21 March 2007

Speckles 

Black and white flits across the page like a melody from the hand of a painter. Black ink and white ink mix together in pools of gray, spread across the page like an infestation. It eats away at the white of the page, shooting forth its arms in wide embrace in that which would have been. The notes that would have played stayed silent as the monotone persuaded its own existence. Yet after the paint has dried, the music begins again as black and white flit across the page.

13 May 2005 and 2007

Special Relativity

• Special Relativity states that speed of light is a constant. The source of it departure and arrival does not matter to the speed it is traveling. It is a constant regardless of the frame of reference (though the perspective of time may be bent from the frame of reference). Also according to this theory, time can move at different speeds at different frames of reference. This also says that if two twins were born and one of them left earth to travel at the speed of light for a year, he would come back, and the other twin would be much older then him. This is because the frame of reference for the two twins changes because one is traveling at the speed of light.

28 February 2006

Reflections of Streetlamps

3:30am, and it’s raining. Yet, through the rain there shines a beauty. Rain creates a mist around objects, a slightly foggy appearance. Rain glistens on tree branches and twinkle with shimmering light. Rain falls upon the pavement, and turns black to white. Reflections of streetlamps cascade across the asphalt. In quiet voices you talk; you and someone you love. You talk about whatever, life, pants smeared with paint, about the beauty in the mundane. The reflected light shimmers with each footprint of the drizzle that treads across its path. Aye the world, tis never perfect. Still decay, still affliction, still fallen. We must move on, the cold of the night reaches at the spirit, but the reflections in the rain; they shimmer, aye, they shine to the glory of God.

28 Oct. 2005

Shimmering Day

They drove along the valleys and beside the hills through the day. Watching the millions of white lines blink under their tiers, like raindrops. Like raindrops that meandered down outside the windows, raindrops that reflected the trees blurring by, raindrops that dried up for the sun that glimmered off the hood ornament of the Mercedes Benz. It was a blue 85’ driven by a guy named Chris. He wore a pink Enterprise Cross Country shirt that he got his senior year of high school. The shadows of the Benz stretch across the road till it reached the guide rail on the other side. The light in the clouds faded down and dusk descended like a blanket upon the Columbia River. Chris sipped upon Mt. Dew while an apple air freshener swayed back and forth like a clock counting the hours to P-town. He thought about the fish, the wild and free that charge up the Columbia every year. His stomach grumbled. Dark navy clouds reflected upon the quieter areas of the Columbia and lights turned on and dotted the hillside across the river. As he pulled into the concrete driveway he thought about all the miles that had shimmered past. He was grateful for his mom at the door, homemade bow-tie pasta, and a batch of fresh chocolate chip cookies. After such a long day, he finally smiled.

15 March 2004

Manifesto: the mad photographer 

Remember the rule of thirds.
Strategic lighting, composition, balance, triangulation, and exposure: find out what these mean. Focal length, apertures, ISO, and shutter speeds are priorities. 
Stay on topic. Photograph cats and dogs, sunsets and flowers, rivers and beaches, people, and the sky. 
Edit to perfection, correct every detail, and rub it to the bone. Then go to the next. 
Aye, but I tell you this. Shoot something upside down, sideways, diagonal. Try photography mid-air. 
Creativity, Originality, Imagination: do not conform. Put spiders on wine glasses, snails on beaches and cats with pumpkins. Have a tilted horizon. Make the world purple, green or orange, but please don’t make it white. 
Photograph life.
Find interest in the mundane.
Let a child use the camera, listen to crows. Plant and water a sequoia. Take a solo trip to an isolated spot. Stop, and think. Live life with patience, peace and thoughtfulness. Ruminate about love, joy and hope. Hug a forest. Be alive with laughter. 
Enjoy life with a passion and remember your Creator. 
Believe

3 August 2004

Blue Fog

The blue door shut behind him as he prowed into the closing night sky. Running his warm up on familiar back roads that lead to his secluded beach. The fog belt had settled on Haystack Rock like a father’s hand on a child’s shoulder. The dry sand was shelled by a layer of rainfall and each footstep brought new sand to the surface. Sand stuck to the soles of his feet. Finally, hard packed sand came and he picked up his pace speculating over the considerable low tide, the abundance of murres congealed on their rocks and footprints in the sand left by those who had come before. Sweat, bird guano, and salt air. He threaded through the rock gate that lead him to Crescent Beach. Along he ran, the sole soul meandering out into the night. He ran past caves that scowled their black mouths at him, past the quiet waves kneading the dark shore, and past rocks jutting into the blue fog. Until the beach stopped: wave against rock. Turning to look for another way, a different path. Steep embankments faced him one side and the open sea on the other. He picked up one rock as a token. A black stone rounded by the ocean that fit his hand and fit his heart. A memory of this night. The night enveloped him as he returned back the way he came. Mountains of trees reflected off the wet sand as he left his wave of footprints behind. Unzipping the beach as he went. He ran towards that unseen goal: Haystack Rock, hidden below the fog and between the gates he had already passed through. After the water, and sand, and rocks of eternity, his short time had passed as he returned home again.

16 Nov. 2005

Poem by Laura Rogers

"Developer of Images"

Thank you, Thomas, thank you!
You've done an old heart good
with images drawn from the sea,
of sand and stone and wood.
The beach at daybreak, noon and night,
with sunset flash and cool starlight --
glad beauty, borne on wing and wave:
dear memories I long to save.

You've done it, Thomas. Lucky me!
my eyes and heart again may see
the blessings of my gracious God,
who knows each footstep where I've trod,
and knows how long the life of each
that left their footprints on this beach,
where waves washed o'er and cleared the sand,
while time moved on within His hand.

I'm glad now, Thomas, thanks to you,
for picturing this place I knew,
and prayers I'll lift that you might know
God's blessings everywhere you go,
and that One Image will take form
within your heart that's Spirit born,
One Image that no lens can hold,
worth more than all the world's pure gold.

><†> LR©2005

2 Dec. 2004

Drilling

Let’s drill for oil
Let’s bring in the dozers
Let’s save the economy
Let’s drill for oil
Let’s put an oil pipeline around the world
Let’s make gas free
Let’s save the pipeline
Let’s doze around the world
Let’s drill a pipeline
Let’s bring in the economy
Let’s pipe the drill line around the world
Let’s drill the world around the pipeline

Photography – Sharing God’s Glory With Others

     The wise elders of our faith teach us that the chief end of Man is “to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.” As a photographer, I strive to glorify God by sharing God’s splendor in creation. Photography is a visual form of communication that reveals the glory of God in a scene. My passion in nature and landscape photography is rooted in my faith in Jesus Christ and my love for the deeper glory found in every corner of creation. When God gives me a magnificent view, I capture that view and give it to others so they may see what God has given.

     My love for the visual art of nature photography began when my family was hiking in the mountains, I borrowed my mom’s camera and began shooting flowers, mountain tops, and other beautiful scenes. I discovered the pleasure of the Lord in enjoying God’s beautiful creation. That delight was the spark that ignited my search for praising God on the secluded beaches, the quiet forests, and the radiant sunsets. The Psalms remind us that “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.” Now I see beauty in what others may often overlook. I plan to pursue my love for photography at Whitworth, and I look forward to finding a career in this field in order to share my love for it with others.

     At college, I will be taking intensive photography courses to deepen my understanding and knowledge of the art. I will also be studying a variety of other courses, but my focus will be on improving my photography so that I may be the best photographer I can be.

     Photographers see the deeper glory in every detail, in a grain of sand, in a decomposing leaf, in a fading cloud at sunset. Nature photography is about noticing the balance in creation and creatively capturing it for all to see. It is looking at white clouds and seeing the potential of a vibrant sunset, looking at a tree and seeing depth in the texture of its bark; it is about seeing truths of God’s creative artistry that are clear to us if only we had the eyes to see it. I will continue seeking truth and glory throughout my life.

     Some people walk through life never noticing the beauty that surrounds them. As for me, I will keep opening my eyes to see God’s deeper glory in every corner of creation. I will help others to recognize the reason and purpose we are here on earth, to glorify God and enjoy him forever.

16 Dec. 2005

Across the Gorge

The lights travel down the rail, leaving shadows and darkness behind. The tires spin endlessly; the lit license plate from Arizona. But Washington is right over there, across the river, on the other side of the gorge. There are lights of cars in the distance, on the other side of the bend. Soon they will be approaching quickly, until they blink by and are forgotten in a trail of red. Then comes the next, each making its debut, and then disappearing into the shadow left behind. There are also lights across the river, reflecting faintly off the water, but they never come closer, the just stay edging along the bottom of the hills. Lights drive quickly than fade away, driving through the darkness. From the darkness, and into it again. Brief memories, and forgotten again.

6 December 2004

Raining Numbers – Taking the SAT

Registration number 7249839. Name, address, city, state, zip, telephone, date of birth, gender, social security number. One check on the list. Fill in the bubbles and watch the time. Fry your brain, turn it through the reason and the rain. A B C D E, take one. Test Form 412150. If s is the number of students and m is the number of microscopes; each student gets one, but 6 don’t. Form Code NL160. No opinion, fill in the bubble. Double the amount of microscopes, there are 6 extra. Serial Number 183317. A B C D E, take two, scratch one. Fill in the blank, analogize, critical reading. Time is running. Solve for s. What is the author’s intentions in this piece? s + m = - 6, s + 2m = 6. Fill in the bubble. A B C D E, take three, guess. How much time is left? High School Code 381070. Less then 1 minute per question! Photo ID, 2 number 2s, an optional calculator, your admission ticket, and don’t forget your brain. Finish the test, a walk through the rain. Free again.

8 Mar. 2004

Life Filled Air

A flapping noise rushed near his feet. He jolted, it was just two sparrows scared off by the rustling of the glowing reeds. Pausing again as his rubber boot suctioned the mud, he gazed into the budding emerald forest. A creek trickled past auburn mud banks eroded from years of flow. Light shone through the ferns sprouting from old fallen alders. Skunk cabbage yielded their yellow shells. The woods smelled of bright green. He came upon the bubbling stream. The sun glinted off the water like off a warped mirror. Chickadees chirped and elderberry were just booming.

It was spring.

31 May 2004

Ocean Waves

Ocean waves
Ocean waves that sooth
Ocean waves that crash
That surround and wash over
Waves of change
Constant with the tide, yet
still
unpredictable, sometimes big, sometimes small
but always something.
Constant with the tide turn, in and out.
Steadfast rocks enduring waves of time:
waves of change.
Change that looks so big,
far oft
yet so small when it breezes in.
Wrong: the only thing that's constant is change.
God is constant, unchanging like the rocks.
Unlike the sand of humanity,
ever shifting, ever moving.
But the rock of God is steadfast
in the sand, wind, and waves of time.

5 Apr. 2004

 

13 Apr. 2004

Quiet Rain

The trunks we had lifted and backed to each other to hold out the light rain we had felt upon our cheeks. The rain increased and felt more cozy, eating brie cheese and Vinta crackers that smelled of wheat on the French coast with friends from home. It was a French cheese packed in circular cases: yellow and red were the flavors there. The adults drank foreign beer they’d opened with the silver leatherman from my Jan Sport bag. I had received that tool from a young friend who had left it at my house. I had found it with a piece of twine that held together red beads that glittered like morning rain. A gentle shower that fell on sailing boats, and lifted car trunks and friends eating cheese in the rain.

19 Apr. 2004

Last 100 Meters

    I want focus on is the finish line but it keeps moving around like a roulette ball looking for a winner. My universe becomes a blur of frozen faces. Expectant, clenched, worried, and joyful faces. I smell cut grass wasting away on a torn football field, buttered popcorn whiffing from the concession stand, and burnt rubber smoking from my singed running shoes. I travel so slowly. Each step, an effort, each muscle straining for that golden tape, each exasperation sinew tightened, waiting for that final time, that daze spinning world, and the wonderful accomplishment and completion. Finish line.

 

3 May 2004

Clear Cut

You ask me of chickadees and finches flitting through a golden wood. Of luminescent ferns and new sprung pines branching from a fallen alder. Of talkative creeks and steadfast rocks under the turmoil of time. Where we were, once, among these soliloquies of beauty.

Do you remember? Remember these times? Or is it only reminisce.
Snarling they came, loud in two ways. Big voices and silver sparkles, unjust chains, ruthless as hungry bears.

Foul oil surrounds us. Heavy feet surround us. Black clouds surround us.

They kill us, the dry-eyed children, knocking us down like weeds. They drag off our elders and there we lie, naked and forsaken, drying up in the clearing of time. Turning brown, and forgotten. And you ask.

Come and see the trees lie fallen.
Come and see. The trees lie fallen.
Come and see,
the trees, lie fallen!

3 June 2004

Strolling Washington Square

Smell of fresh tropical aloe, sound of soothing music resonating off high vaulted ceilings, tile floors with red circular patterns, soft mattresses, hard wooden benches, orphan teddy bears, bright color fashions on perfect plastic models, fake orange flowers, fluorescent lights refracting off a shifting silver Nordstrom box, mp3 players upon metallic stands, chocolate smoothies, neon signs blinking insidious statements, too much glass, no rocks, none steadfast, big sunglasses, new shoes smell, over-large advertisements, curved trash can lids, cool air flow, echoing voices, blinking lights, exclamation points. JC Penny, Meier & Frank, Radio Shack.
Stores floating, drifting, draining by.
Quantities, qualities, prices.
Everything shouting
"choose me"
"pick me"
"buy me."

7 Exquisite Corpses - By Otto Sloof Ninegious b.1979

 

8 Mar. 2004

Different

    She lived in a suburban neighborhood, surrounded by monochromatic houses that all had the same Victorian style windows. They must have all been created from the same Princeton Press blueprint design book. There was a yellow sign that read "Slow, children at play," but I did not see any. Nor did I see anyone else in this place. Most of the windows were dark but there existed an occasional one that contained dull life edged around opaque blinds. Chewing on my breath freshening gum, I found that some gardens had dead chrysanthemum plants in the front yard and others had none. To think, this had once bragged a flourishing forest. I wondered how this town could be improved, how to turn this ugly duckling into a beautiful swan. A gleaming white swan floating alone in a golden lake, surrounded by green reeds and water lilies. That was my vision.
    I glanced at the map of repetitive roads and blocks cubed in a tedious checkerboard pattern. It was a monotonous labyrinth with every block the same as the last and every neighborhood the same as the next. Stopping for directions would be impossible. Finally, I located it, and pulled my oversized SUV into a cement driveway that had "507" numbered in pale gold lettering next to the rusted metallic garage door. I stepped out, strolled to the front door, and buttoned the illuminated orange doorbell. Peeking into the window, I saw an old lady in a blue-splotched dress hobbling to the door. I cracked my fingers and adjusted my navy tie. The door creaked opened a notch.
    "Who is it?" muttered the old lady. I flicked out my new printed business card and she undid the chain and ushered me in. The air was musty and the avocado colored carpet seemed to absorb my new polished loafers. She led me aside to a cramped room, a fan hung dead on the low ceiling. The TV blared. She fumbled with the grey remote, the television blinked then slowly faded to black. I declined her offer of a muffin; I saw chunks of raisins and coconut in them. Then she turned to me with an aged look of regret on her face.
    "I wanted to leave this dreadful neighborhood," she admitted, "I wanted to move to a humble cottage by the coast and watch the marvelous ships go sailing by."
    I quoted James Fletcher, "I have seen white ships like swans asleep."

To Run

It's the middle of the season.

You love to run.
You love to run on the beach.
You love to taste the salt air and smell the driftwood logs and rotting kelp.
You love to the pound the sand under your feet.
You love the sun and you love the rain.
You love to plunge against the wind and be pelted by hail.
You love to smile at people walking in the rain.
You do not like to get wet, but you still love the rain.
You love to meditate while you run.

You love to run fast.
You love to strike the sub-thirty on a four miler.
You love the adrenaline, you love the delirium.
You love the speed and love the exhaustion.
You love the blur of the landscape, and you love the blur of the ground afterwards.
You love to run swiftly but you don't like the pain thereafter.
You love to think while you run.

You love to race.
You love to surpass your PR.
You love the starting gunshot but you don't love the butterflies.
You love the shrieks of fans and the encouragement of the coaches, parents and friends.
You love to start your kick with eight hundred meters left.
You love giving it your all for the last two hundred.
You love the last fifteen meters, but you don't love how it seems like an eternity.
You love the finish line, but not the panting and swaying afterwards.
You love to be congratulated.
You love to ruminate while you run.

You are ending the season.

You are a long distance runner.
Go the distance.

run to love

15 Mar. 2004

Gesture in the Hall

Walking, strolling, strutting, gliding, dodging, jogging, running.
People.
Students, moving to chemistry, Greeks and Romans, or the library. Swinging wooden doors opening, twists of locks.
The "cunk" of the successful combination.
Smell of sweat, hints of perfume, mild odors of mildew and today's greasy pizza.
Slams of small metallic doors and shuffling of papers.
Moving feet and moving mouths.
Black jackets and baseball caps with skating logos. Motocross t-shirts and babbling voices, with binders, books, and backpacks, weighed down by biology packets, Trig textbooks and portable CD players.
Anticipation of the bell and escape.
The blur of humanity fit in a cramped hallway.
I say hello to a gal I know. She just simply smiles.

2 June 2004

Mud and Prose

 

Thomas Robinson

Ms. Priddy

CP Jr. Eng., per. 2

30 Apr. 2004

The Vine of Truth: Photography and Digital Graphic Art

Art is a vine of truth. A book about gardening is nonfiction, and a story about alien spores in garden plants is fiction. This is elementary; however, there are also books about nonfiction subjects that are fiction. There is a border, a thinner than hair line between these two subjects. Photography can be fiction and as an art form, possesses a vine of truth. Each branch, an interpretation of the truth, but it is the closest humans can get to reproducing a scene. A photo can be edited and made to look better than the original. That is the purpose of editing. But one can also edit a photo and alter it completely. To edit is to revise or correct, to omit or to eliminate, to arrange, to duplicate, and to change. Editing can be changing a photo so much like cutting and pasting an airplane into a picture of a beautiful sunset. This would be an example of altering the image. It is now fiction, now digital graphic art. However editing can be as small as taking a picture of a sunset and making it even more vibrant than before by boosting the color. It is different but not greatly modified. The line is between the quality and quantity of the editing. Once a subject matter has been altered from the reality, it is fictional.

Many people have different views of where this line between fiction and nonfiction exists. Some believe that there is no line, that as soon as a picture is taken, it is fiction. Some think that digital graphic art still counts as photography. Digital graphic art may contain truth in the original but it is a different piece of art than when it was a nonfiction photo. When one edits a photo and greatly alters the original picture, it is becomes fiction. The question is where this line subsists.

Christopher Burkett has photographed landscapes for twenty-five years. His 8x10 prints are displayed in many galleries around the world. Speaking about his role in photography he said, “My task is to simply present this reality in the clearest, most luminous and direct way, with the least amount of interference, distraction or distortion from myself or the photographic process” (Burkett 177). This is a clear definition of the role of photography: giving the viewer the truth, without changing it. Kevin Ebi has also been a digital photographer for four years and had a website (www.livingwilderness.com) that sells his stock photography. Kevin believes that, “once an image is altered and does not reflect reality it is fiction” (Ebi interview).

I have been a photographer for about half a year, and interested in photography for about a year more. Since I got a digital camera, I have taken approximately 3300 pictures. I have edited around two percent of these into fictional photos. As a photographer, I like to capture things as they are. I take pictures of flowers, ferns, creeks, beach scenes, birds, pets, sunsets, etc. However, digital photography is like a vine without much water. It can still grow, but is much more beautiful when watered frequently. All my best photos have been edited. It is justified that I do this editing because I don’t actually alter the subject matter of the photo. I just edit them to a higher quality by changing the color and saturation, focus and sharpness, sizing, rotating and cropping. None of these actually changes the subject matter of the photos, so they are still realistic and truthful. “Editing is okay if it is an accurate view of reality” (Ebi interview). Ebi also says that with film photography, the saturation is already at its best, but with digital photography, you must edit it to make it “show the viewer what it was like to be there” (Ebi interview).

Photojournalism is different though. Photojournalists should not change images at all. It would be terrible if someone created a nonfiction photo, portrayed it as truth and published it nationwide. Photojournalism should be absolute truth, except when dealing with graphic images that shouldn’t be viewed. Speaking about the showing a gruesome video from Iraq, Steve Capus, executive producer of NBC Nightly News said, “Quite honestly, it doesn’t need to be seen in full in order to convey the horrors of this despicable act” (“Media Use” 4). Many news channels edited these gruesome videos by blurring out the graphic details that did not need to be shown. This is allowable, because it is not actually changing the content of the matter, just making it less visible.

George Vetter has been taking film photos since 1971; he has his own website (www.cannon-beach.net), and has been taking digital photos for six years. He believes that photography should be used to “represent the scene as it was, make reality more vivid not less. Otherwise it is not a true interpretation” (Vetter interview). Once a photo’s subject matter has been changed, it has become fictional, unreal, illusory, untrue, and imaginary. Digital graphic art. But until that point, the photo may be edited to improve the quality of the image. “The artist, like the child, is a good believer. The depth and strength of the belief is reflected in the work; if the artist does not believe, then no one else will; no amount of technique will make the responder see truth in something the artist knows to be phony” (L’Engle 149). Digital graphic art photos are fictional; the photographer cannot actually believe in the editing of the photo. It makes a photo untruthful and a lie, when the artist edits out a telephone pole, or adds an airplane, it is deceitful. It may have begun as photography but it is no longer. It is now digital graphic art.

Digital graphic art is a big issue among digital photographers such as the 1000+ paying members of www.dpchallenge.com. I have entered many of my photos into this “digital photography challenge” website. A member in this site spoke about photographic manipulation, “They create their own reality. When they use levels, change contrast, apply soft focus, adjust color balance, create sepia tones, use filters or use special lense attachments they are not attempting an accurate capture of what is really there” (“All Editing” 12). He insists that that any of the editing done to an image makes it fiction. On this site, he argues that it should allow full editing because many of the pictures on the site are already digital graphic art. “A photographer can lie about a photo without even using Photoshop” (Ebi interview). Editing basic things like levels, contrast, sharpening, etc. is okay; it doesn’t actually change the intent of the photo. Anything done in camera is not digital graphic art, the camera cannot change the subject matter of the photo it just takes the photo as it sees it.

Another website called Live Journal has an active community that has a Photography Challenge as well. Its rules state, “Any editing should be used to correct the image, not completely change it” (“Photochallenge” 3). This keeps the integrity of the photo. Photos that are over edited are either voted down or disqualified. Editing (manipulating photos or just touching them up) is a talent, and an expert can get away with quite a bit of editing genius. Steve Bedell is an award-winning photographer who recently wrote a piece in Shutterbug about how to improve digital photography. “Don’t let Photoshop turn you into a poor shooter – only use it to enhance your already good images” (Bedell 128). I would rather just take a terrific photo to begin with than spend hours hunched at my computer trifling with the levels of saturation and finding the exact touch of contrast I desire.

Photography is meant to be fun, an art, not a misinterpretation of reality. Marian Wood Kolish, a renowned photography said after taking her first photography workshop, “I came away from there just flying” (Row 1). Photography is fun and can make people say, “Wow, look at that!” But it should be done honestly, giving truth for the viewer to believe. Not make them look at a piece, love it, then later find out it was really not a real scene, and imagined through the editing and manipulation that was done to it.

Art is a vine of truth, and so is photography. But reality can be so difficult to represent. Photography is an interpretation of reality, and is one of the least deceptive forms of art known to man. Editing is like watering a vine, used to make the vine more beautiful and vibrant then before. I use editing to improve the quality of the image, not change the content. Photography is a branch of the vine of art and the line between photography and digital graphic art is very slender, but photos are nonfiction until the subject matter of the image is altered from the truth.

Works Cited

“All Editing Should Be Allowed – Prove Me Wrong!” DPChallenge 10 Mar. 2004. Photography Discussion. 14 Mar. 2004 <http://www.dpchallenge.com/forum.php ?action=read&FORUM_THREAD_ID=75481>.

Bedell, Steve. “10 Rules for Top Digital Quality.” Shutterbug Mar. 2004:124, 126, 128.

Burkett, Christopher. Imitations of Paradise . Vernonia , OR : West Wind Arts, 1999.

Ebi, Kevin. Personal interview. 20 Mar. 2004.

L’Engle, Madeleine. Walking on Water: Reflections of Faith and Art. New York : North Point Press, 1980.

“Media Use of Gruesome Iraq Photos Varies.” MSNBC News. 1 Apr. 2004. International News. 29 Apr. 2004 <http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/4645612>.

“Photochallenge” LiveJournal Community Info. 1 Apr. 2004 <http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=photochallenge>.

Row, D.K. “An Eye for Oregon ’s Icons.” The Oregonian [ Portland ] 14 Mar. 2004: D6, D8.

Vetter, George. Personal interview. 16 Mar. 2004.