Ivy Tower

My original title for this shot was Gone to Seed. But that didn't seem right. But I wonder what prompts someone, a farmer in this case, to let a structure go. There are scientists who study what happens to things when we let the wild take it back -- The World Without Us kind of thing.  

I like to think that this farmer made the choice to let ivy grow on his old brick silo, like an experiment or folk art. It's like my garden statue of The Bird Girl made famous in Midnight In the Garden of Good of Evil. When she was new, her resin form was painted an antique bronze. The longer she stands in the back yard, the paint has been slowly falling off. My family keeps asking when I'm going to repaint her. Never, I reply. I like watching her age. The Buddhists watch their mandalas blow away. Why can't I do the same?

Elevators

Joseph Campbell in those Moyers interviews on PBS back in the early 90s, talked about a progression you can see in many U.S. cities. He spoke specifically about Salt Lake City. When the city was founded, the largest structure was the church. That building was then superseded by the city hall. And finally, both of these were dwarfed by a business building -- the temple of commerce.

This shot keys off that idea. It also fits -- in a big way -- my roadside memorial project. I worked this site, and this shot is the best. After walking around, I sat on a concrete bench to rest, looked up, and realized this was the best view. If you don't catch the meaning of the title, think about it.

As an aside, I find this type of cemetery depressing. If you are going to memorialize someone, do it with a real headstone. Not one of these that make it easy to mow over instead of around. I'm opting for a green burial. Just wrap me in a sheet, drop me in a nice meadow, and plant an tree (I'm still debating which species, but I'm leaning toward one of the new disease resistant American Chestnut, as part of the American Chestnut Restoration Project).

No stone required. 

A Store Close By

While on an assignment this summer, I drove by this old store in Belvue, Kansas, daily. It's not just a general store. It is The Belvue General Store. I thought it had potential as a subject, but it wasn't until early evening on this particular day, when the buildings across the street were reflected on the front windows, that I stopped. I did not "work" the store. I did not walk all around. I positioned myself and took only one shot -- the last on my roll of 120 in my Diana+. Somehow I knew that would be enough.

The good news is that the building's owner has put in new windows and appears to be renovating the building and the one attached to it. I seriously doubt it will be a general store. I thought about when this general was the place to do one's shopping -- probably from scoops to nuts. Now, the residents have to drive approximately 15 miles in either direction to find a grocery store.

We have always had a need for a store close by. There is a nice, small market within walking distance to my house. It used to be an IGA (like most locals we refer to it as Igga). It was built in the 50s, and is quaint by modern grocery store standards. Whether you call it a bodega, mini mart, corner store, or convenience store, they serve our local needs.

I know a woman whose favorite store is a Walgreen's. She says she does almost 90% of her shopping there -- from prescriptions to groceries. When she travels, the first place she locates is a Walgreen's. These stores exemplify the corporatization of convenience stores., like Quik Trips and the rest of their ilk.

I'm making no value judgement about whether such chain stores are better or worse than the mom and pop stores that used to used to be close by. It is what it is.

Still, seeing a place like The Belvue General Store reminds me of the loss of such places. They served a need. Now they don't. My paternal great-grandparents lived in a small place called Illmo, Missouri, which was part of Scott City. The name was derived from its location in Missouri, by the Mississippi River, and across from the Illinois border. There was a store not very different than The Belvue. My Dad remembers is as The Model Grocery (notice the The). It was next door to Roth Hardware. I have since discovered it was owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Held. I'm sure they were friends with my Granny and Pop. Here's a photo I found online: 

One of the stories about my great-grandmother was time time Models' delivery boy knocked on her back door and wanted to know if she had any canned green beans (or some such item) that she could part with. The store had run out, and the owner knew Granny always had a well-stocked pantry. She sent the boy back with a sack full, knowing full well that she and the owners would settle up the next time she stopped by.

This is the kind of story that couldn't happen today. Why, what if there were razor blades hidden in those cans? Perhaps 50 years from now, people will have stories to tell about their local chain store. Maybe like John Updike's "A&P." It's all part of what William Carlos Williams termed "the local" and our own personal realities.

Feeling Archy

I was recently introduced to an older man who worked for the same metropolitan daily newspaper as I did. His tenure ended when I probably was in high school, so our paths never met. Only a newspaper would understand this, but I did not know his byline. He is well into his retirement. I politely inquired about his activities and his countenance brightened when he described the profile he was writing about Joe Somebody. He said the real name and had an look of expectation on his face, as if I should know who he was talking about. I did not. Sometimes, I pretend to know who the mystery person is (probably fooling no one), but his this a fessed of and said I did not know that name. 

It turns out he was a photographer for the newspaper well before I got there. And, my acquaintance said, "He's famous worldwide. He took more than 35,000 photographs of the Arch." For anyone not familiar with this St. Louis "landmark," he was was speaking of the Gateway Arch, the behemoth stainless steel structure on the Mississippi side of the downtown of the city. As an aside, as I have traveled around the United States with my other work, I have occasionally been surprised about people's knowledge or impression of the Arch. A handful have even thought it spanned the Mississippi instead of standing alongside it, as it does. 

The accomplishment of having taken 35,000 photographs of the Arch still did not trigger a memory of this photographer. In my younger, more pithy days, my first thought would have been, "After 35,000, I hope he got it right." This day, it was probably my third or fourth thought. I wasn't sure this qualified the man to be "world famous," in part because I had not even heard of him. I could admire his persistance, like a terrier pulling on the same trouser leg for years.  

As a native, I have not photographed the Arch other than taking the types of family snaphots that most people take. I can only speak for myself, but even with my equipment, training, and experience, my shapshots still look pretty much like everyone else's. For some reason, a few weeks ago, I was looking at my camera collection, waiting for some sort of sign of what to shoot next. The camera that spoke loudest to me was my Horizon 202, Russian-made panoramic. I have had this for several years and probably only run 10 or so rolls through it. So, I had chosen a camera. Now I needed something to shoot. The Arch came to mind. This seemed like such a plebian, touristy thing, but I was intrigued with the potential of using a wide format camera and its resulting distortions, a nice cloudy bright day, and some Adox 100 Art Series film I had been hoarding. These elements converged yesterday, and this is one of the resulting images. I plan on posting others on my portfolio page soon.  There won't be 35,000 of them. I promise.

Barley House

I've been thinking about barns lately. I don't know why. None of my people were farmers, at least as far back as great-great anythings. I took my favorite barn photograph when I was still in high school. It was the side of an old barn, recently painted white, with a rooster in the only window. My father remembers this photography in color with the white barn and a red roost. When I left photography, I did not keep track of my negatives. Now all that is left is a poorly made print I made on RC paper.  It is, and was, in black and white. Good black and white photographs can make you think you are seeing colors,

I was recently at an antique mall. One of the booths featured items made from old, weathered barn boards. In the center of the booth as a color photograph of the aging, leaning barn just before it was dismantled to make picture frames, end tables, some faux-folk art Adirondack-style chairs. All of them shitty. They should have burned the barn and saved it from such indignity.

I named this shot Barley House because the word barn is from the Old English, meaning barley house. It is interesting that today barn has two main meanings. One is "A large farm building used for storing grain, hay, or straw or for housing livestock." The other is much more interesting and yet somehow related, "A unit of area...used especially in particle physics."

Finally, I'm not a big DeLillo fan, but I am fond of this: “What was the barn like before it was photographed?' he said. 'What did it look like, how was it different from other barns, how was it similar to other barns? We can't answer these questions because we've read the signs, seen the people snapping the pictures. We can't get outside the aura. We're part of the aura. We're here, we're now.”-- White Noise

Tassels & Fronds

I shot this a couple of weeks ago while working in St. Marys, Kansas. I was working in St. Marys and staying at a small motel in Wamego, about 12 miles away. This area is in northeastern Kansas, so there's lots of corn and some soybeans, but not the ubiquitous wheat one usually associates with this state.

Mornings and early evening, I drove between the work site and the motel. I was always looking for something to shoot. At first, nothing seemed photo-worthy. But slowly, the landscape revealed itself to me. It revealed its simplicity. I stopped to photograph a sign that I found interesting. As I turned toward the car, I saw this view. I took a chance. I was using a camera that I had owned for several years but only shot one or two rolls with it. I didn't know how it would render what I was seeing.

I received my scans in the same hour that I read a short posting by the photographer David Carol, whose work and demeanor I have come to very much appreciate. He was discussion the three essential traits of a good photographer. He wrote, "The second important attribute is the ability to notice. You must see what is not always obvious and be visually aware of subtle nuances in the world around you."

I was doing that without being conscious of it. I have a reputation among the Scout leaders and parents of my sons' classmates. I was constantly getting "lost" on field trips and outings -- usually photographing things that the others either did not see, or did not see as something worthy of a photograph. Until they saw the work later.

This shot epitomizes my approach to noticing things. The evening I shot this, I was having dinner with the client and he asked about my delay in meeting him for dinner. I apologized for making some stops along the way to take pictures. When I told him I had been taking photographs of the cornfields, the look on his face said, "WHY?"

I will let this shot answer his unasked question.

Meet Prince George

I don't name all my cameras, but since I already had a Rediflex named Prince Charles, I thought it only appropriate to name this Ricoh Prince George because it arrived on the same day he did. Mine is now camera royalty.

I purchased the Rediflex because I heard Prince Charles say that was the camera his family used on outings when he was a boy in the 50s. It does take rather nice photos.

I wasn't really "in the market" for a Ricoh Diacord, but I happened upon one online for a fantastic price. This may be the first camera I buy and then "flip" for a profit. Oh the other hand, I'm a greedy camera addict who needs a shutter full of love... 

Ain't That America

I hear so much about new building permits and housing starts and how they relate to the state of the economy. I have also been aware of the growing trend of photographing urban decay. But decay is everywhere. I can't begin to count the number of abandoned buildings like this one, sitting on the corner of two no longer relevant roads. It's sad, thinking about all the time, effort and money someone spent building a structure like this. The local economy must have been vibrant enough to sustain it, at least for a while. If we aren't interested in the longevity of a place, why build with this much quality. A disposable structure might be a better investment. But then, what would I have to photograph? Maybe Mellencamp had it right, "But just like every thin' else those old crazy dreams /
Just kinda came and went ." 

Ain't That America

The Parahogal

If I believed in ghosts (I am an agnostic), I would say that this image captured some sort of activity or energy associated with these roadside memorials. The first image I made of this scene is below. Just a few seconds later, I captured the one above. Same camera (my trusty Holga 120S). Same scene. Same light. Dramatically different. Gotta love toy camera photography.  

My sons tried several times over the years to get me to sit with them and watch those ghost hunter shows. Not really my thing. And as the image above suggests, maybe you don't need all those sensitive electronics to detect paranormal activity. If ghosts had a sense of humor (and I hear some do), then they probably would present themselves only through the humble lo-fi Holga -- what I have dubbed The Parahogal. 

Before the After Event

Another Roadside Memorial

In the spirit of Tom Robbins, I wanted to use a quote from his Another Roadside Attraction because this series keys off his title. But this one from Jitterbug Perfume captures the spirit of why I am always stopping along highways and roads to photograph memorials: "...but blessed in the twinkle of the morning star is the one who nurtures it (individuality) and rides it in, in grace and love and wit, from peculiar station to peculiar station along life's bittersweet route.”

I do not question why I shoot roadside memorials. I have often said that I am haunted by all the photographs I didn't take. I got the idea to shoot these subjects while working on a long-term writing project in Greenville, Texas. Several times during the gig, I would leave the work site as the sun was setting. Just outside the facility's fence was an elaborate memorial, well-kept and very Catholic/Hispanic in tone. The combination of the sun's last rays of that orbit and the macabre statement of "Someone died here!" is perfectly painted in my mind. If I had had a camera with me, perhaps I would have photographed this perfect memorial and never shot another.

I don't have much else to say about this series, other than to say I initially wanted to call is Road Kill, but decided against such poor taste. I hope the work speaks for itself. I will add, however, this cautionary advice. If you think you, too, would like to document these makeshift cemeteries, be aware that there's probably a good physical reason why someone died in an accident in a particular bend in the road. Trucks going by have pulled me into their drafts, tires have sprayed me with gravel, and the sight of some weird dude with a camera on the side of the road have all almost made me a casualty.

And this too: On many occasions I have stopped to make my photograph, only to drive by some time later to see that the memorial was gone. One was even in pieces, cut down by a highway department brush hog. Just another temporary altar on that bittersweet route.

Route Bittersweet

Under The Influence

Think Higher

Two of my photographs, “Think Higher” and “Afterward Will Be Too Late,” have been selected for Art St. Louis’s Under The Influence exhibition. Under The Influence will be presented Saturday, August 17 through Thursday October 10, 2013 at the new Art St. Louis location (more on that in another post).

The opening reception will be held Saturday, August 17, 2013 from 6-9 p.m. They will have a special happening going on in conjunction with the reception that night to be announced shortly. The reception is free and open to the public, so consider this your first invitation to join me.

For this show, 110 St. Louis regional artists submitted 207 artworks in all media for consideration by exhibition jurors, the St. Louis artists Kit Keith and Tim Liddy. From a tremendous amount of excellent works, the jurors selected works by 54 artists for the final exhibit, including yours truly.

 

I'm In...My Backyard

Okay. I know I photograph my Bird Girl statue far too much. But I'm having fun watching her "weather," despite my friends and family who don't understand why I don't just buy some spray paint and "fix" her. ​

One of my favorites is this one, titled "Crimson Splendor." It was shot with Holga with X-poed slide film. I shot six in a row, and each is different. ​This one is the best. I've submitted it to several of those toy camera exhibitions, and each time it was declined. Always a bridesmaid, eh?

When I heard about the Lenscratch "My ​Backyard" exhibition, I immediately thought of this image. There are five online pages of other backyard shots. Bird Girl is somewhere in the middle of part five. You may gaze at her here, or look at her on the website. Plus, check out the other entries. There's some good stuff on there.

From the exhibition: "Happy Summer!! Summer marks time in our backyards: getting out the grill, entertaining, and relaxing in the garden. It's a time to reconnect with the natural world and celebrate sun dappled skin, an ocean breeze, and that glorious afternoon light."

Thanks Aline Smithson!​

​Go to www.lenscratch.com.

Say Hello To My Little Friend

I wasn't in the market for a Speed Graphic. I thought they were cool and all, but there are other analog cameras higher on my list. But I came across this one at an estate auction. Out of the thirty or so cameras on the table, this one called to me. ​

I wanted. I bid. I won. I practically stole it. Now I have it.​

As I told my wife about my "win," I'm thrilled to have it, now I have to learn how to use the damn thing. It's going to take me a bit to get up to speed -- including exactly what model it is and how to load the 120 back.​

The manual states, "A fine camera is primarily an instrument rather than a machine."​ I like this. The folks at BMW with their Ultimate Driving Machine campaign could learn something from this approach.

One operates a machine. I plan on playing an instrument.​

Meat & Flooring

I used to tell my students to avoid taking photographs of signs because they are "too easy." But in a classic example of do as I say not as I do, I am a habitual abuser of my own advice. I consistently take pictures of signs. To quote the Five Man Electric Band:

"Signs, Signs, Everywhere there's signs.
Blocking out the scenery. Breaking my mind.
Do this! Don't do that! Can't you read the signs?​"

​Signs are irresistible as subjects. They don't move. They don't blink. They don't seem to mind whether you take their photo.

They also tell you much about the owner. In this case, the owner of Soll's has developed a store that apparently meets the needs of its customers. I would love to see the business plan for this establishment, though something tells me there isn't one. It has simply evolved organically so that now you can buy meat as well as the floor to drop it on.

I drive by this sign weekly. I waited for an overcast day when there were no cars in the lot. This drizzly day, I stepped out of my car with my silver Vivitar Ultra Wide & Slim loaded with Ilford Delta 3200 film and got three shots before a man with a pissed off face emerged from the back of the store and stared at me with his arms crossed. I took this as another type of sign and moved on to my destination...and the next sign.

Big River Bigger

Sometimes, it is fun to visit a touristy place on a yucky day with a fun camera. Add to that the Mississippi well above flood stage and some fellow's unmanned canoe (complete with duck decoys), and you've got something worth shooting.

So Much River, from Feeling Arch series

A Question of Ownership

This photograph raises the question: Who should have the credit?

Self Portrait? April 2013, by Scoopie.

Last Thanksgiving, I set up ​my Horizon 202 panoramic camera in the dining room to take a shot with everyone in attendance. Because this camera does not have a self-timer, someone had to press the shutter. I wanted a few iterations of the photo that included just my own family, the extended family, and one with others such as new girlfriends. For one of the shots, I asked my photographer nephew to press the button. He agreed, but said, "You know, I learned in my photography class that whoever presses the shutter owns the picture. I want credit as the photographer. I am 30+ years older than my nephew, and I remember receiving the same instruction when I was about his age and taking a class.

This issue occurred again a couple of days ago when my wife took this shot of me. I envisioned this shot. I set it up. I showed her how to take it with my Nikon DSLR. And she pressed the button several times as I posed. Does this mean she gets the credit?

Does it matter that I could have done it with a wireless remote I had in my bag? Do I credit it as a collaboration. If so, doesn't that raise another question about ownership because my best portrait sessions are ones during which the subject participates in the process. ​

Lots of questions here. Ultimately, does it matter? For today, I am thinking it does not. I am giving her the credit, but calling it a self portrait. Issue resolved.

Returning to the Scene

"In answer, my friend gently reflects, 'I doubt it. There's never two of anything.'"​ from Truman Capote's A Christmas Memory.

​Sometimes I think of it as a vibe. Sometimes I think of it as a gut feeling. Other times it feels like some sort of secret vein. And sometimes I think of it as the universe tugging at my shirttail. ​ No matter what "it" is called, I need to listen to it.

That is why I schlep cameras with me almost everywhere I go. I can never know when "it" will say, "Take that photograph. Take it now."​ Some of my best work has been a spontaneous, serendipitous convergence of a bagful of cameras, an openness, and good ole fashioned luck. Chance does indeed favor the prepared photographer.

That's what happened the first time I photographed this juggler. I had a few minutes to kill before a meeting, so I drove around some side streets. I noticed the juggler and drove on toward the Starbucks sign beckoning in the next block. But a niggling thought kept saying, "Go back." I had just that morning loaded up my go-to Holga with a fresh roll, so I turned the car around, found a parking spot right in front of the statue, and shot an entire roll with no one to disturb me. My pick from that shoot adorns the first page of my website. ​

I took this shot a few weeks later. I was in the neighborhood again. This time, a freak snow storm had just begun. I hopped out and took a few new shots. I'm not sure this one is any better than the first. It's not worse. It does not have the same personal "vibe" this time around. ​ If anything, it suffers from what I call the Bionic Woman syndrome. That is, I can make it better. I have the technology. ​

That may be, but returning to the scene is not the same as returning to that same moment. There's never two of anything.

More Madcappery

I Found Jesus

This is the result of my philosophy that if I stay in one place long enough, a photograph will present itself. I had been sitting in the London Team Room for half an hour before I starting paying attention to my surroundings. That's when I found Jesus.​ Of course, he was across the street.

The Jesus Loft

My Photo Chemical Romance

Photo Chemical Romance I

Annie Leibovitz said, "Computer photography won't be photography as we know it. I think photography will always be chemical.​"

This quote has two meanings for me. First, photography as I came to know it was part real chemistry. I remember the smell of D76, stop bath, and fixer like Proust remembered cookies. The physical act of picture taking was followed by the picture making process.

It's not really different in the digital world. There is still the same basic equipment for picture taking, but instead the wet darkroom there is the digital darkroom. It's a different type of chemical reaction. I am not going to enter into the debate over which is better. I think of it as photographic segregation: separate but equal. I don't do anything digitally that I didn't do wetly.

I was speaking to a guy 20 years younger than me about my prints in the Urban Architecture Exhibition. I was describing the type of silver gelatin paper I chose for the print (Hahnemuhle). He looked at me and said, "I don't know what you are talking about."​ His reality did not include those old choices photographers once had to make. I could bemoan the decline of the analog industry -- and I do somewhat -- because that was how I learned the craft of picture making. For my friend, he can't mourn what he never knew. ​Besides, as my mates in Alabama 3 say, "Change must come from the barrel of a gun." The gun is technology.

My other interpretation of Leibovitz's quote is not about photo chemicals but about photo chemistry -- between myself and my subject. I think of it as photography pheromones, based on trust.

Either way, photography means Better Things for Better Living...Through Chemistry, to quote an old DuPont advertisement.​

Going the Distance

Good portraiture is certainly challenging enough, but making a portrait of someone you love is like a marriage. A definitive portrait (of that person, at that exact moment) must resonate. It must be intimate. It must be evocative. It must have a timeless quality. And it must be something you will want to hang on the wall and look at for the rest of your life.

Today, when I received the roll of film with this image of my youngest son, I realized that I have done him a disservice photographically. Robert Capa famously said, "If your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough" Conventional wisdom is that he was referring to positioning yourself physically closer to your subject. If distance were the only issue, then this portrait meets that criterion because I stood in his personal air space to take it.  But more importantly, he let me.

Unlike his brother, he has never really been comfortable being photographed. I have the scowls, the glaring (or deliberately closed) eyes, and the bored-to-death countenance to prove it. Maybe he thought the camera separates rather than unites us? The result is that I have too often backed away physically and emotionally. I have not developed a rich photographic language that is unique to him.

Then there are those rare moments, like this one, when he is willing to open up, and I am willing to move into that emotion space. To quote a Lucinda Williams song, "If wishes were horses I'd have a ranch." If these moments happened more regularly, perhaps I would not value them as much. They evaporate far too quickly. My ranch becomes a mirage. But in that isolated moment, the alchemy of light, film, chemicals, and being in the moment creates a decisive portrait.

Lately, as I watch him mature into a young man, I am reminded of a line from a song by Harry Chapin. It was written about his daughter, but it is really about being a parent. "I have watched you take shape from a jumble of parts / And find the grace and form of a fine work of art."

I will hang this one on my wall.​

Nick/17