Boys, oh boys. What does it take to make us
into men? I don’t have the answer so I just
photograph mine while trying to help get
them there. Maybe it’s because I don’t
remember so much about my own transition,
or maybe I still haven’t made it. I’m still using
toy cameras, still listening to loud, obnoxious
music, and don’t even ask about how I dress.
So somewhere between Halloween dress-
up, soccer games, rain storms and the
drudgery of school work, there are these
moments, brief, even forgettable—but
nonetheless, photographable. Do any of
these shots of boys doing things boys do
mean much to anyone but me? I don’t know. I
don’t even know if I should care. It’s good
enough for me to keep trying to capture that
trek—that getting there—even if I never quite
get it. That’s art, or at least my art, for now.

I love using old Diana-type cameras and
Holgas. Unruly, unpredictable, and so far
from perfect. Could there be a better tool to
photograph youth as it fades? Hell, the
cameras are best when they do their worst.
Vignetting, blurring, and slipshod framing.
The results require that I remember the
moment even better that it was in many
instances. There’s so many half-truths
contained in the images that the narrative
becomes the viewer’s as much as mine. To
the kids, these shots don’t really even make
sense. They are so accustomed to the
instant gratification of digital cameras that by
the time they see themselves or their friends
or these objects of theirs, they hardly recall
the whens and wheres of it all—but I bet
someday they might. I guess that is what I
am trying for anyway.

— tread.
Gold Medal, State Games.
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