Photos & words that don't suck

New Orleans, New View

Posted on April 25, 2013

When you travel, you expect a certain amount of abuse.

I used to think it was because I’m American. Like, Parisians have some sort of cheese-induced Spidey sense that magically makes them be nicer to my Canadian comrades, no explanations why.

But I digress. I’ve been stepped on, pushed aside, ignored and stared down in lots of cities around the world. At the other end of the spectrum, I’ve also been welcomed into homes and hearts, shocked and astounded at the level of generosity some cultures show total strangers.

But I’ve never been treated with the kind of camaraderie as I have in New Orleans.

New Orleans is a great place. From the rich history, the sordid Bourbon Street reputation to the heart-wringing stories of hurricane recovery, New Orleans sports many faces. But it’s also New Orleans, the big city down there, not at all like anything else in the deep south.

Its extreme tourism could be a shame: “Authentic” cajun hot sauce, po-boys, fleur-de-lis oven mitts, voodoo dolls. Yes, because all the locals sit around their altars slurping gumbo and popping pralines. Mais oui, time has not changed in three hundred years, except the libations have grown larger, colder, and are available in your favorite day-glo colors.

I considered scoffing at the tourism industry, all pre-packaged, marketed up the wazoo and soaked in butter and alcohol. Oh, I thought I might rave for hours about the lack of soul, the loss of respect for the history and how it’s all been reduced to ghost tours in the park.

Instead, New Orleans blindsided me with a shocking warmth. (More than the late spring heat!) I don’t know or care whether those friendly faces were locals or not, but every smile, every question, every curious inquiry and comment was extended with the most honest feeling. What a beautiful city! The food is good. The music is great. And how about this weather?

Uniquely, I felt truly welcomed. From French to Jamaican to Swedish, from curator to painter to punk, they all had the ability to disarm my defenses and show me a great… no, a fabulous time.

Despite the reputation of New Orleans being rough around the edges, despite the constant mantra of “tourists are targets,” every little thing was gonna be just fine. Welcome to this city, shoot what you like, smile at anyone, come in, have a drink, share a laugh! A veritable Disneyland of Louisiana, the French Quarter exists as a fantasy environment hand crafted for tourists, where every need for food, drink and entertainment is provided.

It is a safe haven for any and all, protected from the dangerous outside world. A special place where we all know that reality waits for us, but never in here.

It’s OK. We’re in this together.

See them all in the gallery.

Categories: social commentary

In Berlin

Posted on October 23, 2012

“It’s not a kid anymore. Berlin has grown up,” she said as she passed through the gate.

I’ll never know her name, the girl at Tegel, but she summed up in one go what I couldn’t think for weeks.

Like most places, Berlin was not at all what I imagined. Photos on the internet reveal very little about this city and what makes it tick. Say “Berlin” to someone, and they’ll get a dreamy look in their eyes, then try to describe in vague shorthand terms just what about this city spoke to them twenty years ago. But whatever it is remains invariably amorphous, tainted with their own secret experiences.

The Berlin of today remains a black hole of mystery. The Brandenburg Gate. The TV tower. Currywurst. This trifecta dominates tour guides and Google, but is there more to this story? I landed armed with little else but a mission to dive deep into the heart and get some answers.

Berlin is no longer a smoking explosion of self-expression. Everywhere is fresh paint, fresh concrete, city workers cleaning and fixing. Yellow construction cranes soar at break-neck heights, coaxing new buildings to life. Homeowners carefully paint around their graffiti-covered doors, leaving a reminder to the emotion that once spread over every surface. Evidence of Berlin’s past lies quietly in the shadow of the new, invisible unless you look.

The city holds its breath, ready for its grand entrance.

History floats close to the surface in its people, too: Beautiful Norse ink scrawled along the arms of a tired carpenter. Businessmen with facial piercings. Lurid hair colors embellish heads of the mundane. Even the punks are old. Everyone has just a little edge to their normalcy, evidence of a past life they can’t just let go.

Meanwhile, on the streets it’s business as usual. Modern. Fresh. New. For some, this is OK. For others, this means something inherently vital is missing, that the soul of former Berlin has been scrubbed clean away. Ironic, then, that the tourist shops capitalize on this very thing, selling photos of the old, rebellious city for 20 euros a pop.

That alone signifies that I’ve come to another place, yet again, too late. I’m not seeking a peaceful vacation with all the conveniences of home.

I’ve come for something else.

See it all in the gallery.

Categories: beyond the border

Done?

Posted on July 26, 2012

The Cult of Done. Have you heard of it?

I hadn’t. That is, until recently.

Its not in my nature to bash other people’s philosophies. But the Cult of Done’s 13 rules are, while intriguing, so against the core of my being that I couldn’t believe such a thing was possible. Pushing out sloppy work? I gotta be missing something here.

But it’s not all bad, I guess: Reading the Cult’s manifesto has helped me realize that achieving ultimate perfection, creating mountains of work for yourself with endless rounds of editing has its issues, too. Maybe there’s something to this “Done is the engine of more” thing to temper the Masterpiece Mission that blocks me from doing things like picking up my camera, posting to my blog, or actually cooking something for dinner.

So in honor of that, my daily self-portraits are back. The Daily Delmar: Painfully candid. Ridiculously prolific. Utterly pointless. But every day it’s “done.”

It’s a work-in-progress.

(True to form, I spent 35 minutes writing this post and three days editing it.)

Categories: on photography, social commentary

Over Us

Posted on June 15, 2012

My living room seems strangely empty. For such a small room it sure has a big hole in the middle, with the two suitcases tucked behind the couch. This was a cozy guest room just days before, and now it’s just a sterile parlor.

It’s empty because it shouldn’t be. My parents are here from out east, the first time in the five years I’ve lived in California. They were excited as I was about spending ten days exploring the golden hills, coveting the painted ladies and eating the best food in the world.

But California had other plans. They drove away to see the mountains, found it too nice to leave, and literally left me holding the bag(s).

The irony of this is certainly not lost on me. I was a terrible teenager, chafing under their carefully measured life in suburbia, wanting to be free in the world. Now the tables are turned and I’m scratching my head wondering when my parents — my conservative, retired parents who scarcely set foot outside of their tour bus groups, mind you — became the road-tripping kind of folks who find hotels on the fly.

Apparently, I am not the only kid out there who feels cheated, like this empty nest stuff is supposed to go the other way around. We grow up thinking they’ll leave the light on, that we can always go home to our childhood rooms and sleep in our beds.

In reality, our parents are over us. They’re so, so over us.

Categories: oh california, social commentary

Bitter

Posted on April 4, 2012

She lay the heart gently into the box. It beat once, twice more, sighing itself to sleep.

They’d been so good together, a partnership better than anything she’d ever dreamed. She smiled, remembering how it used to sing within her, driving the bland, bleary world into a kaleidoscope of brilliant lights.

Nothing would be as joyful as those days. Never would she feel that way again.

She closed the box and turned to the window. Steel gray clouds covered the sky, dotting her skin with rain.

Her hand passed before her face, first left, then right, wiping everything away.

Time to go.

Categories: inner thoughts

Cold Night

Posted on February 26, 2012

I gave her everything I had.

She didn’t ask for much, but when she asked it, I took a look myself. I thought about my life, my situation, where I was going, and how – for once – I had handful of coins in my pocket that, for 6 months I had intended to put into the cup holder in my car but kept forgetting.

My memory. My awkwardness. My self-perception. My inability to meet expectations, to feel satisfied with what I say and do to others.

She looked at me with a friendly smile, and it was all I needed.

I’ll give her everything, because it’s worth much more than 47 cents to me to feel – for a moment – that I am not alone.

Categories: inner thoughts

Sore Thumb

Posted on February 21, 2012

I came to New York with nothing but a camera.

I’m here now so when I disappear for another 10 years I will have all the little pieces to remember them by.

But it’s been so long that I don’t even know the place anymore. It’s not a part of me. The ghost hand, the grafted soul. Time and the 9-5 have wiped most of it away.

It’s Thursday. I’m standing in midtown after morning rush hour and it’s 20 degrees colder than I’d like. More than just the January wind because, after all, everyone laughs and says I’m just in time for the fantastic weather.

The streets are no less crowded than I remember. I notice their crooked noses, their razor-sharp suits, the lines in their faces that says they’re late for a meeting. The iPhones, the distracted air, the shiny shoes, the lack of color. See the whites of their eyes a second before you knock shoulders.

The city vibrates. From desperate sidewalk salesmen to the mid-morning drugstore run, a taxi jam, the thunder of delivery trucks. Or maybe it’s the gigantic rotating pillar that keeps Manhattan afloat. Everyone has a purpose, everyone is headed somewhere.

Except me. It marks me a stranger as keenly as the red sash around my neck.

I try to catch what I see in my hands, but they’re too quick. I’m 20 years too late on the corner and fumbling to chase them with my little metal box. Wait! Wait, you’re pretty! I don’t say that out loud (that’s weird), but I watch with my two glass eyes, thinking they won’t notice me.

Categories: social commentary

Autumn Is Memory

Posted on October 18, 2011

Feel the air breathe quickness in your blood and break summer’s languid heat. The leaves rattle in the bony trees, papery skin softly sighing, “Have you come to stay?” Exquisite, solemn fall, the somber joy of darkness. Life’s last hurrah.

The crows are calling from above, calling for you, peppering the forest smoke with their impudent cry. One last roost, one last laugh before flying from the winter snow.

Autumn is memory. You gave it up a lifetime away and each year you regret the loss of change. The world’s cycle, completion of life and death – is it worth the comforts you got in return?

They’ll steady their ships for six months of dark, celebrating with smoke and spice, but you’ll shade the light from your eyes and look with love to the east.

Categories: inner thoughts, oh california

Ward

Posted on September 25, 2011

She reminds me of myself at that age: naive, disguising her insecurities with bravado. She’s tied her armor on with twine and tape, a shell so close to blowing away with the slightest wind. Her greatest fear lies in the world not accepting her for what she is, unsure of who she wants to be.

I’ll whisper that it will be OK, that after failure and hardship, loss and rejection, she’ll become someone she’s proud to know.

Categories: inner thoughts

Untitled

Posted on September 17, 2011

I am the ghost, she said, her voice as hollow as the halls around her.

She rubbed one cold hand across her face, redolent of the leaves outside that danced on the wind once more before their earthbound rot. Her skin was so pale, thirsting for sun, an alabaster not yet willing to part from warmth and light.

I knew there would be nothing left of her when the world awoke.

Categories: inner thoughts
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