People responded -- as they always do in times of need -- and we raised $14,000 in one day of portrait shooting. Subsequent fundraisers went towards MS and tsunami relief.

This year we're going to be helping four young children:

In addition to his regular duties, Capt. Brian Freeman spent the last months of his life trying to obtain a visa for a young Iraqi boy who desperately needed heart surgery in America. The day that visa came through, Capt. Freeman was kidnapped and executed. He leaves behind a wife, Charlotte, and two children, Gunnar, 3, and Ingrid, 14 months. Similarly, Capt. Christopher Petty was en route to a school renovation project in January, 2006 when his convoy was attacked. Capt. Petty leaves behind his wife, Deb, and two wonderful boys, Owen and Oliver, all whom I've had the pleasure of meeting and photographing. You can read more about Capt. Freeman and Capt. Petty in a previous post, where I've also included external links about these two brave men.

We're going to salute Capt. Freeman and Capt. Petty's commitment to children in faraway lands by helping their own children right here at home. One can only guess at what a college education might cost in 15 years. So let's ensure that Owen and Oliver and Ingrid and Gunnar have no worries when those college days roll around. Here's how you can help:

If you can make it to Old Town on Sunday, September 30, drop by the studio. It's at 600 Madison Street in Alexandria, Virginia 22314, literally on top of the Royal restaurant. Look for the black side door. Starting at 9:00 I'll be shooting portraits as fast as I can. Leave the ties and sport coats at home--these will be relaxed portraits. In the past I've shot people and their dogs, children, mothers and daughters, etc. Anything goes, though I do ask you all to keep the number of people in a single image to no more than four. (This is not a hard and fast rule. We'll accommodate everyone.)

In order to take part in Photo Marathon you'll need to make a donation of $250 (more is great!) to the college funds of the Freeman and Petty children. We'll have people on hand to tell you which fund to make the check out to. (We're going be very unscientific and just alternate.) There are no time slots needed--just show up and have a good time. We'll provided coffee and snacks. I'll shoot a cool portrait and you'll receive a beautiful signed and dated 11 x 14 print. See? Easy as pie. (The fine print: This is charity event, not a substitute for a one-on-one portrait session with me. We're going to go as fast as we need to. And you'll get a cool, funky portrait, so I probably wouldn't come thinking you'll knock off your Christmas card photo!)

If you can't make it to Old Town on the 30th you can still help. Please mail a check made payable to either the Brian Freeman Memorial Fund or the Oliver and Owen Petty College Fund and send it to:

Matt Mendelsohn
3823 N. Chesterbrook Road
Arlington, Virginia 22207

If you're making a donation but not attending, any amount is acceptable and greatly appreciated.

I hope to see you in Old Town on the 30th! And one last request: We don't spent a cent on advertising on Photo Marathon. It's all word of mouth. So please forward this message to anyone you know has a big heart.

Thanks as always,

Matt

Where have all the daytime weddings gone?

2007-09-09T22:50:00.000-04:00

To say that the daytime wedding is an endangered species is probably an understatement. In fact, I could probably count the number of daytime events I've photographed in the last couple of years on one hand.

Why is that?

Last weekend I had the pleasure of photographing a beautiful wedding on a beautiful day at a beautiful Georgetown estate. The bride and groom, Patricia and Miguel, came to me many months ago very excited about the prospect of throwing—as they said over and over—an "elegant garden party." They didn't want 19 page itineraries or assembly line photo sessions. They wanted an event where children could have fun, where the food was excellent, and where guests could linger under the trees and laugh. And specifically, they wanted the wedding reception to take place during the afternoon. They say beware of what you wish for, but that isn't the case here. Patricia and Miguel got exactly what they wanted: an elegant garden party.

I get really excited when people tell me they're getting married during the day. After all, weddings used to be daytime events. Perhaps I'm being too much of an Anglophile here, but when I think of weddings, I still conjure up some British affair, with the men all looking sharp in morning coats. (Or maybe I've just seen Four Weddings and a Funeral too many times on cable.)

Royal British weddings have always been daytime extravaganzas, the better, I guess, to see the pomp and circumstance. Even on American soil, the most regal and celebrated weddings usually take place during the day. I tend to think of the great Kennedy weddings in Hyannisport (Miguel is probably biting his lip about now)--that famous Harry Benson photo of Caroline Kennedy on her wedding day, the rolling Massachusetts hills and picket fences behind her. And if you think of all the silly celebrity weddings on the west coast, well, they have to be daytime events, lest the prying helicopters not be able to circle overhead. And if there are no circling helicopters, could you really call yourself an A-lister??

Certainly you don't need to be either British, a Kennedy or Tori Spelling to get married during the day. But it's no secret that the trend over the last few years has been in the other direction--towards evening affairs. There's nothing wrong with evening weddings, of course. I shoot them almost every week of the year. But as Patricia and Miguel proved last week, there's a lot to be said for dancing to Cole Porter and Irving Berlin on a beautiful late summer Georgetown day. It feels so, well, Georgetown-y.

In this case, the wedding was at Dumbarton House, a historic mansion on Q Street operated by the Society of Colonial Dames. Dating back to Thomas Jefferson's time, the house features an indoor museum and gorgeous manicured gardens--a truly perfect setting for a wedding.

For me, the wedding day began just a couple of feet away from Dumbarton House, at Patricia's apartment, where her hysterical bridesmaids kept the atmosphere fun and stress free. They are not a shy bunch, to say the least. It was then on to Holy Trinity, one of my favorite churches in the area because of it's easy photographic access (granted, not what most people look for in a church), and then over to the garden party. During cocktails I had a chance to say hello to my friends Chris and Caroline, whose daytime wedding at the Society of the Cincinnati I shot ten years ago, as well as Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who, as a huge opera buff, is a friend and admirer of my dear friend, the great mezzo soprano Denyce Graves. (You can read all about Denyce in the post below.) Each time I see Justice Ginsburg she always asks about Denyce's little daughter, Ella.

The entire day felt so relaxed, something I know that Patricia and Miguel had aspired to from the beginning. And as I looked around and saw everyone laughing uncontrollably during the toasts, the bright sunshine pouring down all around, I kind of felt sad that more people don't follow their lead.

Daytime. To quote George and Ira, 's wonderful.

Matt

Non piangere, Liu

2007-09-06T20:29:00.000-04:00

Luciano Pavarotti was big in Sarajevo.

Not, perhaps, the first thing that should come to mind when thinking of one of the greatest voices in history on the day of his death, but then I happen, at this very moment, to be sitting next to my assistant, Djenno Bacvic, who hails from Bosnia. And as Djenno tells it, when the war in Bosnia was at its worst, and Sarajevo was cut off from the world, Pavarotti was always there, hosting "Pavarotti and Friends" concerts in his hometown of Modena, Italy; helping to jump start the relief agency War Child; and eventually joining up, years later, with Bono and U2 on the anthem Miss Sarajevo. "They really love him there" says Djenno, who now just told me he had goose bumps as I started playing the recording of U2's 1997 Sarajevo performance of that song, with Pavarotti piped in to the stadium.

You learn something every day, right?

I didn't know anything about Miss Sarajevo until tonight, but I certainly know a thing or two about opera. And it's not because one of our dearest friends is the world's most celebrated Carmen. I'll get to that in a minute. No, my love of opera, like many, started with Luciano Pavarotti.

When I started working at United Press International in 1988, I was first stuck on the overnight photo desk in Washington. In those pre-digital days, a photo editor would manage the network flow, part traffic cop, part Lily Tomlin switchboard operator. The photo desk had these wires and cables running in an out of it, like some bad prop from an Ed Wood movie, and we would talk into this ancient intercom and say things like, "Cranford, take the South. NXP, you're split for three. San Fran, come ahead." I know, gibberish to you guys, but there was a whole wire service lingo that you had to learn.

For many months I worked the overnight shift. After 3 a.m., when all the west coast papers were wrapping things up, I would look for ways to stay awake. One had to stay awake, like in the Invasion of the Body Snatchers, because failure to do so might mean missing a news alert. (Like the night of the Exxon Valdez spill. Thank God the news feeds had these little alarm bells on them-- I was just starting to doze off and might have missed the whole thing.) The obvious way to stay awake was to watch television, with your feet propped up on the desk like you owned the joint. The problem, of course, was that there was nothing on at 4:00 a.m. in those days, just mostly static. Except, that is, for Sid and Nancy.

Sid and Nancy was a truly terrible movie about the life of Sid Vicious, starring Gary Oldman as the Sex Pisols bassist. For some bizarre reason, there was one channel on the UPI cable hookup that only played this movie, over and over and over. And over. It kept me awake, alright, but I used to get really excited when I could find anything else at that absurd hour. And that's how my love of opera began.

There was a commercial that would play during those overnight months, again and again, just like like Sid and Nancy, but far more pleasing on the ears. It was a a commercial for one of those Time-Life collections, Opera for Dummies, basically. At that point in my life I knew a lot about classical music--it's hard to avoid when one's last name is Mendelsohn--but little about opera. And each night, when this commercial would appear at three, four, five a.m., I would prick up my ears. The commercial featured Pavarotti singing Nessun Dorma and I couldn't believe that a) something could be that beautiful; and b) that any composer could write himself, musically speaking, out of that kind of building climax. The orchestral release which follows Calaf's final "Vincero!" was fascinating to me, like the steam release on a boiling pot of water. I was hooked.

Almost twenty years later, it's funny admitting that it was Nessun Dorma that got me hooked--kind of like telling an art critic that Renoir's Luncheon of the Boating Party is your favorite painting. They're both beautiful, of course, if not a tad overexposed.

But it was the foot in the door. Nessun Dorma led me to the rest of Turandot, with it's haunting opening crowd scenes (O testa mozza!; O severed head!), not to mention the frantic conclusion of the great aria "Non piangere, Liu" (Don't cry, Liu), where father, prince and slave girl all sing on top of one another, pleading with Calaf not to bang the gong. It was Puccini's last opera--unfinished, technically speaking--but it was my first. I remember playing it to all my friends at the time, like Anne Dimmette (now Anne Bell), a fellow UPI colleague, pleading, "You have to read the words! You have to read the words!" She probably thought I was nuts.

Turandot led to La Boheme, La Boheme to Tosca, and Tosca to Verdi, Delibes, Bizet, Carlisle Floyd and Gershwin. I still want to cry every time I hear the climax of "O suave fanciulla," or when Porgy sings "Bess, you is my woman now," or when Tosca sings "vissi d'arte." And as a sign of just how much I've come from that first exposure to Pavarotti, my favorite opera these days is the John Adam's masterpiece "Nixon in China," an opera that always sends my wife Maya running for the doors. But title aside, it as musically complex and lyrically gorgeous as anything else I've heard. All these things I owe to Luciano Pavarotti and a Time-Life record commercial.

In a way, it even led to my dear friend, Denyce. I don't have to tell anyone that Denyce Graves is one of the greatest voices on the planet. And I'm proud to say that she is a good friend. A few years back she left a voice message at the studio, having seen my photographs of children at the Georgetown boutique Piccolo Piggies. Had all the things I've just described to you never happened, I probably wouldn't have thought twice about the deep voice on my answering machine. But it did all happen, and I remember thinking "the Denyce Graves??" We met and I took photos of her daughter, Ella, and a great friendship has ensued.

Once, while in Chicago to shoot Shawn Valassis and T.K. Gore's wedding, Denyce left me tickets at the Lyric Opera box office. My aunt Karen and I were mesmerized as she performed Carmen before a sold-out house. Another time, Denyce invited Maya and me to sit in Joseph Volpe's box at the Met and watch a matinee performance, while Alexandra and Ella played with the horses and costumes backstage. (Though perhaps not as cute as Ella and Alexandra sitting in front of the Eiffel Tower, their faces both covered in chocolate crepe.) Denyce makes a mean lasagna and she's one of the most generous and loving people I know.

So, all told, I guess I have a lot to thank Luciano Pavarotti for tonight: good friends, great music and fond memories of the overnight shift at 1400 Eye Street.

Matt

Say it ain't so, Joe

2007-09-04T18:42:00.000-04:00

You might think there was something perversely quaint about an analog photo scandal just now coming to light, in the early years of the 21st century--the Golden Age of Photoshop, they'll call it someday--but if the burgeoning fiasco involving the late Joe O'Donnell reminds us of anything, it's that you don't need a fancy Apple laptop or a clone tool to cheat your way to infamy.

One of the main themes of Sunday's piece in the Washingon Post Magazine was my ambivalence about giving up a career in journalism for a lifetime of weddings. But even I could not have guessed at how quickly those two distinct parts of my life would come crashing back together, a direct result of my story, proving once again, in the words of Jonathan Safran Foer, that everything truly is illuminated.

Take a look:

Within hours after my Confessions of a Wedding Photographer piece was published, I began to receive scores of congratulatory email messages. Several, I noticed, were from former colleagues at United Press International, the legendary wire service where I began my career in earnest. I asked some of these old friends how they knew about my story and I was told that it had been linked on the Downhold list serve, an online community for Unipressers, as we affectionately call ourselves. (Think Marines. Once a Marine, always a Marine.) I immediately signed up, got my first daily digest, and within a mere few minutes of reading, was absorbed by a raging debate about photo plagiarism and forgery, a subject that I have written about many times.

For a brief second I thought to myself, don't get involved. After all, I had just renounced my journalism birthright, at least humorously, to the world--if not the greater Washington, D.C. metro area--in the Washington Post. But to quote Al Pacino, "Just when they thought I was out, they pull me back in." And so today we're going to talk about journalism, not weddings.

When photographer Joe O'Donnell died this past August at the age of 85, many newspapers, from his hometown Nashville Tennessean to The New York Times, printed glowing obituaries detailing his long and storied photographic career. As one of the the first photographers to document the horrors of Hirsohima and Nagasaki, as the man behind the iconic John-John salute, or on the scene in the Pacific with Douglas Macarthur, or even with FDR, Churchill and Stalin at the Yalta Conference, O'Donnell was a journalistic Zelig, always in the right place and the right time.

The right place and time, that is, until John-John's salute was identified as the work of the great UPI photographer Stan Stearns, the Yalta Conference had morphed into the Tehran Conference, and even the Nagasaki and Hiroshima pictures fell into doubt. First documented at length by Marianne Fulton in The Digital Journalist, with a vital assist from the Unipresser group, which includes photo historian Gary Haynes and Annapolis native Stearns, O'Donnell's career is now being scrutinized with an electron microscope. (His first mistake was stealing from a UPI photographer. Fiercely proud, and for good reason, you don't want to mess with Unipressers. One of the other famous photos O'Donnell had claimed to have taken, that of Jackie, Bobby and Teddy Kennedy walking the funeral route, is also a legendary Stearns image.)

It appears that O'Donnell had been appropriating other photographer's images for years, re-cropping them, occasionally doctoring them, and then reselling them for profit on the Internet. It also seems as though O'Donnell was quite good at this. He would brazenly stamp the words "SAMPLE" over his images--images that he had stolen--to prevent others from resampling them. Chutzpah, as they say.

In his defense, O'Donnell's son has entered the fray, claiming his father was indeed a "White House photographer" for twenty years, and that he himself has the negatives from Hiroshima to back his dad's claims. In a letter to Editor and Publisher's Greg Mitchell, Tyge O'Donnell insists his father was not "leading the life of Walter Mitty," and that dementia may have played a part in his overreaching portfolio. It's all quite sad, actually, because O'Donnell is not here to defend himself, his widow is understandably confused by the furor, and his son appears to have some evidence that his father was in fact in famous places and around famous people. Just, perhaps, not the places and people in the images he and his gallery had been selling for years.

It's a story we've become quite accustomed to in journalism these past years--the unraveling of the journalist superstar, from Jayson Blair to Jack Kelley, from Brian Walski to, most recently, Allan Detrich. The first two, of course, were reporters who faked stories for The New York Times and USA Today, respectively; the latter, both accomplished photojournalists who tinkered with their photographs beyond any journalistic boundary. Walski was fired from the Los Angeles Times in 2003 after he "added" some extra drama to a photo of British soldiers standing watch over civilians in Basra. Detrich lost his job when years of "minor" photo doctoring was discovered. Apparently telephone polls and electrical wires were just too unsightly for his artistry--they simply had to go.

So what is it about these fudgers that made tampering with the truth so darn irresistible? It's clear that it's not a just a photography issue or, by the same token, just a writer's issue, as they all committed essentially the same acts: capital fraud and/or aggravated embellishment. And like baseball's Mark McGwire, or just about any one of 237 now-disgraced professional cyclists, each committed his deception while at the top of his game, not the bottom. Many of the guys tossed from the Tour de France were leading it, not losing it. It's not as if a cub reporter decided to fake out USA Today, or a entry-level photographer was sent to Iraq for the LA Times. No, in each case these were the stars, the cream of the crop.

I worked with Jack Kelley for many years, and like most folks at USA Today, liked him very much. His aw shucks Opie Taylor personality was instantly disarming. But I was also with Jack when he committed a bold and outright lie, a lie so big that I could only scratch my head in disbelief the next day.

Many years ago, I was with Jack on a cover story about the International Red Cross. The gist of the series was that newly uncovered documents showed that the Red Cross knew much more--and much earlier-- about Nazi concentration camps in World War II than they had ever admitted. As luck would have it, the head of the Red Cross was in from Switzerland that week, giving a talk at the National Press Club on an unrelated issue. We planned to "ambush" him after the talk to see if he might make a comment.

Hours earlier, in a coffee shop outside the shops at National Place, Jack and I chatted with the public relations officer of the Red Cross. His boss, the president of the organization wouldn't arrive for several more hours. Because of my family interest in the Holocaust, I asked him about the Red Cross and the plight of the Jews. He said something like, Look, it's not like we were the cavalry, riding in to the rescue. Good quote, I thought.

A few hours later, we waited for the Red Cross president's talk to end. As he entered an elevator, Jack asked him point blank about the concentration camps, as I tried to squeeze off a few frames. Clearly steamed, he responded with something like "Absolutely ridiculous," and the doors of the elevator closed. Imagine my surprise then, when the next day, high up in the story, the president of the International Red Cross was going on about--you guessed it--riding in like the cavalry.

Compared to Jack's later fabrications, this may seem like a minor incident, which is pretty much what Jack said, years later when confronted about it. But it shouldn't be dismissed so quickly. Jack's need to spice up an otherwise boring reaction -- "absolutely ridiculous" clearly didn't strike his fancy -- is key. The devil is in the details, and I believe that when the dust settles around Mr. O'Donnell's photographic plagiarism, there will be some evidence to show that he was in fact a photographer of some kind. And that he did travel to some of the places he claims to have. And that he even might have met some of the world leaders he claimed to have known. But these guys all get greedy. Some is never enough for them. They become addicted to the embellishment, always needing to improve the story just that much more. It's why Brian Walski changed his perfectly fine original photo and why Allan Detrich kept tinkering with backgrounds.

It remains to be seen whether O'Donnell's legacy can cling to any scrap of honesty at this point. Whether he truly was Zelig in the flesh, popping up in all the right historical moments, then addled by dementia in his later years, or simply a mediocre photographer with occasional access, sadly enhancing his fame through embellishment and outright thievery, will most certainly be revealed in the coming days. I wouldn't want to bet against the gang from UPI, that's for sure.

(The double irony, of course, is that Woody Allen's legendary film editor, Susan Morse, employed many of the same techniques seemingly favored by Joe O'Donnell--clever cropping and subtle alteration-- to create the opportunistic hero in Zelig. Unlike the digital magic employed by today's filmmakers, Morse used analog tricks more closely identified with the Cottingley Fairies episode of the early 1920's than Star Wars: Episode III. And to think I last wrote about the fairies back in 2005, when talking about a slew of other photo forgeries. It's a tangled web we weave.)

In the end, I return to cycling, the sport I loved to watch for so long, and the sport that is now being destroyed by the same many of the same ills plaguing journalism--cheating, deceit, artificial enhancement.

I'll leave it to Dave Stoller to say it best. Stoller, the wide-eyed hero of the 1979 classic Breaking Away, the greatest of all cycling movies--and one that all the Tour de France teams should be forced to watch in these doping days--is crestfallen when he realizes his idols, the famed Italian Cinzano cycling team, are as corrupt as everyone else.

"Everybody cheats, papa," he says, choking back tears. "I just didn't know it."

*********

A quick update at 10:31 am Wednesday:

Gay Haynes, writing on the UPI list, mentioned that he could swear that the Jackie O photo on O'Donnell's web site belonged to Jacques Lowe, her peronsal photographer. He was close. A quickie--and I mean quickie--Google search has the photo being shot by USIA photographer Mark Shaw. This is not an exhaustive search, but curious nonetheless.

Here's the O'Donnell site, where he goes on about shooting the picture.

And here's a link to a site showing the same Jackie image, though credited to Shaw.

Serendipity, Volume 347

2007-09-02T07:23:00.000-04:00

I guess I would be ignoring the 600 pound elephant (Is it supposed to be an elephant or a gorilla? I have no idea if either one is 600 pounds) in the room if I failed to mention that I had a piece in the Washington Post today. I've received some of the nicest emails--most from total strangers, many from former brides and grooms--in the last twenty-four hours. I always like to think that I've had lots of cool experiences in my life as a photographer, but this is a new twist. Writing is something I've always loved to do, from the time I was a little kid and I would write silly parodies of Jim McKay telecasting from the Olympic Games, though I never really imagined I'd ever really get the chance to do it for a large audience.

(Don't get me wrong: The vast--and I mean vast--numbers of visitors to The Dark Slide each day are equally important but The Washington Post is, well, The Washington Post. Have any of you seen the hysterical new show on HBO called Flight of the Conchords? In it, the struggling duo from New Zealand have exactly one groupie, a loony woman named Mel.)

Anyway, many of you know that I am fascinated by moments of serendipity and chance, ever since someone approached me in the Saudi Arabian desert during the first Gulf War and said, "Did you go to SUNY-Binghamton?" Well, there have been several this week, some related to the Post story and some not, that I wanted to share this morning.

Serendipitous moment #1: This past week, I was trying to begin the process of forming a 501(c)3 organization in memory of my cousin Bronia, murdered more than sixty years ago. My brother Daniel's book The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million is fairly exhaustive in detailing our search for information into the deaths of the Jagers of Bolechow. But one single piece of information has come to us after the book's publication, thanks to a massive archive released by Russia, and that is that Bronia, a girl of twelve, was all alone when she was sent to a death camp. This haunting detail has convinced me of the need to set up some kind of organization to help children in need, in Bronia's name. No, I am not quitting my day job. But in 2008, when Photo Marathon rolls around, we will have our very own charitable trust, Bronia's Fund.

Of course, I know next to nothing about setting up a 501(c)3. You should have seen me the other day, making cold calls to lawyers and financial advisers, pretending to understand the differences between a foundation and a charity, as far as the IRS is concerned. I was getting really frustrated and really confused. Literally at the height of this confusion an email popped into my inbox. It was from Shannon Blevins, one of my favorite (read: happiest) brides of two years ago. She was saying hello, out of the blue. And as I got to the bottom of her email I read the following words: Shannon Blevins, C.P.A.

I called Shannon one minute later and said, "Shannon? What kind of work does your firm do?" She said, "Well, we work with a lot of non-profit and charitable trusts."

Serendipitous Moment #2: I've been getting a lot of emails regarding my Post piece. One particular note came from a fellow photographer in Arizona, Cameron Clark. She told me how much the story meant to her, in that it summed up her feelings about weddings and life and all.

I wanted to write her a thank you note and so I took a peek at her blog. Her first entry was an "8 Things You Don't Know About Me" post, exactly like my last post, and I laughed when I saw that she had been "tagged" by someone at LaCour Photography, the same folks who had tagged me. As I read her first two items about cycling, I immediately wrote her to tell her about my "8 Things" entry, which mentions how crazy I become during Tour de France month. We both share a love of cycling (though I haven't been riding in a long time) and I figured she'd appreciate the similarity. Then, after sending that email, I read the rest of the list and realized that not only do we both love cycling, but we were both in Alaska together in 2000 as part of the Alaska AIDS Vaccine Ride. There weren't all that many folks on that snowy and frigid ride (it was August) and I can't believe how many times these things continue to happen to me.

Serendipitous Moment #3: Yesterday I shot the beautiful wedding of Miguel Estrada and Patricia McCabe at Dumbarton House, of which I'll post some images next week. Any of you living in D.C. know what the weather was like here yesterday--perhaps the most pleasant day of the summer. I always bump into lots of old friends at weddings these days and this was no exception. I saw Jocelyn Dyer and her husband Mike, whose children I photographed last fall. And I saw Matt McGill, whose wedding I photographed last October, and whose two-week-old baby, Calla, I just photographed last week.

The funny part comes from bumping into my friends Chris and Caroline Landau, though the serendipity lies not into seeing them yesterday at the wedding, but rather how we met in the first place.

Ten years ago, I was shooting a story for USA Today about, of all things, a resurgence in knitting clubs. So I went to one of these clubs, everyone hard at work knitting and perling, and started chatting with a woman who was talking about her upcoming wedding. I'm a born eavesdropper, what can I say? Well, I was getting married that year as well, and we started comparing notes.

Who's your caterer?

What's your venue?

Who's doing your flowers?

After going down the list I joked to Caroline that she should talk to my fiancee, Maya, and they should compare notes. Sometimes you say these things, but you don't really think they'll ever come to pass. Well, it not only came to pass and we've been great friends with Chris and Caroline ever since. Through dinner parties and Christmas cards and babies--even Chris's first oral argument in front of the Supreme Court of the United States--we've been friends. So the next time you're at your favorite knitting club, say hi to the person to your right. You might even get a sweater out of it.

Matt

Tagged :: 8 things you might not know about Matt

2007-08-26T21:21:00.000-04:00

As I mentioned at the end of the last post, my friend Rachel LaCour in Atlanta "tagged" me with this internet chain. In the past, I've been accused of being exceedingly grumpy about these kind of reindeer games, but I've turned over a new leaf. As of this moment, I promise to be only marginally grumpy about these things. I will happily divulge eight things you probably don't know about me, though some have been cryptically listed on this very blog for a year now. But for the record, anyone who sends me an internet chain letter, an urban myth that has not been Snopes-tested, or a request to deposit money into a bank account in Congo on behalf of "my relatives, the Mendelsohns of Congo, who died tragically in a car accident outside the petroleum factory they owned" will be ignored as usual.

So here goes, 8 things you didn't know about me:

1) I have never, ever, ever had a cup of coffee in my life. Don't ask. I hated the taste when I was a kid and it never changed. In fact, I can remember my Nanny Kaye, in her little apartment in Miami Beach, circa 1970, giving me a cup of coffee ice cream and me desperately trying to get my brother Eric to eat it. Eric would end up with this duty more often than he probably bargained for-- the time in Shelburne Falls, Mass., when I dumped an entire plate of moussaka into his napkin at a dinner party comes to mind. (And that was long before I would end up marrying a Greek woman.)

2) I am not the world's greatest flyer (an ample understatement), but in in my life have done the following:

a) Twice jumped out of a perfectly good airplane. One was a static line jump from 3,000 feet in college. The whole floor of my dorm did it. I wasn't really thinking; The second time was a tandem free-fall from 10,000 feet above the Mojave Desert. A colleague from work asked me if I wanted to go. I wasn't really thinking.

b) Lay flat on my stomach in the refueling pod of a KC135 tanker looking straight down 27,000 feet. See the "21 in 21" section of the new website for more details.

c) Done loop-d-loops in an open-cockpit biplane piloted by bestselling military thriller author Stephen Coonts (Flight of the Intruder). I was shooting him for USA Today and he asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. I remember having this headset on, through which all I could hear was the sound of static mixed in with a lot of wind. At one point I heard the following:

"Kercrrr kerrrrc chrrrr chrrr-upside-krchr chhrrrr kkrrrttssks?"

I didn't have a chance to decipher any of it before we were completely inverted. Good time, actually.

3) Having grown up on Long Island, and having been properly groomed by my grandfather, I still have a soft spot for egg creams (curiously, there's no egg involved), Mallomars (greatest Nabisco product of all time) and black and white cookies. (Remember, it's a cake cookie; if it's hard as a rock it can't be called a black and white cookie.) I know never to get a shake when one can have a malt instead. And after every wedding, even at 2:00 a.m., I drink a YooHoo, stemming from some perverse good luck ritual.

4) The most embarrassing detail of my childhood--one that still gives me goose bumps--is that in Miss Grywin's 5th grade class at Central Park Road School in Plainview, New York, when all the kids dressed up for the day as their favorite great American (Honest Abe, astronauts, Mickey Mantle), I chose Walt Disney. So there I was with a suit and tie and a fake mustache that looked more der Führer than Uncle Walt. Here come the goose bumps.

5) My favorite movies are:

•Local Hero
•The Red/White/Blue trilogy of Krzysztof Kieslowski
•Breaking Away
•Love and Death
•The Great Escape
•Waiting for Guffman and/or Best in Show.

6) I went to see Star Wars with David Fischer at the Hicksville movie theater the week it came out in 1977. I thought it was okay, I guess, but I've never had a desire to see any of the 97 sequels and prequels since. In fact, each time I catch even a snippet of Natalie Portman walking with Hayden Christensen, both uttering some of the most awful movie dialog of all time, I'm convinced that George Lucas is actually a non-human life form.

7) Every year when July rolls around I turn into a Tour de France junkie, watching each day's telecast at least three times. First comes the live broadcast, followed by the re-broadcast, followed by the evening wrap-up show and re-broadcast. This year, with so many terrible doping scandals, I was convinced that I wouldn't care as much. I didn't miss a day.

8) My uncle Allan gave me my first camera, an Olympus OM-1. I was 13 or so at the time and the fuse was lit. The photograph that put me on the path to where I am now is this one: A man is arrested in the parking lot of a Binghamton, New York supermarket, moments after spray painting anti-war graffiti all over a decommissioned F-15 fighter jet. (The plane was being used as a recruiting tool for the Air Force.) No one from the Binghamton Press was there and I sold my very first image.

Okay, done. Let's see if my old friend Paul Gero will play next. You're it, Paul.

Matt

Tell it to the Marines

2007-08-26T18:08:00.000-04:00

In my "former" life I spent a lot of time with members of the military, from being part of the first embedded combat pool during the invasion of Panama to the two months I spent in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait during the Gulf War. I've flown cross-country with a squadron of stealth fighters (I was in a KC 135 tanker) and hung out of helicopters as they chased camels across the barren desert. Needless to say, I have great respect for these men and women. In fact, this year's Photo Marathon will benefit two families who lost husbands and fathers in the current war in Iraq.

It's always great fun photographing military weddings and last Saturday didn't disappoint. Christine Vanderbeek, who can't speak more than seven words without laughing about something, married Nick Weber, who hails from the largest family I've ever run across, in a wonderfully joyous ceremony at the chapel on Fort Belvoir. (Let's cut to the chase: Nick has 15 brothers and sisters, the youngest of whom are so adorable and funny that I found it hard not to photograph them.)

As always, I could tell we were in for a fun day by the relaxed atmosphere at the Vanderbeek family home in Fairfax Station. Christine had her hair done with her dog at her side. Her dad was watching Clint Eastwood get one of the all-time great movie shaves in "High Plains Drifter." No chaos, no stress, only laughter. And as we walked outside to leave for the church, I looked around for the requisite limo or town car. Par for the course, Christine instead hopped into her dad's Jeep Wrangler and off they went, laughing down the drive.

Nick's family is much the same. On Friday night before the wedding, I met them all over at the Marine Barracks at 8th and I in Washington, the oldest post in the Corps, to watch Nick march in the evening parade. Established in 1801, the barracks has been the home of every commandant of the Marine Corps. In fact, the commandant's home was mysteriously spared by the British during the war of 1812, despite the fact that much of Washington burned around it.

Now, much of the evening parade at the post is performed long after sunset. And even though there are spotlights, trying to pick one Marine from a few hundred other Marines in the dark is not exactly a piece of cake. Luckily I had Nick's siblings to help out.

"Third from the left, back row!"whispered little Theresa.

"No, the other back row!"said little Tony.

"Definitely last guy, last row, by the bushes," came a third response.

Easy.

(And believe it or not, I nailed the picture as he marched by. I actually surprised even myself.)

I always thought I came from a large family, having four siblings. But 16? Wow. And Nick told me he couldn't ever remember a single fight between any of them. (OK, I just made that last sentence up.)

******

Okay, gang, I'm going to wrap this up. I've got a couple of more make-up posts to work on. As I said earlier, the new site is up and running, albeit a tad slowly--we hope to iron that out shortly--and there's a lot of cool stuff to look at there. I also just realized that we never had a proper coming out party for our new logo, which we've been using for the last few months. I'll make an official roll-out shortly.

And lastly, my friend Rachel LaCour just "tagged" me with this "8 Things You Didn't Know About Me" game. I am going to resist the initial urge to be grumpy, as I normally do with chain letters and the like, and will be a good sport. I really enjoyed reading Rachel's answers to the same question, particularly her final response about hand-written letters, and I will post mine shortly.

See ya,

Matt

p.s. As always, double click on all the images for better viewing.

Playing catch up

2007-08-26T16:51:00.000-04:00

As usual, I'm running a bit behind on the bogging front, so I had better get my act together. There are a lot of things happening around here, from weddings to web sites (basically, from w to w), so here goes.

Two weekends ago I had the privilege of photographing the wedding of Rochelle Ochs and John Adams (no, not that John Adams) on the Chesapeake Bay. There's always a little bit of added incentive when a bride or groom come from an artistic background, and with John and Rochelle it was doubly the case. John is an accomplished painter whose work has been exhibited in galleries around the northeast. His work is very complex and you can view it here. I'll let John's artist's statement speak for itself:

"The repetitive meditative action is reflected in the work. Tension between the atmospheric random marks and the regulated rhythm of horizontal lines creates a visual vibration, which resonates endlessly (confined to the object none the less). In other paintings, the structural lines take the form of a drip, forming a counterpoint for the chaotic mark making. Juxtaposing a textural, physical paint surface with a slick, subtle panel may also form tension which draws the viewer in. Sometimes radio code and call numbers (from HAM radio magazines from the mid twentieth century) form a layer of atmosphere, teetering between abstract mark and letter or numeral."

I'm glad I let him say that!

Rochelle spends her days as I do--looking at pictures for a living. She's a photo editor at AOL, where several of my old USA Today buddies work. People will sometimes ask if there's more pressure shooting the wedding of a photography professional. I honestly find that it's less pressure thing than a simple desire to please someone who appreciates good photography.

(Truth be told, there was one funny moment that perhaps only a photo editor bride would have appreciated: during their ceremony, the sun began to set, leaving Rochelle in full golden light and John, two feet away, in utter shade. This is a frequent occurrence at outdoor ceremonies, where a bride and groom are facing each other. Someone has to be in the light, right? As the officiant asked people to greet their neighbors, and commotion ensued, I motioned to Rochelle to move her position a foot to the right. I figured if any bride would have understood, she would.)

Rochelle and John had a glorious summer day for their event. Their ceremony was all of ten feet from the Chesapeake. Afterwards we found some glistening wheat grass and made some nice family pictures. Rochelle's dad was beaming as he watched for a nearby bench. He's a wonderful man.

Given that we were practically on top of the water, I asked one of the ladies from the reception venue if there was away to get down to the beach. She looked at me like I was from Mars, though the question still doesn't strike me as odd, given where we were. Ah, liability concerns, 'ya gotta love 'em. Without skipping a beat, and to the apparent horror of said reception lady, I yelled to some folks on the neighboring property and asked if we could come over and take some pics. "Sure can!" came the welcoming response. And so we all traipsed on over, Rochelle in heels, maneuvering past the endless rows of stacked crab pots, down the rickety dock that extended over the water. Those folks were so sweet, constantly asking us if we wanted a beer. It never hurts to ask, right?

Matt

p.s. The web site is back in action: www.mattmendelsohn.com. There are some issues with loading times on some of the galleries, particularly the image-heavy wedding section. We hope to get these loading times corrected next week. But everything else is fully functional.

Save the Date for Photo Marathon '07

2007-08-15T17:05:00.000-04:00

Okay, gang, mark those calendars: Photo Marathon '07 will take place on Sunday, September 30 in Old Town Alexandria.

Photo Marathon is our annual event of giving, something we started a few years back with the death of Michael Kelly in Iraq, a great journalist and brother of a dear friend. We raised almost $14,000 for the college funds of Michael's two young sons that first year, in one very long day of shooting portraits. Subsequent fundraisers for Tsunami victims and multiple sclerosis raised another combined $20,000. Now it's time to step up again and do some good.

Regular readers of The Dark Slide will remember that I had little trouble finding a worthy beneficiary for this year's event. Early this year, Capt. Brian Freeman, 31, of Temecula, California, was killed in Iraq, leaving a wife, Charlotte, a 14-month-old daughter and a 2-year-old son. What made Capt. Freeman's death leap off the pages of a long profile in the Washington Post this past January was not that he was courageous officer, of that he had graduated from West Point, or even that he used to race bobsleds and skeletons.

No, what made Brian Freeman's life exceptional was his heart. For the last six months of his life, Capt. Freeman, in addition to his regular duties in Iraq, worked tirelessly to obtain a visa for a sick 11-year-old Iraqi boy in desperate need of heart surgery in the United States. Just as the visa he had worked so hard to secure was approved, Capt. Freeman was kidnapped and executed.

I invite all of you to read the emotional piece about Capt. Freeman here in the Washington Post, as well as this follow up story about Charlotte Freeman meeting the boy after his successful surgery in New York.

But there's more to the story.

A few months back, when I originally posted about our intent to help Capt. Freeman's family with our next, then-unscheduled Photo Marathon, the first person to chime in with an offer to help was one of my former brides, Julie Newell. I wasn't surprised.

Julie is my only bonafide blog groupie. I can always count on her to say "great post," or to make some sarcastic comment, or to direct me to the latest in terrible wedding trends (brides underwater was the last one) and even more terrible wedding photography. It was Julie who first alerted me, several years ago, to the phrase "Bridal Industrial Complex," a moniker that always makes me smile. And on top of this, Julie had a fantastic wedding, to Nathan Leslie, one that I continue to mine for pictures for various slide shows, websites, etc.

Anyway, a few months ago Julie asked if I would do an early shoot for this year's Photo Marathon, for a friend of a friend. She said she knew we hadn't scheduled anything for certain yet, but this friend's husband had been killed in Iraq and she was coming to town for the renaming ceremony of a United States Post Office in his name. I was happy to oblige and that's when I got a chance to meet Deb Petty and her adorable sons, Oliver and Owen.

Like Capt. Freeman, Capt. Christopher Petty was also killed in January, a year earlier in 2006, when a roadside bomb exploded. Moreover, just like Brian Freeman, Christopher Petty was involved in a humanitarian effort at the time of his death; he was en route to check on the progress of a school rebuilding project when his convoy was ambushed. You can read all about Christopher Petty here, on his Arlington National Cemetery memorial website.

It was a pleasure to accommodate Deb and her boys at the studio a couple of months ago. That's Oliver up top, very cute and very patriotic. And as I've said many times before, never mess with the karma. And so I'm happy to report that the Petty boys' college fund will be a co-beneficiary of this year's Photo Marathon.

Two good men, and four little children who will be lucky to count on your support.

I know that within an hour or two of posting this, I will receive an email from Julie Newell asking how she can help. It's the best part of my job--all of my brides and grooms turn into great friends.

Once we figure out the logistics for the funds, I'll post some info here. In general, the Photo Marathon on 9/30 will operate just like in the past: Everyone coming to the studio will make at least a $250 contribution. In return, I'll shoot a cool portrait. This is speed photography at work, all for a good cause. In past years we've had kids, dogs, families, you name it (see above). We've used vintage cameras, old Polaroid film, whatever. We'll figure it out. You won't get an hour with me--more like seven minutes--but remember, the main thrust on this day is giving, not getting.

Save the date!

Matt

Cherry Blossom Redux

2007-07-24T08:35:00.000-04:00

A lot of couples and families ask me to shoot portraits during the springtime Cherry Blossom Festival in Washington. Having done this for years and years, I can tell you that it's one of the few overly-hyped tourist attractions to actually exceed expectations. The trees are so heavy with their delicate pink and white blossoms that one simply feels overwhelmed by the beauty of it all.

The logistics of getting to and from the Tidal Basin are another story. After 20 years I've learned that the only time one can successfully navigate the throngs of people--and dirth of parking spaces--is to be there at sunrise and out not much later.

This past spring I shot several couples down among the cherry trees whose weddings were in the distant future. And because of early blooming this year, I had to stack several appointments virtually on top of each other. The blossoms don't exactly wait for your schedule to mesh, and so it's important for all involved to very flexible.

As it happened, I ended up shooting two couples side by side one very early morning. Literally. Not wanting to wasted the golden sunrise, I would shoot one couple for a few minutes and then quickly "swap in" the other couple. It seemed crazy but we all laughed and the pictures were beautiful.

Part of the fun of that morning was that both couples had time to chat about their respective weddings, in between spurts of Matt yelling "Quick, quick! The light is Amazing!" and it quickly dawned on all of us that their dates were actually a day apart. Paul and Deena were getting married at the Museum of Women in the Arts on Sunday, July 15 and Julie and Chris a day earlier at Woodend.

I thought about that fun cherry blossom morning last week as I photographed Deena and Paul and Julie and Chris's wedding, back to back. Though completely different--Deena and Paul's affair was decidely Egyptian in flavor, with a belly dancer leading a procession of guests and fezzes for the men, while Julie and Chris had a gorgeous day to stroll around the grounds of the Audobon Society and eat crabcakes--both weddings, as I've now come to expect, were ultimatley shaped by high levels of romance and low levels of stress.

It seems so simple, doesn't it? High levels of romance and low levels of stress. Needless to say, of course, it's not a recipe that is always followed at weddings. At their core weddings are a celebration of the love that two people share. Why anyone would want to clutter that up with overly-ambitious timetables, family in-fighting and other miscellaneous tension ("I can't believe so-and-so was ten minutes late to the hair appointment!"), I don't know.

Julie and Chris and Deena and Paul got it, that's for sure. Their weddings were perfect celebrations, each one a reflection of their own families and values. We all laughed as one of Paul's colleagues at the IMF talked about his obsessive love of Wagner. (I'm a huge opera lover, though Wagner has admittedly been a struggle for me. I'll stick with Vissi d'arte from Tosca.) Apparently Paul will travel anywhere in the world for a good Ring cycle, and everyone wished Deena good luck trying to keep up. At Chris and Julie's wedding at Woodend, little flower girls giggled as they played hide and seek among the huge and ancient trees. Julie was so calm the morning of her wedding that she was eager to listen to my advice about the south of France, where she's now honeymooning. Other brides might have been too stressed out to be able to focus on the splendor of Aix en Provence.

Anyway, I have to go pack my gear for a quick trip to New Orleans tomorrow for a corporate shoot about smoke-free restaurants. New Orleans is a great city, but it's no fun by yourself for one day. I'd much rather be with Julie and Chris, as they explore Les Baux de Provence or sit at one of the trillion cafes in Aix, or with Deena and Paul, as they go from Tokyo to Bali and more.

Not sure if you can get good Wagner in Bali.

Cheers,

Matt

p.s. Don't forget: for a good laugh, click on the sound file in the post below for a Grammy winning Springsteen duet. It might take ten seconds to laod, as it's a big file. An as always, double-click photos for better viewing.

Alexandra Springsteen

2007-07-23T20:23:00.000-04:00

thunderroadfinal.mp3

I'm going to try and write something later tonight about the two great weddings I shot last week. But in the meantime, I finally opened Apple's GarageBand tonight, software that's been wasting away on my computer for years and years. So with a brand new microphone I bought at the Apple Store, I give you Alexandra Springsteen and the E Street Band.

Be back shortly.

Matt

Remembering Tammy Faye

2007-07-22T21:05:00.000-04:00

I was working at my computer tonight when I looked up at the TV and saw Larry King begin his show on CNN with this portrait I made of Tammy Faye Messner ten years ago.

Tammy Faye died today after a long bout with cancer. And as Larry King showed an interview he taped with her just a few days ago, weighing only 65 pounds and looking devastatingly frail, I could only think back to the shoot we did in the lobby of the Jefferson Hotel in downtown Washington. If I remember correctly she was promoting her tell-all book that had just come out. I'm not normally a fan of televangelists, especially televangelists who swindle thousands of people out of their money, as Tammy Faye and Jim Bakker did with their infamous PTL Club. But during our hour together she was so, well, Tammy Faye-ish, with her dog snug in her purse, that one couldn't help but giggle with her.

When I lived in Binghamton, New York during the mid-1980's I was close with a family who, like me, couldn't turn off that damn PTL club. We would call each other on the phone and laugh and laugh, dissecting that day's show and wondering who on earth would follow these people. So if you're reading this, Judy and Laura Fish, I'm thinking of you guys tonight. I hope you still have the book Tammy signed for you!

Larry King described Tammy Faye tonight as "the one and only" and I thought, you ain't kidding. Has there ever been anyone like her--those eyelashes, that voice, that makeup? Oy vey. Rest in peace.

Matt

Le Maille Jaune

2007-07-13T18:31:00.000-04:00

Okay, so the title of this entry is a terrible play on words, but I couldn't resist. You see, usually at this time I would be going on and on about the maillot jaune, the yellow jersey worn by the leader of the Tour de France. We get a little nutsy around here when the Tour begins, in past years watching live and subsequent re-broadcasts of each day's stage as many as four times a day. But after so many doping scandals the past few years, and so many hours spent defending riders who I'm now not even certain deserved defending, I just can't seem to get as excited as usual about this year's race. As Dave Stoller says in the 1979 classic "Breaking Away," one of my all-time favorite movies and certainly the greatest film about cycling ever made, "Everybody cheats, papa. I just didn't know it."

So allow me to talk about mustard instead, as in Maille, the French maker of moutarde since the mid-eighteenth century. This way, at least the yellow part stays the same.

I've never heard of mustard being used as a bellwether for a great civilization, but after a week in Paris, I now firmly believe it should rank right up there with democracy and literature and art. No offense to Voltaire and Moliere, or even Edith Piaf, but I really had an epiphany about this as we strolled around Place de la Madeleine. I'll explain.

After attending the wedding in Athens last Saturday, we flew to Paris (via Easy Jet, where, in exchange for cheap fares, passengers must rush the gate for a seat as if one were storming the Bastille) for a few days of non-hundred degree temperatures. We got them. Not only was Paris much cooler than sizzling Athens, it was downright cold. It felt like November. According to Parisians we spoke with this has been a really unseasonably cool summer.

So as we huddled for warmth inside Sacre Coeur, with 7,000 of our closest tourist friends, we decided that we should abandon any hopes of walking around Montmartre, which is really a lot like Plaka in Athens anyway--too many trinket shops and too many bad paintings for sale, and instead find a good steak frites place for lunch. In Paris, this is not very difficult. In fact, one could probably close one's eyes, spin three times in a circle, walk a thousand feet in any direction, and still walk right into a good steak frites place. (Don't even get me started about moule frites places in France. While most four-year-olds are content with pizza, Alexandra loves, more than anything, a good pot of mussels and fries.)

So after lunch we strolled around the neighborhood, mostly trying to avoid being outside. And after paying 90 euros for a sweater, something I didn't dream on packing in July, we came upon the mustard shop.

Maille. This company has been making mustard since before Marie Antoinette lost her head. They were making mustard before Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence and before Mozart ever thought of writing a requiem. In their little shops around Paris all they sell is the yellow stuff. Mustard, mustard, and more mustard. It would be something out of a John Cleese Monty Python sketch if it weren't the real deal.

For me, the irony is that I've never actually been a great lover of mustard. I grew up on Long Island, where no self-respecting McDonalds would ever dream of putting mustard on a hamburger. Imagine the shock when I went off to college and realized that, in fact, most McDonalds put both ketchup and mustard on their burgers. The horror, the horror! But as I've gotten older, I've warmed a bit. I know it's a more refined and acquired taste to the red stuff. I get it now.

Now in America, we have specialty shops. Cheese shops only sell cheese, right? But I'm talking mustard, folks. A shop that only sells one tiny little product. And I haven't even gotten to the best part yet.

So we're looking around this cute little mustard shop, trying to find a size and package that could be carried onto an airplane in this post-9/11 world, when a French woman walks in. She takes out what looks like a worn little honey jug from her bag and hands it to the clerk. The clerk then reaches for the middle handle of what looks like three beer taps and pulls the lever...and out pours fresh mustard.

Mustard on tap. Think about it for a little bit. Ponder the ramifications, especially in a world increasingly out of touch with culture and beauty and simplicity. We make fun of the French for so many things, and rarely credit them for all that is so right. Paris is the most beautiful city on earth (with apologies to a friend of ours who once argued that Washington was "probably close"), and there's nothing like taking a stroll around the Palais Royal, with its incredible allée of trees, or watching impeccably dressed children float sailboats at the Jardin du Luxembourg, or eating mussels in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. (And whether it's winter or summer, drinking the richest hot chocolate in the world at Angelina, on the rue de Rivoli is absolutely de rigueur.)

Don't get me wrong: most tourists will still flock to see the I.M. Pei pyramid at the Louvre first, as we always do ourselves. But from now on, I'll always have Maille.

Happy Bastille day!

Matt

Last Tango in Athens

2007-07-06T16:48:00.000-04:00

So there we were tonight, sitting outside a cute little taverna in Athens, Greece, listening to an incredible quintet, led by a Hungarian violinist, play dance music most usually associated with dance halls in Buenos Aires. And I didn't even mention that we had only just arrived from Paris, where last tangos are supposed to be heard. Small world.

I guess I should back up a bit. I'm posting tonight from Athens, my first international blog entry, and I was originally planning on just throwing up some cute pictures of Alexandra playing at the Parthenon this morning. But that was before we fell into this magical night of tango music, which became more and more irresistable as we ate our lamb at a favorite outdoor restaurant in Plaka, Platanos.

Every time we come to Greece, which is now becoming every other year, we make a beeline to Platanos, a classic Greek taverna. There's no shortage of cute tavernas in Plaka, but Platanos has always been special. It sits by itself on a secluded Plaka street, with tables covered by a natural canopy of vines and flowers. It's quite picturesque and the food is simple and good, and that's probably why we always keep coming back.

Tonight, we were there at 7:30, which is pretty much breaksfast time for most Greeks. Greeks, you see, don't believe in eating dinner until at least 10:30, something that tends to drive most American tourists a bit nuts. You show up at a restaurant at 7:30 and you watch the band set up.

Which is precisely what happened tonight. As we sat there eating we began to hear the most gorgeous strains form a violin I've even heard in person. Now I've had many a subscription to the NSO in Washington but this was something other-worldly. As more of the musicians began to go through their sound checks--the accordian, the piano, the bass--we realized that they were preparing for a concert in the adjacent property, a courtyard belonging to the Greek Ministry of Culture. The Athens Festival is going on and slowly it all started to make sense: there would be a recital this evening, but a recital of what? We checked the doorway and sure enough--and bizarrely enough--it would be a concert of tango music. In Greece. Go figure.

So we stalled and stalled through our diner, trying to drag things out so that we could still be there by the 9:30 concert time. We had Alexandra with us and she was already dozing off in her stroller. Could we take a sleeping child in a stroller to a concert? Would she wake up?

The more we heard the musicians rehearse the more we realized we had no choice. We had to go. So, with Alexandra fast asleep, we slid into the last two chairs and were treated to a group of world-class musicians playing these elctrifying tangos, one after the other. I have not the slightest reference point for tango music, so I was really surprised at how avaante-garde and modern it was. It sounded like something Stavinsky would have felt comfortable writing. Just incredible.

Anyway, Greece is beautiful. It's hot as Hades, though not as bad as we were expecting. I took Alexandra up to the Acropolis this morning--she pretty much didn't notice the large temple with columns behind her and was content to pick wildflowers growing out of the rocks. But that was fine, she's only four. At this point it was just a photo op for dad.

Last night Maya's family took us out for a great dinner, right at the base of the Acropolis. As you can see from the first image, there aren't a lot of restaurant settings in the world more spectacular than this one. All through the meal we could hear the strains of music (do you detect a common refrain forming?) wafting out of the nearby Odeion of Herodes Atticus, the Roman theater that sits at the base of the Acropolis.

And as long as we're on this whole music thing tonight, I can't avoid my favorite musician in all of Athens. Well, he's not really a musician. He's an organ grinder, actually, a particular type of street performer that disappeared from American streets decades upon decades ago. There aren't too many in Athens either. This particular man is well into his eighties and his voice makes a sound not unlike a rusty door being pried open with a crowbar. He pushes a very heavy cart up Ermou Street, Athens' big commercial avenue, all the while cranking this ancient organ. It's a sight one just doesn't see in a modern world. Every time we come to Athens we look for him, if only to give him some change and feel luck to have seen him.

Well, I probably should quit while I'm ahead here. It's quite late in Athens and we have to drive to Vouliagmeni tomorrow for the wedding. Though I'm quite at home in this digital world we live in, I still find it remarkable that I can do things like blog from my hotel room in Plaka. Way cool.

Yiasas!

Matt

Gone Fishin'

2007-07-03T08:13:00.000-04:00

Just a two-second post here to let everyone know that I'll be out of the country from 7/2 through 7/12. I'll be able to check my email a bit, but I'm not sure I really want to! We're off to Paris and then to Greece, to attend the wedding of Maya's cousin. See? Even when I'm not shooting weddings I'm still attending them.

I've had three great weddings the past couple of weekends, including a fantastic wedding at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, a gorgeous wedding in the Chicago area, complete with a walk on the sandy beaches of Lake Michigan, and the wedding of a woman I first met when she was in her stroller in Binghamton, New York.

Hopefully I'll be able to go into more detail about all of these weddings when I return.

So here's to Sarah Tierney and George Wisnieski, who had one of the most beautiful days of the year--and venues--for their wedding. The Naval Acadameny Chapel, with its maritime-themed stained glass, was truly breathtaking.

And here's to Adrienne Valassis and Todd Stratman, who, to their credit, made sure they had a few minutes to hit some golf balls at the country club after their Lake Bluff, Illinois wedding. I photographed Adrienne's sister's wedding at the same club a few years ago. Shawn, Adrienne's sister, is about to give birth and it was neat to see how life moves on and on.

And here's to Caroline Mahoney, who I first met when she was just a toddler, playing along the sidelines of high school soccer games near my house in Binghamton, New York. Caroline married Daniel Seymour, a firefighter, this past weekend. Twenty-some years ago, when I was working at my first job at the Binghamton Press, in upstate New York, the Mahoneys took me in and treated me like I was one of their own. Their generosity has always been vast. I'm a Jewish kid from Long Island, but after 20 years of friendship I feel like I'm part of a huge Irish family as well.

Gotta go pack now! Taxi's coming in 30 minutes.

See ya,

Matt

Once

2007-06-16T09:52:00.000-04:00

So we went to see this magical little Irish film last week.

It's called Once, and the title is somewhat of a joke, in that the movie and its songs keep swishing around your head for days and days and days. Once, my foot.

Once tells the story of a street musician in Dublin who befriends a quirky Czech flower peddler. And in a way that makes bloated movie musicals like Rent and Moulin Rouge seem downright silly, the main characters in Once sing their hearts out to each other. But unlike those other films, it all works. And here's the kicker: Once was filmed on a budget of $10,000. (Take a breath, let that sink in.) Yes, there are scenes that cry out for a Steadicam, and scenes that cry out for some Hollywoood lighting, but in a strange way it's the low-budget-ness of it all that gives Once it's charm. For the first few hours after seeing Once I kept thinking what they could have done with more money; now I keep coming back to what they did with what they had.

And that's without even mentioning the film's infectious main numbers. Like one of those guys who ride the Cyclone at Coney Island over and over, I think I must have set an iTunes record for listening to "If You Want Me" this past week.

I've been thinking about the word "once" this morning. It obviously begins just about every fair tale we know. But there are lots of other uses.

As in, "Once, while standing at the Chanel counter in Manhattan, trying to buy a gift for his sister back in Tunisia, Sophien Bennaceur met Catherine Bennett."

Or, "I was shooting a commercial ad campaign once for the media company Andi Small works for. She mentioned that she was getting married and one unglamorous job (illustrating a campaign on frivolous lawsuits) led to a far more glamorous one (illustrating love and romance)."

I could also get creative and say, "Bride-to-be Christina Princi once worked with the aforementioned Catherine Bennett at the William Morris Agency in New York, though now teaches drama to young school children here in Virginia. She will wed Michael Outten in the fall."

And finally, a no-brainer, as I watched Alexandra celebrate another birthday: "You'll only turn four once."

Now, on a personal level, once I get this blog to format correctly I need to jump in the shower and get ready for today's wedding at the Naval Academy. As always, double-click on the pics for a slightly larger view!

See ya,

Matt

Blue

2007-05-22T21:14:00.000-04:00

Careful readers of this little blog will have long ago noticed the little sidebar called "A Matt Primer" located on the right hand side of the page. I added the list when I first created The Dark Slide and I didn't think very hard about it at the time. But it's accurate. I am pretty much an Aimee Mann groupie and I did set a SUNY Binghamton record for failing Chaucer four times (hence the Canterbury Tales link) and I do worship the ground that New Yorker cartoonist Roz Chast walks on.

But the first link, for Polish director Krzysztof Kieślowski, really hits closest to home. Though he died too young Kieślowski remains my favorite director. His obsession with themes of fate and chance, as well as his keen attention to color in all his films is nothing short of remarkable. I remember being mesmerized by Irene Jacob in The Double Life of Veronique and even more enchanted by Juliette Binoche in Blue, the second installment of his Three Colors trilogy.

What the heck does this have to do with weddings, you ask? Well, I had to laugh this past weekend because my bride, Andrea Aten, bore more than a passing resemblance to a young Juliette Binoche. And just like a Kieślowski movie, my mind was drawing a blank all day. I knew Andrea looked liked someone, I just couldn't think who! Finally, with my very last thought as I was leaving Raspberry Plain at the end of the night, it hit me.

And in hindsight, which is always perfect, I now realize that there were more Kieślowski connections on Saturday than I thought. On a day that weather forecasters predicted would be bleak, rainy and grim, we ended up with some of the best light and color I've seen.

So rather than yak about things, I'll just post some pictures from the wedding of Andrea Aten and Shaun Kennedy. You can see for yourselves. As always, click on the image for a bigger view.

Have a great Memorial Day weekend!

Matt

p.s. No, the last image of the little girl is NOT set up! I was shooting Andrea and Shaun and little Avery just wandered into the frame carrying two bottles of Miller Lite. Now I can say I've seen it all.

Actually, it is Greek to me

2007-05-09T11:36:00.000-04:00

Well, it was bound to happen. After ten years of being married to a Greek woman, and nearly ten years shooting weddings, I finally shot my first Greek Orthodox wedding this past weekend. You would have thought that the odds would have dictated that I'd have photographed plenty of them by now. Nope, not one. Weird, eh?

And that's why I was really looking forward to the wedding of Maritsa Lohere and Robert Kondilas. I've always wanted to shoot inside of St. Sophia, the beautiful Greek Orthodox church in Washington. I've been to midnight Easter services there with my wife Maya, and have consumed way too many gyros at the St. Sophia Greek Festival (which seems to pop up every four weeks or so), but never had the opportunity to actually work inside the cathedral.

My Greek connection goes back to 1995, when I met my wife Maya while we were both working at USA Today. Maya grew up in Athens and spent her first ten years or so there. She rode the bus each day from her home in Palio Faliro to the American Community School in Halandri. (The actor Greg Kinnear was a couple of years ahead of her at ACS.) Maya's time in Greece coincided with, among other things, the military junta, the ongoing efforts to get US Naval bases out of the country, frequent bomb scares, and the murder of the CIA's Athens station chief. Pretty exciting stuff for a little kid!

I had never been to Greece before I met Maya but we've been several times since. We were engaged on the island of Santorini in 1996 and, more recently, our daughter Alexandra was baptized there in 2005. (It was at Agia Thomas, in Goudi, the same church Maya was baptized in decades earlier. In the photo she's being held by her godmother.) Greece is such a wonderful place. I'll always treasure the image of Alexandra, clutching a stuffed little piggie, exploring the Parthenon. Or seeing the great Argentine tenor Jose Cura sing under the stars in the Herod Atticus theater on the Acropolis.
And I can't leave out the tavernas that specialize in paidakia, grilled lamb chops. Here in crab country, we go to restaurants where they put some newspaper over a table and dump Maryland blue crabs on the table. In Greece, they do the same thing with paidakia.

All of which brings me back to Robert and Maritsa. I met them earlier this year. Maritsa, you see, is best friends with one of my favorite people, Annie Magruder. It's always fun to have that personal connection. And Robert and I bonded instantly--like me, he's a Tour de France nut. I remember that after our consultation we all went down to the Greek diner (you're detecting a pattern here?) that my studio sits on top of in Alexandria and talked about Lance Armstrong, Floyd Landis and Tyler Hamilton.

Well, Maritsa and Robert had a beautiful wedding. I couldn't understand a thing, since the entire service was in Greek, but I got the gist. (There's a funny weekly feature in one of the English language newspapers in Athens called "Learn Greek in 28 years.") St. Sophia was as beautiful as I imagined. And for their reception, Robert and Maritsa chose one of the most beautiful rooms in all of Washington, the Crystal Room at the Willard Hotel.

Last week, as you'll remember, I photographed Shari Maletsky and Aragorn Smith's wedding ceremony in the Crystal Room. This time, it was the reception. There's really nothing like this turn of the century space, with spectacular period chandeliers. In fact, a photographer friend of mine recently told me that he once had a bride who got married in the Crystal Room and said that she hated the chandeliers. What a dope!!!

I guess I should wrap this up before I lose all of you. Maritsa and Robert are in Thailand and cambodia right now. Let's hope they read this blog and hook up with my old friend Narisara in Ankgor Wat. And I hope you don't mind me rambling on about all things Greek tonight.

Kalinihta!

Matt

p.s. I've always assumed people would figure this out, but just in case: you can see larger images by double-clicking on any of the photos in this blog.

A Willard wedding

2007-05-05T10:25:00.000-04:00

The posts have gotten a bit on the ponderous side of late, so just a quickie post about last week's wedding of Shari Maletsky and Aragorn Smith at the Willard.

It seems like forever ago that I met with Aragorn and Shari at the studio. And sometimes when that much time goes by one forgets little details about the couple. Remember, I meet with most couples a year before their wedding. Most days I'm just lucky if I can remember where I left my keys. So in this case I forgot how laid back and fun these guys were. But by the time I started shooting Aragorn shaving in his room at the Willard, and saw that he had shaving cream on his nose and around his eyes, like some deranged elf, I remembered.

Shari and Aragorn were married in the hotel's Crystal ballroom, a magnificent turn-of-the-century space that truly takes one back through Washington history. (Remember, the term "lobbyist" comes from the Willard's famous foyer.)

Anyway, it was a beautiful affair, marked primarily by it's high level of joy and low level of stress.

A case in point (and Shari, forgive me for mentioning this!): At one point before the ceremony, we were taking some photographs outside in the patio area. Though we were outside for less that three minutes at that time, the bottom of Shari's dress got a little dirt spot on it. With 420 weddings of experience under my belt, I can safely say that a lot of brides would have had a meltdown. Shari didn't bat an eye. She was completely and utterly cool and collected. I was really impressed!!

I have to hurry up because I need to get back to--where else--the Willard for what promises to be another great wedding this afternoon. Today's ceremony is at St. Sophia, the fabulous Greek Orthodox cathedral off Mass. Ave. I'll keep you all posted!

Matt

Real heroes are even better

2007-05-02T14:16:00.000-04:00

Four days ago I wrote about some of my idols--Charlie Chaplin, Dmitri Shostakovich and David Halberstam. We all have a personal stable of historical figures who we identify with and look up to.

But today I received an email that reminded me that sometimes are heroes can live right down the block. It came from Jodi Rush, the mother of Heather Sigmon, one of my brides from October, 2005. Jodi was writing to tell me that our mutual friend Frank Johnston, one of the great news photographers of all time, was recently honored with the White House News Photographers Association's Lifetime Achievement Award at WHNPA annual dinner this past weekend. (Once upon a time, I would have been at that dinner, but weddings have replaced photojournalism dinners as my weekend activity. C'est la vie.)

Frank was a guest at Heather's wedding to Jose Vargas back in the fall of '05, and I've bumped into him occasionally since then, almost always at the Apple Store in Clarendon. To say that he's is one of the greats doesn't really come close to giving him the respect he deserves. Frank was in Vietnam, he covered Watergate, he was in Dallas the day Lee Harvey Oswald was shot, he photographed the Jonestown massacre in Guyana. The list goes on and on and on. Three times he was named White House News Photographer of the year.

But as I'm sure he knows all too well, you can't really talk about Frank Johnston without talking first about Peace Church.

Back in 1967, while shooting for United Press International--where I would begin my career 25 years later--Frank found himself trapped inside a tiny Catholic church in An Hoa, South Vietnam. It was known simply as Peace Church. Needless to say, peace was nowhere to be found that day.

Quite simply, I believe--and I'm not alone--that Frank's photograph of the haggard and scared Marine looking up from inside of Peace Church, the large wooden crucifix of Jesus looming behind him, is the most haunting photograph to come out of the whole war. 72 dpi on a blog can't do this photograph justice.

Now, certainly there are other great photographs from Vietnam, most of which I don't even need to link to. They are fixed in our brains: Eddie Adams' Saigon execution, Nick Ut's tragic photo of a naked girl running down a street after being napalmed, and Catherine Leroy's image of a Marine realizing his buddy is dead are among the greatest news photographs ever captured. But Peace Church is different. For all the action of those three famous photographs, Peace Church is just so darned quiet.

As Phil McCombs would write in the Washington Post's amazing 1998 multi-part story about Frank and Peace Church, "It was a butcher shop in that church. In the fading light, the moans of wounded Marines mingled with the explosions of incoming mortar rounds. Men were dying in one another's arms. Bodies lay on the floor. Shrapnel sprayed the cement walls outside like handfuls of nails hurled by a giant. A few hundred yards away, Marine units struggled in mortal combat with North Vietnamese Army regulars. One 200-man company had 15 killed and 60 wounded in a few hours. Medevac choppers couldn't get in. Wounded and dead were taken to the church."

Everyone should read this series. There's little I can say that could supplant McCombs' prose. You'll read about the man who called Frank in 1998, believing himself to be the brother of the young Marine in the photo. You'll read about the bond the two men form, and of their emotional trip back to Vietnam together to retrace the steps of that young Marine, thought to have been killed not long after Frank made his picture. And then, like a foul ball from out of nowhere, you'll read about the man who, as fate would have it, would finally step forward, some 30 years after the photograph was taken, to say that he was in fact the Marine in Peace Church. I remember reading the Post series and feeling proud just to know I worked side by side with Frank. For someone who has recorded so much history he is a remarkably humble man--always smiling, always laughing.

In fact, when I photographed Frank and his wife Nancy dancing at Heather and Jose's wedding a few years back, he kept deflecting all of my admiration and praise for him, instead asking me questions about what I was doing in wedding photography and the like. A real life hero, for sure.

So let's all salute a true legend of photography, Frank Johnston, winner of the White House News Photographer Association's Lifetime Achievement Award. No one is more deserving than you, Frank!

Matt

(Peace Church by Frank Johnston, courtesy UPI/Corbis-Bettman)

You must rejoice, You must rejoice

2007-04-27T21:08:00.000-04:00

Some odds and ends tonight.

I am a lover of great quotes, though not the obvious ones you might find in a guide to best man toasts. No, I prefer the odder and more obscure quotation, preferably ones made by personal heroes of mine.

For instance, my favorite quote of all time comes from Charlie Chaplin, who, towards the end of his life and decades after the demise of silent pictures, was asked about his relevance, and said the following: "I am surprised that some critics say that my camera technique is old-fashioned, that I have not kept up with the times. My technique is the outcome of thinking for myself, of my own logic and approach; it is not borrowed from what others are doing." I can read that again and again and not get tired, probably because it gives me hope to continue shooting with my Deardorff 8 x 10 camera or my trusty Hasselblads.

With the deaths this week of two more of my idols, David Halberstam and Mstislav Rostropovich, I am reminded of two other quotations that I have often pondered.

The first comes from Dimitri Shostakovich, my favorite composer and arguably the greatest composer of the last century. (Luckily, in classical music, one does not have to put up with those silly VH1 "Top 100 Artists" lists that pop up every other day. But I'll keep "arguably," if only to avoid hate mail. There's plenty of room at the table for Stravinsky, Rachmaninoff, Bernstein, Puccini et al.)

Anyway, one can't really discuss Shostakovich without bumping into Rostropovich, the greatest cellist of the last century, and vice versa. The two friends are forever linked, both products of a vicious Soviet system that created some of the greatest music and musicians, all at the figurative (and sometimes not) end of a rifle barrel. Rostropovich, who died today in Moscow at the age of 80, lived much of his life in exile, returning home and having his citizenship returned only after the fall of communism. (He famously played at the foot of the Berlin Wall as it toppled around him.) During his tenure as director of the National Symphony Orchestra here in the nation's capital he made a triumphant return to Russia, capping one concert with the greatest symphony of them all, the Shostakovich Fifth. Sweat poured and poured from the maestro as he led the NSO to the fifth's powerful and triumphant climax. It's a video clip I can watch over and over. In fact, many years ago I remember buying an entire NSO subscription just so I could be guaranteed to see Slava, as he was known, conduct the Shostakovich Fifth. He didn't disappoint.

Which brings us to Dimitri Shostakovich himself and the quote I often think about. The Fifth, which debuted in 1937, is, at least on the surface, a rousing symphony, one which restored its composer to the good graces of Stalin and party machine. In fact, it may have even saved his life. After his "Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk" was savaged by an editorial in Pravda as being shrill and chaotic, Shostakovich became a marked man. Every note he would write for the rest of his life would be scrutinized by party bosses, and as we all know, it's just so easy to produce art at gunpoint.

To that end, Shostakovich was often asked to elaborate on the Fifth. To this day, many accuse the conductor of being a party toady, writing something triumphant to appease Stalin. Others, myself included, have always heard something far more subversive in the Fifth, where musicals questions are answered with dark responses and huge climaxes are abruptly cutoff by militaristic snare drums marching in time.

Of the Fifth, Shostakovich said, "What happens in the Fifth Symphony should, in my opinion, be clear to everyone. As in Boris Godunov the jubilation is forced and comes about by threats. It is as if they were beating us with a cudgel and at the same time demanding, "You must rejoice, you must rejoice."

I remember reading that in the liner notes of the first Fifth I ever bought and thinking, wow, beating someone til they rejoice. What a concept.

___________________

David Halberstam died earlier this week, and when I think of the sad state of the White House press corps, more interested, it seems, in preserving their silly Correspondent's Dinner than maintaining a healthy distance from those they cover, I often think of an amazing story told about Halberstam.

One of the best books about journalism you could ever read is called "Once Upon a Distant War." It was written by William Prochnau some ten years ago and describes the very early days of the Vietnam conflict, from 1961 through 1963, when the U.S. operated in an advisory fashion and reporters would hail French-made taxis to the battles each day. There was no television presence to speak of and the number of American correspondents was less than a dozen. More importantly, perhaps, is that of those very few journalists operating in country, most were still in their twenties. They would collectively change the face of journalism forever, a decade, mind you, before Woodward and Bernstein began investigating a little break-in at an ugly apartment complex by the Potomac.

Of the lot, my personal hero has always been Neil Sheehan, author of "A Bright Shining Lie." I guess the fact that I started my career at the same wire service he worked for in Vietnam, United Press International, has something to do with that. Of course, the fact that "A Bright Shining Lie" is considered to be the greatest of all Vietnam books, winning the Pulitzer in 1989, probably doesn't hurt either.

But Halberstam, who wrote for the New York Times, is widely seen as the force majeure, a reporter whose writing so infuriated the powers that be, so much that both the white House and the Saigon government would have been happy if he ended up sleeping with the fishes. But Halberstam didn't flinch.

In a conversation with C-Span's Brian Lamb in 1996, William Prochnau talked about Halberstam.

"He was 28 years old. He was a man of great passions, great angers. The lying and more deception of another kind, the self-delusion and the self-deception -- he felt was deluding itself as much as deluding the American people -- drove him to fits. At one point, in one very famous episode, he slammed his fist down on a table in a little cafe in Saigon and said that the commanding general, the American General Harkins, Paul Harkins, should be court-martialed and shot. And everybody in the room turned around and looked at this 28-year old making this kind of announcement. He was clearly the driving force."

I've always loved that story. It's just so ballsy. And, of course, true. Nowadays, a reporter with that much conviction would end up in detention with Human Resources. Newspapers are terrified of saying the obvious, of stepping on toes, lest they lose their prized position in the White House Briefing Room.

They should all contemplate that episode for a moment.

__________________

We received some proofs from our new web site from our designer this morning and we're really excited. Speaking of Vietnam, i think we can finally see a light at the end of the tunnel on this front. I'll keep you posted but I'm hoping that we will have the new site up and running in a couple of weeks. At last!!!!!

________________

Finally, a quick update on our mourning dove. Mama bird has two little beaks to feed right now. And, i imagine, it will be just another couple of days before the whole family leaves our cozy kitchen nest. The we can begin waiting for next year.

See ya,

Matt

So we beat on...

2007-04-23T21:04:00.000-04:00

F. Scott Fitzgerald may have been alluding to something else when he began that last sentence of The Great Gatsby, but it was the first thing that popped into my head as I pondered how to wrap up a truly sad week here in Virginia.

Thirty-two vibrant lives snuffed out in minutes. Where does one begin?

Well, I guess I can begin two feet from my kitchen window. At around 8:00 this morning, in Arlington, Virginia--forty-five minutes after the first moment of silence was being observed on the Virginia Tech campus, and almost two hours before thirty-two more white balloons would rise above Blacksburg today--a little bird was born.

I can say this with a degree of certainty, as I've been a bit obsessed with this nesting mother for the past few weeks. Like Tony Soprano and his ducks, I find myself staring up at her thoughout the day. Each time I imagine that there will be a bunch of little beaks popping out, and that I'll have missed the big moment for another year. But each time it's the same: she just sits in that nest, the same nest that has provided sanctuary from squirrels and other foes year after year, keeping her eggs safe and warm. And unless you're living in Hawaii, I don't have to tell you what a cold spring this has been. This is one tough mom. Even Alexandra, who has become a great lover and protector of animals, is on bird patrol. I love when she pulls her litle chair to the door and strains to get a good view of the nest. (It beats the time a couple of weeks ago when she found a decaying mouse and held it up saying, "Daddy, we have to help him!")

And so that's why I know that it was today, and not a week ago or yesterday or this afternoon, that this little baby bird entered the world. It was this morning, around 8 a.m., exactly one week after the terrible and tragic events at Virginia Tech, and, as I have said, minutes after life was set to start anew again on that wounded campus.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying this little bird represents anything other than a little bird. But with so much sadness, maybe a little tiny bird hatching from an egg on the first beautiful Monday of the year is enough for one morning.

__________

Those of you who have been reading this little journal for the past few months now that while I may not be the most religious or spiritual person around, I do have a strong appreciation for those little moments of serendipity and chance that seem to follow me around.

This past Saturday, a woman named Mary Seale wrote a letter to the editor of the Washington Post, chiding the paper for poking fun at the deaths of several ducklings that had achieved celebrity status near the Interior Department. After all the fanfare of their birth, most of the ducklings were subsequently eaten by a goose. The Post's Reliable Source had a photo of the ducklings, each with an "x" superimposed on top. I remember turning to Maya and saying, "What a mean-spirited thing to do." And so when I read Mary's letter, I did what any crazy person would do: I looked up her number and called her to tell her how much I liked it.

This afternoon I received the following note:

"Dear Mr. Mendelsohn:

This is a very odd question, but are you the same Matt Mendelsohn who called me regarding the letter I wrote about the ducklings? I am only asking because, oddly enough, I was making reservations for our dog at the Olde Towne Pet Resort today and there was a link to you on their site. Washington DC is a big city, but if it is you it is a small world. When I saw the name on the same day you called, it was surreal. I read your brother’s book The Lost as well, one of the most moving I have read in years. I really like your blog--love the wedding stories. If you are the same Matt Mendelsohn-your call made my day, and I really appreciated it."

Small world, eh?

As Mary points out, I do, in fact, photograph people with their dogs all the time. Yesterday afternoon, I met one of my October couples, Sam and Chris, for an engagement portrait. Samantha had brought her dog Annabelle along and the light was beautiful. As we talked, Sam reminded me of what she did for a living. She's a nurse at Fairfax Hospital's Trauma Center, and given this week's shooting, we all know how important her job is. I know she'll scoff at this, but I feel proud to know people who do such important things as Samantha. I can make people happy with my photography, but Samantha can help save a life. That's amazing.

I've said repeatedly that I feel fortunate to consistently book such great clients. And it's times like these, when current events make us so jaded, that I realize how lucky I am to be around joyous events week in and week out, and to be around people who understand how important love is.

Take care, and let's go Hokies,

Matt

p.s. My assistant Matt Lisack is currently in Africa, doing IT work for the State Department. He emailed me tonight from Namibia and told me to get off my tush and start blogging again. Thanks, Matt! And for those of you who want to see what the other Matt is up to, you can read his blog here.

Also, I know a lot of you are asking about the new web site. While it may seem like we're slacking, rest assured that we're on the case. What started out as a simple desire for a new, updated logo and web site has morphed into a long, strange trip that I hadn't planned on. I promise it won't be long!

Matt to speak Wednesday in LA

2007-04-09T22:09:00.000-04:00

We love LA!

Well, maybe not love. No offense to Randy Newman and the big nasty redhead at his side, but it took me about fourteen minutes of driving on the 405 to remind myself why I moved away from this town in the first place.

But it's true--I'm back in Los Angeles this week for a cool event. Sinai Temple is hosting my exhibition, In the Footsteps of the Lost, and graciously invited me to come speak at the opening reception. The wine and cheese event is this Wednesday, April 11th at 6:00. I'll talk a bit about the process of photographing the survivors who make up The Lost a bit. And maybe if I have to much wine I'll rant a little about how ridiculously small the photos are in the book. For the thousands of Dark Slide readers on the west coast, come on down and say hi! Sinai Temple is located at 10400 Wilshire Ave.

(Yeah, yeah, for anyone interested, Daniel will be speaking on Friday and Saturday nights at Temple Sinai as well. If you click the ad here you should be able to read the details.)

See ya,

Matt

Take that!

2007-04-07T09:19:00.000-04:00

Well, I guess I had it coming. Less than 24 hours after writing a sappy entry about how great it is to finally have spring arrive, this is what we all woke up to in Washington this morning: a freak April snow gently blanketing the dogwood blooms.

Serves me right, I guess.

Matt

The Rite of Spring

2007-04-06T09:29:00.000-04:00

Every spring, like clockwork, we're fortunate to have a bird take us up on the empty nest that sits two feet above our kichen window. And each year, like excited little kids (as opposed to the real excited little kid we have), we watch the process unfold: the sitting on the eggs, the hatching, the feeding, the first flight. (I can't even think about the year when two of the little chicks fell out of the nest. Traumatic.) This morning, mother bird is still sitting on her eggs. I'll keep you posted when they hatch.

I'm not sure what it is about such a simple act of nature that keeps us glued to our window. Downtowwn Washington, a mother duck and her ducklings have kept passerby at the Department of the Treasury all aflutter as well. Their every move--every street crossing-- is cheered on by crowds. And a couple of blocks away, across the Tidal Basin, a million or so folks have just had the pleasure of viewing the cherry blossoms in full bloom.

This past Sunday, I finished photographing an engagement portrait by 7:15 a.m., (as Robert De Niro once famously said, "Get in. Get out. No one gets hurt.") and had Starbucks on my brain, when I saw a Park Police officer closing down my parking lot in advance of the annual Cherry Blossom Ten Miler. Those of us who were trapped in the lot for the next two and a half hours ended up chatting, cheering on the racers, and having a generally splendid time. After all, if you're going to get stuck in a parking lot for a couple of hours, wouldn't you want to be surrounded by cherry blossoms?

Don't worry. I won't turn this into a sappy ode to nature. But I'm sure glad that spring is here.

Now excuse me while I go find my winter coat, 'cause it's freezing here today.

Matt

Gone to the Dogs

2007-03-22T21:12:00.000-04:00

I photographed a rare Thursday afternoon wedding today--inside a federal courthouse no less. Melinda Williams, a former clerk to U.S. District Court Judge Alexander Williams, Jr., married Tron Kohlhagen inside the courtroom she once was so familiar with. After the brief ceremony we all went outside and Tron went to fetch their pups. ("Release the hounds" as Mr. Burns might say.) As I was shooting I kept thinking about my previous post about brave brides. But then I realized that bravery wasn't really at play here, just pure love.
Anyway, it made me think about how many dogs I've seen at weddings of late. Just two weeks ago, Lark Dunham married Bruce Flanagan in Arlington, and their dogs were right there for pictures as well. In attendance that day were my friends Alex and Steve, whose wedding on the sandy shore of Lake Michigan I photographed last year.

Alex and Steve had roles for all four of their dogs that amazing night.

And I can't forget the wedding of Kip Mallahan and Carroll Kilty last year at the tiny Harmon Presbyterian Church in Bethesda, Md. They may have trumped everyone, somehow getting their dogs inside the church for a few minutes. Hysterical.

Take care,

Matt (self-portrait with Cooper the Wonder Dog)

BULLETIN: 'The Lost' Wins NBCC!!!!

2007-03-08T20:04:00.000-05:00

Boy, this is very exciting! Our first breaking news bulletin!

It makes me very proud to report that my brother Daniel's book, "The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million" just won the National Book Critics Circle Award for best autobiography of 2006. The National Book Critics Circle Awards are among the most prestigious in all of publishing. I'm obviously tickled pink here, especially since I traveled with Daniel all over the world, photographing the people and places that make up 'The Lost.'

For those of you who have had to put up with me talking about 'The Lost' for the last year, thanks for your patience. I've been taking photographs for a living since 1986 but this marked the first time that my subjects had any type of personal connection, especially one to such a tragic event. My great-uncle Shmiel, his wife and four daughters all died terrible and anonymous deaths. That people are reading about them, talking about them at book clubs, and feeling for them some sixty-six years after they died is really a remarkable thing.

Congratulations, Daniel!

Matt

The Grassy Knoll

2007-03-06T15:12:00.000-05:00

Okay, something fun and frivolous for a change.

Let's start by saying that I am not a believer in conspiracy theories. I believe that Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, the Virgin Mary has never appeared in a piece of french toast, and aliens probably have better things to do than abduct people from trailer parks.

With that in mind, I came across the following image the other day. For some strange reason I decided to go through some of the countless boxes that litter our basement, each one containing film envelopes from my days as a wire service photographer.

This particular envelope said "Blue Angels, Andrews AFB." I shot for UPI in Washington from 1988 through 1990, before moving to the Los Angeles bureau, so I'm pretty certain this was taken in 1989. Since I was looking for any potential images for our new web site (yes, it's coming, I swear) I took out the negative page and glanced briefly at it. And this one frame just popped out.

My first thought was that this was a huge piece of debris on the negative, but inspection shows that this monolith (it does look pretty "2001"-ish, no?) is embedded into the film, not on it. Meaning that it does not appear to be a sticker that stuck itself to the film and went through the developing process. (Back in the film era, we used things called twin-checks, little numbered stickers, to identify film. One twin check would go on the film, the other on the caption envelope.)

Anyway, I am not going to play forensic sleuth, since I really have no idea what this is. But it's fun and it made me smile. Look for me someday on a future episode of TV's "Unsolved Mysteries."

Matt

Brave Brides

2007-03-04T19:57:00.000-05:00

You know those OnStar ads? Well, the following is an actual conversation between myself and my three-year-old daughter Alexandra, not more than twenty minutes ago:

Me: Alexandra, you need to go to sleep.

Alexandra: But daddy, I'm not sleepy.

Me: Alexandra, please close your eyes and go to sleep.

Alexandra: I think I need to ask my doctor about Lunesta.

True story. I swear.

I'm incredibly blessed to have a daughter who has a personality the size of Mars, someone who continually gives extra meaning to the term "free spirit." And without getting all gushy here, my brides are of the free spirit mold as well. I feel quite fortunate to continually work with brides who collectively make a mockery of the whole Bridezilla trend. You see, I don't get Bridezillas. Oh, I know they're out there, believe me. Countless television programs tell us so--brides who scream, brides who faint, brides who simply can't get through their wedding without some kind of theatrical display.

But I'm lucky to get the anti-Bridezilla. My brides are far more likely to be overcome with the giggles than any fainting spell, more likely to include children at their wedding than exclude, and more likely to traipse through the snow in pursuit of a good picture than fret about their wedding dress.

As evidenced:

Wendy Colfer and Capt. John Price Van Cleve were married on in a beautiful service at the Old Post Chapel on the grounds of Ft. Meyer in Arlington. Their reception, overlooking the Mall, was capped by the most spectacular sunset and moonrise I can remember.

But before we ever got to the reception it was important for Wendy and John to make one stop, at the United States Marine Corps War Memorial for a few minutes. To say it was bitterly cold that day would be an understatement. But Wendy was a trooper, never once complaining about the wind chill. I was truly touched myself, when out of nowhere, a gentleman came up, placed a large bill in John's hand, and said, "I want to thank you for your service. I hope you guys can have a nice dinner on me sometime." It was really a special moment.

As evidenced:

Erika Mudd and Michael Hodge were married in February. I met with Erika and her mom a long time back and we laughed for an hour. That's pretty much Erika's personality in a nutshell. And from the moment I got to her hotel room in the afternoon to the end of the evening all I heard from her was laughter.

She laughed as she donned her dress, she laughed as Michael let out a little yawn during the church service (truthfully, everyone laughed at that one), and she laughed as they danced their first dance to a funk classic rather than a golden oldie.

Having photographed as many weddings as I have, I can't stress enough the impact of, well, stress, on the entire affair. As I always tell couples, your wedding is not like taking an LSAT. There's no need for that kind of stress. And Erika is the perfect example. Every moment of the day was just another excuse to smile.

As evidenced:

Annie Miller and Danny Orgad were married at Union Station two weeks ago. If there was an award for bridal bravery during a snow squall, Annie and Danny would take top honors.

The entire wedding party left Annie's family home in Northwest Washington en route to Union Station. It was bitterly cold outside, but nothing prepared us for the mini-blizzard that began moments after boarding the shuttle bus. For 45 minutes it was coming down like it hasn't all winter here in the nation's capital. It was one of those storms one dreams about. Absolutely beautiful, and with no danger of having any lasting impact.

So it was with a heavy heart that the bus cruised by the fountain in Dupont Circle. There was no way that I was going to suggest jumping out into the snow before the wedding and so i just swallowed hard and thought of the picture we might have had. Well, Annie must have read my mind because she immediately asked what I was thinking.

"Nothing," I responded. "Don't worry."

"You want to go out in the snow, don't you?" she pressed.

"Well, I wouldn't risk your dress before the wedding. But it is nice, isn't it?!?!"

"Let's do it," she said, with Danny in full agreement.

And so we turned the bus around, headed back to the circle, and crossed our fingers. With the help of some groomsmen we hopped out, gingerly made our way across the street, and laughed hysterically as we found ourselves in a winter wonderland.

It's one of those moments that we, as photographers, all dream about.

And that was just the beginning of the day. Annie and Danny had a truly regal wedding. It's a treat jsut going to Union Station to catch a train; going to a wedding there is even more fun. Wedding planner Bonnie Schwartz turned it into an absolute fantasy.

Annie and Danny weren't the only couple to be treated to snow that weekend. Jill Konz and Ethan Cooper, a truly gentle couple, were treated to the white stuff too. And they weren't going to pass up their chance either. After a ceremony at Old St. Mary's in Old Town we all hopped in a car en route to the Army and Navy Club downtown Washington. But first we made a stop at the Capitol, which looked glorious surrounded in snow, as well as a quickie stop at Farragut Square, where Jill got to show off the gorgeous kimono she received from her bridesmaid.
Jill's dad delivered a touching tribute to his daughter and I was able to make a nice image of Ethan and Jill at their table. (This might be gibberish for those of you who aren't photographers but this particular picture was shot at a 1/15th of a second at f1.8 at 1600. suffice to say, I wouldn't have been able to make this image in a film world.)

And so there you have it. four incredible couple in a row. And that doesn't even include last night's wedding, right here in Arlington, of Lark Dunham and Bruce Flanagan. In keeping with the theme of this post, Lark and Bruce wouldn't have dreamed of not having their beloved pups in a photo. And so, where other brides might have flipped out at the prospect of getting paw prints on her dress, Lark just kept hugging away.

Let us now praise very brave women!

Matt

This is the one

2007-02-15T20:18:00.000-05:00

Many years ago my dear friend Katy Kelly lost her brother Michael, one of the truly great writers of our time, in Iraq. Michael Kelly, the editor of The Atlantic Monthly and a syndicated columnist for the Washington Post, was killed when the humvee he was riding in was ambushed near the Baghdad airport. His death remains a terrible loss, especially if you've ever have the pleasure of reading his posthumous collection of columns, Things Worth Fighting For. (Like many, my favorite remains his his wicked profile of "Farmer Al" Gore, in which the former veep's childhood memories of growing up in Carthage, Tennessee come head to head with the realities of his other childhood-- the one spent living in the penthouse of a posh Washington hotel. It will make you pee in your pants.)

I knew Michael, though mainly through Katy, and had the pleasure of photographing him holding his young son Tom on the front porch of his northwest Washington home. Shortly after his death, while driving home from my Old Town studio, I had the crazy idea of doing a charity benefit, to raise money for the college funds of young Tom and Jack. I remember writing in my mass email that I didn't know anything about raising money but I knew a lot about taking portraits. A few weeks later, with the help of some good friends, we spent ten hours in my little studio shooting portraits on a vintage 4 x 5 camera. By the end of that one day we had collected $14,000 in donations. And I learned a valuable lesson of fundraising: everyone wants to help but someone's gotta get the ball rolling.

We did the Photo Marathon, as we dubbed it, for two more years, with a hiatus after Katrina, sensing people were being pulled in too many charitable directions. I've been looking for an opportunity to rekindle Photo Marathon, knowing that one day a reason would simply appear.

Well, after reading today's Washington Post I am pleased, though saddended, to report that we're back in business. Today's front page featured a truly touching story about Army Reserve Capt. Brian S. Freeman, of Temecula, California. From all accounts, Capt. Freeman was a remarkable human being--a West Point grad who served his country, an avid and accomplished bobsledder, a husband, and father to two small children, Gunnar, 2, and Ingrid, 1. But the most amazing thing about Capt. Freeman is how he spent the last six months of his life in Iraq--working tirelessly on behalf of a sick 11-year-old Iraqi boy in desperate need of lifesaving heart surgery in the United States. Tragically, within hours of finally securing the transit visas for the boy and his family, Capt. Freeman was abducted by insurgent gunmen and executed.

As I read today's story, with it's Romeo and Juliet twist of fate, the same feelings that came over me after Michael Kelly's death came rushing to the surface. Anyone want to guess what a college education will cost in 2022, when Captain Freeman's children are ready to enroll?

And so this will be our mission for 2007: we will raise money in memory of Captain Freeman, a brave and honorable man who refused to let a war get in the way of his heart. I don't know exactly how and I don't know exactly when--the details will sort themselves out--but we're starting today,

Stay tuned for details about how you can help Capt. Freeman's children. We will certainly be scheduling a Photo Marathon in Capt. Freeman's memory in the spring. But I'm also going to start looking into to creating a charitable arm of Matt Mendelsohn Photography, a not-for-profit fund devoted exclusively to helping people in need. I know many of my clients are attorneys, so here's an offer: the first attorney to help me navigate the minefield of creating a 501c3, or whatever it is we might need to get this going, gets a free family portrait session.

As I said, stay tuned for more details. And so as not to end this on a sad note, I'll leave you guys with a photo from the first week of February, the intimate and joyful wedding of Marine Capt. John Price Van Cleve and Wendy Colfer. More photos to come.

Matt

Snow Day!

2007-02-14T12:34:00.000-05:00

Okay, I've been a terrible blogger the last two weeks, but I've had good reason. We've all been sick for a while and I finally feel 100%. And with today's dusting of snow (or, if you listen to any of the local news, the Ice Storm of the Century!!) I figured it was finally time to get back in the saddle. I have two great weddings I still haven't posted a single picture from--Erica Mudd and Michael Hodge and Wendy Colfer and John Price Van Cleve--and hopefully I will take care of that this evening.

But first, a couple of photos closer to home, taken a mere 100 feet from Matt Mendelsohn Photography World headquarters about an hour ago. The first is my adorable neighbor Liam Crowley and his cat, Sparkle. I find myself taking photos of Liam all the time since he's so darned cute. The second photo is my own little munchkin, Alexandra, with Cooper the Wonder Dog. If I had to pick who liked the snow more, Cooper or Alexandra, it would definitely be a tossup.

Anyway, again, sorry for the lack of posts. I'll pick up the pace--promise!

Matt

Rose Colored Glasses

2007-01-29T21:30:00.000-05:00

Old dogs and new tricks have always proved a tricky prospect, we know that. But I could never teach my dog Cooper any new tricks even when he was eight months old, so maybe I have bigger problems. I do know one thing: I've driven past a certain brick wall in Arlington at least 10,000 times in the last 20 years, but it took my bride and groom from last week's wedding to point out what I've been missing all these years.

But let's wait a bit and start at the beginning.

I first met Pam Dodge and Lawrence Luk a year ago in Paris. Well, not that Paris, unfortunately. This was the foam core one that stands next to Ballys on the Las Vegas strip, where folks can buy all sorts of Eiffel Tower memorabilia and eat all kinds of pastries and convince themselves that they don't ever really have to leave the U.S. and visit the real city. Yeah, that one. (See last week's post below.) Ugh.

Anyway, Pam and Lawrence were in Paris for WPPI, the annual wedding and portrait photographers' conference. I was there because Lexar, the folks behind those compact flash cards, asked me to speak at their booth. Lawrence is a fine young photographer himself and he and Pam were nice enough to sit through my presentation, like, three times in a row.

(Or maybe they were just waiting patiently for Denis Reggie, one of the original "rock stars" (tee hee) of wedding photography, a guy who is certainly pleasant enough but has the incredibly peculiar habit of actually referring to himself in the third person. Mick Jagger, maybe. Dennis Reggie? I don't think so.)

Anyway, one of the things I tried to convey during my WPPI presentations was the importance of freshness. When you've photographed more than 400 weddings it becomes increasingly more important to stay alert. Not Last Week's Wedding is how the mantra goes in my head. It's easy to slip into routine after all these years--part of the reason there's so much burnout among wedding photographers.

A few months after the conference Pam and Lawrence called me to tell me they were getting married. I was happy to shoot their wedding--after all, they actually made me look like I had groupies in Vegas. Seriously, I've always been looking forward to their date because they trusted me so completely, something that is, truthfully speaking, very important to me. Plus, they were starting their wedding day with a dim sum feast. Who could say no?

Digression Number One: I am a sucker for dim sum. When I worked for United Press International in Los Angeles in the early 1990's dim sum was a midday fixture. Every few days I would meet my buddies Ronal Taniwaki, of Nikon, and Bert Hanishiro, of USA Today, at Ocean Seafood, a huge restaurant in Chinatown. Ron and Bert would explain the difference between har gao and siu maii (I'm using the Wiki spellings here), and why one should never, ever pass up the pork buns. Those years of intensive dim sum consumption would not be wasted.

I moved back to the east coast and for the next ten years I worked at USA Today in Arlington, Virginia. In the lobby of the old USA Today building, as fate would have it, is the largest dim sum restaurant in the Washington area, China Garden. And when you work at a newspaper you get used to working on Sundays--somebody's gotta put out the Monday paper, right?--so it was all too perfect to stop in each week for dumplings.

So when Lawrence and Pam said they were starting their wedding day at China Garden, it just seemed like good karma.

Digression number two: Always pay attention to the karma. Years ago I was late for a meeting with prospective wedding clients when I got stopped for speeding. That damn trap on Rock Creek by the Lincoln Memorial--I should have seen it coming. And when I saw the officer writing up the ticket in my rear view window I knew I was nailed. But the officer said this instead: "I'm not sure why but I'm just going to give you a warning." And I said this: "You're a good guy, officer. I promise I'll do a good deed for someone in return." I then drove to the studio, met my couple, asked them what they did for a living and heard this: "I'm a police officer."

Okay, back to the present.

One of the cool things about doing weddings is bumping into people you know from all sorts of places. One of Pam and Lawrence's friends is Emilie Sommer, a wedding photographer from Maine who interned years ago at USA Today. And then there's Ron and Kathleen Ngiam, whose wedding I photographed some seven years ago. It was great to see them after all this time. As I was photographing Pam and Lawrence and their respective families, Ron and Kathleen passed by. I looked over and the light was amazing, an orange rim around Kathleen's hair, and I had this incredible deja vu.

Okay, enough already, you're saying. Get to the part about the brick wall. What did you notice for the first time?

Well, here's the deal. Wilson Boulevard in Arlington County has seen a lot of change since I first moved to Washington in 1988. The Sears is long gone, the Vietnamese restaurants are slowly being pushed out, and the used car lots have been replaced by Cheesecake Factories. Oh, well. So much for the "Keep Clarendon Weird" graffiti that once marked the side of an old garage.

One of the cool remnants of old Clarendon that has not yet fallen prey to development is the OK Used Car sign, a rusty throwback to another era. Pam and Lawrence asked to be photographed with that sign and I was happy to oblige. Anything but the Jefferson Memorial, I thought. So we went, we parked and I shot. Neat and funky, but nothing earth shattering. Then Pam said, "Could you shoot one of the other "OK" sign?"

"What other sign?" I said.

"The little one, behind us."

And I looked at a wall I've passed countless times in the last twenty years and said,
Oh, that one."

Matt

Dying is easy, parking is hard

2007-01-18T11:59:00.000-05:00

You could always count on Art Buchwald to make you double over and today's title did just that. As the CNN anchor uttered those words this morning in tribute to the great humorist I burst out laughing. And while most of today's obituaries will focus on Buchwald's vast canon of political humor, I'll always be grateful for a tiny little memoir he wrote a decade ago, I'll Always Have Paris!, a book that describes a life I've always secretly coveted.

The book looks back lovingly--and hysterically--at a time of incredible innocence and opportunity in the world, a time when all the great journalists, photographers, musicians and writers (basically, anyone who was anyone) coverged in the only logical place to, well, converge: Paris.

Of course a lot has changed since the days when Bogart and Bacall would call up a newspaper columnist to take them to lunch on Avenue George V. If you hadn't noticed, the world isn't all that innocent anymore, Paris is a tad on the expensive side, and flying just isn't the jetsetter experience it once was. But that doesn't mean we can't dream.

In a 1999 interview with Mitchell Martin in the Herald Tribune Buchwald recalled the time he took the Aga Khan to lunch: "We had a fantastic bottle of wine. The check came and nobody made a move for it, so I had to take it. It was like about $50 a person." Fifty bucks back then translates to about $900 in today's money. Even in those days, the Herald Tribune's accountants kept an eagle eye on expenses, so of course the $150 was an outrage. "Where do you get off taking the Aga Khan to lunch?" Buchwald recalled his editor, Eric Hawkins, berating him. "So I looked at him and said: He wouldn't pay."

I think we all harbor the expat dream, to be sipping our coffee (in my case, chocalat chaud) at some snooty French bistro whilst reading the International Herald Tribue. My very first trip abroad was to Paris and we've made a beeline there ever since. Our honeymoon in 1997--to Morocco and Spain--started with a few days in Paris. How could one not? Maya looked beautiful in the Loro Piano wrap and Burberry hat that I had gotten for her.(I'm not sure which is a dopier thing to lug on a honeymoon: an expensive hat or a Hasselblad.)

Last January, some nine years later, we took Alexandra, then 2 1/2, on her first trip to the City of Light. Following in her father's footsteps, she drank hot chocolate at Angelina's, discovered carousel after carousel, and jumped for joy just about everywhere we went. A year later, when we pass the hideously ugly radio antenna on Glebe Road, Alexandra always says the same thng: "Look--the Eifel Tower!"

Whatever happens down the road, she'll always have Paris.

Matt

Three's Company

2007-01-10T22:07:00.000-05:00

It's good to be back!

And while you probably thought I was out enjoying the holidays and new year like you guys, I was actually working three weddings in rapid succession. From a Christmas wedding, to a pre-new year's wedding aboard the last surviving Potomac river barge, finally concluding with a new year's extravaganza, there was no rest for the weary. But it was all fun and each wedding, as one would hope, had its own personality.

The holidays began with the marriage of Alicia Glassburn and Matt Biliouris, just a few days before Christmas. Matt and Alicia got married at the historic Old Presybterian Metting House in Old Town Alexandria, not far from Matt Mendelsohn Photography World Headquarters.

There's something wonderful about Old Town at Christmas. Actually, there's something great about Old Town any day of the year. Since moving my studio to the corner of Madison and St. Asaph a couple of years back I've really enjoyed spending my days down there, just a few blocks from where George Washington went to church and Lafayette drank his ale. Old Town also happens to be the most canine friendly city on earth, so Cooper the wonder dog relishes his time there as well. We like to walk past the Olde Town School for Dogs (think Miss Porter's for Fido), with Cooper pulling on his leash and nuzzling every person he passes. The Olde Town School dogs look on with disdain.

Speaking of dogs, that's how I met Alicia in the first place. Every year we have a charity event at the studio, dubbed Photo Marathon, and I shoot endless portraits on an ancient camera, using ancient film. 100% of the monies raised go to a worthy cause. Several years ago, when we were raising money for the sons of Michael Kelly, a great journalist killed in Iraq, Alicia and her dog Paris came by. We've known each other since and it was a pleasure to return the favor, so to speak, and shoot her wedding.

It was a crisp night and the entire wedding party walked the several blocks from the meeting house over to the Lyceum. I don't think I've ever really appreciated how hard it is to play bagpipes and walk for blocks and blocks, particularly when you're freezing you're tush off, so Alicia's friend deserves a lot of credit. It's always fun to see people pop their heads out of their homes when a bagpipe procession goes by, and being just a couple of days before Christmas made this one even more special.

I spent Christmas here in Washington with my family. Alexandra, now 3 1/2, is at that perfect age, as far as opening presents is concerned. She hasn't mastered the art of throwing the wrapping paper over one's head, a la A Christmas Story, but she did scream out "Oh my goodness!" after every present was opened. (An unrelated new line of hers: she loves to tell the same knock-knock joke and each time she says "orange 'ya glad I didn't say banana" she squeals "I got you good, daddy!")

Right after Christmas I had the pleasure of shooting one of the smallest--and sweetest--wedding ceremonies I've seen. Nicki Gonzalez is someone I've bumped into at weddings for years and years. She's the lead singer of The Nicki Gonzalez Band and she has a gorgeous voice. A couple of months ago Nicki e-mailed me to say that she was getting married, though the venue seemed a bit odd at the time. Nicki and Jake had chosen the Gen. Jubal A. Early, the sole remaining Potomac river ferry still in service.

If you've never been on White's Ferry you should definitely check it out. The barge holds only 24 cars and makes the quick trip between Leesburg and Poolesville, MD. in a matter of minutes. What it lacks in glamour it more than makes up for in history. And as an added bonus, the U.S. Coast Guard recently tried to shut the ferry down, employing the tried and true govermental practice of swatting a fly with a sledgehammer, only to find that the ferry's owner was not about to cut and run, to use a term I truly loathe. Long live the Gen. Early!

It's not often you can count a wedding party on one two hands. (It would have been one hand but for the reporter from the local paper who tagged along. He couldn't remember anyone ever getting married on the ferry.) The ferry captain held up cars for a few minutes as we ambled to the middle of the Potomac and began our private little wedding. The river was absolutely still and everything seemed just perfect. Even the folks who had to wait for twenty minutes were offering up congratulations to Jake and Nicki.

After a beautiful ceremony, presided over by the always friendly Rev. Jim Birch, a minister I see every couple of months, Jake and Nicki hopped into their Jeep Liberty and headed off to a NYC getaway.

For me, I still had one last wedding to go before 2006 could run it's course. I met Liz Burke and Andy Bodendorf way back at the beginning of 2006 and it seemd fitting for them to be the final event of the year.

Liz and Andy chose the Willard for their big event and the hotel looked great. The holiday decorations were still up, even though everyone was now focused having a blast when midnight rolled around. After a beautiful ceremony at Faith Lutheran Church in Arlington, overflowing with candlelight, we all went back to the hotel to ring in the new year.
(I have to make special mention here of Pastor John Bradford at Faith Lutheran: After 400 weddings I think it's safe to say that members of the clergy and wedding photographers will never be drinking buddies. But Pastor Bradford was, without a doubt, the warmest, most jovial minister I've ever come across. He actually uttered the following words, rumored in wedding photography circles to be a sure sign one has died and gone to heaven: "Where would you like to be during the ceremony?" Thanks, pastor.)

Alright, enough. Time for bed. I wish all of you guys a happy new year and I promise to be a better blogger in 2007!

Matt

Happy Holidays!!!!!!!

2006-12-20T15:56:00.000-05:00

Year-end praise for The Lost

2006-12-03T23:57:00.000-05:00

It was a great weekend for The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million. My brother's book--one which I spent five years shooting photographs for--was named one of the 50 Notable Books (non-fiction) of 2006 by The New York Times on Sunday. When one thinks of the thousands and thousands of books released each year, this is certainly an amazing honor.

The Houston Chronicle weighed in on Sunday as well, naming The Lost one of its 12 best books of the year. The Chronicle was kind enough to note that "no other memoir has received more respectful reviews in recent months."

The Boston Globe also included The Lost on its list of the 12 best non-fiction books of 2006.

And finally, Amazon.com named The Lost as it's #2 history book of 2006, a wonderful way to finish the weekend.

Now, if I could only get HarperCollins to make the pictures a little bigger than postage stamps in the next printing, life would be great. :)

On an unrelated note, we're still clawing our way through the holiday photo blitz, trying to stay above water. So if you guys are wondering why I'm not writing a lot these days, that's it!

But I promise to be back up to speed in a few days, with fun and depressing tales of just how crazy people get around this time of year. Let's just say that I feel for some of the children I've photographed lately.

Happy shopping,

Matt

A welcome change of pace

2006-11-13T20:22:00.000-05:00

I know I've been a bad, bad blogger the past two weeks. October and November are always my two busiest months--the former chock full of weddings, the latter chock full of holiday portraits--so you'll pardon the slight letup in posts. It's hard enough just keeping up with the constant downloading of memory cards, ten gigs here and eight gigs there, a task that keeps me up well into the wee hours of each morning. Blogging seemed pretty low on the to-do list.

Well, I'm happy to say that I'm back. Not necessarily rested, but back nonetheless. The last two weeks have offered me a welcome change. After more than 400 consecutive weddings in the last nine years (go ahead, do the math) I switched gears in a big way these past two weekends: I shot two back-to-back B'nai Mitzvahs.

To say that I'm not exactly known as a Bar Mitzvah photographer is an understatement. Outside of the two I shot several years back for my friend Judy Schlosser of P Street Pictures, the Georgetown shop where I frame all my work, I've haven't shot another Bar or Bat Miztvah ever. I mean, I was Bar Mitzvahed once, but that was in 1975, and we'll get to that in a little bit.

But sometimes ignorance can be a blessing in disguise. Nine years ago, when I started shooting weddings, people kept seeking me out precisely because I didn't shoot weddings. I was at the White House every day back then, and brides and grooms seemed excited by the fact that I wasn't some dorky wedding photographer, shooting hand-on-hand closeups and pictures of the bride's shoes.

(To this day, I still don't understand the fascination wedding photographers have with a bride's shoes. Do they think that brides are so fragile and so insecure that they need documentation of their freshly-dyed DSW shoes? All the more reason to love my October 21 bride, Christy Trew, who couldn't wait to get rid of her shoes and don a pair of cowboy boots.)

Anyway, wedding clients still come to me all these years later because of my "outsider" status, though I'm not sure one can still qualify as an outsider after doing the same thing 400 times. But that's where the Kaplan, Mendelson (no relation) and Macklin families come in. Just like with the weddings, these families were looking for a non-Bar Mitzvah Bar Mitzvah photographer. That wasn't hard to give them, since I was blissfully unaware of what Bar Mitzvah photography look like, though I knew I didn't really want to find out.

(I'm using the masculine, singular form of the celebration here: Bar Mitzvah. Obviously, the feminine is Bat Mizvah. But in both cases these past two weeks I was shooting a B'nai Mitzvah, the plural form. On November 4 it was brother and sister Samantha and Jack Kaplan at Washington Hebrew Congregation; on November 11 cousins Oliver Macklin and Amanda Mendelson took their turns on the bima at Adas Israel.)

And these two events certainly came at an appropriate time. Given the fact that for the last two months I've been quite occupied with promoting my brother Daniel's bestseller, The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million (named this week as Amazon's #2 history book of 2006) it would be hard not to think about a Bar Mitzvah with out thinking of our very first trip for that project. In 2001 I traveled with my three siblings to Bolechow, in Ukraine, and saw the the synagogue (above) where my grandfather and his brother Shmiel were both Bar Mitzvahed, circa 1915. My grandfather survived, his brother didn't. And the synagogue where they read from the Torah is now a municipal depot, a sad, shuttered reminder of the the thousands of Jews who lived and were later murdered in the tiny town.

Worlds apart and almost a century removed, the weeks--if not years-- of preparation that Oliver and Amanda and Samantha and Jack went through for their big day is probably not all that different from the time spent practicing by my grandfather and his brother for their Bar Mitzvahs. Cynics will say that Bar Mitzvahs are now huge events compared to a century ago. Yeah, and movies were two for a nickel and all that. The celebrations may be bigger, but the ceremonies remain largely the same. I watched four young men and women take their responsibilities very seriously these past two weeks. They were poised and serious inside their respective synagogues, far more mature than I remember myself at that same age.

I was Bar Mitzvahed in 1975, the last week of the year. I can't boast that I was a very good Bar Mitzvah candidate back then. I remember the scratchy records we had to listen to so we could correctly recite our Haftara portion. (The records were often swapped out, when no one was listening, for Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass's Whipped Cream, a record I played to death as a kid.) And I remember shopping for a new talit, the prayer shawl one wears at his Bar Mitzvah. But mostly, and somewhat embarrassingly, I remember our weekly commando missions into the kitchen of the synagogue to steal food left over from Friday night services.

(My Bar Mitzvah classmates were Michael Langer and Scott Poris. One week we broke into the bottle of grape drink reserved for the kids. Being twelve at the time, we dutifully ignored the words CONCENTRATE on the front of the jug, and, more importantly, the admonition to "mix one capful to one gallon of water." If you've ever wondered what oil tastes like, I can fill you in.)

I was not a very serious candidate in 1975 and, truthfully speaking, I'm not a very religious Jew in 2006. But after watching Oliver and Amanda and Samantha and Jack perform so masterfully, I have hope for a younger, better generation.

Matt

p.s. Yes, that's me in this photo from my buddy David Fischer's Bar Mitzvah. We were fashion trendsetters, no? By the way, if you guessed anyone but the top left, I'm going to bop you on the head.

Cue the Minute Waltz

2006-10-30T01:41:00.000-05:00

It was a busy twenty-four hours for Matt, including a beautiful wedding on Saturday, a consultation for a June '07 wedding, an album consultation for a May '06 wedding, and three portrait shoots on Sunday. And here I am at 1:38 in the morning. I may not be agent Jack Bauer on 24 but here's my last day:

Saturday 9:00 a.m. Met (and laughed) with Catherine Bennett, her mom, and sister Sarah at the studio in Old Town for next June, 2007. Catherine will be getting married at one of the nicest venues around, Evermay in Georgetown. (I just shot Audra Bielke and Tom Spouse's wedding there two weeks ago--see below.) Raced home to get ready for my afternoon wedding.

Saturday 1:30 p.m. Arrived at Woodend, the Audubon Society's beautiful headquarters in Chevy Chase for the wedding of Rachel Brintnall and Seth Harrington. The first thing I see as I'm parking my car is a bunch of deer looking for food. Hop out of the car and make a cool image of two of them kissing, or at least looking enough like they were kissing that it would make a good wedding story.

Saturday 11:00 p.m. Get home, go to sleep.

Sunday 9:00 a.m. Shoot a portrait job for the Morris family, only a couple of blocks from my house. Savored the extra hour of sleep. But with that hour comes the knowledge that from this day on, afternoon light will be at a premium as the days get shorter and shorter. For photographers this is always a sad day.

Sunday 1:00 p.m. Arrive at Great Falls Park for a portrait shoot with Melody Miller and her family, which includes three of the largest great danes you can imagine. I use to think Cooper was a big guy until I got a look at these amazing animals. Things get off to a humorous start as Pearl, the white one, promptly parks her butt in a huge mud puddle.

Sunday 3:00 p.m. Arrive back home to drop in on a meeting between my wife Maya, who designs all the albums here at Matt Mendelsohn Photography (Maya was formerly a designer at the Newseum, the nation's first museum of journalism) and Ryan Miller and Rebecca Brotman (that's them in the limo), who were married this past May. We've been designing some really gorgeous albums lately using a company in Italy and another in New Zealand. Ask us about them!

Sunday 3:30 p.m. Doorbell rings and it's Tim and Helena de Bertodano, with their three adorable children. We hop over to the park, just in time for the early arrival on the fading sun. The light couldn't be more beautiful.

Sunday 7:00 p.m. Spend a couple of hours downloading almost 40 gigabytes of data onto the server. The next time you guys buy a 512 mb memory card think of me. 40 gigs--an that's just from one weekend of shooting.

Anyway, it's now 2:29 a.m. (even though Blogger is telling me it's 1:41) and I'm going to bed. Yikes.

Matt

These boots were made for walking

2006-10-26T22:46:00.000-04:00

You have to be careful when you write a blog. And curiously enough, it's not the bad things that will get you into trouble, it's the good. You can't write too many glowing things about one couple or else other couples will start to feel left out. One has to be very diplomatic, very reserved and all that.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way, can I tell you guys how much fun Christi Trew and Chase Cox are? Christi and Chase were married last week in Chevy Chase, starting with a beautiful ceremony at Blessed Sacrament, the same church where I recently photographed Christy Weschler and Chris Scango's wedding (see below), followed by an awesome reception at the Chevy Chase Club.

It's probably becoming somewhat evident from previous posts, but I tend to bond with couples who laugh a lot and who share my sense of irreverence, especially for the ever-growing pomposity that has infiltrated today's weddings.

Christy Trew is not a pompous kind of gal, and I use the word gal purposefully here. Raised in Colorado, she exudes western culture so much that I half expected a horse to ride up at any moment and whisk her away. The grass is always greener, they say, and maybe I'm just attracted to couples who remind me of something other than my Long Island upbringing.

(Don't get me wrong: I'm still a Met fan, and I still love driving out to Montauk Point, but let's be honest--Route 110 in Farmingdale is not exactly the Rockies.)

As is always the case, I knew Christi would be a great bride the moment she walked into the studio. Her heart was set on one thing--having a fun wedding--and not getting bogged down in the formalities. And when I met up with her in her room at the Chevy Chase Club, nothing had changed. She got ready with the help of cousin--no need for a posse, lit up at the mention of a Bloody Mary, and couldn't go enough about how she wanted to ditch her shoes and get into her boots. Needless to say, her 'I do's' to Chase weren't twenty minutes old when she came out sporting a pair of well-worn boots under her wedding dress.

The boots were just the beginning of a great party, complete with a mini-Hora (they're not Jewish), a dancing alligator (maybe someone can post a comment and let me know exactly what that was all about!), and way too much breakdancing.

And on Monday afternoon, when she should have been relaxing and enjoying the start of her new life, Christi still found time to call and thank me for my efforts.

If you're thinking I'm going to end with a certain John Denver song, after last week's ode to Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road post, think again. Thunder Road I could type from memory. But John Denver?

As we say on Long Island, fugghedaboutit.

Matt

Mother's Day

2006-10-23T23:09:00.000-04:00

Have you ever noticed that moms get a bad rap in the wedding world? Seriously, think about it for a second. If someone were to ask you what the first thing to enter your mind when you hear the words "mother" and "wedding" you'd probably be lying if you said anything other than the obvious: crazy. I get asked about it all the time. In fact, it's probably number two on the all-time list, right after "what's the worst thing that's ever happened at a wedding?" No one ever wants to know about the good things.

But the reality is--sorry to burst the bubble--that I get to meet some truly wonderful moms each week, with not a crazy bone in their body. Chris Bible, the mother of Audra Bielke, whose wedding to Tom Spouse I just photographed, is just such a mom. When Audra and Chris came to my Old Town studio a year ago we ended up chatting about so many things other than wedding photography. She was so genuinely interested in all of my photographs from 'The Lost' project that I was quite touched.

(This is not uncommon, by the way. When Dennis Yedwab and Blake Newmark came to meet with me a year before their wedding we ended up discussing the 1969 New York Mets more than we ever talked about timelines or retainers. Other favorite digressions: opera, travel, new Vietnamese restaurants, and dogs. Not to knock weddings, but sometimes its fun to talk about something other than the obvious.)

At Audra's wedding two weeks ago I could tell immediately that her interest had not waned. She was so excited about the reviews for 'The Lost' that I almost started feeling embarrassed. I think she must have mentioned the book to every guest that day. And let me state for the record that I was not hawking books! Chris, not to mention her brother, with whom I spoke at length, was just plain excited for us.

Yesterday, out of the blue, I received the following e-mail:

Dear Matt,

Now that Audra's wedding is over and things have settled down a bit, I want to let you know how much we enjoyed having your presence at the wedding. (Not to mention that we will undoubtedly enjoy the pictures you took as well.)

Last week at my book club I spoke of "The Lost" and one of the ladies there said she is reading it now and cannot put it down. After reading your website, I know that the response to the book continues to be very rewarding and exciting. I also found in reading your website postings that you are a very fine storyteller and writer yourself. Do you ever sleep--most of your postings are in the wee hours of the morning?

We spoke with Audra and Tom last week. They are in Tom's beloved Kenya and have seen some amazing things, including the great wildebeast migration through a river.

I can't wait to read "The Lost". I have already been touched by the Mendelsohn family and I thank you for that.

Looking so forward to the wedding pictures.

Regards,
Chris Bible, Mother of the Bride

What more can I say?

Matt

p.s. I wish I could tell you that the time stamp on my computer is out of whack, but, alas, it's true: the only time I have to do these posts in late at night.

'The Lost' on NPR

2006-10-19T13:17:00.000-04:00

Just a quick update: The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million, a book written by my brother Daniel, with supporting photos by yours truly, was reviewed on Fresh Air on NPR yesterday. To listen to the review by Maureen Corrigan, click here.

This has been an incredible month in the short life of this book: it hit #7 on Amazon, was reviewed for The Washington Post by a Nobel peace prize winner, made the cover of the New York Times Book Review, and, best of all, was the catalyst that brought two families of Holocaust survivors to New York for the rollout--all the way from Denmark and Australia. Incredible.

Stay tuned for more updates. I'm doing my first exhibition associated with 'The Lost' in Houston next month. And Daniel is scheduled to make a return appearance to the Washington area with a reading at Politics and Prose the first week in January, 2007.

Matt

So this is what weekends are like

2006-10-16T22:12:00.000-04:00

This past Saturday presented me with quite the dilemma: what to do on my first wedding free weekend in five months.

Most of you guys probably take your Saturdays and Sundays for granted. You mow the lawn, you go for dim sum, you watch the Mets win or watch the Redskins lose. It's not too complicated, and I guess that's the way weekends were meant to be.

But for those of us in the business, weddingless weekends are a rarity. I can count the number of free weekends in 2006 on one hand. And so when one does finally roll around I tend to think of all the things I can catch up on: movies, dinners, cleaning out the garage. (Well, maybe the first two...)

Of course those things never happen. The reality is that I sleep late, read the newspaper out on the grass, and end up watching some football game on TV that I haven't the slightest interest in. By then it's already dinner and the day, with all its promise of activity, has slipped away.

But who cares, right? This weekend we took Alexandra to a pumpkin patch, made a quick trip to Gettysburg, and took the local firehouse up on their offer of an open house. We bought a new leotard for her ballet class, went out for some sushi, and pretty much did nothing of great consequence.

Of course everything, or, in this case, "nothing" is relative. We got to hear her tell the firemen that she would call the mailman in the case of an emergency (the uniforms are pretty similar), watched her deliberate over which tiny pumpkin to choose, and chased her as she picked every dandelion on Little Round Top. All in all, a perfect weekend.

Matt

Baywatch

2006-10-10T01:15:00.000-04:00

We're going to switch gears a bit now, from some of the more serious posts of the last few days, and return to good old weddings--my bread, my butter. And to that end, I'm going to spend a little time on last week's marathon Chesapeake Bay wedding of Matt McGill and Lori Alvino. One of the cool things about a blog is that you can tell where your "hits" are coming from, and I noticed that twice today someone logged onto The Dark Slide from French Polynesia. Since I don't really
have a client base in French Polynesia--at least not that I know of--I'm assuming it's Matt and Lori checking in. So let's not make them wait any longer.

I knew the minute I met Lori and Matt, about a year ago, that their wedding would be anything but typical. While they're both very, very accomplished--Lori just finished a clerking for Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Matt clerked for Chief Justice John Roberts, prior to his appointment to the Court--it was their general irreverence, a trait I've been known to exhibit once or twice, that I was drawn to. Though we took some cool engagement pictures among the columns of the Supreme Court last year, the image they ended up choosing for their save-the-date card was one of Matt carrying Lori in a fireman's carry, like something out of a Borat sketch or a B.C. comic strip.

(It wouldn't be until much later that I realized we have even more in common: Matt and I are both crab-aholics, Lori and I both hate to drive over the Bay Bridge, and Matt's favorite song, like mine, is Thunder Road. But here's the weird part: I tend to sing Thunder Road whilst driving over the Bay Bridge, to keep my mind off of it.)

So I knew this would be a great affair and it certainly didn't disappoint. Starting with a Thursday crab feast during a monsoon, and ending with a late night, post-wedding karaoke jam, this wedding changed gears as often as Lori changed outfits. But like The Boss says, "Oh and that's alright with me."

Matt and Lori kicked things off with a crab feast at Cantlers in Annapolis (which, by the way, is one of the truly great crab joints in the area). It took almost three hours to drive from Arlington, a trip that usually takes 40 minutes, with the rain coming down so hard at times I though I was going to float away. It was only after I finally got to Cantlers that I heard on WTOP about the two tornadoes that had touched down near Severna Park. That was drive I hope not to repeat any time soon. But all was soon forgotten as the smell of Old Bay filled the bar and the sound of mallets pulverizing claws filled the air. If I had to list my great loves in life--after photography, of course--cracking crab for a few hours would be right up there on the list. (Not far down that list would be teaching newbies how to crack crab, which I got to do for some of Matt and Lori's out-of-town guests.)

I drove back to Annapolis on Friday for the rehearsal and cocktails F at the Annapolis Yacht Club. Note to self: the next time someone says they're going to fire a ceremonial canon, one floor above you, start walking. That thing was loouuuud. (A corollary of this that would come into play the next day: when a ship's captain tells you that you're heading into some rough wake, pay attention.)

Saturday turned out to be a beautiful day, despite some misty rains early in the day. Lori and Matt got married at Old St. Mary's in Annapolis, a church I've always liked shooting in. It's majestic, it's historic, it's beautiful. I had my assistant Matt with me (he made the beautiful overall, above, of Lori and her dad walking down the aisle), which meant there were three Matt's within five feet of each other. Lori arrived at the church in a vintage Rolls, while Matt walked the several blocks down Duke of Gloucester Street from Reynolds Tavern with his groomsmen, snapping his fingers like he was in a Dean Martin movie.

After the service it was on to the Chesapeake Bay Club, sans Bay Bridge drive. Matt and Lori hired a yacht to take them across the bay. It was really gorgeous out on the water. The only hiccup came when we ran into another boat's wake and almost lost half the bridesmaids. Since most of them had their backs to the water, I'm still not sure if they realize just how close they all came to being completely drenched. Inches, I think.

Anyway, I didn't want this to become a blow by blow account and it feels like it's turning into one. So I'm going to skip to some highlights:

It was a great honor seeing both Justice Ginsburg and Chief Justice Roberts at the wedding. I was at the White House the day Justice Ginsburg was nominated to the Court, and I remember her first day on the job as well. There's always a photo op in front of the Court on a new justice's first day and the handshake that then-Chief Justice Rehnquist gave still makes me smile. It was kind of an over-the-top grasp that, well, defied convention.
Thinking back on it, it was very sweet.

Highlight number two: the incredible sunset over the Chesapeake that night. I've never been a sunset-y kind of wedding photographer--too damn cheesy-- but it was hard to avoid on this night. Even Matt, who gets a tad tense (just teasing, Matt) during posed photos seemed to enjoy himself. Considering the rain on Thursday, and even the rain earlier Saturday morning, this was just a perfect sunset to watch. (Given that they're in French Polynesia right now, I'm sure Lori and Matt are up to their ears in beautiful sunsets.)

Last highlight: karaoke! And not just your average, 'Sweet Caroline' kind of karaoke. This was hardcore. In fact, it might have been the only time I've ever seen a mosh pit break out during a karaoke performance. Elbows were flying, beer was spilling, people were really enjoying themselves. And Matt got to belt out a certain song by a guy from Jersey.

The screen door slams
Mary's dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch
As the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely
Hey that's me and I want you only
Don't turn me home again
I just can't face myself alone again
Don't run back inside
darling you know just what I'm here for
So you're scared and you're thinking
That maybe we ain't that young anymore
Show a little faith, there's magic in the night
You ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright
Oh and that's alright with me.

Elie Wiesel Reviews "The Lost"

2006-10-10T00:23:00.000-04:00

Esteemed humanitarian and Holocaust author Elie Wiesel, winner of the 1986 Nobel Peace Prize, reviewed "The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million" in this past Sunday's Washington Post Book World.

Ten years ago, when I was working at USA Today, I had the great honor of photographing Mr. Wiesel (above). As many of you know, I'm a fairly chatty guy. But this particular time, I kept my mouth shut and made my portraits. I just knew that anything that came out of my mouth would have been dumb.

Anyway, the review, as one would expect, is a work of beauty in its own right.

Matt

Last Year, This Year

2006-10-09T09:54:00.000-04:00

Many years ago--six, I think--I photographed the amazing wedding of Kelly Corrigan and Edward Lichty at the Villanova Chapel in Radnor, Pennsylvania. I use the word amazing for several reasons: the Villanova Chapel (chapel, my foot) is a staggeringly beautiful cathedral on the grounds of the university; the Corrigan family, with its ever-present Irish laughter and constant discussions of lacrosse and other sports, left such an indelible impression on me (discussions in the Mendelsohn household, on the other hand, usually revolved around "racing car" math problems--if a racing car left Detroit going 236 mph...); and because a year after their wedding--and completely out of the blue-- Kelly wrote me what is still the nicest thank-you note I've ever received.

You don't forget a person like Kelly. Her go-getter personality is infectious. We touched base a couple of years after her wedding when I photographed her first daughter. After that meeting we fell out of touch for a while. Until, that is, a year ago this week, while watching the Today Show, with one eye shut--I think I lost a contact lens, I heard Katie Couric say that after the commercial break she would be speaking to an amazing woman with an amazing story of survival from breast cancer. And there was Kelly Corrigan, smiling into my television set in Arlington, Virginia.

You can watch Kelly's chat with Katie here. I watched it again this morning and was in tears. Suffice to say that it went on longer than any Today show segment I can remember. You guys judge for yourselves. Katie, whose husband, Jay, died of colon cancer, clearly bonded with Kelly. Kelly talked about her courageous bout with Stage 3 breast cancer--and the chemo treatments she shared with her dad, Big George, who was also fighting his own bout with bladder cancer--with the same laughter that I heard those many years ago in her family home when she was dressing for her wedding.

Well, amazing people do amazing things. That Kelly has beaten her cancer is not surprising to me at all. It's what she's done after that which continues to impress: she has created a cool web site called Circus of Cancer, with lots of great information and lots of great photographs. (Oh, forgot to mention: Kelly became a photographer!!) The neat part about Circus of Cancer is that it's written primarily for those of us who are cancer free. It's goal is to educate friends and loved ones of people with cancer on the things they can do, things they should say (lesson one: don't say "you never responded to my get-well e-mail!"), and how they can help. Please take a look, especially the column she writes for a local newspaper.

And now the reason for this post. Kelly continues to amaze. She has written a beautiful book for children, titled "Last Year, This Year," with illustrations by her friend and collaborator Nan Davenport. The book is a wonderful way for parents and children to discuss their cancer treatments. The images in the book are even drawn by Kelly's daughters and 100% of the profits go breastcancer.org.

We've always prided ourselves at Matt Mendelsohn World Headquarters (okay, Matt's basement) on how great our clients are in times of need. Whether for tsunami victims or the children of a journalist killed in Iraq, we've all rallied for great causes. So go buy Kelly's book!

Matt

Daniel at Borders on Tuesday, 10/3

2006-10-01T21:46:00.000-04:00

Just a reminder that Daniel will be speaking and signing copies of "The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million" this coming Tuesday, 10/3 at Borders in Tysons Corner. The store is located at 8027 Leesburg Pike, Vienna, Virginia, across Route 7 from the mall. The reading begins at 7:30 and I hope to see some of you guys there.

And while I'm on the subject, I want to thank Deb Fluk and Scott Cherkin, whose wedding I shot in July of 2005, and April Kozen, whose wedding I photographed last month, for taking the time to come to the packed reading at Barnes and Noble in Manhattan earlier this week. It took me about 45 seconds to realize that it was April I was face to face with in the book stacks. Having shot her wedding in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, my mind was doing backflips at the incongruity of seeing her in a bookstore--and not in a wedding dress--on the Upper East Side! I feel quite fortunate to consistently find such warm and generous clients.

The reading was a great success, and quite emotional. 81-year-old Jack Green flew in from Sydney, Australia just to be there. He dated my cousin Ruchele when they were both teenagers living in Bolechow, Poland in the 1930's. To hear an interview that Daniel and Jack did with NPR's OnPoint program, click here.

I'll be back in a few days with some pictures from this past weekend's amazing Chesapeake Bay wedding of Lori Alvino and Matt McGill.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

2006-09-25T22:24:00.000-04:00

Okay, the puns are getting worse with each post, I know. But at least this one is true: I'm here today but I'll be gone for the next few days. We're heading up to New York for the big book party for The Lost, followed by a reading at Barnes and Noble the next night. Should be fun.

Now, for the hair part. There was certainly a lot of it flying around this weekend at the wedding of Christy Weschler and Chris Scango at the Omni Shoreham in D.C. The weather was perfect, the band was awesome, and everyone had a blast. As for the picture above, well, I've shot over 400 weddings and I can't remember anyone's hair doing exactly this!

It's funny--the minute I give a post a title I immediately start to notice trends that fall right into place. So here are a couple of other hair pictures from Saturday, starting with Christy getting ready in the suite at the hotel, with her bridesmaids and flower girls helping out. Since I love children, I always have a fun time photographing the flower girls and ring bearers at weddings. In fact, I can't wait until my own Alexandra gets the nod, so if you need an adorable four-year-old next year, her rates are pretty cheap. :) This past weekend, Erin and Molly got the honors and they did a great job.

I have to go pack and it's 11 p.m., so I'm going to keep this short. I'll leave you guys with some quick picks from the wedding. Christy and Chris are in Barbados right now, but maybe they'll stop by for a quick peek.

Number 9, Number 9, Number 9

2006-09-24T23:30:00.000-04:00

Just a quickie post tonight: "The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million" hit #9 tonight on Amazon. That's pretty amazing. That it was the cover of the New York Times Book Review on Sunday certainly helped, as did the glowing review itself. I'm very proud of Daniel, needless to say. I might even forgive him for breaking my arm when we were little.

We're all headed up to New York on Tuesday for the big book party, followed by a reading at Barnes and Noble on Wednesday. After that, Daniel's headed down to our neck of the woods for a reading at Borders in Tysons Corner on October 3. I hope some of you guys can make it. For a full schedule of readings around the country, click here.

One quick aside: I know this is supposed to be a blog about my photography. So if any of you are getting tired of hearing about my brother's book, I apologize! But this is all very exciting stuff, especially given that I traveled so extensively with Daniel as we were researching The Lost. And it's quite emotional too: my great-uncle Shmiel, his wife, and their four daughters were all murdered, quite anonymously, between 1939 and 1941. Just knowing that so many people are now reading about them, talking about them, and feeling for them is a surreal experience.

Once this simmers a bit we'll get back to weddings and such, I promise.

Matt

Let it go, let it go...

2006-09-21T21:09:00.000-04:00

How does that old saying go? Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice...well, you know. Tonight I got stood up for an appointment at the studio for the second time. Now, I'm a pretty easy going person: I meet people every night of the week, at 7:30, at 8:30, even at 9:30 at night. And over the years I've been stood up occasionally. It happens, things come up. But this is the first, at least that I can remember, that I've been stood up by the same person twice in a row.

As much as I love driving 30 minutes to the studio in Old Town, if I don't have to be there, I'd much rather be reading "How the Camel Got its Hump" to my daughter Alexandra. As I drove back home tonight I was a little peeved (okay, a lot) but then I decided that my inner Zen master was telling me to think about happy things instead of annoying ones. And here's what I came up with:

Reason #1: Yesterday, September 20th, was the third anniversary of one of my favorite couples, Laura and Tony Gonzalez. It's impossible to forget their wedding. The Washington area had just suffered through Isabel, one of the worst hurricanes in memory. Isabel wasn't Katrina, obviously, but it left major portions of the Potomac basin under water, including the area around Bellvue Country Club in Alexandria, where Laura and Tony had their reception.

Water aside, Laura and Tony's wedding gave me one of my favorite images of all time, a shot of the two of them dancing in total exuberance. Along with a handful of others, this photograph has become an archetype of sorts to me--an image that captures absolute and total joy. If I could come up with a similar image from each wedding I photograph I'd be a happy man.

One more thing: as much as I love this photograph, there's an even more important thing that came out of Laura and Tony's wedding, and that's a good friend. For the last couple of years we've done a charity event at my Old Town studio. Thanks to many former wedding and portrait clients, we've raised $14,000 for the sons of a journalist killed in Iraq, $7,000 for multiple sclerosis, and $19,000 for tsunami relief. (We took a break this year since so may people had given to Katrina relief.)

I never asked for help but Laura volunteered anyway. During Photo Marathon 2, Laura spent her entire Sunday (a beautiful day she could have spent at home with Tony and the dogs) signing people in. As the hours passed I kept telling her to go home and she kept telling me to shut up. I'll always be grateful for her enthusiastic help that day.

Reason #2: We learned last week that the families of two of the survivors who play a major part in Daniel's book, "The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million" will be coming to New York for the book party and reading at Barnes and Noble. And they're coming quite a distance at that. Jack Greene, (below, black sweater, with his brother, Bob, at Bondi Beach) is coming with his family all the way from Sydney, Australia. As a teenager in Bolechow, Poland in the 1930's--in another life, it seems--Jack dated my cousin Ruchele. He remembers the night she was murdered. His middle-of-the-night phone call to my brother a few years back--"I hear through the grapevine that you should talk to me"--led us to fly to Australia, and proved to be the catalyst for four more years of travel and interviews. Without speaking for Daniel, it's a safe bet that The Lost would never have been written had it not been for Jack. Flying for 23 hours, at his age, just to attend this book party is an act of incredible generosity and love, and we're truly grateful to Jack and his family.

Reason #3: My daughter Alexandra, for being the funniest, most beautiful kid I could have ever wished for. There isn't a second that Maya and I aren't laughing--whether she's hiding in the carry on suitcase that's perpetually being unpacked in the bedroom, or telling me about the five Beatles (George, Ringo, Paul, John and Ringo), or her constant worrying about how Veruca Salt got turned into a blueberry. Unlike the cobbler's children and their lack of shoes, there will be no lack of photographs of Alexandra when she gets older. Video, perhaps. But photographs? Not a chance.

See that? I feel much better now.

Matt

A Tale of a Few Cities

2006-09-19T22:57:00.000-04:00

This weekend I had the pleasure of shooting two completely different weddings--one, a large event on a family farm, the other, an intimate gathering at a small inn--but both infused with a great sense of family, informality, and dogs. Both events reaffirmed my belief that great weddings are always the product of great spirit, not tablecloths or favors or shrimp.

First up was the wedding of Marina McClelland and Wesley Neal at the McClelland family farm on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Many moons ago--I think it might be five years now--I photographed Marina's sister Jennie's wedding. It's always nice to see familiar faces, and seeing Jennie and Paul helping to set things up in the pouring rain made me smile.

Did I say rain? Well, things were looking pretty iffy a few hours before the ceremony as heavy downpours arrived every few minutes. And I mean heavy! But one thing I've learned after 400 weddings is that fronts can move quickly. That ugly rain cloud hanging over you one minute is unlikely to hang around for three solid hours. So my advice for the day is don't make any rash decisions when it comes to moving a ceremony aside. In the case of Marina and Wesley, the rains stopped and the weather for the ceremony was absolutely gorgeous.

Of course, no one would have cared had it been raining. Guests don't come to weddings to complain about weather. They come to celebrate a couple's marriage, rain or shine. In the end, what made Wesley and Marina's wedding so nice had little, actually, to do with the weather. What made it special, in my humble opinion, was the sense of place and the sense of family.

There's something special about a wedding at one's home, a real feeling of warmth and comfort. Kids running by the pond, dogs sleeping on the porch, corn fritters smelling up the kitchen, and peacocks mooching for bread.

Yes, I said peacocks. The farm is home to two dozen or so peacocks. I was skeptical at first--when I go on a whale watching cruise I never see anything--but sure enough, right around dusk, the peacocks descended from the trees. Marina obliged with some Wonder Bread--their favorite, she says-- and fed the beautiful birds. Needless to say, this was the first time I've ever photographed a bride feeding a peacock on the roof.

(Wesley and Marina also had some sofas set up in their tent so guests could watch a slideshow of their trip, earlier this year, to Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam. If you'll been read my previous post, you'll know how bizarre this is. Like I said, this stuff happens to me all the time!)

On Sunday morning I drove, with 20,000 of my closest biker friends-- on the way home from Bike Week in Ocean City--back to Arlington. Crossing the Bay Bridge is one of my least favorite things to do--I hate heights, what can I say--so doing it whilst completely surrounded by Harleys was an extra special treat. I had just enough time for lunch with my wife, Maya, and daughter, Alexandra. "Can we go to the chips and salsa place?" is a common refrain at our house these days, as Alexandra loves Mexican food. After lunch, it was on to Charlottesville, Virginia for the wedding of Chunae Zoh and Nicola Smith.

Nicola and Chunae had chosen the Clifton Inn for their wedding, a Relais and Chateaux property not far from the university. Their wedding was an intimate gathering, with 20 or their closest friends and family, divided between a traditional Korean ceremony on Sunday night and a traditional wedding Monday morning.

The Korean ceremony was, if this can be possible, both beautiful and hysterical. Nicola, who is Scottish, looked radiant as she was helped into the traditional hanbok by Chunae's mom. (Chunae looked great, too, but he couldn't wait to get back into his regular clothes!) The humor came as Chunae, as custom requires, had to carry first his bride, then his mother, on his back around the room several times. I'll let the picture stand on it's own.

The ceremony on Monday was emotional, yet completely relaxed. Like Marina and Wesley, Chunae and Nicola chose to include their favorite four-legged companion, Dudley, in the ceremony. I love when dogs are included in weddings, though if I ever brought Cooper along there'd be no food left for any of the guests. Dudley was decked out in a special floral collar for the occasion. After the ceremony everyone sat down at one long table and enjoyed tea and cake. While it's not common, you have to love it when the entire wedding party can fit at one single table. After lunch we all headed back to DC for some pictures around town.

Without sounding like a Hallmark card, weddings are always best when the focus remains firmly rooted in the basics. Creating the kind of intimate weddings that Wesley and Marina and Chunae and Nicola had is not actually that difficult. Both couples concentrated on what was most important to them--family, home, comfort. What is difficult is resisting the siren call to turn a wedding into a huge production number, where party favors become more important than the party and strict timelines make sitting on the porch for a while impossible.

I'll take the porch.

Matt

A pad Thai

2006-09-15T13:13:00.000-04:00

Okay, the title is a terrible pun (and a stretch, as you'll read) but I still couldn't resist.

If you scroll down a bit and read the entry, "What are the odds?" you'll see that my July 9th bride, Blake Newmark, and I both photographed the exact same little girl in Petra, Jordan. The odds of this, needless to say, are fairly slim. Blake and I wouldn't meet until ten years after our respective trips. And as someone has pointed out, it's not just the girl: her brother is in both pictures as well.

Things like this happen to me all the time. During the first Gulf War I spent two months in Saudi Arabia. At one point I was stuck in the middle of the desert with a Navy unit, trying to get to Kuwait City. It was the day of the liberation of that country and every photographer was trying to hitch a ride. So there I was, at M.O.N. Air Force Base (for Middle of Nowhere), waiting for our C-130 to be refueled. I don't think there were more than 100 soldiers at this makeshift landing strip, but sure enough one of them came up to me and said, "Did you go to SUNY-Binghamton??"

With this in mind, it should come as no surprise that I would bump into a dear old friend at a wedding. But the distance that this old friend would travel to be at this wedding is more than your average Delta Shuttle flight to LaGuardia.

This past Memorial Day I was shooting the wedding of Shaalani Ranasinghe and Brian Stone, above, at Meridian House. I was chatting with the caterer when a woman strolled by. We both paused for a sec, did respective double takes--Narisara? Matt?--before doubling over with laughter. Narisara is an old friend of my sister Jennifer, dating back to their days at Time Life Books. But those days were circa 1992, when we all used to gather to watch Melrose Place every week, and none of us had seen Narisara since. She had moved to Thailand, gotten married (to a photographer!), and settled in Cambodia.

It turns out Narisara had attended Cathedral School with Shaalani and had come all the way from Cambodia for the wedding. At the end of the evening we exchanged business cards and I promised that I would look her the next time I was in Siem Reap.

Exactly two months later I traveled to Doylestown, Pennsylvania to photograph the wedding of April Kozen and Kent Scholla, left. April and Kent are travelers after my own heart. Their honeymoon was a three and a half week trek through much of Southeast Asia, with stops in Bangkok, Vietnam, Laos, and, you guessed it, Siem Reap, Cambodia. So there was yours truly, Chatty Cathy, quickly offering up Narisara's phone and email. I sent Narisara a note and three minutes later I got a response. I know I shouldn't be surprised at this anymore but it still bewilders me nonetheless. (In fact, both album companies we use these days are overseas--one in Italy, the other in New Zealand, something that wouldn't have been possible ten years ago.) Anyway, Narisara was happy to offer any advice they might need. "It is Cambodia, so the plumbing's a little eccentric, but it's all part of life!" she wrote.

Well, Kent and April are back in the States and they had a wonderful honeymoon. It turns out that the gallery that Narisara and her husband John operate is just a stone's throw from the temples at Angkor Wat. April and Kent paid a visit to the gallery and bought a few of John's amazing photos.

It's small world, that's for sure.

So the next time you find yourself in Siem Reap, stop by and say hello to Narisara and John. The gallery is located on Pokambor Avenue, next to the FCC and the Royal residence. And the next time you guys are planning some exotic honeymoon, fill me in! I have connections...

Matt

"The Lost" starts to heat up

2006-09-13T14:26:00.000-04:00

Well, the reviews for Daniel's book, The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million, have started to roll in. Today, the New York Observer ran a really beautiful piece (if a review can be described as such) by Rebecca Goldstein. I found the last line to be incredibly touching.

Other reviews this week: This past Sunday's Los Angeles Times featured this, and there was a nice article in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review as well.

For those of you in the Washington, D.C. area, Daniel , below left, will be speaking at at Borders in Tysons Corner on Tuesday, October 3 at 7:30 pm. I'll bring some eggs to throw. :) For the rest of you all in our vast readership, you can find Daniel's complete speaking schedule by clicking here.

Coupled with the rave in O Magazine (and we know how Oprah can sell books) and the four-star review in People, we're all very excited.

Matt