I had the story wrong. In my head, Karl was the first person I ever took a serious photograph of. I was so sure that this was true. I’ve told the story countless times that I took a light test of Karl on Capitol Hill in Seattle and that one image is what started me taking photos of people, where before I only took images of places and things. But I unintentionally lied. In fact, that photo of Karl was taken almost 2 years after I started my “blog”. The first person I photographed for Le 21ème (my website name before the eponymous current title) was in fact my cousin James. Does it matter? Probably not. But now the record has been corrected.

So here we are, 14 years later. Five miles outside of the middle of nowhere in Montana. Karl, who retired at 40, is now 41 and living in his childhood home, willed to him by his deceased father. I’ve driven (ridden) there with our mutual friend to enjoy some days off in the Rocky Mountain Front and basically do nothing. And so, Context began.

Karl is one of my oldest friends. We met in the back lot of the long-since defunct Northwest Mountain Bike where I had my first job, which actually didn’t pay me anything. I was probably 14 or 15, and Karl a year older. Just a couple of “grommets” hanging out at a bike shop. I assume every local shop has kids like us there. I was a poseur and Karl was actually sending it on the dirt jumps in the back lot. I just sat around and watched and made excuses.

After we got out licenses, we both got interested in cars. Karl into German cars, and me into Japanese. We would work on cars, talk about cars, and drive cars. Bikes faded for a longish period. It was interesting how our interests shifted in tandem and remained a common tie.

But now we are five miles outside of the middle of nowhere and I’m taking photos of Karl again. And with these photos it reinforced in me my decision to change the way I approach my work. Step back from the genre which made me, and step inside a realm where I am less than comfortable: talking to people. For 16 years I have shot candid photographs of strangers. Avoided interaction in order to maintain the mystery. Afraid of the harsh sound of “no” or “sorry I’m in a rush” if I asked for a moment of time. But here, five miles outside the middle of nowhere, I’ve asked Karl, chicken blood on his hands, to give me a few minutes. And, at least for me, it’s worth it.