A Darkroom Diary

Bathing Baby © 2010

Peace

"New York, 1972" by André Kertész

A Darkroom Diary

A photography student working on a series of tintypes asked me to sit for him.  Excited to witness the process, I agreed.  All that was required was stillness while he coated, metered, and timed.  I can do that quite well, actually.  I sat still for a few sun-infused seconds.  But pretend those seconds were years.  That's how I remember the moment now.  Because the image was a 'test print,' I got to take it home.  I stared with longing as the days got longer.  Becoming harder submerged in water.  I wished I could've been more expressive.  Flexible.  Tried something new.  Not waited.  I've held it and wanted to break the thing.

Portrait by Tomi Ni, 2012

The thin sheet of metal sits safely on a stack of old books, in a room where I spend most evenings working on the art of staying very still - to feel myself breathe in cool.

La Voyage dans La Lune...

my secret Post Secret

I'm sure this is no longer 

your space,******, and that you've disappeared 
into the deep end.    
I just wanted to write your ghost 

to say I think about your being. I hope you are dreamily 
blissful, am glad we were friends for as long as we lasted, 

and love you an ocean more.

Love Potion #25

Louis ~n~ Lucille 

Collage by Louis Armstrong

Flushing Town Hall

La Flamenco Femme

A Darkroom Diary

Geek Love, April 2012

Summer begins...
Project #2

A Darkroom Diary

Ty Llwyd Baby, May 2012

Project #3 / Session 2

Graduation Day!

Graflex Crown Graphic 4x5

a journey begins
 

Silvery Light

one day...

A Darkroom Diary

Oona's Tree, 2011

I used to climb a tree when I was allowed to hang, literally, in front of my old house 

in Jackson Heights.  I'd jump onto its arm like a gymnast, then sit to let my feet dangle for days.  Looking up, I'd see 

the chipped veins branch out into a baby blue sky.  If I squint hard enough, 

I can pinpoint exactly when my tree started to shrink. The way older people do when they can't take 

the bus anymore. The way the corner candy store began to stay open all night.  

The way Mister Softee chimed from a million blocks away. I wanted to hold onto that tree 

as the city shifted.  In the nights before we moved. When I knew 

the woods were waiting for me to leave.

close the gap

back to work

Space Dreaming

A Darkroom Diary

 Birdie © 2011

"Love"

by Lydia Davis

 

A woman fell in love with a man who had been dead a number of years. It was not enough for her to brush his coats, wipe his inkwell, finger his ivory comb: she had to build her house over his grave and sit with him night after night in the damp cellar.

This post is dedicated to Oli, who introduced me to Lyd.

A Darkroom Diary

Campus was a ghost town equipped with whistling wind and gray skies.  The building where I live when I'm not here was equally abandoned.  Hallways that whisper instead of echo.  Empty lockers making empty promises.  It was all very suitable, so I went to work.  Scrubbed and polished what I needed to feeling safe under the safe lights.  I'm hoping to make magic this year even if that doesn't find its way into my heart.

It's only a week in, anyway.  I'm groggy and slightly hungover, but aware.  The gray skies are now squeezing through the blinds.  Gliding on leaves.  Resting on the inlaid parquet.  Settling in my comforter.   A peaceful awareness, thankfully.

A Darkroom Diary

Sometimes that solid thing hanging feebly between us is simply an escape.  

So here's to LIFE, a never-ending lesson in letting go, and to the "looking forward" -  

what a brand new year can offer.

The Fire Escape © 2011

 

Lightbox

"Rachel/robe" by Tony Gonzalez
2010: Gum Bichromate

Tony Gonzalez must have been a romantic painter in his past life.  His eye for femininity and fluidity is enough to make you fall in love with photography.

West of Queens

Rhythm?  Any language flowing between piano, drum, and brass was lost in us.  In me.  A father pounded and tickled keys while his son beat and tapped skin.  I just couldn't bop.  The trumpet (my favorite!) taunted me with its one enormous eye and within a measure I'd fall in love again.  Each player was weathering a storm.  Creating their own.   I started to cry in my drunk realization that this was the way it was.  Love doesn't make sense.


At some point, flute and clarinet made cameos reminding us that the lulls are why we bother.

The saxophone lay there - a luminous corpse.  When it began to tell its version of a story, I believed it.  I could crawl into its coffin and be carried off to another gig forever.  Preferably a smoky bar with dusty chandeliers and red velvet curtains.  That old chrome mic has been waiting a long time.  If only there were room for two.

I think the father and son were competing for the final note.  A procession that mimicked my beating heart.  It was over.  Neither was quite ready.  Nor was I.  But like all good things, even when they don't make sense, they end.