If you are not fully satisfied with the quality of the prints you receive, simply mail it back to us in the condition you got it for a full refund. Period.
None of our customers has been anything other than fully satisfied with both the quality and finish, but, as we say, if you're not satisfied — for any reason — we'll be more than happy to fully refund your purchase price.
All your work is printed on Kodak Professional Supra Endura paper. This is the best paper for digital prints that is available. Its expected life time is 75 years.
Your prints options are matte, semi-matte, and glossy. Prices are the same regardless of finish.
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Larger sizes are also available. Let us know your needs.
For dimensions that do not fit neatly in the above break-down, price will be determined by the length of the longest side.
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Actually, there is no "us". It's just "me me me". I took all the photographs, and designed and built this site myself (which probably explains a lot about my graphic artist skills).
We've I've been shooting since the early 1980s. My first camera was the first auto-focus camera ever sold — the Nikon N2020. It was an amazing and fantastic camera for what it taught me: ten minutes after using it I realized I fucking hated it. That was instructive. I learned that all I wanted a camera to do is...take pictures. I wanted complete control over everything else.
My next camera was a Nikon F3, and what a gorgeous piece of work that was! I've since moved on to digital, but I loved that camera.
The only other major mistake I made was to read a book, one of these "How to take excellent pictures" books. Do not ever do this. All they do is fill your head with their fucking rules. You need to make up your own rules! I remember reading this one stupid chapter: "If you can't answer the question 'Why do I Want to Take This Picture', don't take the picture". Well, I could never fucking answer the question. So I didn't take the picture. I put the camera down for ten years because I couldn't answer this stupid fuck-head's question. How screwed up is that? I eventually got his dumb-ass ideas out of my head and began...pleasing myself. And that's what you need to do — satisfy yourself — no one else matters. No one.
I was born from parents of mixed race: my Dad was a circus clown and my Mom was a gas station attendant. Dad liked to drive the tiny car that hundreds of other clowns climb out of. He loved circling the main ring under the big top in the tiny car and waving to the hysterical kids, squirting them in the face with his seltzer bottle and throwing shit at them.
The car needed servicing one day so he took it into the gas station where he met Mom. The first time they met, Mom was on her knees clenching a grease gun in her hands. When Dad saw this, well, he fell in love instantly. They got married. For the wedding, Dad took off the big red nose and put on a big white one. Mom managed to wipe the grease off her chin.
On the day I was born, Dad invited all the circus midgets into the delivery room and he told me years later that they were all laughing and pointing at Mom's vagina as my fuzzy head popped out. Dad was furious, chasing the midgets around the room in a rage, squirtng them with his seltzer bottle and throwing shit at them when I was delivered.
My love of photography began at an early age when my Dad threw a Nikkor 105mm fixed focal length lens at my Mom but it accidentally grazed off the top of my head, careening into the canary cage and leaving a huge dent in my head which I still have. Freaking cage explodes and Bernie the canary escapes out the window, never to return.
Now when I say he never returned, I mean he stayed in the Maple tree out back, just far enough away so we couldn't recapture the damned thing, mocking us and tweeting in a "fuck you" kind of way.
Dad never did forgive me for getting in the way. Said it was the best overhand he ever threw. "Could-a got her good," he yelled, still wearing his enormous red clown shoes, "but youuuu had to come along, didn't you?"
Bernie froze to death that winter. Found his little frozen body, hard as teak wood, on the way to school.
Years later, I entered a garden magazine contest — one of these "send us a picture of the beautiful garden you made and win a prize" things. I was a teenager by now. When I should've been out feeling up the girls in the neighborhood, the only seeds I was planting were freaking geraniums, fer chrissakes! My garden sucked and I didn't win anything.
I took the test to become a mailman. I passed. I became a Mailman. I had my own uniform with a shoulder patch of an eagle. I had my own gum-soled shoes. I memorized the Postman's Credo. I loved this job. You're on your own all day, nobody bothers you except for Rottweilers and stuff but you can just pepper spray the shit out of them. That was excellent.
One day, I deliver mail to this one house. There's a Chihuahua or some shit behind the door. I stick the mail through the mail slot and he goes absolutely ape shit — barking and growling and attacking the letters. The next day I'm at the same house. This time, I just stick the letters in half-way and hold on. He attacks them and rips everyone of them in half. I throw my half in after he's finished. The next day, I'm again at the same house. No Chihuahua behind the door. I never found out what happened to him. I didn't kill him.
I got fired from the Post Office. I was delivering mail in a really hi-so neighborhood. Houses and land were so big you needed a jeep to get around. The door hinges of my particular jeep were rusting off real bad so I stop and tear the door off before it falls off. I get back to the P.O., the boss sees me drive up with the freaking door in the back and goes completely ballistic. It was OK I got fired, too, because I never got laid by any of these steaming housewife types. That's a myth, I think.
I now have a day job that doesn't suck that much and make pictures on the side. Sometimes people buy them. I wear a hat regularly 'cause of the dent in my head. I miss Bernie.