One might say I skied right off the delivery table to begin my life. When you’re born in Aspen, Colorado at the base of the mountain, you get a pretty early start. At the age of 2, my mom handed me to a ski-instructor who said- “we don’t take children in diapers.” Mom removed the diaper & handed me back. At 3, I was managing the whole mountain -lifts and all. Then for years it was ski racing club, until the first snowboard shop opened in town. I can still remember their names-Larry and Zippy, and I would hang out at the shop everyday after school. By then I was 7 years old, and my older brother Olivier who was 17 was involve in the latest fashion called snowboarding which inspired me to give it a try. So when all the other kids bragged about starting to ski at 7, I decided to brag about quitting at 7. It wasn’t until I joined the Aspen Valley Snowboard Club that I started enrolling into USASA competition. Eventually after an entire season of competing every weekend I qualified for Nationals in Telluride, Colorado at age 13 along with Gretchen Bleiler a school chum, and Shaun White. Shaun was 11 & even then had a head of shocking orange hair. It was such a contrast against that virgin snow in the high altitudes. It put the judges on notice when that flying tomato came by. Gretchen, Olympic medallist, turned 15 at a big competition. Her mom surprised her with a brand new VW. We all thought that was so cool!

During these adolescent years I spent time in France in school where I skied in the Alps and time in Argentina where I rode horses and learned Polo. Most summers were spent on the St Lawrence River at the border of New York State and Canada. Grandpa had a sprawling peninsula with boats of every description; cabin cruiser, ski boats, St Lawrence skiff and canoes. We water-skied endlessly until we ran out of gas. We would soar over jumps owned by US water skiing champ Jon Holcombe, and helped ourselves to his slalom course. It would get very weedy in there when the water was low, and once we crushed a propeller on a rock we swore was never there. Grandpa explained that with heavy river traffic the rocks would move around a lot on the bottom.

My other grandpa invented the flying automobile called the Fulton Airphibian as well as a famous rescue system called the Fulton Skyhook, used by many countries, in time of war or distress. He owned and flew a P-51, a WWII bomber aircraft. Grandpa would fly long distances VFR which means he relied on his vision, not the instrument panel-unheard of today. Once he returned from Calgary, Canada in a horrible white-out & mom asked him how he did it, “Oh I just flew under all that junk”. He taught me a lot. How to think in simple concepts. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could ever be bored. He could find “wonderment” in staring at a blade of grass. I hope I can find such simple satisfaction. I miss my 2 grandpas and especially my dad. Ah…my dad… a silent storage of vast knowledge, accumulated over years of self-imposed study despite his ranking as a Harvard man. He claimed the only time he ever really learned anything was at The Friend’s school in Washington DC where his parents were working during the WWII years. He spent one year there when he was 5. Dad spent thousand of hours immersed in Buddhist studies, and also lived in a Japanese tea house for 5 years in Cambridge where he spoke not a single word for a full year-self imposed as a testament to his will power and determination. But I think secretly he honored silence and detested the useless chitchat of the human race. I would love to have had him hold in his arms my baby boy Robert Edison Fulton V, whose veins are flowing with the Asian culture he so honored all his life. The theme of solitude was his predominant feature. He went from the deepest of dark, the dark room where he printed and developed his film, to the loneliness of his Cessna’s cockpit on his numerous solo flights. But when asked to rally he was always ready for a good party. People loved him. His responses always so original, his conversation so erudite. Of him, my grandma would say, “must be lonely up there” referring to the heights to which his intellect would stretch. Dad quietly and secretly studied for a pilot’s license which he obtained at age 16, stunning his parents by inviting them to witness his first solo flight. Flying became his first passion. It accompanied him throughout his life like a big old Saint Bernard. He even washed, polished and patted his small plane as if it were a faithful family dog. When at Harvard his second great passion became photography. Little by little he became the country’s top aerial cinematographer since he mounted a camera on the wing of passion #1. With this creative and innovative operation he spewed forth footage printed as glorious scenes for private and commercial use. My life is bombarded by his work. On TV, in movie houses and in airplanes I see his films. His film work was his tool to uncover his deep metaphysical inquiry: to find an image for which there is no words. His humor was dry, selective and often escaped us. Dad & mom both loved language. He was particularly irked by poor enunciation. When enrolling me in school, he asked the headmistress to stress enunciation. I guess she thought he said Annunciation and she replied “oh you want a Catholic school for that-that’s not offered here.” Once in a rain storm when I was 14, he rode in a golf cart filming my every stroke. Despite the heavy rains I scored the best round I’ve ever played. Maybe I was trying to show off, or maybe my dad’s presence brought out the best in me. Later he studied my swing in slow motion back home on my computer. That’s how it was; always a little intellectual twist on the most mundane things of life. That’s why I loved him. His deep passion for Jazz was cultivated from very early days. He owned 5 Selmer saxophones which he and mom lugged through the Paris airport. He never went anywhere without one. Before embarking on a trip he would ask mom “is it a tenor or a soprano kinda trip?” Even as a very little fella I was always proud of the way he held everyone’s attention. He would take us trick or treating always with his saxophone regaling the neighborhood as we went from door to door. Many of them begged us to come in, so cool was his music. With my older more mature grasp on life, I wish I could revisit, re-experience those days with dad. Just in case I may have missed something; have not appreciated something; have taken something for granted. If the Genie would grant me three wishes in life it would be: to have my dad back, to have my dad back, to have my dad back.

My involvement in yoga rates high on this scale. I guess those early years of skateboarding and snowboarding where I made dozens of videos after school propelled me into my professional life as a cinematographer. From the San Francisco Art Institute where I studied film, until present I have been working in 35mm, 16mm & digital. When I destroyed my elbow on a sketchy handrail up at Stratton, Vermont, I thought my early thrills had come to a fast finish. Then I discovered hot yoga, thanks to my wife. I began to retrieve those old sensations of bodily exhilaration that was the core of my childhood. Yoga is now an integral part of my life and the inspiration for our clothing line. I always say “If you’re going to feel this good, why not look this good”.