2012 (and a bit). My familia.

I’ve pushed off posting this for a while, there’s been a tragedy in my community and some scary family issues, and it seemed a bit insensitive to be posting beautiful photos of my beautiful family’s beautiful life. It still does.

In a way though, the timing is perfect. The best reaction to tough news is to resolve to live more fully, more joyously, more intensely. To spend more time with people that matter, doing things that matter.

My family is who matters, spending time with them is what matters. But we sometimes get so caught up in surviving that we forget to live.

There are those ”quote photos” that people post and share on facebook (for some reason posting pictures of words ticks me off to no end. I’m weird like that). None of them are too monumental or mind blowing, but sometimes they do strike a chord. One I saw recently was something to the effect of... Okay there is no way I’m going share the text from a photo of text here. I just can’t. I’ll share something from Henry David Thoreau’s Walden instead.

“...that he live in all respects so compactly and preparedly that, if an enemy take the town, he can, like the old philosopher, walk out the gate empty-handed without anxiety.”

and

“All men want, not something to do with, but something to do, or rather something to be.”

So in order to be we choose something to do, and then something to do with, and we become so obsessed with the day-to-day doing and doing with that we forget about the being.

Eg. I’d love to be able to learn, pray, and connect to Hashem a good chunk of the day. I really would. I enjoy those things. But in order to do this I must provide some sort of service which a fellow man is willing to pay for. So we chop wood, cobble, milk cows, and herd sheep. We become businessmen, blacksmiths, candle-makers, internet hacks, healers, and coders.

So we could then live with a sense of comfort, with food, shelter, and clothing. But then we start to shift our focus, instead of spending our free time connecting, praying, learning, walking with our special other, playing with the kids; we think of more ways to make money, and when we talk with friends it isn’t about the things that matter, it’s about cobbling, coding. And even worse, while we are praying, hiking, learning, our minds wander to what? To the exact things we have taken on ourselves to allow ourselves the luxury of praying, hiking, learning. Being.

Therefore, I, Zalmy Berkowitz, he of the large beard, broken glasses, thrift store jackets. Drinker of good beer, watcher of cows; light trapper, memory collector; he of the beautiful wife and delightful children; Confuser of pronouns; resolve to actively concentrate on being, and relegate the doing and doing with to exactly that. Tools with which I can spend more time doing what I really want.

Will this resolution stick. I highly doubt it. But the more one thinks about something, the more the truth sinks in. Sinks past your consciousness, slides through your sub-conscious (not your “unconscious”! Please, you don’t “unconsciously think” or “unconsciously react”), wiggles down your esophagus, until it gets firmly entrenched in your heart. And then what you know becomes what you do, and who you are.

With that I present my family’s year. Not just the best photos, but my favorite ones.

Enjoy the ride. Keep your hands inside the moving vehicle at all times, and for the intellectually challenged, there is even a video (narrated by botox lady. And that whole "no electronics" thing? Complete balderdash.) instructing in the exact process of buckling a seatbelt. Yes, I’m looking at you, Airline companies. Seriously?

Goodbye Ron

Wednesday was tough.

I woke, for the third time in as many days, in the back of my van, with a headache, a twitchy back, and smelling ever so slightly of cow, to the incessant ringing of a non-consequential phone call.

8:43. After mixing up and drinking my morning cocktail (three heaping teaspoons of good instant coffee; two flat teaspoons of raw, hard honey; gobs of fresh raw milk), I made my way to my office (mine due to squatting laws), put on my tefilin and prayed.

Well that's what I should have done.

The first time I was honored with the "stay at home alone" badge (besides for the time my parents drove the whole family to Westminster, sans Zalmy), I was 7, maybe 8. I finished reading whatever it was that I was reading (probably the Hardy Boys, I've always wondered what Aunt Gertrude's pies really tasted like, and if they were all that), swung off the couch (blue, with the white and yellow polka dots) waved to Oscar (the big ugly fish that lorded over the lesser cichlids), and poured myself some water.

It was quiet. Too quiet. Not one to scare easily, I checked each room for some inhabitants, possibly a mom, maybe a dad, or at least a sibling. No luck. Checked the garage (where we kept our 8 1/2" black and white TV, the glorious provider of such forbidden delights, the likes of Gilligan's Island and Knight Rider), the closets. Then I freaked, my active imagination running through all possible scenarios, none of them calming.

Turns out my parents had been trying to leave the house for a while, and I just wasn't getting off the couch. No amount of threatening or pleading would even merit a glance from me. Annoyed, and out of time, they gave me one last threat of impending departure, and promptly drove off. Of course I was in the wonderful world of Fenton Hardy, his two intrepid sons, and their husky friend Chet, and was unaware of any threatening: pleading; or impending departures.

By the time I actually prayed it was closer to 12 than 11. Unfortunately, this time there were no young sleuths occupying my mind.

12:36. I washed my face, went through the motions of brushing my beard, sprayed on deodorant for the first time all week (don't judge, I don't trust that stuff) and put on the white dress shirt that happened to be crumpled in my backpack. I then carefully placed my overflowing, overused, Starbucks cup of orange juice and water in the far right cupholder, and merged on to the Ramona Expressway, cruise controlling at exactly (Speed Limit x .17) + Speed Limit - (day of the month/9) (my patented equation to the fastest possible non ticketable speed).

2:05. There was no parking, so I followed the crowd (who was obviously following the crowd in front, who had no clue where they were going), found some parking, and started walking, avoiding as much conversation as possible. Sometimes, I just like to be alone with my thoughts.

The funeral had started.

Small hellos, nods, shared sighs of disbelief, many tears. Most of us were standing outside the chapel, crowded tight to hear what none of us wanted to, yet we all needed to, hear.

I don't cry. Last time I shed some tears was by 9/11, before that, appendicitis, possibly a broken jaw. But today was different. Ron was different.

Listening to his family and friends speak about a man I knew fairly well, but not well enough. And my tears felt presumptuous. As if somehow I had a right to be sad. That in the overwhelming, unimaginable grief of family that had their brother, husband, and father ripped away so suddenly and mercilessly; as if somehow my pain was worth something.

Odd is the way of the mind and heart, understanding, yet questioning, demanding.

Ron was possibly the most perfect man I knew. And from all I heard about him in the past week, he deserved that title more than I realized. His spiritual, physical, mental, emotional, family, and professional life were all in one straight line. And he cared. Genuinely. Deeply. About Judaism, G-d, his family, his community, his patients. And that is rare.

There were things I didn't know about him. I didn't know he never lied. Ever. I never knew he played in a band. I never knew he never got angry. Ever. I didn't know that he'd go out of his way to resolve disputes. He would rather pay, and have peace, than win, and have discord.

And I'm mad at myself for not knowing these things. And I'm mad at myself for my selfish madness. I wish I would have known Ron better. I could have. But it takes a lot for me to open up, and I take the easy route of easy banter, friendly conversation, and polite salutations.

I found myself watching the family. Now please understand, I am not a rubbernecker, I most always look away from tragedy, and do not gaze curiously at the emotional. It physically hurts me to.

Yet I found myself looking at Ron's wife and young kids, watching, and in a very small measure sharing their pain. I know it doesn't work that way, but I found myself hoping that, by the sheer force of my will and tears, I could somehow, maybe, just absorb a little of the pain.

I don't think it worked, but later, as I was thinking about it (it's all I've been thinking about), I realized that it's the opposite. That by the sheer force of their will and tears, they shared some of the love, the deep, deep love, that is always there, but comes pouring out, by the end of one's life. For more than all the character traits, achievements, and humorous tendencies, Ron's life was a life of love.

God asked him, "Do you want to go to the world now? I need you to show the people what it means to love, what it means to have compassion, what it means to be a leader, what it means to have a sense of humor, what it means to be a true friend. And most importantly, I need you to teach them about Me and My Torah and how to live a meaningful life. Can you do that?" "Yes God, I can." "I will let you stay there for a specific amount of time, and then I will take you back when everyone least expects it. It will seem unjust, but I have My reasons. Will you still go?" "Yes God, I will go."

We miss you Ron, tell God the world is ready for Moshiach. And then we can all see your smile once again. Estee Berkowitz

I don't think there is any use trying to make sense of senselessness, but there is a use in trying to grow from it. To harness the "Ron'ness" inside of us.

Ron, I didn't know you nearly as well as I should have, and in honor of you I won't let that happen again. I will not limit my correspondence with people to easy banter, friendly conversation, and polite salutations. I'm going to build a bridge of this island, allow myself out, and allow, and even bring others in. I know that from how I write here, I seem open. I'm not. And that is going to change.

I went by the house the other day for a Shiva visit (it's a Jewish custom to visit the mourners for the first seven days, to talk about the deceased, and make the transition a little more bearable) and was amazed by the amount of people that loved and cherished Ron, by the strength, and unwavering faith of his family. If anyone has a right to be proud of what he accomplished down here, it's Ron.

We will miss you Ron. Dearly. Intensely.

The world is a little bit darker without you, but much, so much brighter because of you.

We love you, and always will.

My 2012 (and a bit). Paid and personal.

My 2012 was 15 months long. I'm not entirely sure how it happened, but it started sometime last October. I sold my Mamiya 645, bought a Contax 645 (read: ridiculously overpriced medium format film camera), and shot my first all film session. I fell harder in love with it and stuck my digital gear in some farflung corner of my beautifully junglistic garage. I still reach for it now and then, for dark receptions, for photos of gear, to test lenses. I kind of feel bad for it's mass produced, machine made feelings. (Of course I know digital cameras don't have feelings, it's residual mental scarring from Disney movies.) November came and I took my oversized backpack to the Genesis workshop in Memphis. I thought I was going in order to learn how to build a wedding photography business (which was the main thrust of the workshop, both the creative and the business side). Instead I came out with 50 awesome friends, and a thoroughly confounded outlook on what and how I wanted to shoot. The instructors were very encouraging, even inspiring, but when I put forth my purported goal of becoming a hot-shot wedding photographer I received some raised eyebrows. Not because anyone thought I wouldn't be good at it, rather they saw something very unique in my family work that I didn't.

I didn't see it. Not for a while at least. But then I started

***

I was planning on finishing the thought and possibly thinking up more thoughts. But being as it is now Sunday, 11:09 PM Pacific Standard Time, there are other, more time-specific thoughts to think.

Tonight begins the tenth day of the Jewish month of Shvat. On this day 63 years ago the Previous Chabad Rebbe (leader of the Chabad sect) passed away, and exactly one year later, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson (known as "the Rebbe") accepted the mantle of leadership.

The Rebbe was always a large presence in our lives.

Way back when, my father grew up in Boro Park, Brooklyn (on top of Rubashkin's butcher shop). One day the Yeshiva he went to called his parents house wondering why he hasn't shown up for the past few weeks. Turns out he casually left and went to the Chabad Yeshiva in Crown Heights. (That was the good old days, nowadays we can't seem to go anywhere without the whole world knowing where we are and what we are doing.)

My mother, on the other hand, did very much of her growing up with Chabad. Her father (along with his twin, Shlomo Carlebach) was a Chossid (follower) of the Previous Rebbe, and when he passed away had a very hard time transitioning. Whereas the Previous Rebbe was very personal, the current Rebbe was more brusque (possibly due to the sheer amount of Chassidim and work that had to be done). He connected very much with the Bobov Rebbe and tried to get his family involved. Didn't happen. Being that my grandmother (whose birthday it is today) is a Schneerson and second cousins with the Rebbe, Chabad was too much of a presence to be sidetracked by any Bobovers :) (If you've got a few minutes, you could read all about my hotshot lineage.)

After my parents married the Rebbe sent them to a few places to teach and spread Judaism. After some time in Nashville (where my two oldest siblings were born), Palo Alto (where my brother was born), Long Beach (my sister and I were born there), and Westminster, we finally settled in Huntington Beach, where they established a wonderful community.

Growing up, in school, and later in Yeshiva, we had it hammered into our skulls, how very important we were. Not as Rabbi's kids, as Lubavitchers (another name for Chabad Chassidim), or even as "Orthodox" (can't stand that word), but as Jews and as people. How G-d has a mission and if we weren't an integral part of that mission then we wouldn't be here (G-d does nothing in vain).

We were taught not only not to judge others, but to respect everyone, for who they are, and who they can be. To learn from them. The Rebbe taught us to be real, and to make G-dliness a real part of our lives. Not just doing what G-d wants, but to work on ourselves until we feel it. Until the fact that G-d is everywhere and everything, is not just an intellectual concept but something we see with our own eyes.

The Rebbe taught us to be real. He showed us (along with the previous Rebbes) that G-d and his Torah don't have to be foreign concepts forced upon our consciousness. That we don't have to fight our inner nature, rather we have to reveal it.

And that is why a Rebbe is so important. We all may know, and even believe. But we don't see G-d. We see tables, clouds, beer, mountains, buildings, tar pits, and flashlights. And we may know that behind all the physicality is a G-dly animating force. But we don't see it.

The Rebbe does.

The Rebbe sees the world as G-d does. He doesn't see a hand, he sees an instrument to give charity. Not beer, but something to allow us to open up more freely and talk about things that actually matter. Not a table, rather something by which we can learn and eat. For in fact, a hand is nothing but the expression of G-ds will that charity should be given, and tables were created out of G-ds will that books be learned, and food be eaten (uplifted). And when we connect to the Rebbe, through his teachings and directives, we connect to that level. And now and then, even get a glimpse of that perspective, that truth.

Be real. Live truth. That is the goal. And that's the mission.

***

My thoughts, beer, and chia seed pudding, are all running low. The AM has laid down it's chilly fingers, and my brain is all athunked.

Below is my year. And a bit (and most of December is at the lab). Both paid and personal work (my family work I'll save for a later date). I've learned how to take pretty photos, and sometimes even good ones. I'm posting this more for myself, to see next year how much I've grown, how much I've learned. If I did at all.

Important notes: Tonight's beer is Firestone Brewery, Union Jack, India Pale Ale. Full bodied and bitter, though slightly boring. Decent and overpriced. Chia Seed Pudding is made from Chia seeds, water, raw honey, unrefined coconut oil, walnuts and raisins.

The state of New Jewish York Music

Warning: This might not make much sense to those not in the mainstream Jewish community, I will not be insulted if, when presented with a wall of indecipherable text, you choose to go straight to the photos.

It comes in waves. Sometimes there will be weeks of a sort of blissful non-awareness. And then there are times where I just can't get it out of my head. Like a sound that you're almost sure is there, but it's just beyond, beyond grasp, but definitely, yes positively, it's there. Lurking at the edges of your conscious. It's something I feel very strongly about, but have always had a hard time articulating it (I still do).

"Music is the pen of the soul".

Music being a major part of Judaism for a very, very long time. When the Jews beheld the miraculous defeat of the Egyptians after the splitting of the sea, they burst into spontaneous song.

The Book of Deuteronomy is gloriously filled with poetry, climaxing in the spectacularly worded song of Ha'azinu (Chapter 32).

Reading through the Scriptures, the word of G-d was presented through poetry and song.

We all know about King David and his Psalms. Has there ever before or since been such a book? Overflowing with love of G-d, humility, kindness, and truth? Most only know in its English translation, which contains but a sliver of its original genius. The original Hebrew version is like holding a song in your hand, grasping spirituality.

Throughout the generations great Jews have compiled poetry and music; deep, inspiring, and moving. We have the wonderful Shabbos hymns that are found in many Jewish homes. The Yedid Nefesh, a love song, which speaks of the yearning of the soul for G-d, which we sing every Friday afternoon; the L'cha Dodi, written by Shlomo Elkabatz; the three deeply kabbalistic poems written by the Holy Ari which we sing by each of the three Shabbos meals.

In the chassidic tradition there are "Niggunim". Soulful songs, very often without words, written by masters of spirituality, where every note, every rise and fall, represent a corresponding feeling of the soul. One could sing a niggun for hours, completely losing himself in his yearning.

We have always expressed our emotions towards G-d, the Torah, and our fellow Jews with poetry and music. For how else are we to express what we feel and know? Words are but a limited vessel, capable of transmitting ideas fairly well, but falling very short when it comes to emotions. And the deeper, the truer, the more real the emotion is the harder it gets to squeeze those feelings of the heart into cold and harshly limiting letters. So we sing; we sing high, we sing low. We use words against themselves, and convey meaning through breaking the rules, mixing truth and metaphor, parable with rhyme.

What has happened? Where are the poets, the music, the musicians, the songwriters? Looking at the current mainstream Jewish music landscape we are faced with a desert of soulless music. The songwriting (when it's not just words of Scripture) is embarrassingly shallow, lacking any deeper meaning than what's right in front of you. The Jewish "superstars" in the music world have for the most part nothing to do with their song, or the music involved. They have a pretty voice, and they sing mass produced songs which all sound the same (think bad pop from the 80's). The only depth they may have is stolen from Scripture, marrying the beauty of G-d's word with commercially driven drivel.

On the fringes, trying to get in, are the real artists. And they are there. Many wonderful bands, producing real music, with real lyrics, with a message that actually comes from somewhere inside. But for the most part it's a bleak scene.

"But the numbers work against us", you say. I don't buy it (and that's not because I download it for free). Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkle, Leonard Cohen, just a few Jews that come to mind. Lyrical geniuses, producing music which came from deep inside them. What they are saying is not the point, it's the fact that they are willing and able to. Are you saying that there is no one in the religious community that can express themselves with song? Who is able to, and wants to express his love of G-d? What does that say about us? For a group that is supposed to be deep, that is supposed to be a beacon of truth, we have a remarkably hard time expressing ourselves. We listen to shallow garbage expressing not a desire to become close to G-d but a desire to make sellable music. Is this what our hearts feel? Is our heart's pen being sold out to the highest bidder?

I don't know the reason, but I do know that in the religious schools, and the religious world at large, poetry is laughed at. We smile condescendingly at artists as if they were small children, dabbling in stupidity, wasting their time with narcissistic self expression.

Yes, at a level, obsessing with self expression is dangerous, but if we never learn to express what we feel, how will we ever know what we feel? If we never learn to express ourselves, how will we ever know who we are?

When I was in Yeshiva (religious school) both in Israel and New York I had a wonderfully eccentric learning partner. He had one of those five star notebooks in which he was always writing. He never let anyone see what was going on in his magical notebook.

He was the first person I met that wrote poetry, who actually took the time to express his thoughts and feelings in words an phrase which were distinctly his. People like him give me hope, that no matter what the present peer pressure presents, no matter how much we do things just because that's the way it's done, we can always rise up and be ourselves.

Recently I was in New York and got to roam around Manhattan for a day, meet up with said friend (who should be coming out with a book soon, I'll keep you posted), and find some food perhaps. Growing up I spent many years in New York, but seeing it through the eyes of a photographer was a totally different experience. So much life. So much happening. It's a crazy place, a photographers heaven, a partiers paradise, but thank you very much, I'll do my living somewhere sane.

Vir. G. Inia.

Here's how I write a blog post. I sit down (possibly with some sort of vague outline of what I want to write about) and just start writing. Usually with a beer (this time it's with an "Old Rasputen" a 9% stout. And for a stout it's pretty darn good, but I'm not a huge fan of stouts.) Sometimes I stay on track, usually not. Coherence is not really a goal but it's nice when it happens.

As it is my office is in my garage, and my fingers are semi-numb; making typing not so much difficult, as just weird. For all you funny people who will make fun of a Californian complaining about the cold: It is colder here than in most parts of the country. We don't have well insulated houses, nor do we have good heaters. Every morning its well under 60 degrees in the house. And we don't want to put on a sweater when we go outside (even though it's the high 30's or low 40's, because in a few hours it will be in the 60's…).

I'm selling some gear (to make room for even newer (to me) and cooler gear. Which will of course make me happy. 'Cuz that's what new stuff does). In order to sell said gear I need photos of said gear. I had three choices. A. Shoot it with film, and way a few weeks to get the scans. B. Shooting with polaroids, scan them in and use those, or C. Snap some digital photos. My brain and my heart took it outside (leaving me looking for OZ), and my brain won. After taking some lame shots of my non-lame camera (was selling my Pentax 6x7. It's a huge and awesome camera and it sold within 10 minutes) I snapped a few of my daughter (you know, those pretty shots from above focusing on her eyelashes (I had a macro lens on)). After dragging it into photoshop and working on it for 20 minutes, I gave up in disgust. I just couldn't make it look even nearly as awesome as film.

In case you were wondering, I don't have a point. Onto one of the coolest families in the whole state of Virginia (which, from the small population I saw when I was there, has the highest beard per capita outside of Oregon and Mother's Market).

Disclaimer: I was assured that Kelly and her family are not confederates.

Now that we have that out of the way… If all my clients were as awesome as Kelly, I'd be a very happy man. She contacted me a while back, asking if I ever plan on traveling to the east coast, and if I did to let her know. Fast forward a few months and I had my wonderful east coast trip planned. Kelly contacted me and we made it happen. And she didn't complain at all when my lab took double as long as usual, "quality takes time" she said. I agree.

I actually took a train there. I'd love to say it was interesting. It wasn't (I did sleep though), but the shoot was.

Little boys with their blankets and sticks...

Soulwise. Chanukah edition.

Chanukah is about humility, accepting something beyond you, and allowing it in. It's about spreading the light of truth, justice, and freedom (and good photos). Once upon a time, in a kingdom down the block, I designed graphics. It came about in a kingdom even further away, in a 400 year old house made of stone. Where an iMac stood glittering under a bare bulb, in stark and beautiful contrast to the walls around. Upon this machine there magically appeared a copy of Photoshop.

How it got there, where it came from? Trying to understand magic is akin to sucking the beauty out of life. Like a giant psychotic mosquito. I'd like to think it was planted by the sock fairy (you know, the one that takes socks from the drier and puts software on your computer instead).

I met some wonderful people in the magical kingdom of Safed, Israel, and one of those fellows was putting out his first musical album. Google searched I did, a tutorial I did find, and a cover did I make. It wasn't even that bad (it wasn't used though).

I did that for a few years (among other things), and at some point I was frustrated at the lack of quality Jewish stock photos available. I then made the best unwise decision ever. After wasting way too much time doing some intense research on DPReview (never again!) about the differences between two identical systems, I picked up my first fancy shmancy camera. A few weeks later I bought a (what i then considered) fancy lens (which I paid $100 in cash so my wife wouldn't freak out). Eventually I realized I liked photography much better than design, and I was actually good at it (graphic design on the other hand...:) ).

I still do some odd jobs here and there, and this magazine is one of them. Lucky for me (and them) I get to pretty much use whatever images I want.

Here is the latest SOULWISE magazine. Decent design. Good photography. Awesome articles.