Bamboo Souvenir Camera

Fiji, 2006

While I was at U.C. Santa Cruz—from 1975 to 1977—I lived in a house on Cayuga Street, splitting the $300/month rent with four (and sometimes as many as eight) roommates.

The core group included my best friend, Brian: a history major, rabble rouser, and rock climber who, despite his phobia of spiders, built a darkroom in our web-riddled basement. He taught me how to shoot, develop, and print black and white film. I loved it. Photography became a passion.

The grandmaster of photography at that time was, of course, Ansel Adams. His house sat on the rugged Monterey coast, not 50 miles south of Santa Cruz. One day I looked up his number, and dialed. “Come on down!” he said.

I slid my best 11×14 photos into a black cardboard portfolio, and fired up my Honda CB350. When I arrived, someone—his daughter Virginia, possibly—led me into the living room. There were a few other guests, and everyone seemed at home. I was handed a glass of red wine. It was a gorgeous home; the walls displayed Adams’ best prints, and a cloudless Pacific sunset filled the living room’s huge picture window.

Ansel, 74, occupied a comfortable chair. He motioned me over. “We’re waiting for the green flash,” he said with a grin. “I’m going to watch the sun until the right moment, and tell everyone when to look. I’m sacrificing my green flash,” he confided, “for all of you.”

Predictably, we didn’t see the green flash. But my host agreed to look at the photos I’d brought. He was exceedingly gracious, and accepted one as a gift. He even gave me a small print of his own.

Those were the days. I was young and cheeky, and had a pretty high opinion of my talent. (One had better, starting out.) But now, when I look at the images I once showed Adams, I’m devastated. They may as well have been taken with this bamboo camera.