Stay tuned…I hope there will be a new Ohio photography site in the not-too-distant future!

On my first big road trip, some friends and I took three days to drive around Illinois photographing the state’s roadside attractions. Back then my Saturn Ion was new and I didn’t know how to use my Canon Rebel on anything other than automatic. We drove to Charleston and saw the world’s tallest Abraham Lincoln and to Collinsville for the world’s largest catsup bottle, to the home of Superman and a to a two-story outhouse.


The last stop on our second day was to be the Bald Knob Cross of Peace: a giant glowing cross on top of Illinois’s closest thing to a mountain. Our directions stopped when an unpaved uphill road began. It was already after 9pm and quite dark. We hesitated, but decided to trudge on, slowly, half expecting Freddy Krueger to jump out and slash our tires. We carefully ascended until the glow of the cross came into our distant view. It looked far away and impossible to get to but eventually we were at its base.

Once there, I set up my tripod and held down the button on my camera. The automatic lens focused back and forth, not catching onto anything. I fumbled for a while, switching the dial to every setting, not knowing what any of them did, not knowing how to trigger a flash, adjust the aperture, extend the shutter speed. Eventually one of my friends did something to it that allowed me to take pictures. They turned out dark and grainy but I’m not even sure a well-composed photograph would have captured the sense of standing on a dark hill, both frightened and rejuvenated, with a glowing cross in front of us, listening to the eerie whistling of the winds.

I still drive that same car today. I still take road trips, veering off the highway and exploring the American road less traveled. My camera, and skill level using it, however, have been upgraded. Since that night on the mountain I’ve read books, taken classes, practiced, worked very hard to figure out how to take photos that don’t completely suck (or to even get my camera to take photos at all). And while I still sometimes feel like I’m driving in the dark, the journey is always worth it in the end.

[Thanks Val.  -DMO]

Initially, concert photography was just a hobby of mine. I started taking pictures at concerts at the end of 2008 and by spring of 2009 I was starting to take it a bit more seriously. I’ve been shooting pretty steadily since then, expanding out from just one genre to covering as many as I can (in the past year and a half, I’ve been lucky enough to photograph Ludacris, Rob Zombie, Earth Wind and Fire, Ben Folds and Social Distortion, to name a few). Not only have I covered several different genres, but music photography has also allowed me to cross plenty of state lines and see a good portion of the country. I love being able to mix my passion for music with my passion for photography, and for me there are few thrills like the one I get when I know I’ve just taken a great shot at a show.

[Thanks Sara.  -DMO]

My legacy

Maybe it’s part of growing older, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately about legacy. What will I leave behind when I’m gone?

I’ve always been of the mind that what matters most are the things you do when you’re here — not only for the effect that it has on our life and those in it, but also for the legacy that these actions leave behind. This is how I’ll be remembered.

What will people remember about me? My laugh? My photography? The family I built?

On a recent museum trip, I came across an exhibit of pottery made by a slave in the 1800s. It was forbidden for slaves to read or write, but not only did this potter, Dave, make pottery, he was know to have signed and also wrote short verses on rare occasions.

There I stood, beholding a piece of his legacy. Hundreds of years later, it has stood the test of time.

An interactive part of the exhibit asked users to type in a message that will live forever. I stood in front of the keyboard, completely paralyzed at the thought of adding a message to the exhibit that wouldn’t be complete garbage. Just then my 8-year-old daughter walked up and I explained the exhibit to her. Then she typed: “I am the best. This I believe (sic).”

My legacy? I suspect it will be many things. I know this confident little daughter of mine will certainly be one of the best parts of it. THIS I believe.

[Thanks, Michael.  -DMO]