Re-organizing history.

A couple of friends and I recently visited a flea market in rural New Hampshire. Among Italian sausages and a plethora of Nintendo paddles, we came across a box of photos which a woman had purchased from an estate sale. My instinct was to feel a tad awful at picking through some family's discarded history--one which I knew nothing of--but the inner, curious artist took over.  I chose a small collection of photographs (a blip of their history) based solely on visual aesthetics, which at first seemed an odd way to pick apart history, but then isn't that all that photography is anyway?

 

 

 

Mile Markers.

The three of us went to art school together, before we all split directions: Meghan went home to Florida, before settling in Portland; Anthony tried moving to Salt Lake City to study under a master painter, coming back home low on money, then leaving again; I ran away to documentary school as fast as I could and since then haven't sat still too long, usually only keeping in touch through postcards.

We all regrouped in Portland last winter for a few days, before Tony left again for the west. While looking at this image, I realized that the two of them have become a sort of mile marker for me. Despite my ability to disappear from contact, our friendship has become one of the main ways too trace distance, growth, and time both through my photography and life.

Anthony and Meghan, Portland, ME. 2011

Anthony, Manchester, NH. 2010

Meghan, Manchester, NH. 2009

Spring ahead.

Off of Laurel St., Manchester, NH

The process of thought.

The sun began to set somewhere in Connecticut, on a bus between Boston and New York. I'd left my camera in my side-bag, having thrown that into the overhead luggage section, with the idea of watching trees march past and bridges fly overhead in a sort of half-asleep, thoughtless state. This was during a phase where I found it hard to detach myself from my camera, often photographing too excitedly. It was near impossible to have moments where I clearly knew that I should be photographing or those when I definitely should be enjoying "personal time".

Inevitably, as the sun was just disappearing, I noticed a sort of glow within the bus illuminating everyone in a red-ish gold. I sat there for a good fifteen minutes trying to picture it as a photograph, more importantly wondering if in the grander scale it was worth it to stand up and dig for my camera. I couldn't decide if it was a reflex urge to take a picture simply because the light was beautiful or if it sincerely meant something to me. I imagined it in a contact sheet as an image I would never scan, then as something moving, not deciding between either.

I eventually stood up to get my camera, settling back in as the bus turned a corner, behind a hill with a sunless tree-line; the instant was over. Again, I sat mulling over the meaning of it at all, and as the sun would occasionally peek back through I would look through the view finder, incessantly thinking of the purpose. After a span of time that seemed like the end of the light, we turned a corner and one last brilliant, red beam shot through the aisle. The debate moved aside as that sort of higher, subconscious decision-making mechanism within reacted.

I've since resolved the argument over when I should or shouldn't be photographing, realizing to be an artist means never really separating these positions--as exhausting as that can be--though, I do at times appreciate a day without taking a picture, or thinking in photography, as much as a day full of fruitful inspiration.

Chinatown bus, somewhere in CT

Lenseless.

I recently bought the Holga WPC, in hopes of using it for my senior thesis project.  While my project is going to consist mainly of landscapes, I couldn't resist doing some test shots with people thrown in them. This is a photograph of one of Manchester's scenic parking garages and my good friend Joe King, the man who defines fashion portraiture at our college.

Brief encounters.

    I've always struggled to accept that some people will pass but only briefly through my life. I grew up in a rural town, population about 1,000, so most figures were relatively consistent throughout my childhood. As I began to branch into the surrounding world, brief acquaintances would put a stranglehold on my emotions.
    As I grew older it grew easier, but to this day having a conversation with someone on the subway for five minutes leaves me feeling anxious as we part ways. It's a long ways from the kid who would choke up at the quick kindness of strangers, soon to disappear, but still such a curious thing.

    I met Marie in Brooklyn over winter-break, as she couch-surfed at some friends' apartment. An avid cyclist, early in the week she mentioned her desire to have a portrait taken in Times Square with her bike. As the week progressed, the more we discussed this opportunity and the more I, too, felt engaged to the idea.
    We wound up heading to Manhattan just as the sun set, as Marie had specified, with another surfer named Annette. By this point, I'd spent all week envisioning our quest, and felt no reserve in shooting an entire roll of film or having to eventually pay for the processing. I'm not sure if the end result is what either of us had hoped for, but I'm quite fond of this photograph, regardless - as I am of the time I was fortunate to spend walking Brooklyn with Marie, and the other irreplaceable people I've met there.

    As far as photography factors into this,  I'm not sure if I'd forget an image or a memory first, or if one unnecessarily, if at times uncomfortably, lingers due to the other. Does being able to photograph any fleeting thing simply just smear nostalgia across the board and prevent the inevitable acceptance of the ephemeral?
  

Marie, Times Square, NYC

Along for the ride.

    I feel as though I've spent much of my life sitting in the passenger seat, or stuffed in a bus/train. Especially over the last few years, most of the film I get back contains images of the back seat or out dirty windows. This one takes the cake, though.

I-95 through ME, near Portland.