Archive for February, 2008
Had a great day at B&H on Sunday. Had a lot of fun, and met some super nice people who really made me feel welcome, and also had some great questions. David Brommer, who runs the B&H event space, says we set a record for attendance, and there were a bunch of people standing at the edges of the room.
In thanking B&H yesterday I remarked that they have turned the unusual trick of actually becoming a definitive part of our culture. In other words, it would tough to imagine NYC without B&H. They have turned a camera store into a tourist destination! You see people downstairs, glassy eyed, mouth agape, scoping the stuff on the conveyor belts, looking for all the world like they are auditioning for an role in Close Encounters. It’s wild. 64,000 square feet of stuff. My assistant Brad had to blindfold and straight jacket me and whisk me through the store on a small hand truck lest I reach for my credit cards and start lighting them up.
Pretty crazy weekend, to be sure. Made a little nuttier (happily so) by doing a lecture and small reading from The Moment It Clicks tomorrow, Sunday, at B&H.
It’s from 1-3 pm, and it should be fun. I’ll bring some books to sign, and do some Q&A. Many thanks to B&H and the Maine Media Workshops for tuning all this in. (The Maine Workshops are cool, by the way. Great place, great instructors, the coast of Maine at your doorstep, and Elizabeth Greenberg, who runs the shop, is one of the all time great people in the biz.) Plus, you can visit my bud Tim Whelan at his photo book store, one of the real treasures of our industry.
Hang in, enjoy the weekend!
More posts tk….just not today. Today we are throwing all the apples in the air, along with all of our stuff, the home, the business, the cats, Brad, Meghan, and of course the long suffering Lynn, our studio manager for 16 years. She has been through 4 of these so far. This is it for me, I think. No more moves. I told Annie, there’s the woods out back where we are about to live, at the end the deal, just pitch me out there. I’ll make good mulch.
So we’ll be out in the woods a bit, much quieter and more peaceful than where we are now. But not peaceful today. Today’s gonna suck. Back soon.
My wife Annie (on the left, photo by Ken Sklute) is worried about this new blog of mine. (This entry should confirm her worst fears.) You see, she knows I don’t have much of a conversational filter. I occasionally say the first thing that comes to my mind, be it reasonable or ridiculous. And of course, with a blog, what you say is what you say. It’s out there, sorta like I’m out there.
It’s a bit like public speaking. I occasionally feel for the organizers of an event or workshop when I am at the podium and they are at the back of the hall downing valiums or chugging tequila to quell the anxiety over whether I’m going to drop the f-bomb on an unsuspecting crowd.
I don’t mean to be unpredictable. It’s just that in my mildly fuzzy grasp of the day to day, I find stuff funny in an irreverent kind of way. Annie is used to this of course, seeing me at breakfast with the news up on my computer, making a series of noises only she can interpret. She has a name for one. She calls it “snortling,” which is a cross between a mild chortle and an outright snort.
She knows me real well, obviously. She can often anticipate my coming out with something completely out of bounds at a restaurant, for instance, and, smiling beatifically, quietly say, “Can we use an indoor voice, honey?”
And of course, she’s got the eyebrow. It’s amazing. Specifically, it is her left eyebrow. Now most people’s brows, along with everything else on their face, are subjected to constant, moment to moment, twitches, ticks, winks and nods, a steady flow of minute reactions to the stimuli of the day. But Annie’s left eyebrow has seemingly escaped the control of the muscles usually associated with regulating facial architecture. It has somehow gotten connected to a steam driven catapult, much like the ones they use on aircraft carriers. I always know when that brow is near her hairline, I gotta reel it back in. It’s extraordinary, and, truth be told, extraordinarily beautiful.
[More after the jump]
There’s this book… It’s called The Moment It Clicks.
The book in question has been rattling around in my head for years. (I figured I’d better write all this down before I forget it and start wandering through my days engaging in a regimen of limited physical activity and a carefully monitored diet of soft foods.)
I figure photographers are like trees. As we get older in this business, we grow rings. We trace our path year after year, and where we have been and how we grow is in fact written down, on our minds and our bodies, even if we are unaware.
It’s like a secret tattooing that one can only see in a certain light. All of that experience, heartache, toil and joy, inscribes itself on us, indelibly. Sometimes the writing comes easy, in flowing, effortless script. Other times, the messages we bear are angry, as if written by a graffiti artist with a can of screaming red paint. Sometimes it is done slowly, painfully, like a fourth grader with a penknife, scratching his name on his desk, just so future classes will know… I sat here. I thought, worked, goofed off, ogled the little red haired girl, made myself a nuisance…all right here. Remember me. Our pictures are our scribbles and scratches, both on ourselves and on the world around us. Take a look, if you please, take a look. And remember.
[More after the jump]