I didn’t sleep well last night.

(Really strange dreams.)

It began like any normal night.

We had dinner, watched a little family TV, got the kids off to bed, and then climbed in ourselves.

Normally, we catch something on the Food Network, or an episode “House Hunters International” before turning in, and last night was no exception.

(Today being Thursday, as usual.)

I did a work Zoom before dinner, which amps me up, so that might’ve had something to do with it, or it could have been the offensive grub we saw on “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.”

We just added it to the pre-bed rotation, as that Guy Fieri has the kind of charm that creeps up on you, like a joint you think is milder than it actually is.

But what I saw last night shook me. (As a cultural critic, currently trapped in a cynical worldview of America.)

At an Alabama-style BBQ joint in Colorado Springs, (a notoriously conservative part of a now-purple State,) Guy watched the chef prepare a sandwich symbolic of so much that’s wrong here in the US.

First, slow-smoked-pulled-pork with BBQ sauce, and really, that’s typically a winning way to get going.

But then, he added some grilled kielbasa on top, (greasy, Polish pork sausage,) followed by a few slabs of bacon.

That’s right.

Three forms of artery-clogging pig, one on top of the other.

Then, they finished the monster with mayo-filled pimento cheese, creamy cole slaw, (gross!) and some fried-onion-strings.

These days, they say one hot dog takes 36 minutes off your life-span, so I joked to Jessie this aberration-of-a-sandwich must deprive each eater of a good 5 hours of existence.

It’s about as “Red State America” as it gets, and the world wonders why we have such high obesity rates?

Then again, the dreams might have been sparked by a confrontation I had with an anti-masker, in the bathroom of the mid-mountain lodge at Taos Ski Valley earlier in the day.

To be clear, New Mexico has had an indoor mask law for most of the pandemic, with only a slight gap after last Spring’s false hope.

(It was quickly re-instated when Delta showed up.)

It is literally the law.

TSV has “Mask Up” signs clearly posted, and I even saw a vaccine requirement to eat in the on-mountain restaurant where I stopped in to pee. (A first, in my experience here in NM.)

As I was washing my hands, post-pee, (TMI?) a short, early 60-something Baby Boomer strolled in, maskless, and got ready to do his business at the urinal. (Again, TMI?)

I pointed at my mask, gave him the stink eye, and said, “There’s a mask mandate here in New Mexico, and also at Taos Ski Valley.”

(I stopped trying to act like the mask police months ago, but it was just him and me, alone in a basement restroom, and he had that cocky, ant-vaxx look in his eye.)

“It’s a hoax,” he yelled at me.

“Don’t be an asshole,” I replied.

Then I thought about it for a minute, amped up my mad-dog-look, pivoted in my ski boots, and walked out.

But what I really wanted to say was:

“You don’t think the law applies to you, and you don’t mind giving me Omicron, should you have it.

You’re literally telling me you don’t care if I live or die, and you think laws are for suckers.

Fuck you!

But you assume I’ll obey the law, and not kick the living shit out of you. Which I can easily do.

Why is that?

Why is it OK for you to ignore the law, because you’re above it, but we both know if I elbowed you in the face, and broke your nose, you’d go crying to the cops like the little bitch that you are?”

(End imaginary quote.)

I wanted so badly to say that, and even more, I really wanted to beat his ass.

But I didn’t.

Because right now, this country is bifurcated, with one side feeling constrained by the bonds that hold society together, while the other taunts, trolls, baits, and bothers.

It’s a seriously messed up situation.

No lie.

So halfway through the night, I dreamed of my mother-in-law, who’s been non-communicative, due to her advanced Alzheimer’s, since last summer.

Hearing her voice, as she spoke to me, healthy again in my subconscious, was more than I could bear.

It was like being visited by a ghost.

(Does that make me Scrooge?)

So I woke myself up, at 3:30am, then tossed and turned for an hour.

Honestly, it’s only some very strong coffee allowing me to write at the moment.

But here we are.

These are strange times for American democracy, and for the stability of the global geo-political order.

(As Russia prepares to invade Ukraine, with Tucker Carlson cheering them on.)

As a guy who named his book “Extinction Party,” I can’t say I’m surprised.

But I am horrified, and saddened.

With two young children, I want so badly for the world to right itself, so they can grow up and have long, healthy lives.

(I wonder, though.)

And yes, my musings today are partly inspired by a photo-book, as usual.

Just last week, I ended the review by stating I hadn’t seen much work yet, made during the pandemic, that was more than obvious.

Sure enough, as this column often takes on patterns I never anticipated, I reached into the stack today and grabbed a self-published, Blurb book that arrived in March 2021.

(It takes so long to get to the books these days, but does give us the benefit of hindsight.)

I opened up the cardboard, having no idea what was inside, and was treated to “Keep Going New York!!”, by Stefan Falke, a German-born photographer based in NYC.

And yes, it was made in the city, during the pandemic, over the course of #2020.

The text, by Claudia Steinberg, tells us Stefan roamed the outer boroughs, not just Manhattan, and shot at mid-day, as the bright sunshine helped run off his blues, and intensified the colors he sought to shoot.

So we see very bright murals, (in many cases,) often with lone figures in front.

(As the text also informs, he prefers to have at least one person in the frame, and stands waiting for them, rather than just shooting empty cultural landscapes.)

Hopefully, we’ll never again see the city this empty during the day.

It’s not right, though over the course of the book, there are other images that show at least some form of collective human congregation.

Do you remember when they drew circles in parks, so people stayed in their own pod?

I’d forgotten that already.

Some of these are properly dynamite, like the image of the Black gentleman wearing a cool hat, in the foreground, shot with shallow depth of field, set against the top of the Empire State Building.

Or the woman dragging an office chair through an empty Times Square.

But it’s the overall sense of having captured a place in time, (and a shocking time at that,) which forced me to write about this book.

So yes, that’s two #2020, pandemic photo books in two weeks.

(Not my intention, as I said.)

And in this one, there are several images that show people mis-wearing masks, or fully maskless, in the company of those who are masked up.

{ED note: Just this morning, now that it’s Friday, I saw a front page NYT photo of two Black Senators, on opposite sides of the mask divide, by Sarahbeth Maney.}

We can thank DJT for politicizing such a hyper-important public health issue, though you may have noticed I try not to mention him anymore.

But he’s looming out there.

(You know it, and I know it.)

Stay tuned, and see you next week.

To purchase “Keep Going New York!!” click here 

If you’d like to submit a book for potential review, please email me at jonathanblaustein@gmail.com. We are particularly interested in books by artists of color, and female photographers, so we may maintain a balanced program. And please be advised, we currently have a significant backlog of books for review. 

My dog just got trolled by two coyotes.

I was sitting in my writing chair, wondering where to take today’s column, as Haley was lazing in the sun, just outside the sliding glass door.

All of a sudden, she leapt up and started barking.

(The full-throated, “I mean business” kind of bark.)

And this is one of the quietest creatures you’ll ever meet.

She can go all day without making a sound, unless she drops a little whine outside the front door when she wants to come in.

Barking, for her, is serious.

So I got right up, to see what was going on.

Just yesterday, (when she was away on a walk with my wife,) a massive coyote came strolling through the yard, practically prancing through Haley’s territory.

I called out to the kids, (who are home Zoom-schooling, b/c of Omicron,) and we all watched the gorgeous coyote for a good two minutes.

My son even captured a video, and I’ll post it here, if he’s up for sharing.

So today, my first thought was not psychopathic burglar, when the dog went ape-shit, but that it was probably the coyote coming back.

I was close, as this time, it was two.

Now, I’ve seen Haley tear off at full speed, determined to chase off her wild relatives, and maybe catch them if she can.

She must be a bit older and wiser, because despite her ferocious jaws, (she’s half-pit-bull,) Haley would be no match for two full-grown coyotes.

This time, she ran about ten paces, and then stopped, content to scream at them in dog-language.

I imagine she was saying something like, “Hey, assholes, get the fuck out of here! This is my turf! What’s your fucking problem? You don’t belong here! I’m in charge, not you! Leave! Now!”

I stood at the window, watching her body quake, giggling at the subtext of her unhappy barking, and then I decided to watch the coyotes.

They looked at her, only for a second, and then just pretended she wasn’t there.

It was an epic troll job.

They stood their ground, and went back to sniffing around, without the tiniest hint of hurry, or bother.

Then, and I swear this is true, one at at time, each had a leisurely poop, and then kicked at the dirt around the excrement with their hind legs.

You can’t make this up!

Living in a horse pasture in the heart of the American West, I admit life can be lonely, and almost boring, if you can’t take pleasure in watching the birds, the deer, the aspen leaves shaking in the breeze.

(And sometimes, the isolation does drive me crazy, especially since Covid began.)

But just now, in the last few minutes, I felt like the natural world was putting on a play, just for me.

In the end, the coyotes loped off, slowly, in their own good time.

They mocked Haley with their indifference, daring her to charge them.

Thankfully, she understood simple math.

2 coyotes, 1 dog.

Not a fair fight.

I bring this up, partly because it just happened before my eyes, as I sat with my computer on my lap, wondering what to write.

But also, (you know me well,) because I had a book in mind to review for today, and the coincidence is just uncanny.

Tara Wray published a photo-book a few years ago, “Too Tired For Sunshine,” which I reviewed favorably, though in my experiential fashion, I had no idea it was really a treatise on using photography to combat depression.

Remembering what I wrote, I did wonder about the title?

Why would someone be too tired for sunshine?

And I was impressed by the search for rich, deep color, and powerful moments, as it seemed to have a hidden drive behind it.

The book became the basis for a movement, both on Instagram and IRL, with a series of group photo exhibitions around the world by other artists who also suffered from depression.

The phenomenon culminated in the formation of a non-profit organization, the Too Tired Project.

(Pretty badass, if you ask me.)

In early 2021, Tara kindly send me a copy of her new book, “Year of the Beast,” which was made during the first pandemic year.

(Hence the title.)

This one was published by her own imprint, Too Tired Press.

The artist lives in the mountains of Vermont, in an isolated, rural existence, much as I do. (Though I’d kill to be able to get to Boston or NYC in half a day, instead of Albuquerque.)

I found this set of images to be a bit looser, perhaps not as locked-in as the previous work, but still, it’s a compelling project.

We see her children, in various guises, and lots and lots of animals.

Frankly, it was that connection with the natural world which I couldn’t shake from my brain, after the coyotes walked away.

There are only a few clear, symbolic references to the pandemic, like the fully stocked pantry image, and I dig the subtlety.

Other than Bo Burnham’s genius Netflix special “Inside,” which I’ve shouted out before, I don’t think I’ve seen much art directly ABOUT the pandemic that had enough nuance not to feel “too soon.”

So I appreciate this book is not didactic.

I was fortunate to interview Tara for the PhotoNOLA Virtual Book Fair, about both books, the way she uses art to battle depression, and the movement that popped up in her wake.

You can check it out here, if you’d like.

The images in “Year of the Beast” are displayed in the order in which they were shot, so the narrative plays out in real time.

It’s a tactic many of us consider with our documentary style photo series, but so often we opt for sequencing with intentional rhythm, creating runs of images based upon color, symbolism, texture, or emotion.

As 2022 has just begun, now the third year of this public health crisis, I thought it appropriate to kick off the column with a book that shows us one artist’s vision of 2020.

The Year of the Beast indeed.

To learn more about “Year of the Beast” click here

If you’d like to submit a book for potential review, please email me at jonathanblaustein@gmail.com. We are particularly interested in books by artists of color, and female photographers, so we may maintain a balanced program. And please be advised, we currently have a significant backlog of books for review. 

Here we are.

The end of the year.

And 2021 has been one to remember.

(That’s a fucking understatement!)

Despite the cynicism I’ve developed the last few years, like a well-earned callus, I’m still hoping for the best.

Hoping we sort out the growing climate catastrophe.

Hoping we heal the political wounds tearing our nation asunder.

Hoping I’ll stay healthy enough to be there for my wife and children as they grow.

(It’s a lot to hope for, I know.)

To be honest, I’m totally cooked.

(Who doesn’t feel like burger meat in the week between Xmas and New Year’s?)

Plus, we’re leaving for a family vacation tomorrow; the first in several years.

And I still need to pack.

Beyond that, the book I just spent an hour reading, and perusing, hits close to home in ways I’d rather not excavate today.

But I promised the book’s author/artist I’d get it reviewed this week, and I’m a man of my word.

So it’s possible I’ll be less honest, or at least less open, about my own experience than I might if I were writing in a couple of months.

When my own wounds are more fully healed.

Compromise, though, is a highly undervalued concept, and I’m all for it.

We’ll review the book, then, to honor my commitment, and for once, I might keep some of my family business to myself.

(There’s a first time for everything, right?)

One of my publishing clients told me, a few months ago, that I should check out Gillian Laub’s new Aperture book, “Family Matters.”

With the East-Coast-Jewish-family-culture it mines, and the naked honesty on display, it was suggested I’d love this book.

And I’d likely want to review it.

(Sounds great, right?)

The problem, though, is that, Aperture, the publisher, has never sent me a book, nor seemed to take this column seriously.

All good, as far as I’m concerned, because we can’t be friends with everyone, but I feared I might have trouble getting a copy of “Family Matters.”

Predictably, the Aperture PR person ignored several requests, including when I responded to a press email that THEY sent ME.

(Stay classy, Aperture!)

Normally, I would have let it go, but a few weeks later, I randomly realized I was “friends” with Gillian Laub on Facebook, as I am with some other industry types I don’t actually know.

(I favorably reviewed some of her work in a gallery show in Santa Monica, back in 2013, so maybe we connected after that?)

I’ve never done this before, DM’ing an artist to see if they might send their book directly, after being stymied by the publisher, but I figured, “What do I have to lose?”

Full disclosure: I was flattered when Ms. Laub wrote back quickly, assured me she’d sort things out, and ask Aperture to send me a book straight away.

She made it happen, in a flash, so when she asked me to review the book while her solo show at the ICP Museum in NYC was still on display, I was happy to honor the request.

The exhibition is up through January 10th, and as I’ll be taking my customary Winter week off next Friday, today had to be the day.

(Brain fry be damned!)

It is a terrific book, for sure, and one I’m not likely to criticize.

I admit, at first, when I realized I’d have to read text with each picture, I almost backed out.

I thought about being a punk, for once, and not “doing the right thing,” but I came to my senses.

In fairness, the writing is engaging, and well-edited, so it wasn’t a struggle to make it through the book.

I was riveted, and made to feel uncomfortable by the similarities to my upbringing and family, and also the drastic differences.

That said, I don’t think you have to be a Jewish Gen-X’er to appreciate this one.

It offers what we ask of an excellent photo-book: vulnerability, empathy, wisdom, and character development.

“Family Matters” is written in the first person, and follows more than two decades of growth and change in Gillian Laub’s extended family, up to the present.

From the jump, we learn the family of Ashkenazi Jewish immigrants, (who arrived from Europe when my family did, at the turn of the 20th Century,) became extremely wealthy as real estate developers.

Now that I think about it, there’s solid foreshadowing for where we end up later, but I’ll build to that.

Gillian shares an anecdote of being an ICP student in 1999, chatting with colleagues outside the (then) Upper East Side institution, when some garish older ladies walk by, in full-fur coats, as her companion makes a joke at their expense.

Only for Gillian to realize it’s her family, out on the town, going to see art.

That vein of self-awareness, and airing the dirty laundry, stays with us throughout the book.

And I love it.

Pure coincidence, but I’ve been re-watching “The Sopranos” this week, having only seen it, bit by bit, when it was released in 1999.

I probably binged it on HBO a few episodes at time, whenever I’d come back to Taos to visit my parents, (and my wife’s parents,) as I was never able to afford HBO myself.

I grew up in a town filled with New Jersey, suburban mafiosi families, and have therefore always related to the show.

(Plus, Italian food feeds my soul, rather than Jewish deli. Honestly, I’d take pizza and chicken parm over pastrami and smoked fish every single time.)

This book reminds me of the seminal, David Chase saga, as the sense of legacy, privilege, and family values pervades the narrative.

Just as Tony Soprano’s life was determined by having a thug dad, and his kids never had the chance to be “normal,” Gillian Laub is pretty clear that her personal privilege dominates much of her life, despite her artistic tendencies and liberal politics.

(Though the New Yorkers in the book might blanch at the comparison to Jersey.)

That immigrant, nouveau-riche, American-dream narrative is cultivated throughout, as Gillian Laub’s clan “made it,” moving to the ritzy, Westchester town that seduced the social-climbing Clintons.

Chappaqua.

Beyond money, though, we continually read of close relationships.

Gillian feels truly loved by her parents.

She is seen, emotionally supported, and understood for who she is, from what I gather.

However, it’s just that sense of deep, rich love that leads to the conflict in “Family Matters.”

The big reveal, (spoiler alert,) is that Gillian’s parents, and some of her extended family, come out as serious Trumpers in 2016, and it nearly breaks their bonds forever.

That they are so connected makes the political betrayal deeper on both sides, as neither can relate to the other anymore.

Enmity replaces joy.

Anger trumps positivity.

All seems lost.

Still, proper rupture never happens, and I applaud the artist’s introspection, admitting while she maintained her progressive political leanings, she still accepted her parents’ money to pay for private school for her children.

(As one who’s spent 10 years sharing my personal life with you, my readers, I found the honesty refreshing.)

Of course, I should have mentioned the pictures by now, and they’re great.

Lots of humor, (sometimes at the subjects’ expense,) but also respect, solid compositions, and razor-sharp exposures.

When I saw the photo of the wedding planner, Harriette Rose Katz, I was teleported to that gallery in Santa Monica, 2013, back when Bergamot Station was still going strong, and I was reminded why I liked this work so much the first time I saw it.

In the end, Gillian’s family reconciles, after Joe Biden is inaugurated, but as I said before, it’s not like they ever formally broke.

They still showed up for the family functions.

Celebrated the birthdays.

Offered up the backyard for a Mary J Blige photo shoot.

(OK, probably none of us can relate to that last one, but I did wait on her and her then-husband, at Bobby Flay’s restaurant in 2003, and the way MJB’s man made us stay open late, and ordered off the menu, I knew he was a prick. If she had only asked me, I could have saved her a lot of heart-ache.)

This book is one for the collection, and if you live in the Tri-State area, I’d suggest you go see the show at ICP, Downtown, before it closes.

Their museum and school have moved many times, since Gillian was a student on the Upper East Side. (I saw my first-ever photo show there, and then engaged in naughty behavior with my wife in a new, mid-town location several years later.)

Like the photo world in general, ICP changes with the times.

But they stick around, because photography is as relevant now as it’s ever been.

To wrap this up, (so I can go back to packing for my trip,) thank you all for reading, and supporting this column in 2021.

May you and your loved ones have a safe, healthy, and invigorating 2022.

See you in two weeks!

To purchase “Family Matters” click here

If you’d like to submit a book for potential review, please email me at jonathanblaustein@gmail.com. We are particularly interested in books by artists of color, and female photographers, so we may maintain a balanced program. And please be advised, we currently have a significant backlog of books for review. 

Big day today.

It’s the anniversary of the first time I met my wife.

December 23rd, 1997.

(I’m writing on Thursday, as usual.)

Without exaggeration, that was the most important day of my life.

We were young, only 23, and have been together ever since.

(More than half our lives.)

We met as kids, really, and have grown up together all these years.

Through the easy times, the hardships, and the magic of raising a family, Jessie and I forged a steel bond, and I’m lucky to have a soulmate who’s helped me become a better, stronger person.

Yesterday was a big day as well.

Our daughter packed up her desk, leaving her current elementary school for good.

(She’s switching from the Charter school to the public one in our part of town after break.)

Amelie had an awful experience with Zoom school the prior two years in 2nd and 3rd grade. The same teacher, who mailed it in, simultaneously undermined her confidence at every turn.

When a teacher repeatedly implies a child is dumb, (because of undiagnosed dyslexia,) it eats away at her self-esteem, day by day.

I’m glad Amelie is moving to a healthier environment, (she’s amazing,) but it wasn’t just the education.

She’d known most of her classmates since pre-school; navigating the same social environment since before she could speak. These girls knew how to push each others’ buttons; they knew all the weak spots.

(Is that a mixed metaphor?)

Sometimes, we need a fresh group of friends, because the bonds we make when we’re young aren’t really based on who we are.

Or at least, they’re not based on who we’ll become.

Every now and again, you do run across people who are still besties with their childhood mates.

Some of my female friends from school remain a tight-knit group, supporting each other through all of life’s twists and turns. (Shout out to Chrissy, Michelle, Brooke, Mandi and Caroline!)

Occasionally, our teen-aged, angst-ridden, poetry-writing phase lines up with our friends’ trajectories, and we walk life’s path together.

It does happen.

If you think my musings were random today, you’re wrong.

Sometimes, the rant takes off on at a frozen airstrip in Antarctica, and lands in the sunny, moist jungle outside Cancun.

But not today.

I just finished looking at “Between Girls,” by Karen Marshall, published this year by Kehrer Verlag in Germany, and as you’ll soon see, my intro was on-point.

The book is very well-produced, to give it props, as it interweaves black and white documentary imagery from NYC in the 80’s, with diaristic text, video stills, contemporary imagery, and QR codes, while also switching paper stock several times, when the text rolls around.

Cool cover too.

Design-wise, I’d give this book an A+.

As to the narrative, I found it flawed, or at least, more about style than substance.

The story, at first, follows some NYC hipster high school kids, and they bop around the Upper West and East sides.

They describe hanging out downtown.

They talk about boys.

We read bad poetry, (no offense,) but then again, if I ever shared my High School poems with you, you’d laugh longer than the Covid testing lines in NYC, late December 2021.

(Too soon?)

The documentary photos are good, for sure, and after a few images, we can tell Molly from Leslie, but I’m still not sure if there was one Jen, or two?

This is the part of a book where traditionally I’d like to feel a connection develop with the protagonists, as I build empathy and connection as a viewer, but that didn’t really happen.

Soon, (spoiler alert,) we learn that Molly has died, but we don’t find how how or why until the end. (Car crash on vacation in Cape Cod at 17.)

Given the age, and emotional fragility of that life phase, I’d assumed she committed suicide.

Later, cool-looking text blocks tell us several of the women have backyard chickens.

The girls have grown up to become mothers.

They go to work.

They live their lives.

I can’t fault the visual structure, nor the quality of the photographs.

They’re good.

But I found myself wanting to care more.

I wanted to be moved.

To have my soul touched.

(In the words of “Succession’s” Cousin Greg, “Boo Souls!”)

To me, a book like this screams out for vulnerable, honest, first-person text from the jump.

(Instead, the opening prose was intentionally inscrutable.)

I want to hear from the artist, right away, to tell me what I’ll be looking at.

If I know Molly soon dies, as I’m perusing those first few pictures, it’s so much more poignant.

And then I want my heartstrings pulled by the surviving friends, to push it even further.

Hell, I might have cried.

(It’s happened before, in books about loss.)

But it’s still a job well done for the artist and the production team.

I’m just a tough critic.

See you next week!

To purchase “Between Girls” click here 

If you’d like to submit a book for potential review, please email me at jonathanblaustein@gmail.com. We are particularly interested in books by artists of color, and female photographers, so we may maintain a balanced program. And please be advised, we currently have a significant backlog of books for review.