Mismatch.com

Moving from the Midwest to the West Coast meant getting acclimated to the climate change.  No more fiercely cold winters or broiling summers.  Just chill, fog, rain and sun; often on the same day.  Then there was the social climate.  In the mid-90s, I attended a tech fair in San Francisco.  At one busy table was a group of women promoting their new company called Match.com.  Anything online was still a new concept and Internet personals were a promising option to the social maze of San Francisco.  I took the free membership and set up my online profile, then spent the next few weeks trying to crack the code of others.  I wasn’t having much luck.  My emails usually went unreplied, or the responses suggested I was a suspect rather than a suitor.  One evening I received a message that looked promising. The sender was a single mom, 33 years old, a professional who described herself as a legal advocate for men in child custody disputes.  We started a conversation, sharing interests in music and politics, and over the next week our emails and phone conversations were refreshing in a city where people “networked” but rarely stuck with their connections.

We discussed getting together, but the 30 miles of time and traffic to her place in San Jose meant planning for a weekend.  To be honest, I was in no hurry.  Some years earlier, I had become involved with a woman who, shortly after we met, left town for a summer job.  Our letters while she was away greatly enriched our relationship.  It was an experience I still value.  It was also a lesson for all the times I’d rushed in, letting expectations get ahead of me.

My new friend and I continued talking over the next week.  The following Sunday morning, I received an email from her saying that she and her friends would be having brunch across the bay in Berkeley, and would I like to join them.  Yes, I responded.  It was nearby and would be a good day to meet and finally spend some time in person.  Through the city and over the bridge I drove.  Arriving in Berkeley, I was blessed by the parking gods with a spot only three blocks from my destination.  As I entered the busy and popular restaurant, a hand went up on the far side.  It felt good to be recognized and welcomed.  I walked over and greeted my date and her three friends, who were sitting comfortably in a booth.  They had already eaten.  After the formal smiles and head nods, I then noticed that no one was making room for me to sit down.  I pulled up an empty chair from a nearby table, sat down and ordered a coffee from the annoyed waitress who kept squeezing past me. The group seemed friendly enough, and I began talking with my friend.  She had seated herself on the inside, which caused me to speak directly past the person next to her, who was nice, but gave me the sense that I was going through a translator.  Fortunately, the scene didn’t last very long.  When the check was paid, we made our way out the door with the rest of the dispersing crowd. 

It was a beautiful morning, and I was anxious to spend time with my new friend.  The fog had burned off, the sun was bright, and the air was freshly clear.  Just the kind of perfect weather one imagines in the Bay Area.  As we stood outside, I asked my friend what she would like to do next.  “Oh, we have plans,” she said casually.  And the four walked off, piled into a sedan, and drove off into the Kalifornia sunshine.

The Camera Is The Seer (The Film Remembers)

“Are you a professional photographer?”, the security guard asks me. This is the third member of the church cathedral uniform to ask me the same question. Professional, I assume means do I make my living with photography? I answer “No”. “What are you going to use it for?” he asks. “Personal” I say. “We have protocols.” he says politely, and walks away. The cathedral has a well regulated militia, and I have set up my camera within their jurisdiction. A week earlier, I had asked the receptionist on duty if photography was allowed inside the cathedral. “Oh yes, that’s no problem.” She had answered. So as with scripture, there are many answers to the same question.

The cathedral I am standing in is called Christ The Light. It was built in 2009 near where I work in Oakland. The giant steel and glass turret structure is 12 stories tall, sleek and modern. I had watched and heard its construction, rising from parking lot to the massive concrete complex. One afternoon last summer, I stepped inside to escape the heat, and was taken with the immense, beautiful and quiet space. After several visits, I experienced something else, an atmosphere of common courtesy. No cell phone yellers or boasting public chatter, piped in radio, hissing headphones, laptop tapping, or moonfaced heads bobbing in front of tiny glowing screens. Just rows of long, comfortable benches, with patrons standing or sitting quietly, some speaking softly to those next to them. Alone together in lunch hour heaven.

Common courtesy seems rare these days. Yet people will abide in the house of the almighty. Outside the cathedral, where God is apparently not looking, values get reinterpreted. As when for example, on my way home recently, a distracted BMW driver, and god fearing cell phone user, praised me with shouts and gestures after I changed lanes in ahead of him.

With my tripod secure, I faced the pinhole camera down the center aisle. There is no lens on a pinhole camera, just a tiny opening on the front, exactly 0.3mm wide. Light shines through the hole, and assembles an image, naturally, against the far side of the camera. The image is then captured on film. This miracle of nature is fundamentally how our eyes work.

Sunlight illuminates the cathedral hall. Streaming through the tinted glass above and between wood shades lining the tower, the light sparkles without glare. I take a meter reading, which indicates that my exposure should average 40 seconds. The light coming through the pinhole is so dim that the film must be exposed from between a few seconds to a few minutes. During the exposure, the camera and the subject must remain perfectly still. Objects or people moving within the image become either a blur or completely invisible. I open the shutter and count off, one . . . two . . . three. . The camera captures the church interior in a dynamic wide angle view. The patrolling securing guards disappear like ninja.

I move the camera to get several views inside the cathedral, including the two figures of Jesus. One as a giant projection of life on the far wall, and the other as a hovering statue of the dying martyr. I think respectful thoughts and count off, one . . two . . three. As the seconds pass, I reflect on the moment, and flash on the idea that something unseen and magical will appear in the photograph. With the film exposed, I pack up my gear and leave unnoticed.