Fotografía Profesional en Costa Rica–Professional Photography in Costa Rica


Bienvenidos amigos, disfruten de las fotos y espero conversar pronto. Welcome folks, enjoy the pictures and I hope we can chat soon.--Solson

Más reciente

Margarita y Familia–Margarita and her family

Un cálido domingo el La Sabána fue el escenario para una divertida sesión en familia. A warm Sunday in La Sabana made for a fun family portrait session.


La Casa de la Mariposa

A quick video for marketing and for an eventual website update.

Un pequeño video para una clienta, para uso en mercadeo y en su eventual mejora de sitio web.

If you would like a web video for you business please contact me here

Si ud requiere un video para su negocio, contácteme aqui:



Pequeño Edwin–Baby Edwin

Pequeño Edwin con sus orgullosos papás en una sesión muy relajada y representativa de sus personalidades y estilo de vida.

Baby Edwin with his proud parents in a very relaxed portrait session that reflected their personalities and lifestyle.



Video: Chris Howard Live & Retire in Costa Rica Tour

A teaser video for Chris Howard’s excellent informational tour.  Chris is one of the  leading experts and authors on relocating and retiring in Costa Rica.

Un video para el tour dirigido a los que buscan vivir o pensionarse en Costa Rica. Chris es uno de mas reconocidos expertos y autores en la materia de pensionarse en Costa Rica.

If you would like to discuss a web video for your business you can contact me here. Si desear conversar sobre un video para web para su negocio, me puede contactar aquí

Feb 1 2013 Here’s short testimonial video for Chris’ Tours:

Puerta! The Real Rodeo

This article originally appeared in The Costa Rica Star please stop by. Please feel free to leave any comments at the bottom of the post. If you wish to contact me you can do so here. Thanks, Solson

One of my favorite year end activities is watching the local version of the bulls. Ticos have developed their own version of bull fighting where the bull is the aggressor and the fans or “improvised bullfighters” try to get as close as possible without injury. The best runs feature a few poor souls running for their lives and possibly being tossed or trampled but hopefully with no serious injury (to person or bull). Sprinkled in between the amateurs, there will be a real cowboy who rides, or attempts to ride a bull with a silly name.

The most famous of these events happens in Zapote under bright lights, with TV cameras, half a dozen color commentators, spokes models, controlled access, insurance policies and no drinking. Fun to watch from home, but right now I have none of them and all I want are the lights.

My back is already stiff and the event is an hour late. I’m ten feet off the ground in rickety grand-stands fashioned from roughly milled boards arranged in such a way that leg cramps are guaranteed. And I’m in the expensive seats. The cheap seats aren’t seats at all, but standing room under the stands, on the fence rails or in the bull ring itself, whatever you feel like. The bulls were on time but the if Ticos in the Central Valley tend to be late, then out here in Filadelfia, Guanacaste it’s twice as bad. They don’t start till the stands are full about an hour behind schedule.

The down time lets me find my camera settings. The light is terrible. I suspected I would have this problem and had hoped to got to an afternoon event. It turns out they stopped having afternoon events a while back and now it’s night time or nothing. I finally settle on a compromise that will get me a shutter speed fast enough to freeze action (1/400 second) at the cost of introducing noise and a loss of detail in my pictures. I’m using ISO 12,800 and an fixed length lens at f/2.0. It occurs to me that these pictures would have been virtually impossible a few years ago or even with my other camera, but the technological advances save the day. I opt to shoot in black and white since it hides the noise produced by such a high ISO a little better. The noise tends to look more like old film grain instead of splotches of purple red and green.

By sheer luck tonight is a championship bull-riding event. One of the event organizers boasts a personal money-back guarantee to anyone not satisfied with the show. That’s the kind of statement you can make out here, away from San Jose, away from the lawyers, away from the health ministry and away from the cops. Even the sponsors seem emboldened as the announcer routinely spouts a line touting how you’ll always have a lady by your side if you buy their brand of car (trust me it’s a big one, look at the pictures you’ll figure it out). Throughout the evening the announcer requests that folks keep away from the bull while it’s being ridden, not drink in the ring, and that remind people that minors aren’t allowed inside the rails. He summons the private security to help clear those folks out, but it’s lip service. I was there for 5 hours and never saw a single cop or security staff of any type. By the end of the night there are dozens of empty beer cans and bottles in the ring.

After some pomp, the riders names are drawn against the bulls. Luck would have it that the best rider has drawn the best bull, fans and organizers are pleased. When the riding finally starts it’s a fast moving affair. A new bull is sent out just a soon as they round up the previous one. The action is impressive and I have a blast photographing it, though my camera does have some trouble keeping focus in such low light. I’m not an expert but I can appreciate a strong ride or a fierce bull even while trying to keep things in frame.

Amidst all the action and the dust, there are poignant moments as well. The organizers pass the hat to help a well-known local rider who is permanently injured. The hat goes back around for the house-wife bull rider who makes mean tamales, but needs a hand as well.

The bulls are allowed to run free for a couple of minutes after they are ridden to chase those brave enough to stay in the ring. One of the ranchers even sends out a “gift” bull just for the improvised bullfighters. I’m betting nothing will sober you up faster than 1200lb bull snorting and chasing you down. Most keep their distance and are openly mocked by the announcer. One fellow stands out and make a number close passes but ends up with little more than praise for his efforts, since even he doesn’t get close enough to touch one of the horns and earn himself concert tickets.

By the end no one has requested a refund, no one is hurt (somewhat shockingly to me) and the crowd retreats to the fairground for a few more brews, food and dancing. I don’t want a refund either, just a painkiller for my back and a computer to review the pictures.

Jimena cumple–Jimena’s Birthday

Les comparto imágenes del la sesión de primer año de Jimena y sus orgullosos papás.

Here’s Jimena’s first birthday photo session, along with her proud parents.

Ciertamente fotografiar a los pequeños tiene sus reto especial. Ellos no posan ni se apuran y menos vuelven a a ver cuando se ocupa, pero al final es muy divertido.
Photographing kids is a  special challenge. They don’t pose, hurry up and won’t look at you when you wish they would,  but it’s lots of fun in the end.

Chicharrones, Hands On

This article originally appeared in The Costa Rica Star (with a different title), please drop in and have a look around.

Feel free to leave your comments below, or reach me here.

This day has been in the works for months, the one my brother-in-law has been threatening me with. I’m back on the enormous rice farm in Guanacaste. I’ve had a day to settle in and fired off about 150 pictures wandering around the fields at sunset. I’ve tried previsualizing. It doesn’t help much nor does my 3rd cup of coffee. Even the howler monkeys know something’s up as they’ve been extra noisy this morning.

Alvaro a.k.a.“La Bala” (The Bullet) has probably been out late the night before, and is proving difficult to track down at 7:30 on a Saturday. We finally find him putting his crew to work before taking the day off to be the lead man for today’s “chicharroneada.” He hops in the pickup full of energy and already telling tall tales of the lady he met the night before (I’ve been warned he speaks at 180 lies per minute). We drive 10 minutes to the pig farm.

Walking through the facility makes the uneasiness worse. Baby pigs nursing, toddler pigs just hanging out being cute, and market ready pigs curiously sniffing at my camera don’t really make me hungry. Neither does the stink of pig that manure hangs thick in the air, settles deep in my nostrils, permeates my clothes and eventually spends days under my fingernails.

I’m spared having to choose which one to take. He’s being loaded onto the pick-up when I emerge from my self-guided tour. I try desperately to convince myself that’s he’s just food. I cartoonishly try to imagine him as a rack of ribs or some chops neatly glazed over coals.

The ride back to the house is quieter than the ride out. Just occasional chatter and a quick check to make sure he hasn’t slipped loose.

I’m asked if I’m going to be the one to do it. The look on my face is the only answer they need. A quick couple of smacks to the head with a hammer and they pin him down right there in the back of the pickup while I watch nearby. A large knife to the jugular and a bowl to collect the blood. The sound is terrible. From the first blow, the squealing is ear piercing and terrifying. He squirms, grunts and chokes. La Bala looks up frustrated, and asks “who feels sorry for him?” Local lore says they take longer to die when you pity them, and he’s taking too long. I get singled out as the guilty party, and La Bala orders me to put a hand on him and tell him to go. I do. And he does. La Bala whispers a prayer that God take him to a better place. It’s not a prayer for show done for some rookie’s sake. He means it and I suspect he says it every time.

I’m still somewhat shaken as we start removing the bristles, using hot water to soften them and then scrape them away with knives. I rub salt over the skin to clean it further. Much to my surprise I finally settle down when La Bala makes a first slice and I see meat. I end up helping during the rest of the butchering process. I remove the skin and cut chunks of loin. I help remove the head (it’s heavier than you imagine) and hold the guts. I’m handed assorted organs. I toss the jaw, eyes and snout in the river for the croc, who splashes into the water just before I arrive. It’s all very matter-of-fact until 1:30 when it’s time to start eating.

I nibble at some of the pork rinds, but dig deeper into the rice and the beet salad. My hands still stink and it mixes poorly with the pork. I distract myself by chatting with the neighbors and sipping my beer while I stay close to the pot where my instruction continues. The white bubbles on the skin means they’re just about ready, and then there’s the secret ingredient that sends the boiling pot of lard overflowing causing a terrible flaming mess for a few seconds.

I’m tired, but happy I stuck it out. I earned enough respect from the locals to get teased by the neighbors and defended by La Bala. Both are signs of acceptance in rural Costa Rica. It’s nealy 4:00 when we finally finish cooking and La Bala catches his ride into town, with a large bottle of rum as payment.

I once had dinner at a fancy French restaurant that boasted the largest cognac collection in country, on the sixty-some-odd floor of a hotel in Las Vegas. It was lovely meal with good friends, veal four ways, and 25 year-old-scotch. It was one of my most memorable meals. I think I’ll be adding chicharrón four ways, on a farm, with cheap beer and new friends to the list of most memorable meals.


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