A.J Hamre from Chico, CA, tumbles off Spotted Phantom - 71 point ride

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The American cowboy is often revered as the epitome of manly virtue.

The American cowboy is the symbol of red-blooded American values – whatever that might mean. He’s a figure tied to the earth – humble, respectful, fearless, and no stranger to hard work. The legends of the wild west permeate our cultural landscape, and while many pulp novels and Hollywood films are weighed-down by ridiculous (and often comedic) anachronisms, it would be a mistake to neglect the American preoccupation with cowboys.

A great deal has changed since the push west. The ranching lifestyle that initially gave rise to rodeo is disappearing. Despite the decline of the rancher and the disappearance of the range, the image of the cowboy – hat, lasso, chaps and spurs – hasn’t lost it’s potency. The cowboy’s courage and skill illustrate man’s ability to conquer the wilderness; he accomplishes this by pursuing, confronting, and subduing outlaw stock. There’s another side to this public celebration of determination and bravery. Criticisms and condemnations of rodeo usually revolve around the ethical treatment of animals. What a lot of folks don’t realize is that this controversy is almost as old as the cowboy myth itself.

The earliest protests regarding animal welfare date as far back as the mid-1870s.

I’m no stranger to criticisms of the modern rodeo myself. I live in a reasonably liberal community and work closely with several vegans. Hell, even my girlfriend’s a vegetarian. I’m lambasted by criticisms simply for photographing rodeo events, let alone participating directly in them. Initially, I had to admit a relative ignorance regarding animal treatment at rodeo. My family ate steak at the dinner table, we took field-trips to the Kansas City Royal Rodeo in elementary school, and we watched John Wayne classics like ‘The Cowboys.’ That’s just how it was, and I didn’t ask questions.

My present interest in rodeo photography is, more than anything, born out of a desire to understand my own country. This, I know, hinges on the cliché – but that being said, I honestly believe that there’s value in the investigation of our own origin myths. My intent isn’t to build-up or to knock-down, to celebrate or to dispel. Taking a closer look at this subject matter simply makes sense to me, especially when taking into account the politically fractious time in which we live.

One thing is certain – I’m not interested in glorifying some epic form of animal cruelty or sadism. I’m interested  the Old West, writ large on the marquee. I’m interested in the ranching lifestyle, where it began and why it’s disappearing. I’m interested in the representation of the rancher, the cowboy, and the western folk hero in popular media. And while I do this, I get to add to the pantheon of media images that illustrate the extreme danger, occasional madness, and remarkable talent of these rodeo cowboys.

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Up next, a few statistic regarding animal treatment, injuries, and PRCA regulations.

Cheers.

Cody Samora's 90-point ride on a bull named Gangbuster

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Yesterday was, hands down, the perfect day for rodeo – clear skies, low winds, and warm weather. Today took a windy turn, but it seemed to only affect the performers. Seven-thousand spectators descended on the Tucson Rodeo Grounds and the atmosphere was affable. It was a family event with a whiskey polish. Folks walked along the rows, buying everything from kettle-corn & toy guns to belt buckles & whiskey shots. It was a tough day for today’s athletes, though – especially during the roping events – and the wind, most likely, was a factor.

Of eight tie down runs there were only two qualified rides. Seth Hall, heralding from Albuquerque, New Mexico, led the pack, scoring only three-tenths of a second ahead of P.J. Spencer of Collinsville, Oklahoma. Seth and P.J. scored at 13.4 seconds and 13.7 seconds, respectively.

The real show-stopper was in the finale. After a series of ‘no score’ rides, Cody Samora had the closest thing to a perfect ride thus far. The bull, Gangbuster, broke wide and spun fast, but Cody managed to hang on and take home the only 90 point ride of the day, more than enough to carry him into the next round.

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Yesterday’s nameless bull – carrying Chandler Bownds onward with an 86 point ride – has been, as of five o’clock this evening, officially named. As things turned out, Joan Liess – media coordinator for the Tucson Rodeo – decided to have a little fun with this one. Via the ‘Fiesta de los Vaqueros’ Facebook Page, it was decided that the public would decide what we’d be calling this up-and-coming slab of fury. After posting a request for name suggestions yesterday afternoon, it’s been decided that bull number 781 will be known from here on in, simply, as ‘Facebook.’

Slack events will be running through Wednesday next week. Full performances will begin again at two o’clock Thursday afternoon, after the celebrated non-motorized parade earlier that day. Until then, I have images to sort through, which I intend to post periodically throughout the course of the next few days.

I hope you enjoy ’em.

Your Photographer At The End Of The Day

To view some of my archived rodeo images: click here

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The fury of hair & spittle, rattling teeth & hard hooves thumping the arena floor, is over – well, at least for today.

I remember somebody once saying that life is a random lottery of meaningless tragedies and near-misses – the words ring true at rodeo. Thankfully, no serious injuries today, but there were some breath-stopping moments. The exhilaration of a crowd relieved is difficult to explain, when a potentially injured cowboy stands up, dusts off his ass, and gives an enthusiastic thumbs up – even if his ride didn’t qualify.

It was a perfect, warm Tucson day out at the rodeo grounds, and attendance is up. Over five-thousand people descended on the arena, unencumbered by inclement weather. The rough-stock were in rare form, thick winter coats  increasing their perceived size and demeanor. There were several talented performers in the dirt today, but the boy who stole the show was a young bull rider from Lubbock, Texas. Chandler Bounds – a twenty-year-old who’s deceptively gentle features & lean build might place him somewhere near fifteen – stole the show with an eighty-six point ride.

Out of sixteen furious bulls, only four cowboys were able to hang on for eight seconds; that’s four qualified rides in sixteen. You know it’s a tough sport when – at an event that draws the best talent from around the country – only twenty-five percent make it to the next round.

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I’ve done my edits for the day and it’s time for food and sleep before the next round.

I’ll show you some great images of all the action, including Chandler’s ride. It’s time to finish my coffee and get back out there.

Hell Horse

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More rodeo images can be seen at my website: click here

It’s quiet & crisp winter morning in Tucson; everything outside is perfectly still. I know it’s just my own anticipation, but it’s that kind of calm that promises action, just around the corner.

Sitting in my friend’s kitchen, my brain feels swollen after a night of story-telling & whiskey. I can taste sour hops on my tongue, and there’s a dull pain at the base of my neck. There’s something refreshing about walking right up to the edge – that is, of being a down-right parody of oneself – only to then stretch the old arms and call it a night.

This is my third time at The Fiesta de los Vaqueros. After enough time spent down in the mud with the rest of the competitors – hands freezing, chilled to the bone, camera equipment douched in mud – I’ve come to love this job, unapologetically. The crude, early morning light spills into the parking lot as it slowly fills, predictably, with pick-up trucks and livestock trailers, white dust hanging in the air, catching the orange light. A couple of retired bull riders, on their perch in the press box, survey the bucking chutes beneath them while rodeo officials pour into the announcer’s booth and begin unraveling mic cords and assembling a row of folding chairs. My good friend & fellow photographer, Will Seberger – we’ve come to jokingly revere our hangovers as just another part of the job.

I’ve done my equipment check, and I feel prepared – but I imagine I’m quite the sight. Hair skewed, glasses crooked, sitting in my socks & underwear in this otherwise pristine, tile-floored kitchen in Midtown Tucson. Hangover, indeed.

And you know – I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything in the world.

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This is challenging work and there are stories to tell, but that’ll have to come later. Wish me luck.

It’s ‘go’ time.

The Lingering Seduction

The dead. They’re all around us – beneath every cobblestone, on the surface of every building. They’re a healthy preoccupation, representing everything that we can’t ever know.

We carry the burden of their memory with us and write poetry. We paint them. We discuss them lovingly with friends, saving our tears for the bedroom.

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I’ve begun to grow tired of artists discussing how their environment – the region they were raised, the religion inflicted upon them – as the root of their artistic creativity. Visual culture has evolved so radically – projecting her images so far and wide – the artist is less and less limited by their circumstance, household, state, race, or creed. Creative influences abound, and our styles need not be discussed in sweeping statements.

Images of the world are beamed into our homes. We’re exposed to distant cultures, wild ideas, foreign belief systems and unusual forms of expression. Books and magazines, television images, billboard advertisements and the cinema – they permeate our lives. To insist that one is a ‘Southwest’ artist or an ‘expressionist’ – an ‘avant-garde’ artist or a ‘colorist’ – has become, to me, an increasingly absurd notion. These don’t describe a method, nor do they reveal any individually developed style – labels like this serve only to express the manner in which contemporary artists are willing to limit themselves.

We are citizens of a world that continues to grow smaller.

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This image is the stuff of crudely lit dreams.

This is the stuff of a confused adolescence. Of desire, frustration, and fear.

It’s meaning continues to evolve – the work is incomplete, and I don’t expect to feel the same about it when I’m finished.

Composition in Red, White, and Blue

I don’t much enjoy playing the political game – blogrolls, arrogant Facebook posts, and a wide variety of poorly-informed opinions – often lifted directly from the most recent television broadcast – abound.

I’m often frustrated by the circumstances that I and my generation have inherited. I have, on more than one occasion, adopted a bitter and misanthropic attitude toward contemporary American politics. Looking back to high school, I remember smoking cigarettes in the coffee house, pouring over Plato’s ‘The Republic’; I now wonder where our philosopher kings have gone. Listening to the great speeches of the past, like the Eisenhower Farewell Address, I can’t help but wonder what on earth has happened to this country.

I’m not moved to tears when I hear the national anthem. I’m frustrated when I overhear idle conversation at the bus stop or in the café, when I realize that the soundbite really has won a victory over honest debate. Our political campaigns and our wars are run with polished graphics and theme music. In many regards, our political theater has become a puppet show.

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Frustrations aside, I celebrate the opportunities afforded me by this country. The American Dream I was raised with has been savagely violated, but that doesn’t mean that a good life isn’t possible. While I feel that my predecessors have lied to me, and various institutions have conspired – whether intentionally or unintentionally – to limit our progress, we’ve traveled a great distance and achieved too terribly much. Recent troubles cannot wash away the great accomplishments of this country and its people, and hard times often serve to galvanize. I see tremendous passion on the horizon, and continued innovation in the arts and sciences, and celebrate my own opportunity to contribute even the smallest verse.

I don’t know if these meditations were necessarily in the front of my mind, but I’ve begun constructing abstract compositions in red, white, and blue. I recall watching the trilogy by Polish filmmaker Krzysztof Kieślowski, aptly titled the Trois Couleurs (three colors) trilogy. Blue, white, and red are also the colors of the French flag, and each of the three films correspond to the three political ideals in the motto of the French Republic: liberty, equality, and fraternity. Naturally, these ideals have permeated American culture, too, along with the colors of our flag.

I’m not sure if this is going to become a larger body of work. For the time being, I’m just interested in portraying common, discarded objects through the lens of our patriotic colors. I guess we’ll see if anything comes from it.

Cheers.

Wolves Resting Among Us

It’s easy to fall into a rut.

We have a tendency to take our sight for granted; even though I insist on taking my camera everywhere along with me, the pesky contraption often goes unused. I have to press myself to look more closely at the world around me, to try and identify overlooked little details, hidden beauty, peculiarities with unspoken meaning. The trick is remaining inexhaustibly curious, to always look about oneself rather than just ahead – or at one’s feet. Personally, I make an effort to remind myself how extraordinary even the most banal things truly are. In town, everything around us is completely intentional.

The paint on the sidewalk was put there by a man. The bricks that tower above us were molded and fired, trucked out, and stacked together, one at a time.
The evidence of those who came before are all around us. The people are everywhere under our feet.

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I stepped outside my cramped little apartment, ready to hit the road; I had to go to Tucson to photograph the University of Arizona College Rodeo. I decided to get an early start so that I might have the time to step outside the car and take some pictures – you know, if the mood struck me. Before I could unlock my car I spotted this lounging beast – a wolf hybrid, basking in the sunlight, careless in the passenger seat of an old beat-up car.

It’s easy to fall in a rut, but amazing things are all around us.