When we went out early Friday night, we couldn’t help but notice the lack of quality and somewhat toxic smell in the air. Even with our corona-masks, our breathing became so compromised that we decided to head back indoors and cut our night short. When tuning into the weather broadcast on the news, I heard a never before description of the forecast. The next few days called for “smoke” and an unhealthy air quality that came with a warning to “stay home.”
The following day was terrible, but waking up Sunday morning was downright scary, being engulfed with this thick smoke. Luckily, there was no smell of fire. But I couldn’t help but think of the John Carpenter film ‘The Fog.’ Having never seen anything like it. I raced for my camera to document the site. And what a frightening site it was.
We had just exited the train at Brooklyn’s Jay Street Station when we were quickly overcome by the ear piercing sound of sirens. Quickly, I reached for my camera as I scrambled to get out of the path of the coming engines. Whereas in the past my eyes would be drawn to the intricacies of the fire truck itself. I somehow found myself drawn to the firefighters, the uniforms, oxygen tanks and their proximity to the flag. I took a few moments to set up and frame the scene before finally taking the shot. So instead of having a series of hastily captured images. I had one that I was really happy with. That and nobody got hurt. Pretty Cool.
We had a long road ahead of us on our trip home from Boston. One which included a lunch stop for oysters and lobster at Moorings in Newport. There weren’t going to be many opportunities to stop and indulge myself taking pictures of the overwhelming amount of visual stimulation we were viewing along the way. I knew this full well and held my tongue as we passed the countless farmhouses and deteriorating structures that highlight our chosen stretch of road. The conversation quickly turned to my wife’s favorite subject, (aside from food) photography. I began to spin my sob story about how much of the things I love to shoot are becoming harder and harder to access due to the continuous whitewashing and franchising of so much of the things unique, gritty and dirty.
Just as I headed into mid rant, I hit the brakes suddenly and swung the car into reverse. There it was, my personal playground. I paused for a few seconds. Used my peripherals to spy any local authorities of black ops before leaping from the car with my camera. Knowing full well what had just happened she shouted “Be careful.” So while she waited in the car keeping a watchful eye for the law. I sorted through the wreckage and refuse of what used to be an automotive repair shop. From my childhood days of scavenging the numerous junk yards behind Shea Stadium to my current hunting trips for all things left behind. I’m drawn to these stark treasures. Got junk?