I live in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles. It's a sprawling, monotonous postwar exurb, whose demographics have largely flip-flopped in the past few decades. When I reach for my camera, do I wish to be a photographer of record, recalling the AAA boulevard shots of yore? Do I wish to record the searing California sun and clear skies at high noon, the light most residents experience? Do I want to document the endless strip malls, with their multicultural businesses small and large, and the repitition of national chains from Arbey's roast beef to McDonald's?
Or must I look for that exceptional moment? The rare storm that will add pop to modernist architecture? The old rustbucket that has nothing to do with the shiny freeway stampede? The odd man or woman on the street, who somehow stand out among the dog walkers, baby strollers and bus stop ilk that make for most L.A. street life? Do I look for signs and murals, the true backdrops of Los Angeles? Or do I strain to find rare angles that more resemble Rome?
For me, photography is a hunt for what's interesting. It's also a willingness to venture out, to be there, anywhere, where there is activity. And the longer I practice it, the harder it gets.