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.
This past week, I attended two events celebrating new book releases from and about subjects whose work and passion have positively influenced me, my life, and the course the roads it’s taken. As usual, I decided to take my camera along. Taking place at Washington DC’s MLK Memorial Library and Virginia’s George Mason University Campus. Groundbreaking Photographer Glen E. Friedman and Ian McKay (Minor Threat. Dischord Records, Fugazi.) spoke about Glen’s photos and his book ‘Just a Minor Threat.’ Allowing me many firsts, including my first visit to the MLK Memorial Library and meeting Glen and Ian. Later in the week, I had a similar experience visiting George Mason University to sit in on a discussion about the book with photographer Antonia Tricarico, Joe Lally (Fugazi), and the man himself, producer/engineer of Viginia’s legendary Inner Ear Studio, Don Zientara on the book ‘The Inner Ear of Don Zientarara.’ I took a few pictures while I listened intently. I bought my first book of Friedman’s music photos, ‘Fuck You Heroes,’ in 1994. Each of the people I met at these events influenced my art immensely and provided stories regarding their journey. Looking back on my life, thing of the impact their images, music and the recordings they helped shape. It’s worth wondering what it would have been with it.
As we entered the Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad Center. I looked to my left to see this shadowy, low lit hallway. It was the beginning of what turned out to be a historical journey through an often ignored important part of our history.
When I think of my childhood adventures, I try not to over-dramatize my experiences. Knowing full well how many people had similar and much, much worse upbringings. Mine, for the most part, were very different from my friends and the kids I grew up with. What seems unique is how colorful and detailed these experiences remain. It’s almost as if I cherry-picked to relay these stories somehow with the knowledge that, in many cases, I was too young to understand what was happening right before my eyes. I try to write with a split sense of vision. One as a young observer. Another as a knowing adult.
While many, I would say, recollections feed off of repetitious encounters with regular people in my life. It’s the memory of brief encounters that baffle me. One, in particular, stands out due to how detailed I can still recall the short yet memorable meeting. By the age of eight, my parents were divorced, and my Dad had left his job at the bus company to pursue other ventures. He was involved with several hustles, including running numbers, loansharking, and illegal casino games near the local bar. Nothing too shady, yet nothing you’d bring up at school when the kids were asked, “So tell the class what your Dad does for a living..” According to the divorce, my Dad had weekend custody, and the weekends always featured nights at the bar and collecting money from those who risked but, did not cover the spread.
When my grandmother wasn’t available to watch me, my Dad would bring me along to collect money from the many degenerate gamblers I got to know over the years. One in particular stood out, and here’s why. Imagine this muscular yet thin 6’4 Black Irishman (That’s what they called Irishmen with black hair and eyes at the time.) walking through the door with this dwarf-sized eight-year-old at his side. Imagine the mix of fear and folly. No matter the time, place, or situation. I always had that wide-eyed curiosity that amassed countless questions to fire at will throughout the night. Although we had visited many houses, apartments, and basements before. This guy’s scene was on another level. His loft apartment had several pinball machines and a giant waterbed with ceiling mirrors above it. (Now remember, I was only eight years old.) I couldn’t help but think, “Who the hell wants to look at themself when it’s time to sleep? The guy was greasy, fat, with black, wavy hair. (Former male porn star Ron Jeremy comes to mind.) Then came the big WTF? His fingernails were manicured to a standard size, with the noted exception his pinky, which was uncut and eccentrically long. At the time, I had very little knowledge of drug culture and ways to consume cocaine. It was weird and a bit scary. I remember wanting to get the hell out of there. How the experience and sacrifice might award me some Chinese food on the way home. I never returned to that place and don’t recall seeing that guy again. But the memories remain.
As I sit here with my wife watching a You Tube video titled “Ghost towns and Abandoned places.” I wonder aloud, “Are my days of exploring uncharted territory and off limits properties over?” As early as the age of seven. (Long before I had a camera or the aching to use one. I was exploring the many off limits junk yards, body shops and construction sites of my Queens neighborhood. There was a burnt out house a few blocks from where my Dad lived and believe me, we explored every nook and cranny of the two story home and seperated garage. Getting a camera and reaching the age of accountability changed little. I still had that explorers curiousity and drive to find what was beyond that “No Trespassing” sign. My hopes are that there is still plenty of that desire to explore, and my ability to ignore my wife when she snaps, “Chop, Chop!” or overthinks every I make to ignore those posted warning signs.
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.
Due to the time we arrived at Maryland’s Stony Park farm, the sun was so strong, that getting the images I had hoped for were dashed by how overwhelmingly bright the sun was, It wasn’t until much later in the day when we stopped for ice cream, that I would dare take my camera out of the bag and attempt a shot or two. As a born and raised city boy. One whose lived his entire life in an urban setting. Getting out of my element and experiencing a completely different way of life is mind blowing. The experience has a child-like effect on me that can only be compared to that as a wide eyed kid in a toy store. My love and admiration of farm life, tractors and barnyard animals is boundless. So when the sky began to offer shade. I made sure I had an image to take home and boast about. Here’s my capture of the steering wheel and headlight of the tractor parked outside of the creamery.
This afternoon while stopped outside a farm. I exited the car to take a picture of a relatively unpopulated road. As I began to compose and adequately expose my subject. I began to hear my wife rapidly repeating the words “Chop. Chop.” Urging me to get it done, get back in the car, and get out of there as soon as possible. While I appreciate her support and willingness to go along with the plan as long as the program doesn’t involve her getting out of the car or waiting for more than a fraction of a second. I fully realize that, at the end of the day. I’m better off going it alone.
In recent weeks I’ve been asked several times, once by a complete stranger, what I loved most about photography, and what I most liked to shoot. In each instance, I went on a far out rant about my years of shooting, and other useless nonsense. that by all means, made me look as if I was nuts. Earlier this week, I had a chance to chat with one of them. During the exchange, I backtracked and brought up his question. Explaining my recent awkwardness and how I would have just responded with, “Everything.” Essentially because I love all aspects of the art. The colors, shapes, and tones. The storytelling elements of a good capture, and the moods they create. I look back with pride regarding the friendships and trust I’ve built during photo sessions over the years. Holding my camera, pressing the shutter and going through the days session bring me a joy that’s hard to explain. Getting off my soapbox and back to that original question, “What do you love most about photography?” My simple reply is and always will be, “Everything.”
I took this while going for an extended walk today. While most of my street photography often lacks that human element. I find the ones that do, add an extra element of storytelling. Filling a void and adding personality to the image. I’ve noticed that the majority of my photos outside of studio work are shot of people walking away. That element can be due to future sales of prints. Personally, I find that aspect adds more to the story. Allowing the observer to better ecersize their imagination. .That, or I’m not up for being punched in the head, or being angrily questioned as to why I just took their picture.
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