A Photo Geeks ups and downs through words and images.
It was a short, yet fun session with two girls I met through the local music scene. Music is always a source of inspiration to me, but I have no idea what inspired her to suddenly break into dance mode. Regardless, these images remain favorites after all these years. I’m including a video of Superchunks “The First Part” due to the simple fact that these images always remind me of it.
I fully admit to being a self deprecating prick lately. With my journey being one with it’s share of bumps. I sometimes wonder if overcoming these challenges make me strong or just some sort of punching bag for the Gods. Last weekend we visited Annapolis for the first time in a year and the second overall. It was a busy day in the downtown area as a boat show had the tourists arriving in droves.
Our goal was simple. Return to the landmark diner Chick and Ruths at 165 Main St, Annapolis, MD 21401As to experience that New York City diner atmosphere ad further explore the incredible menu. After a timely wait near the crowded door, we wer seated. As our waitress approached us with her pen and pad…..She welcomed us, saying “Wow. It’s been a long time.” “The last time you were here you had a walker. This time you’ve got that heavy camera bag. Look at you.”
Both my wife and me were shocked. We’d only been to the diner once and it was a year ago. Yet she remembered us as if we were regulars. Aside from being impressed with the womans memory and great service. My wife noted how far I’ve come. It was an incredibly rewarding exchange and one that should help me break out of this self depricating dick malaise. In the end, I’m kind of saying, “Don’t be me.” Give yourself a break. Cut yourself some slack, and plan a trip to Annapolis to experience Chick an Ruths.
As a child who spent much time at his grandmother’s, I always looked forward to visits from my aunt Mickey. She was a lovely lady who was one of my grandmother’s many cousins or nieces. Her visits always felt special as she lived in this magical place called Maryland . I couldn’t have been more than five years old and not yet traveled outside the borough of Queens, New York. Her visits always seemed accompanied by history books, crossword puzzles, and fancy pastries. (The kind they grew on secret farms in the country.) Those early experiences and the eventual discovery of realism were accepted. I never lost my appreciation for that historic land til’ this day. The city boy in me still gets a rush when I experience farm life and enjoy those fancy pastries. The photo below was taken as the skies turned dark and the thunder moved in.
As we drove across the vast farmlands of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. My wife turned to me and asked what it was about these trips that brought such excitement and admiration. I said, “Think of all those TV shows and movies where the subject who grew up on a farm and the experience of wonderment they experience upon arriving in the big city. Now reverse it and take the city boy out to the country. (Omitting all the cliche Hollywood troupes where the character scoffs at the idea before learning a life altering lesson.)” As someone who’s closest experience with camping was as a drunken teen falling asleep on a rock in New York City’s Central Park. A trip to the country is pretty damn cool.
For as long as I can remember, my wife’s “What do you want to do this weekend?” has been a trigger as far as my habit to over think. While those words and that question are not and have never been intended to inflict any fear or pressure. I’ve often taken it a lot more seriously. As the years go by and we both get older. Our interests have narrowed considerably. My answers to “What do you want to do this weekend have narrowed down to coffee, photography, and record shopping. Bacon often finds its way into the conversation, but that’s just me being patriotic.
While I can’t precisely pinpoint what started my fear of heights. I often recall several instances where I felt the pace of my heart, the oncoming sweat, and the jelly-like feeling in my legs quickly joining forces to end me. I took this picture in 1993 while working for Cantor Fitzgerald. I and many others had returned to work after some maniac planted and exploded a bomb in the parking garage. (Note that this was about eight years before the 9/11 attack.) During my lunch break, I attempted to take this picture to, perhaps, show the resilience and strength of the structure and the people who worked there. As I stood staring into the sky, my legs began to buckle. No matter how I repositioned myself, I couldn’t recapture my balance. It wasn’t until I went down on my knees that I could capture what you see below. In the years that followed, I could not cross bridges, enjoy observation decks or enjoy anything related to heights. Strange considering my first paid photo shoot required me to scale a waterfall located within the bear mountains. I’ve since faced my fears, but haven’t gotten past the rapid heartbeat, shortness of breath, or weakness in my knees that are sure to follow.
After grabbing some gear and noshing on some tasty, but incredibly overpriced, bagels at “Call Your Mom.” We headed back to the car to head home. Just before the garage entrance, we came upon this funky looking, winding staircase. Not having my camera, I grabbed my iPhone and geeked out while pedestrians passed and a woman screamed into her phone. The moment was a nagging reminder to bring my camera with me wherever I go.
Truth be told, I was never close with my Mom’s Mom. Though she lived just a few blocks away from us, a few steps from where some good friends of mine. Not a thought would occur as I walked past her residence almost daily. The only time I had been in her building or apartment was when I was 7 years old and a night long altercation between my Mom and my future Schlep Dad got loud and violent enough to summon the police. That morning would be the first and one of two times I ever stepped over that threshold. And though we would see one another on holidays (One of my favorite memories being her giving my Schlep Dad two cartons of cigarettes for Christmas. As if to say, “Here, this and the drugs your on, should speed up your death, you piece of shit.” There were attempts later in life to get closer, which included two trips to her new home in New Mexico. But, aside from that, nothing. Still, there was always something badass about her. She drank, smoked, cursed and played guitar. (pictured here.) Basically, she did whatever the fuck she wanted to. And for that, I admire her.
By all means, the day should have and was a very rewarding day. One that started with a good breakfast and the assurance that I would have enough toilet paper to carry me through my final days rewards here in Arlington. The inspection of our new condo furthered our day of rewards and promise that we were one step closer to fulfilling another dream of ours. It wasn’t until arriving home and chatting with my Mom, that the feel good day took a hit. “Your grandmother is dying.” While this came as no shock (She was in her mid nineties and had been in declining physical and mental health for years.) there’s always a sadness that comes with the passing of a family member. Again, there was no shock when, on the next day, my Mother informed me that she passed away in her sleep the night before.
Though I don’t talk about it much, my balance is shot. Since my overdue diagnosis in the fall of 2017, my symptoms have gotten steadily worse. As of late, I am almost entirely dependent on a walker. Despite any issues with said diagnosis, I do my very best to do the things that bring me joy and fulfillment. Earlier this week (Monday, to be exact.) I took a walk over to the nearby Seattle Center. It not far by any stretch. However, being dependent on a walker can make things incredibly difficult and downright risky.
Needless to say, it felt good to get out and explore an area that served as my temporary residence when my wife and I first arrived in Seattle almost four years ago. The further I walked, the more confident I felt. The voices inside my head, repeating, “Come on, you got this.” You know, the one you hear from your personal trainer at the gym? Yeah, that one. It was a beautiful, warm, and sunny day. After months of Seattle rain and fog, I wanted to take it all in. After an extended stay at the Seattle Center, I began to head towards Taylor Ave before crossing Denny Way and heading home. About a block past Denny, my walker hit a curb wrong, and down I went. It must have looked gruesome because a passing car came to a sudden hault, got out, and helped me out, “My God, are you alright?” I was hurt but more embarrassed than anything. I thanked him for his kindness before carefully navigating the several blocks that remaIned. I was clearly exhausted but crossed the avenue to get a picture of this poster that basically says it all. As I arrived home, I noticed the black and blues and the bloodied jeans I was wearing. Looking back, we all fall down, whether it be literally or figuratively.The important thing is that we get back up and never stop trying,
Looking back, I’d say my journey as a photographer began during my early days in Hell’s Kitchen. Though I had been fascinated with taking pictures since my teens. It wasn’t until I was occupying a one-bedroom in the heart of the west midtown area of Manhattan that my then boss gave me his old Nikon EM SLR along with some film and a couple of photo books that my hobby turned into an obsession. I quickly began documenting my surroundings while graduating from one-hour photo chains to professional printing services such as Duggal and B&H. Within a short time, the towels and sheets that fit neatly in my apartment linen closet were displaced by boxes of photos and trays of slides. My trips to places like Duggal and B&H quickly quadrupled. From my eight years in Hell’s Kitchen to my married life in New Jersey and Washington state. My passion and obsession for photography never waned. My need for living space grew, and the number of photo boxes, enlargements, and ane studio gear morphed. Quickly realizing less is more, I used the premise of moving to digitize all those negatives, slides, photo boxes, and albums before tossing them in the garbage.
As I begin to get the digitized photos back, I can see the vast progress I’ve made over the years. Kicking myself, in a sense, for holding on to the past for so long. Undoubtedly, many photos accurately documented the time and people. Most of it, unfortunately, was junk. Luckily though, there were a few that jogged some serious memories. Photo’s that still show a measure of intent and purpose.
Taken on 48th street and 10th avenue shortly after a snow storm. You can hopefully see the emphasis on the reflections the puddles give. You should also get a rare view of a traffic-free New York City street. Not bad for a photo I took more than twenty-five years ago.
Photogeek Blog 