I don't know how it is for you, but I tend to go through dry spells when it comes to dreams. Not the dreams of world domination, I mean you standard REM sleep dreams. The ones that you have to decide whether or not you should tell anyone about because it may let out far more info than you want.
Anyway, with me it seems like weeks go by without any dreams I can actually remember. But in the past few days it's been one after another. The most memorable one made me wake up with a big grin on my face. (No it did not involve a Felicia Day- Natalie Portman threesome.)
It started out with me laughing at a news article I was reading. In my dream it seemed that 80 or so neo Nazis had busted out of prison, gotten themselves SS uniforms and WWII vintage German weapons. And then ran smack into a detachment from the contemporary Bundeswehr who, like most Germans nowadays really don't like that Nazi shit. The results were pretty predictable which is why I was laughing. There's nothing quite like the surrealist dream image of Nazis being told by modern Germans to shut the fuck up. With bullets.
The fun part about dream you can remember is trying to figure out just where the imagery came from. With this one it's pretty easy. I was helping a friend of the family who was making a very low budget indie film set during the Holocaust. Specifically, since I have a longstanding interest in militaria and this time period I mostly ended up helping her procure and set up a uniform for the film's antagonist.
I guess dreams are kind of like a pressure valve. There when you need relief, but otherwise not particularly memorable.
This post doesn't seem to make much sense, but having not posted anything since July, I just needed to get soemthing up here to get back into it.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
No one wants to see your butt pack
Hopefully, by now my photos from Operation : Northern Wind VI will have been released. If not, wait a while. They're worth it. In any case, this gives me an opportunity to climb back up on my soapbox and spout off about the blending of my two hobbies which will hopefully be the genesis of something leading me to the famous “Step 3: PROFIT!”
When I was at RIT I had to endure a few weeks of shooting sports photography. I hated it. I really don't give a damn about any sports except for the Olympics and those are easy to follow because most of them are races of one form or another. Maybe I should have tried to photograph some track meets, they'd have been easier to keep up with than high school soccer or tennis. The rule was: try to have the kid moving, face visible, with the ball in the frame. If you want to do mediocre sports shots that you can pass around at a PTA meeting, that's how to do it.
The thing is, I just didn't have the timing down and hated every second of it. While I can watch, enjoy and certainly appreciate the athleticism of sport, I have no interest in recording it. Photographing the fans was always a hell of a lot more fun. I've got a great shot of a soccer mom staring laser holes into a woman rooting for the other team, and another one of a Teen Girl Squad with one hanger on sulking in the background. They're good shots, you'll have to take my word for it.
Photographing airsoft is a little different. First, I actually like doing it. Second, I know how things go, I know what people do when, where they're going to go so I can put myself in the right place. There's a third one in there, but I'm not quite sure what it is. I think it has something to do with marking anyone who ruins a shot for a future burst to the face.
Of course, there are some unique challenges that come with wearing the blaze orange safety vest. Not the least of which is being able to hide that blaze orange safety vest. Well, that's actually impossible, but the point is that I don't want to give away someone's position. The easy way to do that is to just sand there looking stupid, checking the time, looking at a map or compass until the guy watching me turns around and does something else. Then I can resume photographing the person preparing to put a burst into his center of mass.
Another challenge goes back to the rule for mediocre sports photography. A soccer mom does not want to only see her kid's jersey number and no matter how much money they spend on their fake radio and hydro carrier, no one wants pictures of only the ass end of their kit. (Even if they have a large “Mud flap girl” patch that says, “Big Sexy,” on it. So that means getting in front of someone who is in the process of putting rounds downrange, often while they are dealing with incoming. This is where I can get my ass lit up from both sides at once. But the photos look good. And, two more names get added to the “In the face!” list.
Before the game starts I try to learn all I can about the objectives for each team and the lay of the land. I want to put myself where most of the action is going to be. In the case of Northern Wind, that meant spending a lot of time around a cluster of buildings. But, being sneaky myself I was able to channel both teams and find some other good fights. I was able to cut through the woods and find myself in a position to get some minor fights which otherwise wouldn't have been covered. Not everybody likes to be in the big battle. Everybody likes to find themselves looking badass in the photo gallery.
The last really big challenge is the dance. The dance, is what happens whenever you get more than one photographer or videographer covering in event. We all see the shots we want, but go through a crazy set of motions trying to keep the the orange vests out of our shots while staying out of theirs. We are a shy, sneaky and slightly evil lot. We don't like to be recorded. We like to be ghosts, 6”2' skinny, day glo orange ghosts. The only evidence of our passing being what we decide other people get to see. Seriously, the next time you're at a wedding watch how it works. There will be the guy getting paid to photograph, and at least two people with expensive cameras and an artistic bent out to get their own version of the same events. (Whenever I'm at a wedding I always introduce myself to the guy getting paid to shoot the thing and tell him to shove me out of his way if I'm in the wrong place. He's got money riding on this, I don't.)
The dance gets really fun when shit is hitting the fan all around you. Yelling, 'nades being tossed, smokes being thrown fusillades of bb's going in at least two directions- and on top of that you're trying to stay out of Nikki with the telephoto and Jeff with the DV cam's shots while getting close enough with the mid-range zoom to do some damage. And then you have to dodge game control's Humvee as they roll up to check out the fun.
I'm sorry does that sound like bitching? Let me pull down my balaclava so you can see the grin. I'm getting shots fucker! Good ones! Keep popping smoke and keep me happy! Too close for missiles? Switchin' to guns!
When I was at RIT I had to endure a few weeks of shooting sports photography. I hated it. I really don't give a damn about any sports except for the Olympics and those are easy to follow because most of them are races of one form or another. Maybe I should have tried to photograph some track meets, they'd have been easier to keep up with than high school soccer or tennis. The rule was: try to have the kid moving, face visible, with the ball in the frame. If you want to do mediocre sports shots that you can pass around at a PTA meeting, that's how to do it.
The thing is, I just didn't have the timing down and hated every second of it. While I can watch, enjoy and certainly appreciate the athleticism of sport, I have no interest in recording it. Photographing the fans was always a hell of a lot more fun. I've got a great shot of a soccer mom staring laser holes into a woman rooting for the other team, and another one of a Teen Girl Squad with one hanger on sulking in the background. They're good shots, you'll have to take my word for it.
Photographing airsoft is a little different. First, I actually like doing it. Second, I know how things go, I know what people do when, where they're going to go so I can put myself in the right place. There's a third one in there, but I'm not quite sure what it is. I think it has something to do with marking anyone who ruins a shot for a future burst to the face.
Of course, there are some unique challenges that come with wearing the blaze orange safety vest. Not the least of which is being able to hide that blaze orange safety vest. Well, that's actually impossible, but the point is that I don't want to give away someone's position. The easy way to do that is to just sand there looking stupid, checking the time, looking at a map or compass until the guy watching me turns around and does something else. Then I can resume photographing the person preparing to put a burst into his center of mass.
Another challenge goes back to the rule for mediocre sports photography. A soccer mom does not want to only see her kid's jersey number and no matter how much money they spend on their fake radio and hydro carrier, no one wants pictures of only the ass end of their kit. (Even if they have a large “Mud flap girl” patch that says, “Big Sexy,” on it. So that means getting in front of someone who is in the process of putting rounds downrange, often while they are dealing with incoming. This is where I can get my ass lit up from both sides at once. But the photos look good. And, two more names get added to the “In the face!” list.
Before the game starts I try to learn all I can about the objectives for each team and the lay of the land. I want to put myself where most of the action is going to be. In the case of Northern Wind, that meant spending a lot of time around a cluster of buildings. But, being sneaky myself I was able to channel both teams and find some other good fights. I was able to cut through the woods and find myself in a position to get some minor fights which otherwise wouldn't have been covered. Not everybody likes to be in the big battle. Everybody likes to find themselves looking badass in the photo gallery.
The last really big challenge is the dance. The dance, is what happens whenever you get more than one photographer or videographer covering in event. We all see the shots we want, but go through a crazy set of motions trying to keep the the orange vests out of our shots while staying out of theirs. We are a shy, sneaky and slightly evil lot. We don't like to be recorded. We like to be ghosts, 6”2' skinny, day glo orange ghosts. The only evidence of our passing being what we decide other people get to see. Seriously, the next time you're at a wedding watch how it works. There will be the guy getting paid to photograph, and at least two people with expensive cameras and an artistic bent out to get their own version of the same events. (Whenever I'm at a wedding I always introduce myself to the guy getting paid to shoot the thing and tell him to shove me out of his way if I'm in the wrong place. He's got money riding on this, I don't.)
The dance gets really fun when shit is hitting the fan all around you. Yelling, 'nades being tossed, smokes being thrown fusillades of bb's going in at least two directions- and on top of that you're trying to stay out of Nikki with the telephoto and Jeff with the DV cam's shots while getting close enough with the mid-range zoom to do some damage. And then you have to dodge game control's Humvee as they roll up to check out the fun.
I'm sorry does that sound like bitching? Let me pull down my balaclava so you can see the grin. I'm getting shots fucker! Good ones! Keep popping smoke and keep me happy! Too close for missiles? Switchin' to guns!
Friday, June 19, 2009
Never die, never fade away.
One of the most important books I have was a parting gift from my high school photo teacher. As he was packing up his things getting ready to retire he gave me the pick of some of his old photo books. They stood in a cardboard box like records at a store and I looked through them the same way. Landscapes. Ansel Adams. Industrial and commercial. Stock books. I stopped at a slim, white hardcover. There was a man on the front in a strange looking coat, wearing an Uncle Sam hat and a sign advertising haircuts. I picked it up and looked through it. This was something completely strange to me. Strange images devoid of context. It showed another time, I could tell by the prices in the windows, the cars but most of all the clothes.
Men women and children dressed to the nines. Or the eights. Families proudly walking down city streets in suits, jackets and no one without a hat. It was much more my father's time than mine. And yet, something about it drew me in. Each photograph had a story behind it. A conversation, a passing glance. But none of it was there. The story was a blank as the large areas of white surrounding the photographs. There was no context and it drove me crazy. I wanted stories, I wanted to know what was going on.
Mr. Littwiller noticed the book and said, "Ah, I thought you'd like that one." I had no idea why. At least not until I was long done with RIT and had been put through the ringer by Mr. Litwiller's old friend Gunther Cartwright.
Though those years at RIT I always focused on what the images in that book never had. A story. I wanted to tell the stories. I worked so hard at making the images match the words I wanted to say. That is to say, I was miserable. The happiest I was making photographs was when I said, "To hell with the story. I want to take photographs I am proud to put up. Photographs where people ask me to explain what is happening, not photographs where I have to explain everything to get them to see the image."
The photographs that capture my imagination are not the ones which tell a story, but the ones which begin to tell a story. The ones which make people wonder and feel the need to do a little digging on their own.
A photograph of a man jumping from a boat to the dock with a mooring line makes us gasp a bit. Does he make it? Does he go in the water? But I find myself asking: What made him take the jump? Who's on the boat? How many times has he made the jump before? What's he going to do later? In five minutes of thinking I can fill in, in my imagination the guy's entire life's story. And then i wonder what's this guy to the photographer? Was he hoping for a splash?
I guess I've come around to thinking that telling stories is not nearly as much fun as trying to get other people to make them up.
Men women and children dressed to the nines. Or the eights. Families proudly walking down city streets in suits, jackets and no one without a hat. It was much more my father's time than mine. And yet, something about it drew me in. Each photograph had a story behind it. A conversation, a passing glance. But none of it was there. The story was a blank as the large areas of white surrounding the photographs. There was no context and it drove me crazy. I wanted stories, I wanted to know what was going on.
Mr. Littwiller noticed the book and said, "Ah, I thought you'd like that one." I had no idea why. At least not until I was long done with RIT and had been put through the ringer by Mr. Litwiller's old friend Gunther Cartwright.
Though those years at RIT I always focused on what the images in that book never had. A story. I wanted to tell the stories. I worked so hard at making the images match the words I wanted to say. That is to say, I was miserable. The happiest I was making photographs was when I said, "To hell with the story. I want to take photographs I am proud to put up. Photographs where people ask me to explain what is happening, not photographs where I have to explain everything to get them to see the image."
The photographs that capture my imagination are not the ones which tell a story, but the ones which begin to tell a story. The ones which make people wonder and feel the need to do a little digging on their own.
A photograph of a man jumping from a boat to the dock with a mooring line makes us gasp a bit. Does he make it? Does he go in the water? But I find myself asking: What made him take the jump? Who's on the boat? How many times has he made the jump before? What's he going to do later? In five minutes of thinking I can fill in, in my imagination the guy's entire life's story. And then i wonder what's this guy to the photographer? Was he hoping for a splash?
I guess I've come around to thinking that telling stories is not nearly as much fun as trying to get other people to make them up.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Eli is to photography in 2009 as Wil Wheaton is to writing in 2002
I haven't posted anything about photography yet. I've been trying for a long time to figure out what to say. The fact is, photography is a sort of painful topic for me. Thinking about it in a professional sense just bring back memories of failure and crushed dreams. Going through old images seldom gives me a sense of accomplishment at what I did in the past, it usually just makes me angry about the present. I feel like instead of finding a way to make new art I'm using the few good pieces I have as a crutch. "Hey! Look at these! I don't suck after all!"
I know a lot of people tell me I'm really good, but there's a catch to that. I have a hard time accepting praise from people who don't notice that their prints from the CVS minilab are too magenta. If may parents, relatives and friends are complimenting me I'd rather it be because of some connection they have to the image rather than on technical or aesthetic merits. I do like to form that emotional connection, but also for every good thing someoen can find about an image, odds are I can find two faults. Part of that is the nature of art- the creator is always painfully aware of the smallest mistake or defect. It's also because of the harshly critical environment at my photo school and how I reacted to it.
I was not a leaf on the wind, and I did not soar.
I am very ambivalent about trying to make a career (Or even a part time job.) out of my photography. On one hand, I do believe myself to be "Better than average," if not good or great. And a certain part of me does crave recognition. At the same time, I fear being not as good as I ought to be, or as good as I think I am.
I just don't have the courage yet to really put myself out there and try to succeed on my own terms. I don't quite know what those terms are. I'll let you know when I figure them out.
I know a lot of people tell me I'm really good, but there's a catch to that. I have a hard time accepting praise from people who don't notice that their prints from the CVS minilab are too magenta. If may parents, relatives and friends are complimenting me I'd rather it be because of some connection they have to the image rather than on technical or aesthetic merits. I do like to form that emotional connection, but also for every good thing someoen can find about an image, odds are I can find two faults. Part of that is the nature of art- the creator is always painfully aware of the smallest mistake or defect. It's also because of the harshly critical environment at my photo school and how I reacted to it.
I was not a leaf on the wind, and I did not soar.
I am very ambivalent about trying to make a career (Or even a part time job.) out of my photography. On one hand, I do believe myself to be "Better than average," if not good or great. And a certain part of me does crave recognition. At the same time, I fear being not as good as I ought to be, or as good as I think I am.
I just don't have the courage yet to really put myself out there and try to succeed on my own terms. I don't quite know what those terms are. I'll let you know when I figure them out.
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