Fallacies of time

There are certain areas in Los Angeles where the passing of time seems to be a fallacy. Neighborhoods, completely untouched by the changing waves of things like technology and the influx of outside ideas and individuals. Things may change in the area, but, as I've come to notice in some cases, not truly. It's a tempting topic to spend some time, and film, exploring on my off-hours.

The interesting man, pictured below, is my cousin's neighbor from across the street. 

Try convincing me he isn't a godly time-warp fusion of Marty Mcfly and Doc Brown.

Anyways, for a bit of backstory, I had been visiting my cousins and brought along my camera— I've missed too many interesting photo opportunities to not carry it with me everywhere I go. I think I was down to my last frame of 12 and saw this guy starting up his old motorcycle. I walked up, started a conversation about his bike— I'd like to buy an 80s Honda a convert it into a cafe racer sometime in the near future. I asked him if I could take his portrait. He obliged. 


Thanks for reading along! 

3 posts in

I'm enjoying making these posts. They encourage me to keep up my writing practice.

I recently got accepted to the University of Missouri's Graduate Journalism school and got waitlisted for Columbia's, so, sharpening my less visual skills will prove important for the near future. 

...On to the photo below. 

I got to spend one of my recent Sundays walking around downtown LA with a good friend of mine who's also a photographer. Light was fading and my frame counter hit 9; 3 chances left to get a good shot. Day—the lovely woman in frame— was standing across the street with some magical golden light reflecting onto her from one of the adjacent highrises that seem to be popping up on the daily in downtown. I made my way across the street and asked to take a couple frames. She obliged. 


New Year's Eve, 2017

I just got some film back from the lab that I had shot way back on New Year's Eve. Reason being, a combination of my forgetfulness to properly date and subject film rolls after shooting them and being too cheap to pay for developing. No worries, it'll serve as a lesson to be more organized in my storage and finances...maybe.

This post's photo is from New Year's Eve dinner at my cousin's home. Every year, my extended family of about 20 or so young and old come to my Uncle Anto's (Yup, we got the same name) home, food in arms, ready to drink and eat with the occasional heated debate over god knows what— it wouldn't be the Holidays without it! This photo depicts a small moment in time before said heated debates. 

What speaks to me about this photo is the converging of hands into the center of the frame. I hope that it brings a sense of warmth and intimacy to the viewer. 

Well, that it for now. Till next time!



I recently read Joan Didion's Where I Was From. It's a book that dives into Didion's ancestor's migration to California and mirrors the experiences that many immigrants from both outside and within the US have had while migrating to California, along with the reaction by the so-called "Old Californians". 

After reading her book, I became interested in the history of California and began researching different regions. 

My parents immigrated to the US from outside the country, so I'm familiar with some of the topics Didion discusses in her book, but what surprised me was how rich California's migrant history was since even before it's recognizing as a state. 

Anyways, enough book talk. Let's get to the photograph below. 

At four in the morning, I left for a road trip to Yosemite. A friend had invited me to go camping with her and some others— seeing it as a chance to get to explore different parts of central and northern California, I opted to travel alone and meet the group at the campsite. Two and a half hours into the midnight trip, the sun started to rise. 

In hopes that I could take a couple of worthwhile photos of some farmland in beautiful light, I parked my car on the side of the freeway and took out my tripod. After a couple frames that I wasn't too excited about, a man walked by with a bike. 

I waved him down and asked him if I could talk to him for a minute. He played along. He said his name was Paul and that he was walking over to a nearby gas station to get the flat front tire of his bike changed. I took two frames of Paul from across a wired fence and we went our separate ways. 

On the side of the freeway, across a wire fence in Tipton, California, I met a man named Paul who was going to get his tire changed.