Rodeo at the Nevada State Fair in Reno. Shot in the mid-1980s while the author was on assignment for Wrangler.

I was on assignment for Wrangler shooting a rodeo. The cowboys invited me into the chutes where they were getting ready to ride. It was a first-person view of man and horse, a lifestyle opposite of my New Jersey upbringing.

The chutes were the epicenter of the event, where contestants taped their hands, adjusted their jeans, and readied themselves for the prize ride. “Hey, watch out!” shouted a cowboy as a horse reared ten feet above my head, another cowboy jumping up on the rails to bring the animal back into the stall.

In the chutes at the Nevada State Fair rodeo. Shot with a Nikon on Kodak Tri-X film.

I was photographing into the arena when the arena photographer’s flash fired at the exact same split second as my 1/250th shutter. That impossible collaboration of light added an eerie, otherworldly light to the scene. I couldn’t have planned it better.

“You been to the rodeo?” I slurred to the two absolutely stoned guys guys holding up the other wall of the hotel elevator, me leaning against the wood-grained panels, proudly looking down at my dusty cowboy boots. I figured a few rounds at the bar and a few pulls on the slot machine were well deserved after surviving the rodeo. “Yep, been to the rodeo,” one of them said. Turned out they were the rodeo — the clowns, the guys in the barrels, waving the red bandanas, drawing the bulls away from fallen cowboys. I thought to myself: you guys have absolutely earned that.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of remembrances, starting with 50 years of negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey. Subscribe now - its free.

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Glasses clinking, wine flowing, small talk and each of us telling the tales of the day, kept our long table of camera crew, pilots, producers, and assistants animated well into the night. Sir David Attenborough sat at the head of the table and me next to him. Perhaps the producer thought the white-haired guys should be clumped together.

The author and Sir David Attenborough during the filming of First Animals in the Canadian Rocky Mountains.

I was in the Galapagos Islands, the equatorial volcanic archipelago off the coast of Ecuador, home to the unique wildlife, inspiration for Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution. A land that outdoes its own tourist brochures, where volcanoes continue to erupt, emerald green forests merge into turquoise blue water, and where Lonesome George, the last known survivor of the Pinta Island Galapagos tortoise, lived on Santa Cruz Island.

Amidst all the laughter, there was a sudden silence as the director announced that “George died today. Lonesome George is gone.” The camera guy said “I can’t believe that, we were just filming him yesterday, I wonder what happened?”

My role was filming aerials for Galapagos 3D, a film produced by Atlantic Productions for Sky 3D with Sir David Attenborough as the narrator.

The camera crew, and Sir David, shared the story of filming with Lonesome George. With the crew a safe distance away, Sir David and “George” sat together with Sir David narrating in detail the life of the last tortoise of the subspecies Chelonoidis abingdonii. Lonesome George was the global icon for conservation.

We listened intently, even the waiter, as Sir David spoke in his iconic British accent, talked about his own passion for conservation, words that deserved recording, but belonged only to the table. The glasses were no longer clinking, and I could see our otherwise durable crew about to tear up. Then, at the end, Sir David said “They’ve already done an autopsy on Lonesome George, found two audio batteries inside his stomach.” The camera crew, audio team, director, all of us looked at each other, time stopped. Then Sir David burst out laughing, he had just pranked all of us!

Sir David Attenborough is well on track to outlive Lonesome George, he turns 100 years old this week, on Friday, May 8th.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of remembrances, starting with 50 years of negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey. Subscribe now - its free.

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I whizzed through the fields at 30 miles per hour, the smell of freshly cut grass heavy in the evening air, riding my motorcycle up the hill to the garage. A well-worn path that I had traveled many times before, usually late for dinner. I downshifted earlier than usual, wanting to feel the last ounce of horsepower before parking the bike forever. I leaned the bike against the woodpile. This was 1973, I was 16 years old when I sold my motorcycle, a Kawasaki 90cc that I had rigged for “off-road” use with knobby tires and a flexible plastic front wheel fender, for the cash to buy a Nikon Nikkormat 35mm camera with a Nikkor 50mm lens. That weekend, my Dad would drive me to the camera store. I wondered what could be better than the fresh air blowing through my hair, jumping over streams, and splashing through puddles.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of remembrances, starting with 50 years of negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey. Subscribe now - its free.

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“Here’s my husband,” she said, slamming a small green box on the bar. The pilot and I looked at the box amidst the beers and empty shot glasses. “You guys are helicopter pilots, right?” I lifted the box carefully with two fingers and used my napkin to clean off the bar, and placed it back down. “Well, Bill loved the BAJA races and I just know that he would want his ashes scattered over the race course,” she said, knocking back the rest of her Modelo. “Can you do that for me?” And then she was gone.

I tucked Bill in my front jeans pocket as our crew walked down the block to our favorite open grill restaurant in Ensenada. We were famished, the sun would be up early, and we needed to be on our marks for the start of the race. As we sat around the U-shaped cantina, smoke and steam coming off the grill, more ice-cold beers were handed around. Bill was there with us, at the bar, enjoying the best damn tacos in town.

The race started at dawn.

The green plastic box at my feet kept sliding around the dimpled black flooring material. One time, on a particularly hard left bank, I had to use my foot to keep Bill from falling into the chin bubble. Our client, Red Bull, had contracted my company and Corporate Helicopters out of San Diego to film the BAJA 1000, a grueling off-road race through the deserts of Baja, Mexico. The last thing on my list was carrying a dead person’s ashes.

Baja tested man and machine, breaking axles and spirits at every turn, not to be outdone by the local fans who dug pits and threw obstacles in the path of the trophy trucks. Staying alive was the challenge, let alone finding a place to scatter Bill’s ashes. The trucks, 1000 horsepower beasts, could outrun a turbine-powered helicopter on the straightaways. I could hear their engines even through my noise-cancelling aviation headset.

The action-packed day was a circus of adrenaline fused by jet fuel, dust, and the cacophony of powerful engines wailing through the cactus-filled landscape. Finding a place for Bill in this mayhem just didn’t seem right. Didn’t he need a more peaceful place to rest in eternity? The pilot and I just couldn’t bury Bill that day. We made up excuses like “Well, I’m sure Bill would have wanted to see the whole race,” knowing that we just couldn’t toss him out of the helicopter. We landed, tucking the green box back in my pocket, and he sat with us for another round of beers while we shared the bravado of the day.

I headed to bed early that evening, leaving Bill on the table, knowing that he would have stayed until the very end.

- - -

Thank you to Garner Shepard, Mandy Patterson, Ivor and Deann Shier, Osama Shenouda, and so many more from the Corporate Helicopters team. Good times!

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of remembrances, starting with 50 years of negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey. Subscribe now - its free.

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President Bill Clinton hosting one-on-one questions after a Town Hall in Charlotte, North Carolina on April 5, 1994.

President Clinton was in Charlotte for a Town Hall on April 5, 1994. NBC News had contracted me to photograph the event for their internal use. Separate from the media coverage. Two weeks earlier, I had sent in my identification awaiting security clearance. Upon arriving, the security desk handed me a small blue lapel pin, a medium blue tone, about a half inch in diameter. For a moment, I held it like an award, before slipping the pin through my jacket.

The media photographers were arranged in a gallery area. Essentially all with the same angle of the event. My NBC contact, one of the producers, in tow with a Secret Service agent, came up to me and whispered in my ear “Ron, you can go wherever you want, you have clearance” as the Secret Service guy nodded. I started wandering around, documenting the set-up and the NBC crew.

President Clinton talking at a Town Hall in Charlotte, North Carolina on April 5, 1994.

About forty-five minutes into the Town Hall, I looked over at the photographer gallery. Empty. I felt alone and my stomach knotted thinking I had done something wrong. Did they have deadlines? I thought to myself. Did I need to leave? I found my producer and asked “Do I need to stop shooting or leave?” Quickly, in the same hushed tone, she said “No, you’re with us. Stay until the end.”

With the Secret Service watching carefully, President Clinton engages the audience one-on-on at a Town Hall in Charlotte, North Carolina on April 5, 1994.

Within a half hour, the official Town Hall ended and President Clinton started to walk out, down past the bleachers still filled with the audience. People started asking more questions, one-on-one. While the President was less than one hundred feet from the door, he stopped to answer every question, never rushed, moving that one hundred feet took another hour. He looked people in the eye, listening to their concerns. He could have left and already been on Air Force One, but he was here with his constituents, listening to every word.

President Clinton leaving a Town Hall in Charlotte, North Carolina.

My last glimpse of the President was stepping into the limousine, still talking to people. The April evening smelled fresh, and just a little different.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of remembrances, starting with 50 years of negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey. Subscribe now - its free.

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Bob was forever locked in my mind as Gilligan, the goofy guy from my childhood, and here he was, sitting in a rowboat, marooned, not on a distant television island, but on a white seamless background in my Charlotte studio. The powerful strobe lights pulled every last kilowatt through the conduit — that familiar zing — and I held my breath against the circuit breakers, long enough to fill with dread. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. A man, once and still an unplanned comedic hero of America, trapped in his boat by the people like me. The client returned, back to business.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of remembrances, starting with 50 years of negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey. Subscribe now - its free.

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I felt the distance, at first the geographical, trying to understand why he was born in Canada and I was born in the United States, questions that were never answered, then the psychological — the push to become your own creature, the pull that never wanted you to leave. After a while the answers no longer mattered.

My Dad tested me to understand his humor, an invisible test of intelligence. But I could barely laugh because that would ruin the joke. I would smile and nod, signalling my comprehension and secretly begging for more. That was the basis of our relationship. Silent lessons, guidance from afar, and that goddamn dry humor.

Once, he told me “the loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind” and anyone I’ve ever photographed will tell you I have a boisterous infectious laugh, the kind of laugh you would expect from a stuffed animal when you push the belly button, my super-power to make models and CEOs smile for the camera. Years later, perplexed, long after he died, I wondered if my Dad was just trying to tell me that I was stupid?

The image below continues to intrigue me, the last photograph I took of my father. We were in the pool together and I had brought a large sheet of flexible mylar, maybe three feet in width and six feet long. We were just laughing about nothing and I asked if I could wrap him inside the mylar fully expecting a firm “No” but he acquiesced immediately, in a way that went beyond “Yes” in the most meaningful way. Yet I could not place any sentiment one way or another, the “Yes” in my mind now was a passing of the torch whatever that torch may be.

I love the way his body and head are warped by the mylar, like a funhouse mirror but so much more. I see his mind, his soul now, becoming part of a much larger consciousness, a man who guided me for twenty-five years would transform in just a few months into an otherworldly consciousness that would envelop me to this day.

Yes, I’m crying as I write this, I’ve thought about this image for the last 44 years yet I haven’t put pen to paper until now.

I just miss the f@Ck out of him.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of remembrances, starting with 50 years of negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey. Subscribe now - its free.

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Two photographs. The one on the left shot with full sun light, and the other, with a handheld flash.

I got bolder with my lighting, paying close attention to where the nose shadow fell — was it across the lips, did it blend into the hair, was there a shadow at all? Light started feeling like a brush I could paint with, the texture and weight becoming silver halide pixels on a negative.

That simple suggestion changed my images forever.

Here’s the thing about the nose — it’s the only truly three-dimensional landmark on a face. The eyes are set back, the lips lie flat, but the nose projects. It reaches into the light, and what it does with that light tells you everything about how the image will feel. A shadow falling straight down says the light is high and clean. Move it to the side and suddenly you’ve got bone structure, dimension, a face that has actual weight to it.

Once you start seeing nose shadows, you can’t unsee them. And you find their absence in flat, lifeless headshots everywhere — faces reduced to a kind of luminous nothing.

Light is not illumination. Light is sculpture. And the nose shadow is where that lesson begins.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of remembrances, starting with 50 years of negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey. Subscribe now - its free.

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Leo was on break from filming “The Revenant” in a long untrimmed beard, in the Arctic for filming on both his film “Before the Flood” as well as the National Geographic film “The Last Ice”.  

The author and Theo Ikummaq during a break in aerial filming on “The Last Ice” an Emmy-award winning film from National Geographic.

I lived in an un-heated tent for a month while filming the aerials. Every day, I would see Arctic wildlife, from narwhals to polar bears and seals. The entire crew, whether pilots, grips, camera operators or movie stars, all shared the same bathroom tent with its singular white toilet, just a thin translucent white fabric separating the occupant from the harsh cold of the barren Arctic landscape.

Icebergs, filmed by the author, floating just north of Baffin Island from “The Last Ice” an Emmy-award winning film from National Geographic.

“Click, crunch, click, click” the stones made a distinctive sound as I walked across the rocks tumbled smooth by a million years of glacial activity. While we were surrounded by ice and snow, the tent village was set on a field of rocks. I made my way to the bathroom tent, trying my best to minimize the sound of my footsteps in the early morning. I hoped that I would not need to wait, not only was the morning extraordinarily cold but I had waited as long as I could in the relative warmth of my sleeping bag.

Aerial scene of narwhals filmed by Ron Chapple using a Cineflex 5-axis gyrostavilized camera during production of “The Last Ice” an Emmy-award winning film from National Geographic.

“F@k!, that’s cold” I gasped as my bare skin contacted the toilet seat. The seat was so cold. The kind of cold that jolts through your body like a bolt of lightning and makes you wonder if there was the least bit of moisture between you and the seat, that you might be forever stuck until the spring thaws. The problem was, this was summer — as warm as it was going to get. The sun was already in the sky twenty-four hours a day.

As I was wrapping up my morning business, I could hear the “click, crunch” sound in the distance announcing the presence of another person. The sound became louder, and I knew these footsteps were on a mission, a mission to the same location that I now occupied. Soon, the sound stopped. I quickly surmised that there must be someone standing not far from the bathroom tent, anxiously waiting their turn.

The bathroom tent, shared by the National Geographic crew, on the production of the “The Last Ice” in the Arctic Circle.

I finished up as quickly as I could, not wanting to keep the next person waiting. As I pushed back the tent flap, there was a man in a grizzled beard, just six feet away, not looking too happy. As our eyes locked, all I could think to say to Mr. DiCaprio, was “All warmed up for you, sir”.

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Working in extreme environments requires extensive planning. Helicopter flight routes need to be filed in advance, and logistics arranged for hotels and fuel. Helicopters consume Jet A fuel at the rate of 170 liters per hour.  In Mexico, Jet A fuel is highly regulated as access to aviation fuel can be used for nefarious purposes. Everything in Mexico is a logistical statistic.

Airbus AS350B2 (Astar) rigged with the Cineflex 5-axis gyrostabilized system and RED 6K camera with a Canon 30-300mm cinema lens.

San Diego is the start of our filming adventure where I rig the camera system to an Airbus AS350B2, otherwise known as an “Astar” in the helicopter world. Local helicopters are not available in Baja, so we made a strategic decision to bring in a helicopter from the USA. Rigging the helicopter goes quickly with the 5-axis gyrostabilized system and 6K cinema camera now mounted to the nose of the helicopter. All of our personal gear, terabytes of hard drives, and spares are loaded into the baggage compartments. We clear US Customs & Border Patrol at Brown Airfield, just across the border from Tijuana, Mexico. As we lift out of the airport, I immediately see the massive steel border fence stretching for miles in either direction, and the huge Mexico flag dominating the Tijuana city landscape. From the air, the border fence is nothing more than a thin line with civilization pushed up to each side. Flying high over Tijuana, the first impression of Mexico is not the best, however, the urban sprawl gives way quickly to a barren landscape as we fly towards Ensenada to clear Mexico Customs.

Entrance to “El Sacrificio” where we parked the helicopter on the first night.

Panorama of “El Sacrificio” and our helicopter landing zone. Credit to film pilot Garner Shepard with Corporate Helicopters for the excellent skills.

Our first night will be at a camp along the Gulf of California. We have arranged for a fuel truck with Jet A to meet us at dusk. The camp is auspiciously named “El Sacrificio” (The Sacrifice) which really has me wondering where we are going!

On the flight, I review pages of notes, maps, and wish lists from the BBC program director. She challenged me to come back with unprecedented Baja footage. I remember one of her notes in particular… “Oh, and if you can find a ‘bait-ball’ that would be amazing!” A bait-ball is a marine life phenomenon whereby smaller fish school and jump out of the water to avoid the dolphins below looking for a quick snack. Finding a bait-ball is simply luck and can burn up hours of helicopter time. The pilot and I decide to make a quick pass before sunset over a nearby island. Just as we approach, he pulls a hard right bank, and points us toward the sea. “Look, right there, what’s that!” he exclaims. There’s our bait-ball… the most difficult shot checked off the list!  Much relieved, I am now fine with landing at El Sacrificio.

A baitball in the Gulf of California. A bait-ball is a marine life phenomenon whereby smaller fish school and jump out of the water to avoid the dolphins below looking for a quick snack.

Sleep is restless at best. We are up early.  I have already decided against a morning shower as the water at the El Sacrificio cottages smells far worse than our own sweat. Early mornings and late afternoons are the normal routine for filming. In Mexico, flight rules restrict flying before sunrise and mandate that we must be on the ground by sunset. The pilot and I board the helicopter, start up the jet turbine and camera. All systems go. The helicopter is at 100% power, blades spinning at full RPM, just waiting for the clock to tick past the official sunrise time so that we can lift off.

Daybreak on the east coast of Baja Mexico, in the Gulf of California. Still-frame from the 6K RED camera and Canon 30-300mm cinema lens.

I feel a peacefulness, despite the roar of the jet engine a few feet from my head, looking for the play of light as beautiful golden rays of sunrise illuminate the landscape. Our first scenes of the day will be along the Gulf of California towards the Bahia de Los Angeles (Bay of Los Angeles). The headwinds are unusually strong as we traverse the rugged western edge of the Gulf. Even though I have traveled extensively throughout North and South America, this is a fresh vista, and I am recording almost continuously. The sun glistens off the water, highlighting the jagged geology of the coastal mountains. Each island of the archipelago in the Bahia de Los Angeles has a unique personality surrounded by every color of the blue spectrum. The winds are stronger now so we head towards the airport at Guerrero Negro where, hopefully, the fuel truck will be waiting on us.

An island in the in the Gulf of California, Baja Mexico.

As we land, I see the soldiers of the Mexico Army stationed at Guerrero Negro pour out of the barracks and hasten towards our helicopter. There must be a dozen, each with automatic weapons slung over their shoulder. Security is tight as any commercial aircraft taking on Jet A fuel is immediately suspect. The soldiers check the aircraft, inspect the pilot’s documents, review the fuel truck permits, and watch carefully as I change out recording media in the camera system. The winds are hot, dusty and dry. The pilot and I each gulp down a bottle of water, wolfing down one of those power bars disguised as flavored cardboard, and quickly lift off the hot tarmac. Socializing is not on the agenda this morning.

Boojum trees on the Baja Penninsula, Mexico.

Wild horses on the Baja Penninsula, Mexico.

Our next destination is a canyon area in the center of the Baja peninsula. Along the way, we find a forest of Boojum trees (Fouquieria columnaris for the botanists among us) that only could have been previously envisioned in a Dr. Seuss book. The afternoon sun highlights the bright yellow blossoms on the evenly spaced trees as we drift across the tops of these strange yet magnificent plants.

Canyon in Baja Penninsula, Mexico

Undiscovered oasis in Baja Penninsula, Mexico

Finding amazing locations is a passion and my job, and the canyons are beyond stunning. Palm trees punctuate the sharp red cliffs with oasis-like pools of blue water in the valleys. The sky is perfectly blue and the palm tree foliage has a tinge of blue as well. I feel as if  we have just discovered a new Shangri-La in the heart of Baja, Mexico. I need to remind myself that we are likely 100 miles away from the nearest human… should anything happen to the helicopter, our newly discovered paradise would quickly become a geographically isolated prison.

Patterns of the Colorado River at the north end of the Gulf of California, Mexico.

All is well though, and the strong jet turbine engine moves us quickly towards San Felipe. We now have a tailwind pushing us along. This is the winter, and we need to be on the ground one minute before sunset. The pilot tells me about his favorite local restaurant as my stomach reminds me that I have only had a single power bar for sustenance.

Photos and story from a BBC project on “Southwest Deserts” in 2016. Credit to film pilot Garner Shepard with Corporate Helicopters for the excellent skills.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of remembrances, starting with 50 years of negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey.

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I was in a warehouse in North Carolina during the 1978 trucker’s strike and many of the dock workers were not showing up in sympathy for the drivers. The company pulled them out of their offices to load the tractor-trailers. The few drivers at the dock worked for “independents” and we didn’t have much choice but to show up for work. Besides, $15 an hour was good pay for a college kid and I needed the money to support my growing photography habit.

Photo from my 1978 road trip to Arizona. The tractor trailer is similar to the Autocar mentioned in the remembrance.

Driving, I felt the freedom of the open road versus the confines of the college library. The tractor was a 1968 Autocar, a diesel-fueled 12-speed beast of a vehicle, faded from the North Carolina sun and stained by the red clay of the back roads I needed to drive to avoid the protesters on the interstate overpasses. I kept my secret, I just couldn’t say to the other drivers, that this evening I would be working on writing my photography thesis.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of short remembrances, inspired by 50 years of black & white negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey.

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Carrying a camera in an urban downtown area ignites both suspicion and intrigue. We may ask ourselves “Is that a journalist? Is something about to happen?” or more sinister thoughts “What is the photographer looking for? Do I need to disappear into the closest alleyway?”

As I tried so many different techniques, mimicking the masters in hopes of finding my own style, I ventured into street photography early on. My heart pounding, my visual senses on full alert, becoming the predator, looking for a shot, trying to make my six foot two inch frame invisible while walking through crowds in downtown Charlotte, or New York, or San Francisco.

Photograph shot in 1975 in downtown Charlotte, North Carolina.

In searching through my archives, I found these images, taken in 1975 - the first several months ago just of the couple. I wondered about the back story. Did I surreptitiously photograph them sitting on a park bench? The contact sheet only had two frames, which usually indicates the photographic moment was exactly that. A moment. The second image I found yesterday - of me, talking with the subjects. Making a human connection. I must say I felt relieved when I found this photo.

The author talking with the subjects. Shot on a Nikon using Kodak Tri-X film.

I have always been conflicted about street photography, uncomfortable taking someone’s photograph without their knowledge. In the commercial world, model releases were always agreed upon and signed. But snapping an image without permission felt different even though the image may only be for artistic or editorial use.

Throughout photographic history, there are many great street photographers, work that I admire. Henri Cartier-Bresson pioneered the “decisive moment” in the early 1930s. I studied his work, trying to learn why he clicked the shutter at that exact moment. Trying to put myself inside his mind, trying to imitate his instincts.

I learned from those early days that street photography was not my strength. The nervousness and the pounding heartbeat were addictive but I needed to find another way to channel that energy. I needed to find a way to work with a subject within a world where the energy would flow both ways.

Let’s start a dialogue: What are your thoughts about street photography?

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of short remembrances, inspired by 50 years of black & white negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey.

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As a high school Junior, I was obsessed with my newfound love of photography but not yet knowing how to process film or make prints. Mr. Miller said to call him George, but that didn’t seem right to a sixteen-year-old. We caught up quickly during those 15 minutes, discovering our mutual love for photography. He offered to teach me how to process film and how to make prints in his home darkroom.

Elated, I called him the next day. He was quite accommodating and we set a time to meet, which would need to be after his work day ended, late afternoon. The only issue was that he lived a half-hour away, a route that I would need to plot on a map through winding back roads foreign to me. I had just gotten my driver’s license a few months ago and my parents were happy to let me drive the family wood-paneled Toyota Corona. After years of driving me everywhere, I could drive myself! I found the New Jersey road atlas, dog-eared from years of use. I meticulously wrote down the directions.

I remember my first visit, walking into the darkroom, smelling the pungent chemical odors, the enlarger and equipment bathed in the glow of the red safelight. George taught me how to process film and make black & white prints. Processing film felt like science class, pouring out precise amounts of chemicals, watching the water temperature carefully, gently squeezing the edges of the film to roll onto the stainless steel reels in the pitch black darkness. “Squeeze too hard, Ron,” he admonished, “and you will crimp the edges.” But making prints - that was where the magic happened. I watched George, his 6 foot 2 inch frame almost dancing in the red glow, moving his hands like an orchestra conductor, dodging and burning the light to lighten or darken areas of the print.

The darkroom at Davidson College, just a few years after I learning to develop and print in high school, in Flemington New Jersey. Photo circa 1977.

Later on, he would share his advanced techniques, handcutting pieces of cardboard to dodge and burn, bringing the vision to life, and finally using a pencil with special inks to retouch negatives and “spot” prints.

The printing process requires the photographic paper to be immersed first in a “developer” to bring the image to life, then a “fixer” to arrest the development, and then a tray of water to wash the print. Washing took up to 30 minutes and with the hour already late at George’s house, I would transfer the prints to a deep Tupperware container, placing the container on the floorboard of the Toyota Corona, making good use of the curvy roads to gently wash my latest creations. At home, my Mom and Dad and brother and sister were long asleep as I snuck in the back door, Tupperware in hand. Stepping over Terri, the golden retriever, careful not to wake her, I would hang the prints across the laundry room to dry overnight.

My Dad, cutting up wood for kindling, sometime in the early 1970s. I was just getting started in photography, photographing the things close to me.

In the coming months, my Dad—proud to use his carpenter skills—helped me build a darkroom underneath the basement steps. For a man of few words, his effort was a vote of confidence.

Even today, working in Photoshop, Mr. Miller’s influence—my computer mouse moving like those hands in the red glow, still burning and dodging to bring the vision to life.

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This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of short remembrances, inspired by 50 years of black & white negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey.

Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. Summer 1978.

As a young photographer, I learned by imitation. I loved the work of Ansel Adams for his epic landscapes and mastery of his black & white prints.

Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. Summer 1978.

Photographer Edward Weston inspired me through his range of styles, so much that I wrote a term paper entitled “Edward Weston: From Eros to Thanatos” using a couple of Greek words to impress my college professors. Weston could make a contorted green pepper from the garden look like an elegant nude in his younger years and later in life, he would photograph the California Big Sur coast as if death had a name. I wondered how Weston felt when he was shooting - could I channel the same energy? I wanted to learn how Weston lived, what drove his creativity. Did he worry as much about the right f/stop and camera settings as I did? Today, one of his prints, a nude study of a woman rolling down a sand dune, hangs in the hallway of my home.

Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. Summer 1978.

And then there was Ralph Gibson. His images took me to a new place where dreams and images intertwine into an ethereal world of conceptual hallucination. Ralph inspired my drive to make people feel something they couldn’t name, like the performance of an orchestral masterpiece where the music happens between the notes.

Some days, my imitation of the masters would work, as I would envision a gallery full of my images. Other days, I just got my feet wet in a puddle, a novice ballerina carrying pricey camera gear.

Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. Summer 1978.

Images in this story are from my days inspired by Ansel Adams.

Technical: Shot with a Mamiya RB67 camera and wide angle lens, on Kodak Tri-X black & white 120mm film.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of short remembrances, inspired by 50 years of black & white negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey.

I’ve been at this for hours, looking through the images from a shoot, forty-six years ago with Jackie Kee, a model from the Troyanne Ross Institute of Modeling. The shoot was simple enough, a white seamless background, sidelight from a Speedotron strobe pumping 400 watts through a white umbrella.

I can feel my stomach tightening, yet an excitement as I’m seeing the shoot with fresh eyes. Editing is when my emotions take hold. I feel alive, on edge, taking deep measured breaths as if I’m holding the camera again, my elbow jammed into my ribs, holding the lens steady.

Then I see the image, frame 13. I zoom in - yes, in focus. I see a few dust specks that I can repair in Photoshop, no problem.

Sometimes we can only see in others what we’re ready to see in ourselves.

I’m scared, nervous, as I click the “Post” button. Not because I might be wrong about the image—but because I know I’ll look back in another year and wonder what else I’m missing right now. After forty-six years years, I’m still discovering images I was too blind to see the first time.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of short remembrances, inspired by 50 years of black & white negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey.

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Patricia Cornwell and Vance Polley pose for the Davidson College senior picture in 1978.

I photographed Patsy Daniels before she married her college English professor and became Patricia Cornwell. Her latest book, “Sharp Force” just hit the shelves last fall. She painstakingly researches every detail—learning to fly helicopters, obtaining her pilot’s license. Even in that garage, I could see that intensity in how she studied the camera.

Almost all Davidson College seniors have a custom photo taken for their portrait in the Quips & Cranks yearbook. Some are simple and scholarly, students surrounded by massive stacks of books, an alignment of knowledge by association, others are downright strange, and others irreverent, bordering on political incorrectness. The creativity was endless, and I loved being part of it.

Photo of the original contact sheet from almost 50 years ago. I shot this with a Nikkormat and Kodak Tri-X black & white film.

Patsy and her good friend Vance Polley reached out to ask if I would take their senior portrait. “We’re thinking of Easy Rider,” Vance said when they found me in the library one afternoon, both of them excited. “Can you make it work?” They would be wearing leather jackets, sitting on Vance’s motorcycle. I agreed to bring lights and a background, and set up a temporary studio in a messy dungeon of a garage. Quickly unloading my gear, I set up the lighting, the garage dim and dusty with the smell of leftover paint and oil, soon to be punctuated by the smell of leather jackets. We laughed, creating fun poses, impressing ourselves by our own creativity, our youthful innocence on full display. At one point, Patsy slid on to the bike, sitting behind Vance, both exuding unexpected confidence, their leather jackets shining in the soft light. As Patsy connected with the camera, I thought to myself “More rebel, less English major.”

Patricial Cornwell from a 1978 photo shoot at Davidson College.

The photographs accompanying this post are from the shoot, including the selfie of myself and Patsy. Patricia has shared the yearbook image publicly over the years. Who would have thought that “selfies” - a word that didn’t exist yet - would someday create Instagram fortunes?

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Davidson College, nestled in the small village of Davidson, North Carolina, about twenty miles north of Charlotte, was a world of its own. Summer was especially interesting, and yet another world apart from the standard September to May college life. The motorcycle shoot that spring was how Patsy and I met, but we became friends during that summer. That summer was when the “rebel” personality of many Davidson students was truly on display. The “summer people” formed a quirky tribe, me included. Patsy was part of that misfit group, a motley mix of humans - intellectual, witty, and restless like the rest of us, performing our day projects, putting books away in the library, or working odd jobs. None of us over twenty-one, all of us trying on adult lives like those leather jackets that Vance and Patsy wore in their photograph—seeing what fit, what felt real. In the evenings, we would coalesce at The Peregrine House, the local bar on Main Street, drinking cold, cheap beer and even cheaper wine, solving the world’s problems every night of the week, sometimes more than once, until the bar finally closed.

By September, everyone scattered. We were ready for the real world, future lawyers, doctors, politicians, professors, one world-famous crime novelist, and at least one photographer.

Here’s a “selfie” - a word that didn’t exist yet - of the author and Patricia Cornwell.

I look at those contact sheets now and see what I couldn’t then. That fierce curiosity in Patricia’s eyes. The way she inhabited the pose, studying how the camera saw her, understanding instinctively what the lens wanted. She was already gathering evidence, learning to look, understanding the power of observation.

The glassine just says “Patsy, Vance, Motorcycle.” But inside is the moment before everything changed, when we were just students testing boundaries, imagining futures we couldn’t yet see.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of short remembrances, inspired by 50 years of black & white negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey.

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My professors at Davidson College's Center for Special Studies thought I was doing a photography externship at the University of Arizona... when I was really learning business in the dressing room of a seedy strip club. Tucson, Arizona. Fall 1978.

Always the shy kid, I just turned 21 a few months earlier. New in Tucson, I used to drive around in my Jeep Cherokee looking for interesting places to shoot. The exit off the I-10 on the way to my one-room apartment took me past a strip club. That was it! I came up with my photo challenge. My challenge: shoot documentary photos of the dancers in their dressing room. Just the thought was both daunting, and exhilarating.

I shot these images while working on a student documentary project at the University of Arizona’s Center for Creative Photography program. Tucson, Arizona. Fall 1978.

“Hi, I want to take pictures of your dancers”

I made a quick portfolio to show the front door guy. I clearly remember pulling up in the late afternoon, the tires crunching across the parking lot, small stones popping from the tires as the vehicle slid to a stop on the slippery gravel. Halfway through I wanted to turn around, my heart pounding, but the dust and desert winds had a will of their own, pushing me toward the door, the afternoon sun painting my shadow on the wall as I reached to pull open the well-worn handle. No going back now.

I shot these images on a 5 year old Nikon Nikkormat camera with a 50mm Nikkor lens. Tucson, Arizona. Fall 1978.

Standing before the bouncer in his rugged biker leather, my eyes adjusting from the afternoon light to the grungy interior, the smell of a thousand beers staining the floors and dance music pounding in the distance. He looked at me silently as I laid my portfolio on the counter. “Hi, I want to take pictures of your dancers.” His head tilted, but no words. “I’m a student at the university assigned a documentary project” as senseless babble spilled from my nervous lips. He listened then in a low voice said “I’ll check” as he disappeared through the double doors. Waiting, I scanned the room looking for a fast exit. Within a few minutes, the bouncer was back, with an almost dissapointed look on his face. “Yep, cool with the girls, go meet them. Second door on your right.”

Kodak black & white Tri-X was always my go-to film choice. Due to the “available darkness” in the dressing room, I pushed the exposure 2 stops for the low light resulting in the excessive grain. Tucson, Arizona. Fall 1978.

I knocked, the door opened just enough to see a female face, she opened it wide enough for me to slip in. “You want to take our pictures?” she said, wearing a ruby red halter dress and matching lipstick. I explained my story, told them I had no money but would share photos afterwards. She looked at another dancer doing a crossword puzzle. Turning back to me, with a somewhat sexy half-smile and a nod she said “Sure, good with us!”

The dancers asked several times if I would watch and critique their "performance" which made me really uncomfortable. I had never been in a strip club before... I wanted to only be in the dressing room, where the women could be people, not performers. As curious as I might have been, I was there to photograph them as who they were in between shows. Tucson, Arizona. Fall 1978.

Postscript: What a lesson! It wasn’t all easy going though. I photographed the dancers on two occasions and came back a 3rd time with a bunch of prints. One of the women who would not let me take her picture said “I apologize for being hard on you, I thought you were trying to take advantage of us, so many men do, but you kept your word.” I learned if you ask with integrity, explain your position, wear your heart on your sleeve, and deliver as promised, you will achieve your goals. Harold Jones, my photo professor, taught me more about business in that assignment than any business school. Lessons I carry with me today.

Technical: The camera was a Nikon Nikkormat, 50mm Nikkor lens, and Kodak Tri-X pushed 2 stops for the low light.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series of short remembrances, inspired by 50 years of black & white negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey.

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Davidson College had an in-house News Bureau with a staff of a half dozen student photographers. I was a new recruit, anxious to prove my worth. Joining the news bureau, in addition to financial considerations, provided access to a small studio and darkroom, buried in the basement directly below the president’s office. The News Bureau became my home away from home, and my source of income to support my growing obsession with photography. Every spare dollar bought new lenses and more film. A young man named Buck Lawrimore, less than 15 years my senior, ran the News Bureau with the firm hand of a commander and the warmth of a mentor. Buck brought out the best in his photographers, critiquing angles, exposures, and compositions with his editorial eye. Unbeknownst to us, the future of the News Bureau and its funding, was in the combined efforts to deliver much needed editorial photography to bring Davidson’s story to not only the Davidson community but to the world.

One day, I was in Buck’s office, my latest prints laid out on his desk. His critique started as I leaned forward in my chair, anxious to learn from my mentor. His words commented on a few basics, composition, how to use a higher shutter speed to stop the motion when he stopped talking. Buck leaned back in his chair, took a slow breath, and looked straight at me. “Ron,” he said, “your pictures don’t have any emotion.” I froze in my chair, barely comprehending his words, an unsettled discomfort enveloping my body. He continued critiquing my images for the basics, the remainder of his words barely registering. I left the meeting, walking across campus, simultaneously trying to hold back the tears while a deep-seated anger started to well up within me. Under my breath, I said “Buck, I’ll show you” as the fall leaves blew across the sidewalk, the fresh fall breeze drying the tears.

Scared to death, I threw the naked doll on the sidewalk of Trade Street, in downtown Charlotte, North Carolina photographing people as they walked around me and the doll. I only shot six frames. Fall 1976.

The next week I found a discarded doll at the local Salvation Army, and headed to downtown Charlotte. Carrying Buck’s words “Your pictures have no emotion” with me, I parked the car near the center of the city, near the busy intersection of Trade and Tryon streets. I stripped the clothes off the doll, throwing them on the floor of my Toyota Corona, and grabbed my Nikon with a wide angle lens and a fresh roll of film. Possessed with a combination of intent and mental focus, I first put the doll halfway in a trash can right at the epicenter of the second largest city in the south. Click, click, two frames. I started feeling alive and in control of my world. I turned the corner to encounter a steady flow of pedestrians, all on private missions of their own. Laying the doll on the concrete sidewalk, I crouched down on my knees forcing dozens of people to walk around me. After shooting 6 frames, I picked up the doll and headed back to the car. My heart pounding, my brain exploding with a new confidence and a fear that I was on a new journey, being pulled inexplicably along an unexplored path.

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I couldn’t wait to process the film. Driving straight back to Davidson, I parked at my dorm and walked with purpose to the darkroom. Within hours I had a contact sheet, hardly believing my eyes at the images in front of me. There was one frame, haunting in its simplicity yet imbued with complex conflicting emotions. I made an 8x10 black and white, waiting anxiously for the print to dry. I didn’t want to leave the print alone, without me, in the darkroom for fear that anyone else would see my insanity, my emotion, my soul exposed on the silver halide grain.

Another frame of the doll, this time in an alleyway, a safer place where no one would need to step over me. Fall 1976.

Buck was in a meeting, his secretary asked me to wait in one of the deeply upholstered chairs outside his office. Finally, he was available. I entered with fear and trepidation, yet confident. Leaning forward over his large wooden desk, prints and manuscripts stacked high, I nervously handed Buck a manilla envelope with a single print inside. As he pulled the print from the envelope, time slowed to a crawl. He looked at the print for a long minute, raised his head looking me in the eye with a knowing smile, said “you got it” and handed the print back to me.

From that moment on, assignments flowed my way, I took more chances, trusting my gut, shooting on auto-pilot, connecting to a subconscious energy. I was on fire, finding a creative spirit, a new freedom that drove both my private introspection and public awareness, that naked doll on a downtown street never far from my mind, a passion that earned Emmy and Pulitzer awards throughout my years as a visual artist.

Thank you Buck Lawrimore.

Buck and I continue to stay in touch. You can read his Substack at this link: ultimatelifesuccess.substack.com

Wearing bell bottoms with a fancy shirt and scarf was about as fashion-forward as you could get in 1971. I was reluctantly making my way through the 8th grade, green my favorite color. I loved wearing green, seeing fields of green, hiking through forests of green leafy trees, my green pants striped vertically. My green satin shirt was smooth, shiny, and fit my adolescent body perfectly, the buttons clasping tightly around my thin wrists. The top two buttons, undone at my neck, framed my green scarf in perfect symmetry, held together with a gold ring.

An image of the author as a young teen, pixelated and toned using Adobe Photoshop.

I had a huge crush on a girl named Maria* who I remember was from Venezuela or another Latin American country. Maria and I were in Chess Club together but I was so shy that I thought I would never have the chance to talk with her, or to sit across the table for a chess match. I tried to catch her eye with an occasional glance but that never worked.

The Junior High School was 2 stories and a basement with classrooms on the perimeter of an Auditorium where the assemblies and class dances were held. I remember the dances well since I was always on the sidelines, sitting in a creaky wooden folding chair, watching all the “cool” people dance. I was the epitome of a wallflower to my friends.

The Junior High School today, photo from Google Streetview. The basement classrooms at the lowest level, just above the grass.

The basement had a few rooms for Shop and other classes, connected by a long hallway, the fluorescents and cool gray walls always moody, the lights creating pools of brightness in the otherwise mundane underbelly of the building. Unlike the wood floors of the classroom levels, the concrete floor was solid and unforgiving, with a spot of water leading to bruised bones for the clumsy at heart.

I could barely see the female form coming towards me. There were only two of us in the hallway and as she emerged from the darkness, Maria was directly in front of me. As the distance closed between us, I scanned the floor to secure my footing, taking measured steps. The next few seconds seemed like hours as I got up my courage to say “Hi Maria” in my most optimistic tone of voice. She slowed her stride, and looked at me, her beautiful brown eyes piercing the darkness, just a couple seconds of connection before she replied loudly “Hey spinach!” as we passed. Only the empty hallway now lay in front of me now, her words echoing through my brain, as I felt the blood drain from my body, my fragile 14 year old ego shattered to the core.

I stopped wearing green that day. I stopped wearing green for the next 54 years of my life. I still have a negotiated relationship with the color green. Even today, wearing green is a willful act that reminds me of that fateful day in Junior High.

*Name changed to protect the guilty.

This is Ron Chapple, the author. I’m writing a series or short remembrances, inspired by 50 years of black & white negatives that I am unearthing and scanning, a few at a time. I hope you will join me on this journey.

Waikapu Cemetery on Maui shot with the iPhone 17 Pro. Image transformed to black & white using the Snapseed app with final details applied in Adobe Photoshop. November 21, 2025

The images from this phone are truly amazing although I miss the connection when you hold a single lens reflex against your eye and look through the viewfinder. On a cold day, shooting outside, I remember pressing the cold metal of the camera against your forehead providing a visceral “oneness” with the device. Today, when we take an iPhone photo, we are looking at a frame-in-a-frame, the LCD screen 18” away from our eyes.

As I look through my old negatives, I’m surprised by how few images I took of any one subject. If there was something in particular that was interesting, there might be 2-3 frames but more often than not, there’s just a single frame. In the “film” days, every frame was an investment in not just the film, but the processing of the negatives, making a contact sheet, and making prints.