Darkroom Diaries

I have begun my Photo 2 class - a room full of young, starry eyed art majors each with something immensely important to say/show. Me... I dunno. I lost 3 cameras recently. My heart gets a little crushed every time I think about this - losing 3 eyes, 3 perspectives, 3 time machines. I have nothing terribly important to express except that loss sucks and mourning sucks more.

3 weeks later and my new, very old, very used, usually trusty Hasselblad has arrived. A scary strapless beast with a silver lens. What if it can't be tamed? What if I suck? A good friend of mine says that ONE is the secret to success. I hope he is right.

Our first day Photo 2 assignment was to submit an art proposal. Mine will be to explore lost objects. I would elaborate as I did in the essay I presented my professor last week, but it was immensely convoluted & slightly hopeful. It was something to say.

Liquid Television: The Bunnies

Thank you, CC, for reminding me of my bunnytastic angst over Jaaaake!
John Hughs RIP

Seen & Heard

* Two cute, cynically hopeful, anti-chicklit, but pro-Amy-n-Meryl, New York gals sharing sweet pad thai and The Office dreams.

* "I think Black sleeps with dolls" - Cupcake

... in the fog

Seen & Heard

* Sand, sun, river, and rain in Long Island City as the master, Jellybean, played a house track with a "Summer" chant.

* "I just woke up one day and realized I was a stranger in a strange land." - The Derelict

The Secret to Surviving NYC

analyze
adapt
overcome

...in the midst of Beauty

Becoming Bacon

Sometime in June, I lost my voice. I've been sore a dozen times, but this was different. I felt drowned in charcoal. Most of the week I tried not to speak. But the worst of it was not being able to sing. The steam from my morning showers drifted in to the very chord and nothing. No song. It's dramatic to say, but I didn't exist. When I saw this painting - the figure - it reminded me of June. Bacon is my June.

Running Woman 10

i took my first spill ever. in my defense, the neighborhood is a bloody obstacle course. as if a g*d damn forest was trying to reclaim its name by force. it was also hotter than hell, my legs were heavy, and i was simply not ready to just do it. the tingling on my knee began when i rolled over. then it was burning. then my face was. i got up, finally, shrugged off the cellphones and eyewear, and kept on running. it was good to get up like that.

Rossetti Rising

It seems Dantes keep coming in and out of my lives every few hundred years. Happy Memorial Day, D, whenever you are.

the story of stuff

Running Woman 9

Am I running from autonomy or towards it?
..................................................................Almost made the mile mark.

Butoh in the Box

I went to see this man, Imre, perform last night. The most beautifully bizarre, demented dance form I've ever witnessed.

Luton

I met an 80 plus year old gentleman in Luton, who moved here from Ireland by way of a passenger train. He jumped off nearly breaking his toes with not a pence in his pocket. It would be a better life, he thought. A future for his Irish gypsy bride, too. She was a jealous one. Always watching like a hawk to see if there were any flirty false moves. "I can't help it," he told me she'd say. He, on the other hand, stood proudly at 6'2" when men at the pub so obviously admired her beauty. This Irish gentle giant had boxed his way through a rebellious youth until they met. Indentations and scars. A crooked nose. Though fighting was quite lucrative in gypsy world, his wife wouldn't have it. Can you blame her? She was tough and devoted. And all her insecurities spilled out over tea and then beer. Time passed in Luton - the stories repeating each time with a brighter twinkle in the old man's eye. When the sun started to set, we both realized it was a miracle to remember the sky blue.

lower east side

Below is part of an art exhibit my buddy, Bill, curated on Valentine's Day. The peeping tom snapshots of the photos are mine, but the text is all his. View and read at will.

A Relationship Left for Dead on the Lower East Side
Cuchifritos Gallery / Project Space

A few years back my old friend, Patrick Cunningham, handed me a photo album he'd found lying on the curb somewhere on the Lower East Side. He knew that I had a soft spot for "found photography" and figured I'd appreciate the anonymous trove.

I went home that day and spent a considerable amount of time pouring over the album. From what I can tell, it is the chronicle of a gay couple's relationship through a good number of years in the 90's. The pictures are intimate, personal, and, as one might expect, range from silly to sober. Haircuts evolve, fashions change, weight is gained and lost. A collection of tiny moments memorialized but nothing special, really, aside from the fact that this carefully constructed record of a relationship was left on a curb in the Lower East Side.

Revisiting the album after some time, I noticed something unique about it: The two men never appear in the same picture. They never sit next to nor hold one another. They never ask friends, relatives, or strangers to take a snapshot of them together. Each man simply poses for the other, the camera lens uniting them. These pictures tell a story of isolated admiration/adoration made manifest only through the architect of the album itself.

I often wonder if the couple is still together. I hope to meet them one day and, as difficult as it would be for me to part with it, return the album to one or both of them.

--Bill Previdi,
Independent Curator, NYC

Here's hoping what we find in this life is worth keeping a while. I'm off to make some images of my own. Overseas. Heading EAST.

the big O

  ran out of crocks,
  so i settled for a giant coffee cup
  to host a hearty, homemade
  Onion soup. not quite
  as good as what i had in Paris,
  but pretty damn tasty for
  my very first time.

Seen & Heard

* My father's feet gliding across the wooden floor to a tango-waltz as I hold on tight.
* "It's awesome going through stuff with you. Thank you, thank you for loving me." - Jewels

Sleepless in the Hills

I had lots to drink tonight. Lots could mean an entire bottle or just 1 wine glass. In this case, it was 3. I spilled some... and do remember not filling them up to the rim... Perhaps it's more appropriate to say that tonight was one goblet the size of my fist that got me drunk. Forgive my rambling on. I've been startled out of a deep slumber. Socks still on (oooh, I hate that). My friend drank along with me. My dear friend, who was kind enough to listen to a story about a fear of mine the size of my fist. In fear-speak, that's just too f*cking big. We shared ideas about having fear. Understanding what is. I dare say, even accepting its existence in our respective worlds. In my drunken haze, I told about an incident with the patriarch in my family and opened a wound. But, I also told him how this experience lead to the healing of another. Our conversation then jumped into the aging process, confidence versus not caring, who affects us, what doesn't matter, where art falls into the love equation... ah yes, and then we decided that "love is not something you find, it's something you build." In this instance, just now, I realized what startled me.

We ended our night with Indian food and a rather goofy conversation about years from now when we are too old to drink up and hopefully still building.

Sleepy now... zzz

Deliver Us...

"The only time Christ ever got angry was when he went to church."
- Father Tom Doyle

Darkroom Diaries

Tires © 2008
Part of the "land series" still in working progress.