Creative relationships that endure
Old photographs, a new Beatles song, and why the small things are where creativity can endure
I keep a group chat going with some friends from high school. We’ve hardly seen each other in the last 15 years, and our exchanges mainly dabble in Latino memes about drunk uncles, cholo culture, and how naco people can be. It’s spontaneous, with spurts of texts within hours to weeks without a message. Our connection is strengthened by love of music, primarily singer-songwriters of the Indie variety, but also more modern introductions like Peso Pluma, Maggie Rodgers, or Dua Lipa.
Of course we still chat about more obscure (not to us) artists. Damien Rice. Pedro the Lion. Panda Bear. These names aren’t simply indie songwriters that peaked in the early 2000s, but they are sparks of nostalgia for a time when musical curiosity was feverish with this group.
I keep thinking about the ease of how we drop in and out of our lives and the connections that keep things feeling like home when we return. This group chat I have is small, just three of us, but the overall growth and time experience with each other is something I can’t really seem to put a value on because it feels considerably large for me to comprehend. We spent thousands of life hours together, even worked together at record stores, almost got arrested together, and worked through critiques about musicians for days on end.
As I’ve gotten older, my instinct has become to protect what I’ve built, what I’ve collected, what I’ve uncovered for my own growth. But as a feeling, it’s been somewhat paralyzing because there’s an unrelenting urge to discover new things, while also maintaining the things that brought me so much joy before. This act for us humans is exhilarating and debilitating.
My group chat is with two good friends, Brian and Juan, respectively known as Jicama and Nano, or Cuco Lechuga, depending on how much shit is being talked about. They might kill me for broadcasting these nicknames we’ve had for each other for 25 years, but these are the details that make the bond strong. Back in the early 2000s, they had a band called Sons of Them. They were awesome. All of our friends were groupies, hitting San Fernando Valley and Hollywood clubs to see them play. I always secretly wanted to be their manager but also part of the band. (Maybe not that big of a secret). But I was always distracted by other things (traveling, photography, house music, dating). At some point, I convinced them I should take their “official” band photos. I had no portfolio and no experience, but I was the guy who lugged the camera around everywhere. In fact, I was probably the only person with a camera in our crew so the gig was likely convenient for them and the right place, right time for me. As I’ve been archiving some of my old work, I regularly come back to study these photographs, not for any technical or composition tips, but more for why I’m so enamored by them. They are high art for me, in my own little universe; the mental gallery I’ve built to showcase the important stories I come back to time and time again have these in a special corner focused on early-2000s Latino bands in the valley and coming-of-age for young men trying to make it.
At this time, I hadn’t even really studied real photographers. I knew Ansel Adams. I had heard of Henri Cartier-Bresson. Creatively, my biggest inspirations were the visuals of Rage Against the Machine, the music videos of Spike Jonze, and the book covers of Joan Didion. I had enough in the repertoire of inspiration to guide me.
Yet, what these photos don’t completely illustrate is the trust a group of friends had for a fairly insecure artistic poser wanting to dabble in a trade. They also show a time of discovery, when personality and image were evolving. I also like that these dudes, guys I know very well, all showcase their personalities: Manny’s sheepish-genius and Roger’s tough music-nerd vibe. These photos remind me of the ease you achieve when you’ve grown with people and have seen each other at your best and at your most vulnerable.
An Artificial Gift
In our current AI-driven world, it’s not surprising The Beatles have released a brand new song, 30 years in the making, called “Now and Then.” But there’s a haunting feeling to all of these postumous hits built by technologies that allow for extraction of vocals and instruments, refining happy accidents that potentially didn’t exist, and maybe alter a little of the magic that once existed in a band like The Beatles. But this a gift.
An old John Lennon demo recorded at a time when The Beatles were a distant memory and Lennon’s life revolved around family and solo projects, “Now and Then” feels profoundly vulnerable, as if we’re eavesdropping on the making of a late-night journal entry about a dear friend or loved one, potentially never to be seen or heard. How many of these moments do all of us have?
The Beatles released a short film about the making of this song, commencing some time in 1994 when George Harrison, Ringo Starr, and Paul Mccartney were all together. Unfortunately, they couldn’t make it work back then because the means weren’t there. These brilliant musicians would be hindered by technology gaps. But what drew me about the story wasn’t the chasing of some tech, but their enduring drive and appreciation to make things together. The tech is such a minimal part of their story. Their human bond and emotional existence kept bringing them together to make music that is arguably some of the best we’ve ever encountered (yes, I’m very much growing to be a big Beatles fan). Then George died in 2001 and the project to create an actual song was shelved. Fast-forward to 2021 and the innovative release of “Get Back”, and the technology gaps no longer existed. Lennon’s vocals were isolated, his piano elevated, and George Harrison’s 1994 guitar tracks he’d created for the song were added. For the first time in three decades, there were four Beatles contributing real chords and verses to a song the world had never heard before. What makes this song so touching, so magical in that Beatlesque way, is the emotional current within it. If we could bottle what made this artistic collaborative sustain and endure, I think we’d all be way better off.
The song has been streamed on Spotify 25 million times in two weeks (I’ve probably listened 40 times) and it concludes one of the greatest creative partnerships we’ll likely ever see in our lifetime (no offense Key & Peele).
I’ve been thinking a lot about enduring projects. My most recent is a dining room series I hope to build over time. I feel like these are the types of projects you don’t want to tell people about until you have an overwhelming amount of photos. To date, I have around 400 that I’ve culled down to about 20 that I love. The archive keeps growing, almost daily. The dining room is a focal point for many families and ours is no different. This is the place we all interact, talk, joke, assert, and collectively bring our insane energies together to mingle. Ours, specifically, is also a sunkissed atmosphere fueling some beautiful moments of fleeting light throughout a day, especially in the morning and early evening. I love this space and have simplified my art in a lot of ways to being mesmerized by the simple. Here’s a sample. Let me know what you think. Happy Sunday.
Whoa. What a trip to think about that time again! I didn't see a ton of shows, but I consider myself a groupie. Fun times. Also, love PP.
Yeah but what is their nickname for you?
I love the juxtaposition of the band photos from the valley in 2003 and the dining room photos from Seattle twenty years later. It’s a trip that I’ve known you for almost that entire time. I’m curious what the series will be in 2043 and how photography as a medium will evolve.
Finally, Peso Pluma? Really?