Geneva, Photography, Wedding

Andres + Laura // Suisse, 2013

It is rare to find the kind of intimacy, intelligence, friendship, silliness, sexiness, and playfulness that was evident in Andres and Laura as they took the step towards marriage. Carrie and I are infinitely grateful to share their friendship and we hope these pictures can give you a small and joyful taste of what it was like to be there with them.

Andres + Laura. Wedding Geneva 2013. No. 3.

Andres + Laura. Wedding Geneva 2013. No.1

lanovia lamirada elborracho thisismarriage rosas roses2 maderaylino Jardin1PonqueAndresmypony olakaselookback

To see the photos individually in a gallery click on the images below:


While waiting, here’s a little something from my photography archives. I can’t say that one photographs or films Jerusalem as a place. It’s more of its own anthropomorphic creature: a living breathing character wrapped in its own personal mythology.

“The very fact that Jerusalem is both terrestrial and celestial means the city can exist anywhere: new Jerusalems have been founded all over the world and everyone has their own vision or Jerusalem.”  – From “Jerusalem: The Biography ” by Simon Sebag Montefiore

Jerusalem 2013

Jerusalem 2013


Photo, Quote

My Jerusalem

Music, Passing Thought

Summer Sounds Like Migration

Part of being a migrant is experiencing seasons that pull you in different directions.

I may define myself as a dry gust of wind during one winter but snowy clouds will define the next. Or I might feel like Bogotá rain most of the year, but when summer comes around it’s like a monkey has been loosened inside my body. A sensation that everything is possible poured into my arteries; a cork popped and streamers thrown in the wind.

When I was a child summer was synonymous to infinity. My family traveled to the US almost every june to visit family living in Miami and New York, and we would stay for the entirety of summer. Home to home, couch to couch.

In doing so, summer refused to be a place to stay. It was rather a place to exist momentarily. Where memories were nostalgic before they happened.

What defines the life of a migrant?

That memory can’t touch those places that don’t ask to be remembered.

My Vermont

My Vermont: father, great grandfather, aunt, and second cousin.

We live in a constellation
Of patches and of pitches,
Not in a single world,
In things said well in music,

On the piano and in speech,
As in the page of poetry-
Thinkers without final thoughts
In an always incipient cosmos.

The way, when we climb a mountain,

Vermont throws itself together.


Midnight Poem: July Mountain by Wallace Stevens


The Texture of Absence

“Only those who know relation and who know of the presence of the You have the capacity for decision. Whoever makes a decision is free because he has stepped before the countenance.”

-Martin Buber, I and Thou


Textures in Geneva, 2013.

Scene No. 1: The distilled mixture of solitude and loneliness in my wife’s traveling absence is a curious tonic in my cup. It is the house favorite in June and a bit heavy on the bitters.

Scene No. 2: Visa restrictions have prevented me from traveling to Norway to help train young leaders in our movement. Limitation reveals a familiar villain.

Scene No. 3: One of my closest friends in Geneva is getting married this week. Secondary characters get ready to make introspective soliloquies.

Libretto: All of these are scenes of a vanishing act. The absence of a person, of an experience, and of a relational status. How we look at them —the road before us, the empty room we sit in, or the 2 people standing in a place where we are used to seeing 1— is as much about carefully watching a space transformed as it is about how we see ourselves changing in relation to it.

Pay careful attention.


These absences force change because they demand that we reframe ourselves in relation to our world. They ask us to touch “emptiness” and perhaps call it by a different name. They grant us an opportunity to creatively reposition ourselves, and in doing so to re-present ourselves to ourselves as paradigm-shifted objects.

Never static. Never finished. Never unidirectional. Always sculpted by time and surprised with light.

Regardless, a memory dent is left where a space was once occupied.

So  you trace the textured lining of the empty surface with your index finger to remember how “empty” space feels and how deep the memory goes. The subtle bumps of fabric on your skin remind you of how finely detailed life’s surface can be. The layers under your pressure ripple and disappear into flatness. Your eyes take in new areas of light and darkness and you remember the genesis of things.

You begin to appreciate that absence is nothing other than the discovery of a different kind of presence.

‘Cause you know you left a hollow
Where your body cut an alcove

-Dustin Tebbutt “Breach”