Pumpkin Paradise.

Today is a beautiful day. No hurricane fog winds, just sun shinning, which got me to thinking about them "Friendlies", bible thumpin', door knocking, ape hatin', door slamming, sun settin', watch tickin', bright lighting, two timin', book burning, run screamin'..... So I did a little googlin' for Jehovah imagery but came up with nothin' like I remember seein'.

I was about to give up when I eventually came upon what looked like prize winning, lip smacking, eye catching, toe tappin' Jehovah landscape pornography.

Das Kinder Blob....

Back in May, I reluctantly picked up blogging because my friend Steve, at Robyn, kept on needling me; and I kept on telling him to "blow me". And then, my mother mentioned that I should write more regularly; I listened politely. Maren kept harassing me too but what else is new. So, Thing One led to Thing Two, and Thing Three led me to reading other people's diaries; or as they say "bloggentries". In the world of photography, Alec Soth's blog is high up on the people's list, but frankly, anyone who regularly posts "Friday Poetry" is a little too Garisson Keillor-ish for me. I'll have to go back and read more of it, but so far I glaze over quickly. Maybe, Ritalin and me have our very own theory about Alec's poetry: Maybe, he is to photography what John Philip Sousa is to infantry; but more twenty first century. If you don't know what I mean, that's okay, I'm already knee deep in shit with this entry. So nevermind poetry....

Meanwhile, back in May and in New york City, I spent one night in Brooklyn. Raul, Jenn and I had finished eating dinner when I began to contemplate the long trip back to New Jersey so I begged them to let me stay and play.

The very next day, I tearfully went back to the City, leaving them to potty train and spoon feed purée; rode back to New Jersey and back again to the City. Later, I got on a plane, landed, drove home and waited. Later, after a few days, during those hours between night and day I had a dream about Raul, Jenn and Raul Andres. It was one of those dream within a dream, a personal favorite I must say. A dream within a dream; how fucking great? Like Turducken*, but meatless, guey...!

I don't really remember the dream within the dream, just the dream about waking up from the dream within the dream, and it went like this: Raul and Jenn had since become "Yurt-parents" and had once again let me stay and play, presumably to save me from the long overnight trip back to Alma-Ati.

Upon waking, I noticed that two of Jenn's Korean relatives were covered in frost; the kind of frost you might see ruining a farmer's crop. I too seemed frosty but felt perfectly dandy underneath my flowery quilt. They just told me that this was the best way to keep your cheeks rosy and stay healthy, so, why not me! Next thing I know, Raul Andres saunters over to proudly sit on his potty, right next to me; releasing quite a stink and waking me back to reality.

I have had every possible dreamable dream there is to dream, but smelling shit, in a dream, while dreaming about waking from a dream within a dream, was positively, weirdly dreamy. There is something to be said for waking up to a toddler's feces; I've lived it, but to dream it...and survive it? NOW, that's a blog entry, if I've ever smelled it.

* A Dreamdrucken.

Climates change.

Back in 1995, I was in Guangzhou, P.R China, on assignment. It must have been around midnight and I had just stopped working. I took it upon myself to stop by a favorite restaurant within shouting distance of the White Swan. I was gnawing on crispy pigeon, I love pigeon, when a young woman came up to me and asked if I was interested in modeling. When I answered that I was not, she sweetened the deal by offering me a couple hundred bucks. I greedily and promptly agreed, a date was set, and the next morning I was on set, smashingly dressed in "Vincent's" finest.

The shoot went by quickly and the photographer was remarkably swift, shooting less that a roll of 120 per outfit. We were done before lunch. I pocketed my Remembies and took her out for tasty treats. We talked about her family and all I remember was that her father happened to be China's most famous sports journalist. There you have it.

It's raining rats.

Yesterday morning, and for no apparent reason, I was feeling rather agitated. After-all, it's easy to do these days. Once you reach marriageable age and have pills to pay, these twin curses focus their hideous gaze and swiftly cheat you of your hard earned money. So, as previously noted, I was feeling agitated, which in this great ape, tends to rattle his lavishly appointed cage. Maybe, now that I have reached a certain age and have participated in said "Rat Race" for a couple of decades, I can, at times, bounce off the walls and nervously pace .

But help was on its way. I picked up a freshly painted copy of The New Yorker and turned to page 68: "In 1943, when I was a fifteen-year-old schoolboy in Danzig, I volunteered for active duty". I went back to bed and read "How I spent the war", by Günter Grass.

Just the same, when I saw the "Tin Drum" in 1979, at a Paris matinee, I remember feeling similarly oppressed and agitated. The theater was Parisian small, and packed with the unemployed and the disenchanted, or was it a Saturday?

For lack of a better day, I had gone to see the "Drum" with a classmate I had just befriended. I can't remember his name as we did not remain friendly for long; after-all I was on my way upstate. On his being the pompous spawn of old Parisian money, I remember going to dinner at his parents' well appointed hotel particulier, where less than public servants served us dinner in white gloves and tails; on silver plates.

What struck me most was that Grass's Oscar (our tiny protagonist) had remembered his birth date. Not long before seeing the movie, I had had a dream where my only and very still view of the world consisted of a grey metal dresser, pale yellow walls, an open window and in the distance, a reddish-grey-brick mural, upon which a faded ad had long ago been painted. A sunny day.....

I remember waking up and feeling that this was the room where I had spent my first uterus free day. I walked downstairs to talk my mother and described this fuzzy dreamscape and this is what she said: " That's where you were born Olivier". She looked a little dazed and our conversation quickly ended, which seemed a little strange given my mother's more than garrulous ways. May be she remembered that day, as if in a postpartum haze. Unfortunately, my first earthly day had almost resulted in making it: Her last day. She had bled profusely while her attending was away, delivering someone else's birthday cake. She was close to death when my father finally came in and alerted the ward's nurses. They managed to stop the hemorrhage and someone else's blood saved her from her impending fate.

When we walked out, it was one of those dark and dreary French winter days. My schoolboy date wanted to chatter in a Montparnasse cafe but I felt irritated and only listened to him halfway. I finally came up with an excuse to run the hell away . He, no doubt, followed his golden crumbs back to his well appointed home and pontificated.

When I finished reading Mr.Grass's essay on his days as a Waffen S.S, I was, magically; no longer agitated. So, if your mother lives ten thousand miles away, and you don't want to wake her up to help you sooth your nervous ways; read a little Grass in the middle of the day.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

What would Trotsky do?

I had originally thought that I would not discuss photography, or photographers, for that matter, but it seems that I am unfortunately and inexorably drawn to it. Rather than point out photographers I actually do like, I'll stick, for the most part to photographers I either do not like or flat out dislike (there is a difference). I am sure there will be the occasional photographer who's work I enjoy but those I do not dig, do not get, or am simply dumbfounded by, make for better entertainment. So without further ado and without naming names or pointing a dirty finger at anyone in particular I will first begin with two photographers whom I believe should promptly submit self criticisms to the people and lick its collective boot; come to think of it they might already be. Anyway, and the winners are: The running dog, Loretta Lux, and the capitalist roader Jeff Wall.

Now for the difficult part; as I sit..... desperately hoping for a thought to cross my mind. May be that's my problem; I am dumb as a post (no pun intended).... I might be able to string something together to justify my utter disinterest in Loretta's work (sounds country doesn't it) but Jeff Wall will certainly be more of a challenge. I actually like children, a lot, especially when they are alive. As for her images if you lay them flat, do their eyes roll back into their heads and do their eyelids close? Don't get me wrong I sorta like Julia Margaret Cameron, at least in passing, but at the end of the day I don't think she needs any disciples. One Julia Margaret Cameron is more than enough for both the 19th and 20th century. I might also be inclined to give her more credit if she was suffering from consumption and had to live strapped to an iron lung, but as far as I know she lives and works in Monaco, kicking it on the French Riviera; so close to royalty, I could squeal.... Aargh...What can I say, her work feels dead. "You're dead to me Loretta....Don't ever call me again".(door slams)- cut to freshly cut lemon - camera pans left and settles on the opened kitchen window - blue sky, vapor trails, it's April 1943; what a pickle...! In the distance, you can hear a child's drum roll.

When the revolution comes I'll make sure they are reassigned to drier pastures and forced to properly atone for their sins; may be Santa needs new reindeers. As for Jeff Wall I'll let his own work and words work their magic on a yet unimagined and unimaginable scale; and it's back lit to boot. People, please, take a moment to glimpse deep into the inner works of the creative mind: "Wall described the 'event' of this work as 'a moment in a cemetery. The viewer might imagine a walk on a rainy day. He or she stops before a flooded hole and gazes into it and for some reason imagines the ocean bottom. We see the instant of that fantasy, and in another instant it will be gone. The Flooded Grave was completed over a two-year period, and photographed at two different cemeteries in Vancouver as well as on a set in the artist's studio. It was constructed as a digital montage from around 75 different images". Are we suppose to be more impressed by the process than we are by the resulting image; fuck....! train spotting is more fun, and just as time consuming. Jeff, please stand back for a moment and step off the cliff if you please.

You can review his musings here, the intro is a masterful piece of work, you can smell how hard they worked to put one word in front of the other. May be another, actually great Canadian photographer, Edward Burtynsky, can give him a spanky, on location, in his studio, for a tableau. Come to think of it, I'll do it....

"I thought at the very beginning that all my different directions would all be connected by means of working with that truth claim. But never in the same way"*. Throw in a few obscure greek philosophers, 17th century Italian philologers and a professed love for deconstructivist opera and you might even get laid by that pretty little receptionnist at the gallery; she's still young and impresionable and only eats celery sticks and cottage cheese.

* "The traditional claim that photography represents 'truth' is highly contested, and it is this interface between truth and fiction, actuality and fantasy that Wall has chosen to explore."

I don't think this blog is going to further my carreer....Dammit...!

PS: "Fervens ex afar , tamen recedentia ex fervens.!", which actually means, translated from Latin into English "Glowing out of afar , not withstanding retreat out of glowing!, which suspiciously sounds like Japanese barbecue but which really means " Hot from afar, but far from hot". It's that sinking feeling you get when you scope out a hot looking chick with long blond hair and a tight ass to subsequently realize, to your homophobic horror; when she turns around, that HE is nothing but a "crystal-hick".....Dammit....!

It's Gabriel's birthday.

Today is Gabriel's birthday. In the process, a loot of major league proportion was duly acquired. An avid soccer fan and its associated fashions he was showered with some of his favorite team jerseys, as well as a Key-tar courtesy of Koichi. I made Shabu-Shabu, Korean fish fry and spicy tofu treats, washed down with ice cold water and sparkly cup cakes for dessert, decorated with nine candles. In preparation for these festivities Raphael and I went shopping in Japantown, ate candy and sat in massage chairs to kill some precious time. After this birthday feast, we retreated to the parlor and watched DVDs to further hone in our already encyclopedic knowledge of FIFA's history. Gabriel fell asleep a happy man, clutching his size four Chelsea ball; woke up at six for a hug and promptly resumed watching the world cup greatest' hits. Happy Birthday Gaby.....!

Shakespeare's Oculist or pretentious rhetoric.

I shot this picture for Forbes as part of a story on robots in a windowless basement at John's Hopkins University. For whatever reason John's Hopkins' campus gave me the creeps. As a matter of fact, the whole East coast gives me the creeps; I do not know why and mean no disrespect. May be it's something about deciduous trees, bricks and mortar, trench coats or cheap suits; may be it's the humidity or dunkin' donuts, heat lamps, hedge funds and Hampton estates. The chief scientist, who's name I do not recall ran his lab like a tribal chieftain yet fawned over me, ingratiatingly. I felt something not unlike emphathy, as he seemed to have too long suffered the inequity of scientific discovery; having toiled endlessly in the basement's shadows; obsessing over his life's work, on the edge of insanity; brought on by years of self discipline, teaching assistants and grant writing.

Because images are often personal this picture owes it's strength only to day's memories and is nothing if selective. It came back to haunt me after going to the Whitney, while in New York on business, to see Taryn Simon's intellectually seductive™ show titled: "An American Index of the hidden and the unfamiliar".

May be that's another thing that enervates me out about the East coast. It still seems mired in the classics and the Academy; the Academic Industrial Complex; that obsessive need to ascribe and prescribe intellectual meaning to everything, for personal gain, notoriety and respectability, an all together American neurosis; well may be not.... but when you combine it with old money and local politics, it makes for powerful cabal.

The thing is, Europeans have been doing it for centuries and it has become as innate and as inescapable as it's irracesbale history. It's the reformation, the industrial revolution and cabinets of curiosities; it's in the genes, it's in the culture; and it smells like balls and chains and filterless cigarettes. Americans tend to come to it to hood wink their barbers and candle makers. Respectability is owning a winery.

I have to admit that Ms. Simon's "The Innocents" was far more interesting than her more recent indexing of the hidden and the unfamiliar; hidden and unfamiliar to whom? Seems a bit presumptuous, but if you ever want to find out, ask a Brit; masters of the arcane, the obscure and the sun stroke.

At this point Ms. Simon I am afraid might be masterfully gliding towards the cold, self absorbed and calculated grip of an all too familiar niche; something she might not have done altogether innocently. Obfuscation after all is the intellectual class's best return on its money. Obfuscation loves its own company; it's the narcissism of the artfully idle rich. "I say, could you please pass the Derrida...". Don't get me wrong she is not at this point fallen for that routine but could well be on her way; the center is hard to please, the palace is a fickle intrigue. After all I do like her work and think she is a very talented and thinking photographer but hope she returns to less esoteric projects; this one, however well thought out and executed feels a little too contrived for my taste. Dang, I hope I don't write too many of these kinds of entries....and if I do, please shoot me.

Artist Statement?

There is a great quote by Fellini: "Don't tell me what I am doing, I don't want to know". Consequently, don't ask me what I am doing, I don't want to know. But it just so happens that everyone wants to know, present company excluded. Me don't need to know. Experience trumps reason. I like standing on a summer day in the San Joaquin valley and feeling the sun's rays; the way I loved light when I was six years old but did not need to think about it or profit from it.

I am often accused of being a portrait photographer. A bit like accusing your reflection of being a mirror. My people may be staring at the camera but they are not portraits. They are not staring at you, I am.

Music for Proteins

Brie Takahashi is obviously a bright and creative doctoral student at UCLA. She has managed to put proteins to music. The resulting sounds remind me of the MIDI files we used to download in the internet's infancy to color and pepper otherwise dull grey and blue websites with a touch of whimsy. I miss those sites, but I am sure they'll make a comeback somehow, since everything it seems comes back around to be re-exploited for some nefariously commercial or sycophantic, fawningly parasitic ego trip. I think they have a name for that now, meta, or something.Anyway, Ms.Takahashi's work is as clever as it is beautiful, and I mean in a beautiful mind sorta way. All she has to do now is compose a protein symphony unless others beat her to that punch and steal her credit. Hopefully, her research team can apply for a grant to work with Fred Frith or Brian Eno and put their algorithm to work on higher end machines. Apparently for now, life's building blocks are played on a Casiotone. You can hear it here. If you like a more hands on approach to creativity, or decide that your life's work might involve a protein sonata, the good people at UCLA will translate your input genetic sequence to a music file and email it to you free of charge. Check it.

" The Kims' excellent adventure"

One of my life's great and on going interest has been to comprehend and expand my knowledge of totalitarianism; not only because it is mouthful but primeraly because so much of our history is the consequence of a few men's astounding ability to regulate every aspect of the societies they control, and remake in their own image.The basic principles of totalitarianism are for the most part very simple but not so easily applied. If a career as a totalitarian political leader is appealing, "The Prince", by Niccolo Machiavelli, would certainly be required reading. If the written word is not your thing, you can always consult the cliff notes, here, and get a jump on the competition. My interest in totalitarianism permeates almost every aspect of my life, and especially my work as a photographer, believe it or not.

For those of you who might be interested in a good read featuring a masterfully adept totalitarian, I would strongly recommend Bradley K. Martin's book, "Under the loving care of the fatherly leader", North Korea and the Kim Dynasty. I rely on the work of authors like Mr. Martin to deepen and broaden my knowledge on the afore mentioned subject, and am often awed by their ability to synthesize enormous amounts of information and popularize it for the rest of us. It often seems almost miraculous that anyone could manage, organize and narrate a 700 plus pages book on any subject as complex as the "excellent political adventures of the Kims". I won't attempt a synopsis as it certainly is not a skill I possess but take my word for it and pick up a copy.

In the meantime, I have contacted Mr. Martin who lives and work in Tokyo and someday hope to travel to North Korea. I am still trying to figure out what might entice a client to send me there but I am working on it. As soon as I get a lead I'll let you know. Thanks for caring.

A pleasant and easy manner.

My favorite photographers are robots. Cassini, Spirit, Opportunity, Stereo A and Stereo B, are beaming back billion dollar babies of Saturn and its moons, Mars and the Sun. I keep a large collection of these images, all available on NASA's website. When I need a picker upper I gaze upon them to quickly regain a pleasant and easy manner.

Thorazine.

It might be said that my chances of becoming an astronaut have been severely diminished by my present occupation, but nonetheless, and in the off chance that NASA scouts are searching the internet for landscape photographers; I will venture to submit my candidacy electronically.

This might be the only time that it may not be held against me that, that "kind" of work, is actually not in my portfolio. Afterall, there has only been but a handful of photographers in space and none of them were "Professionals" . Furthermore, they have all retired to ranches in California or, in between naps, are lecturing to kindergardeners to pad their government pensions. Tags: photographer, photography, planets, travel , government contract, tax and spend, gratuitous, round trip, re-entry, direct deposit, exemption, retrospective, artist statement, treadmill.

Yeltsin' is a verb.

I think it was saturday morning, on my way to Costco, when Boris Yeltsin popped into my mind. Several years ago, I had previously written of my intentions of putting together a fotonovela called "Boris and the Donkey", loosely based on Yeltstin's life as a tippler and of his tendency to operate heavy industries under the influence. My original intentions had been to pass "Yeltsin'" into the vernacular as a verb; denoting someone's tendency to imbibe alcoholic drinks, habitually or to excess: "Judy had been yeltsin' heavily before she fell off the bridge, and onto the icy banks of the Volga". As I was saying, I briefly, inexplicably, and suddenly, remembered Boris Yeltsin and wondered what had become of him. Not much had been heard from him since 1999 and it seemed surprising that such an habitual yeltster might still miraculously be alive . Lo and behold, when I turned on the morning news, Boris had been pronounced dead to the world. For more on Boris Yeltsin, click here. As for my powers of intuition, further and more indirect proof of my channeling Russian political figures are needed to confirm this yet undiscovered ability.

Kazakhstan

Pawel's cousin went to Kazakhstan on business a few months ago and brought back an armful of photographs. A small but poignant testimony of a trip, which was not without it's rewards. An eye witness account of a country trying to shake itself free from the bonds of tyranny and ridicule. Pawel graciously forwarded his photographic manifesto to his friends in the hope of entertaining us all. I promptly passed it on to my circle, and a few strangers I could trust. I had hoped that one day these images would boomerang back to me but so far, no cigar. The comedic quality of these images are undeniable, if technically mediocre, but that can be forgiven since without them some of our stereotypes may not have been confirmed. So without further ado, Pawel's cousin's photographs from his business trip to Kazakhstan. In the meantime, I am off to chop imaginary wood.

Henry Wessel et al.

Henry Wessel whose work I have only just come across caught my attention. He seems to have had a great deal of influence as a mentor and teacher at the San Francisco Art Institute and beyond. His work is better viewed in person, and you can still do that at San Francisco's Museum of Modern Art, until April 22nd, which is today. I tend not to discuss other photographers' work as I would rather leave those ruminations to others.

Another artist of note is Jeff koons, recently featured in the New Yorker. I have always liked Jeff Koons's work primarily because it is humorous. "Fine" art is for the most part singularly uh-humorous but Jeff Koons is one of the few exception to that rule. Humor, is considered lightweight and unworthy of a great deal of attention because it somehow lacks depth (whatever that means). Art, much like religion, is not meant to be humorous, it's serious business. No need to wonder why Art was the propaganda arm of religion for so long, the two are quite possibly forever joined at the hip. I am not quite sure that most people realize that unconsciously or not we equate both in our minds or work towards that end.

Art directly served religion for so long that it will take a very long time before it actually becomes divorced of that association. Modernism attempted to sever those links but only separated itself from its historical patron by looking to other forms of mysticism, culturally appropriating them to revolutionize itself, a much needed shot in the arm, but a fragile and momentary prescription. To this day I'd be willing to bet that most artists, wether they are conscious of it or not still work within that framework. I don't think that'll change any time soon.

One for the Ages.

My friend Bill was nice enough to share this link with me and it's one for the ages. Beware, as it contains strong language, so if you are at work you might not want your boss looking over your shoulder and jeopardize that symbiotic relationship you might have going for you. It will certainly bound to raise eyebrows, or lower them, or make you spit out that double latte, which contextually, might not be a bad thing. Give it like a man Charlie Rose...

Lucky Me.

Got Lucky in the mail today, even-though I like the sound of that, it is not what you think but one of Conde Nast's moneymakers. The magazine about shopping. I won't bore you with a lengthy diatribe about attention spam, since I do not have one myself, but it certainly got my attention. This mysterious gift from the database gods landed on my doorsteps for reasons only they unfathomably understand but I am grateful for it' s surprising arrival.I could not make ifs ands buts about it as it seemed obviously calculated to confuse, and fill closets to boot; but what really interested me was how this rag ( I am using the vernacular here, not the pejorative) is put together. Given my notoriously low attention span I am awed by the minds behind it. Not unlike great feats of engineering or logistics, Lucky seems able to come together with the relative ease of a library's card catalogue, filled with the promise of untold intellectual riches but dauntingly intimidating since I can barely remember the alphabet; that's right I still have trouble remembering it after 42 years of literacy. Now, if this previous entry fails to make a point, that would be my point; I am easily influenced. The magazine about shopping makes me wish I could actually understand Nature (the Magazine about Science), since I seem to sense that no matter how hard I try, I know that I'll get Lucky before I get Nature.

Also in the news today: Today is the first day of California light. For those of you who have never been to California the light here is really quite simply pornographic. So today, while sitting outside, I noticed that summer light is here. It's usually characterized, at least to my mind, by a very subtle intra molecular silvery hue, as if billions of crystal meth nano-particles were suspended in the air in an orgy of riotous cosmic love making. You kind of have to squint, or space out a little to get in the groove, but if you face North North West (10AM Standard Pacific Time), it is quite visible. Light particles buzz around each other and create soupy clear micro-explosions, I can only understand as some kind of photonic switch, which to my mind means: Get to work.

"Yossef's Buck."

For up to the minute updates on what I am doing, this blog will serve as the perfect platform to freshen up the official website of the other "Our Dear", "Dear leader"; the political arm of Olivier Laude dot com. Think of it as its under-secretary of public relations and imoticons. I shot this yesterday in the Sacramanto river delta, a favorite haunt. This image will further garnish Charlie's* cult of personality; until one day the world will recognize his image as readily as any other dictator worth his salt. Once this image is properly scanned and color corrected to my exact specifications, it will be called "Yossef's Buck", a cultural reference to a now long deceased German artist better know for his obsessive compulsive use of felt and bees wax.

Besides this superficial reference to our afore mentioned German Artist, I am, as I often like to do, referencing other images of mine. The redwood bark palette was used in a previous photograph; the now infamous "Mikkel Sønafenlillepigemedsvovlstikker, from the "Autobahnüberfal, the Danes" series (see below). I have good reasons to do so, so please trust me on this one.....as you might a beloved father.

*our compliant and charismatic model.

Cultural Anthropologists

Cultural anthropologists have become some of the most interesting and insightful writers around. It stands to reason that Cultural Anthropology and its methods should be applied to individuals working in the arts as a means of understanding their work in ways which are more empirical, based on field work and theories already used in the scientific study of humanity. I see no reason why these principles may not be used to focus on specific individuals as a means to understand their work without having to rely on their own interpretation and on those of other Art professionals; a group of people notoriously prone to obfuscation. This has already been achieved by visual anthropologists and art anthropologists but in broader contexts, not necessarily focusing on one particular individual, so correct me if I am wrong. Any further information on the subject would be appreciated. Wikipedia:

Cultural anthropology is one of four fields of anthropology (the holistic study of humanity) as it developed in the United States. It is the branch of anthropology that has developed and promoted "culture" as a meaningful scientific concept; it is also the branch of anthropology that studies cultural variation among humans.

The anthropological concept of "culture" reflects in part a reaction against earlier Western discourses based on an opposition between "culture" and "nature", according to which some human beings lived in a "state of nature". Anthropologists argue that culture is "human nature," and that all people have a capacity to classify experiences, encode classifications symbolically, and teach such abstractions to others. Since humans acquire culture through learning (the processes of enculturation and socialization), people living in different places or different circumstances may develop different cultures. Anthropologists have also pointed out that through culture people can adapt to their environment in non-genetic ways, so people living in different environments will often have different cultures. Much of anthropological theory has originated in an appreciation of and interest in the tension between the local (particular cultures) and the global (a universal human nature, or the web of connections between people in distinct places/circumstances).

Parallel with the rise of cultural anthropology in the United States, social anthropology, in which "sociality" is the central concept and which focuses on the study of social statuses and roles, groups, institutions, and the relations among them, developed as an academic discipline in Great Britain. Some anthropologists have drawn on both traditions and identify themselves as socio-cultural anthropologists.

Some Cultural Anthropologists you might want to read: Jared Diamond, "Guns, Germs and Steel", and "Collapse", a less succesfull book by the same author but still worth reading. Jack Weatherford, "Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World", and the "History of Money".