I’ve never been a reader of The Bible. My knowledge of scripture was filtered through my Catholic upbringing, and I must admit, even that is foggy at best. I could remember the prayers in Sunday morning mass, but I think the ritual alone settled into my brain… I never paid much attention to the words themselves, or what they meant. I guess it would help to buckle down and work my way through the “good book” at some point, if only to brush up on my trivia for my moment in the spotlight on Jeopardy (a guy can dream.) Nevertheless, I know enough about references to wandering in the desert, or the wilderness. A panacea for dealing with the world, not a forced exile, or an “exodus” to go back to the Bible, but a time of reflection in any event. In the days of my youth, I had no comprehension of the depths of nature, the extent of wilderness, no understanding of wide open spaces, where humans are but a blip in an unforgiving landscape. We didn’t have “wilds” in suburban NJ. My time in the American Southwest has giving me much, but probably the greatest gift is a chance to get out in the middle of nowhere, alone with my thoughts (and my cameras.) I’m far from a brave person; I’m generally anxious, and easily skittish. Animals that can hurt me, insects that bite and sting, an unrelenting sun… these are things that can rattle my mind quite easily. And yet, I can still muster the resolve to “get out there” into the desert, alone… and sometimes, unafraid. And the rewards are many. Sunrise in the desert is a glorious thing. Silence at maximum volume. The light, unique. A chill in the air, maybe for the first 30 minutes or so after the sun breaks over the horizon. Wandering through the Arizona desert last weekend, the world let me exhale… and then take a huge breath in again. Time alone is good for my soul, at least in small doses. To readjust, to recalibrate. And while my creativity continues to flow, I will tap into that river of inspiration, and see what it yields. Needless to say, I made many photographs on the trip. Primarily using my Holgawide 120 Pinhole camera to take in the breadth of the open landscape and the majesty of the stoic sentinels of the desert, the Saguaro cactus. Another step on a creative journey. A small step for now, as I do my own wandering through the desert, literally and figuratively. I’ll see where it leads me.
2021: 15 Goodbye, Stranger...
Frequent visitors to this website know that I am far from being a “gear” guy. Most cameras are just a means to an end for me, and I generally swing to the cheaper end of the spectrum when it comes to equipment. Plastic craptastic cameras were a recent obsession; throw in a pinhole camera here, a busted lens there… you get the point. Nevertheless, this week I bit the bullet and upgraded my nicest 35mm film camera. Stimulus money was burning a hole in my pocket, and the premium glass I own needed a long-term body to fully live with. Not gonna get into the details of what I bought… you’ll have to watch this space closely to see if I spill the beans at some point. In order for me to make room on my shelf, I did decide to part with a particular camera that never quite fit into my workflow. My Texas Leica shipped out to a new home this week. I hope it finds a more loving, dedicated user. I never quite took to it, even though I had grandiose plans for it. A cheap plastic Holga stole my heart instead. In any event, as much as I try not to focus to much on gear, it is bittersweet that the Fuji 6 x 9 is heading off to another lover. “Goodbye, stranger…it’s been nice…hope you find your paradise.”
2021: 13 Waxing and Waning
One of my challenges I make to myself, in order to keep out of the grip of the “big mutherfuckin’ sad” is stay engaged with my creativity. Shooting film certainly helps, and improv has been a life saver, for sure. But where to go when the unfamiliar starts to feel commonplace? Recently I decided to sign up for a six-week, online encaustic class. For those who don’t know, encaustic is a centuries old technique of melting wax and pigments, and then painting them onto a surface. In my case, I’ve been exploring the joys of laying wax on top of some of may photographic images. Hell, why not? I’ve already taken flame to my negatives and my prints, so it seems like a logical next step. It’s also a big leap out of my comfort zone. Back in college, I struggled through the painting classes that were part of my fine arts degree studies. Ever since, the idea of using brushes on any surface (besides painting the living room walls) has been foreign territory I’d chosen not to explore. However, the idea of trying something new with my photography proved to be too enticing to ignore, and I am convinced that I’ve made a good choice. It is liberating to brush melted wax onto a surface, then zap it with a heat gun, fusing the wax to the surface. There are myriad ways to manipulate the wax and the color further, and I’ve been trying many different approaches. Trust me, there have been many more failures than successes. But there is a sense of play at the root of this new direction that I find intoxicating. Or maybe it’s just that smell of melting wax that I love so much. It reminds me of the scent in the hallways of my college art department, as I scurried to the elevator to get up to the fourth floor darkroom, where I felt more comfortable than at an easel with my color theory professor chastising me. I sometime I wish I wasn’t so afraid of failure back then.
A melted strip of film, encased forever in resin… a future fossil from a pandemic.
2021: 12 "get sick, get well, hang around an inkwell"
Over a year into social isolation, virus anxiety and the pendulum swings of emotion have come to a turning point for me this week. I finally received my second covid vaccine dosage. Not wanting to rub salt in anyone’s wounds who are still waiting for their shot, of course… but thank goodness for my pre-existing condition… finally high blood pressure has its benefit. The side effects of the second shot (as many have prepped me for) came on strong within 24 hours of my shot. And it did hit me harder than I expected. Mostly fatigue, body aches, and a bit of fever. But I gladly rode it out, because I knew that the only way out was through it… to paraphrase a great movie. The interesting this about not feeling well for this short amount of time was that it made me realize that during the entire lockdown period, I never got a cold or the flu. Aside from some regular stomach duress (par for the course with my diet) I have not gotten sick this past year. I forgot what it felt like, honestly. And this isn’t some macabre, Munchausen-esque self-sabotage… it made me value the process of getting sick and then feeling well again. The day in bed reminded me of what recovery feels like. The emergence from illness, either mild or severe… it is part of being human. And from the existential standpoint, it is a process that will continue in life… until it doesn’t. What doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger. There is no joy without pain, there is no gain without loss. There is no light without dark. This past year I’ve learned many lessons, and will continue to do so, while putting into practice the insight gained. Case in point, I’ve explored creative avenues I would have never taken had I not been in enforced isolation. Sometimes bad, but more often good lessons learned. I have played with mediums completely new to me. At the top of this post is a strip of negatives from my “Sacrosanct” series. I encased it in clear resin, but of course not knowing how to do it correctly, created a rough surface with air bubbles and other deformities. But I like it that way. Flaunt those imperfections, indeed. The negative will never be printed again. Held in clear resin now and forever. Maybe a paperweight. Maybe ending at the bottom of a landfill someday. Dug up in a couple of hundred years by curious archaeologists, perhaps? I’m wondering how confused they will be by what they have discovered.
2021:11 Failure
I spent a good part of the past weekend lost in the bosque on the west side of Albuquerque. No need to get into the gory details, except to say that I now know the feeling of trying to find a needle in the hay. Adding insult to injury, I had brought along my ultra-UN-reliable Kiev 6C; a medium format film camera that the Soviets probably used as weapons while stomping down pro-democracy rallies back in the 80s. That is to say that this camera is a brick. Well, of course my roll of film was botched, the take up spool not really doing its job, the film was not tightly wound and thus, was royally fogged upon opening the back of the camera.
However, in the interest of full disclosure, and to prove to my faithful fanbase that I am fallible, I’m sharing the results here anyway. Because really, these photos actually look pretty good to me. Sure, proper exposure, good framing, and clear imagery in general is what most of us strive for, but there is something appealing about the blast of a light leak, the numbers and dots from the 120 backing paper superimposed onto my photos. It just looks nice to me.
We humans are never perfect. We make mistakes. Lots of mistakes. Over and over and over again. Even when you think you’ve gained enough experience to not make the same stupid mistakes, they always seem to crop up and knock you on your ass. Might as well own up to it.
click on image for a closer look
2021: 9 ......... Interpretation
Mistakes and oversights can lead to enlightenment. The image above was the result of my inability to remember to advance the film on my Holga Panoramic 120 camera properly. I’ve shot with this plastic beast enough times to have maybe been able to figure out this very basic step. Still, I’m prone to error. I am human, after all.
What I find fascinating about this particular photograph is that does not look anything like the reality of the day it was created. That morning, the sun was shining, the air was crisp, the sky clear blue. Ducks and geese were flying and landing in the pond just beyond the reeds. Yet, the overlapping of exposures definitely created a sense of otherworldliness, and setting my camera at ground level also helped me take advantage of the pinhole camera’s extreme depth of field.It all feels post apocalyptic.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my departure from showing the world “as it appears” in my photography. So true: everything has been seen in every which way, certainly as far as photography goes, there truly is nothing new under the sun. A friend recently shared a great quote by artist David Hockney: “There’s a point where you’ve got to interpret the world, not make a replica of it.” I have been going “all in” on interpretation. It has given my vision a serious push into exciting new directions. It has been liberating and satisfying. Maybe a few years ago I would have been disappointed by a roll of overlapping exposures. This week, it felt like a gift.
Ice studies from an alley in Downtown Albuquerque
2021: 8 ........ Get Closer
Winter came down hard on the US this week, and New Mexico was no exception. Thankfully, we never lost power or water or internet… count your blessings, right? The snow cancelled my weekly sojourn to the bosque on Thursday, depriving me and my fellow photographer our time to talk process, to vent about sundry frustrations, and to make some photographs. Luckily, snow doesn’t stick around too long in these parts, our dry climate and abundant sunshine melting away most snowfall by midday.
I wandered Downtown Albuquerque on Friday for a few hours, expecting it to be fairly quiet, thanks to ongoing pandemic restrictions. The plus side of course was plenty of parking. Gear alert: I put extension tubes in between my lens and camera, allowing me to play a bit with extreme close up photography. Technical issues and approaches are not usually a big concern of mine. The end justifies the means, ultimately. I don’t care what tricks it takes to make an interesting image…most of the time. And I gather that with the exception of a few peers and inquisitive photo dweebs, most viewers don’t really care how you made your photograph.
This set up forced me to focus on small details, bending and kneeling and getting in within a few inches of my subject matter. Added bonus to this approach was the fact that I was doing this in a fairly barren back alley in the middle of the city. Not too worried about being smacked in the back of the head while setting up a shot…or getting run over by a distracted delivery driver, but you never know what’s lurking behind that dumpster. To my point, while I was hunched over a frozen pothole filled with ice and water, a random dude rolled up on his bicycle, with a full bottle of St. Germain in his hand. He asked for help unscrewing the cap, as it apparently had gotten gummed up from dried liquor and was impossible to open. I guess that’s why it ended up in the back alley, and then in his hands.
Anyway, the exploration taught me a few things. First off, there’s nothing wrong with playing with different approaches in my image making. I generally don’t likely “macro” photography. I find it a bit of a gimmick, and the whole idea of seeing a miniature world up close feels slightly cliche and predictable to me. But the process did force me to challenge those biases, and fight the urge to give up. I certainly wasn’t expecting to do a series of ice crystal studies behind a barber shop in downtown Albuquerque, but that’s where I landed. No harm, no foul. It was a fun diversion, and I’m not against the idea of pushing this approach further. “If your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough,” Robert Capa famously said. It’s been repeated ad nauseam. I guess it took a detour in my usual approach to discover the truth to it, after all. A lesson learned.
Done with mirrors
2021: 7 ....... Honesty
I’ve been doing a weekly Zoom chat over the past few months with a circle of old friends from middle and high school. It’s been a silver lining during the pandemic to reconnect in this manner. Recently we discussed parties we had when we were kids. I remember a song that was playing on regular rotation during those days. It was Billy Joel’s syrupy ballad “Honesty.” I was never a fan of his, my trip-state area musical hero was from the Jersey side (long before his recent DWI). That damn Billy Joel song brought back feelings of melancholy, memories of when the lights at the party would go dim, and our pre-teen hormones would ramp up to a frustrating level.
What does any of this have to do with photography? Maybe not much, except that I have been pondering the idea of honesty more frequently lately. Honesty in my own work, honesty in my sharing, honesty in my process, honesty in my exchanges with others, specifically other photographers (and all of you, too.) I’m staunchly Generation X, where irony was our standard M.O. It has taken me many years to shake the sarcasm and self-effacing criticism that was our calling card. Honesty is such a lonely word, indeed. I think one of the lessons from the past four years, and certainly the past 11 months, has been the value and the need for honesty. Too many lies, too much misinformation, too many charlatans… it can lead to a dark, violent, deadly place.
Part of my creative process lately has been a search for an honest expression of my thoughts and feelings. Friends may know that I am a passionate improv disciple. I take improv classes and play with a few teams on a regular basis. One of the core tenets of the art form is to find and share the honest emotion of a scene with your partner. This approach finds its way into my photographic process as well. I try not to hide behind some nebulous idea in my work. Though my images recently have veered towards the abstract side of the spectrum, I still try to be honest about my motivation and my process. The words that swirl around my work, while I do try to be poetic, are always meant to be honest. My conversations with those I trust are always as transparent as I am capable of being. Irony and sarcasm are a shield. It’s time to let down the guard.
A 1989 contact sheet. Unremarkable, and yet magical. My own road trip, somewhere in South Dakota.
2021:6 ...... Contact Sheets
My love of the photographic process reaches far back, as it probably does for most of us who toil in this practice. I have distinct memories of so many aspects of image making, that have wormed into my brain. Memories of things I hardly remember from long ago. Memories of the smell of a darkroom, memories of a print coming to life in a tray of developer. The feel of a roll of film in my hand, in complete darkness, as I fumble with a metal reel and tank. The smell of the inside of a film container, the plastic and latent silver scent intoxicating my young mind.
Recently, I was recalling an early memory that I had forgotten about, from many years ago. A childhood memory that laid buried in my brain, almost completely forgotten. Growing up in 1970s New Jersey I lived in a suburban, middle class town. Our entire neighborhood was populated with families with kids. So many kids, ages from pre-K to teens. We all interacted with little regard for any age-inflicted stratification. There was one particular house at the far end of our street, that a group of the older kids (teens) lived in. They were also part of the most liberal, progressive family on the block (in the 70s they were the “hippie” family.) The teens were, to my eyes, a bit wild… long hair and wire framed glasses, like John Lennon. One of the boys was also a photographer. Well, he owned a Nikon camera, that much I recall. One day he arrived in our driveway, showing off to me and my sisters, a mysterious sheet of black and white paper, with little rectangles of images on it. I didn’t comprehend really what it was, and where it came from. But I do remember being intrigued by a series of images, that looked like they told a little story. I think they were from some road trip, in upstate New York, perhaps. There were a few rectangles showing our neighbor urinating on the side of a road. I remember reacting in a confused manner to those few frames. Why would you take a picture of that? Thirty six little pictures. Thirty six moments of magic.
Up until that point, photos were things I saw in frames on a living room table, or pressed in a photo album, behind a thin layer of static cling, plastic sheeting. Sometimes a snapshot or a Polaroid would be shuffled out of a shoebox. This was a new thing… now I know the reason for a contact sheet, and the inherent magic of it, too. The outtakes, the misfires, the hidden gems, the one or two “winners” of the roll… they’re all there. The photographer’s secret story. Often not seen by any audience besides themselves. Hunched over a table, with a magnifying loupe in one hand, a grease pencil in the other. Contact sheets are something that get lost in today’s digital photography world. You can replicate the experience with a simple setting in Lightroom, which I use as my own virtual version of the darkroom practice nowadays. But something is already lost, as these are usually curated sheets that I’ve culled the duds from. Those of you who have spent any time shooting film and exposing paper in a darkroom know there really is no substitution for a contact sheet. It’s as elemental to the photographic process as the sharp smell of stop bath, wafting from a red lit tray.
2021:5 | Thoughts on Béla Tarr: Endurance and Control
NOTE: This week I’m departing somewhat from my usual “still photography” focussed writing. I have visual interests beyond that, so why not share my thoughts on other topics from time to time?
Though I am primarily a still photographer, I love cinema. Or should I say “Cinema” with a capital “C.” Yes, I enjoy movies as much as the next person, and with the extended time spent at home, I’ve made my way through hundreds of hours of viewing via Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, as well as numerous DVDs. Much of it has been mindless escapism, soothingly watching peculiar British people baking Jammy Dodgers and Battenbergs. Supplementally, I’ve been challenging my eyes and my mind with great works by Welles, Godard, Varda, Fellini and many other masters of film. And even those of you who may be familiar with the more esoteric or challenging films out there, I will wager that nothing can fully prepare you for the work of Hungarian filmmaker Béla Tarr. What follows is not a critique of his work from a purely cinematic standpoint, nor do known enough about the man personally to opine on his life, motivations or ideas. Yet, as a somewhat visually astute artist, I hope my thoughts will intrigue you enough to give his films a try.
A scene from Béla Tarr’s “The Turn Horse.” Pass the salt, please.
My first experience with Tarr was maybe 5 or 6 years ago, when I watched “The Turin Horse” in a nearly empty theater on the campus of the University of New Mexico. I knew little about the film going in, except that it was a long, black and white, foreign film. I had know idea the ferocity of the experience to come. And I use that word specifically to describe the opening visuals of the film, an extremely long shot of a horse drawn carriage struggling through a near blinding wind storm. The wind storm remained present throughout the entire film, and was relentlessly weighing the existential dread conveyed in the quite simple story. A disabled farmer and his daughter struggle to live through what can only be described as the end of the world. As with most of Tarr’s work, the film is built of a few dozen extremely long takes, spread out over 2 hours and 26 minutes. It is an exercise in extreme control; not only of the filmmakers craft and storytelling, but control over the viewers themselves. You watch the film and you are at the complete mercy of Tarr. He will not cut away from a shot until he is good and ready, and for the contemporary viewer that is used to the frenetic jump cuts of everyday media, this approach is a combination of masochism and salvation. If you can sit through the numerous scenes of the family eating their potatoes, you are ready for anything.
A scene from Béla Tarr’s “The Man From London”
I have had the pleasure of seeing two other films by Tarr. “The Man From London” is probably the easiest for the uninitiated viewer to stomach. The story is quite simple, and the pacing is as slow as ever, but it rewards in a series of images that felt (to me) as still photographs come to life. In stark black and white, night scenes along a waterfront are an intoxicating display of texture. Again, Tarr doesn’t let the viewer off the hook; you must stare out of the dark, frosty window far as long as he says so. You are blinded by the white light of day of opened window shutters. You gaze at a bar scene of locals dancing to the sad songs from an accordion. And if you allow yourself, you remain riveted the entire time.
A scene from Béla Tarr’s “Werckmeister Harmonies.” A matter of life and death.
The most jarring of the films I’ve seen by Tarr has got to be “The Werckmiester Harmonies.” I won’t even begin to tell the plot, except to say that this film satisfied my existential dread more than the other two films mentioned here. There is particular scene where the main character studies the eyeball of a dead whale that I find almost tear inducing. Truly looking into the abyss. The film also contains a sequence of such ruthless violence that I still shudder when I consider it. However, I hope this does not dissuade you from giving it the time and viewing it truly deserves. It will change your perspective. As Tarr himself has said: “If someone watches it in a dark room, and after the lights go on that person feels they have more dignity, then we have done our job.”
A scene from Béla Tarr’s “Sátántangó.”
I’m excited that there are still a handful of Béla Tarr films I have not seen. I am working up the stamina to sit down at watch “Sátántangó,” a film that clocks in at over seven hours in running time. It will no doubt test the endurance of even the most devoted fanboys, such as myself. Yet, I am convinced the rewards will be well worth the effort.