mad city

My over dependence on the sun has me conflicted on my days off. Monday I spent the day confirming my neighbours’ fears about me as I made platinotypes on the front lawn – moving the green plastic Adirondack chair to be in the sunny spots during the day.

I wanted to be out and about but was enjoying the relatively productive day as soon as the sun appeared sometime after 9AM. It was a bit frustrating when it started to cloud over and I had to guess compensate but all in all a great day.

So Tuesday, I had to decide whether I continue to hang around peasants pissoir or head out. I had planned on Madison for sometime and although I wanted to finish the project. I had to get our of the safeness of staying around the house.

Simply being out changed my demeanour. There is a well worn track to Madison via Janesville but thinking that I had plenty of time, decided to take the slower route through – well around Whitewater, the Fort and Cambridge. I even modified that by taking county trunk O through Heart Prairie.

Places to stop when the days become even shorter and the outings closer to home.

Did stop outside Cambridge - turned around I saw a small ballpark by a bowling alley in State Road 12 – made some snaps. The owner came out – curious – chatted about the mini replica of Fenway and the Green Monster in London - he scoffs it is used only once a year - and found out that this was a whiffle ball park.

Was determined not to go to the east side and the usual places – kicked myself for not bringing the bike – but I knew that turning back to get it would have had me rushing. Parked along Monona Bay and headed through Brittingham Park to Vilas.

You can have San Fran, being out and about in Madison is my tonic. People are actually visible on the streets, I worry more about the bike lanes than the cars. Where in Chicago it doesn’t matter what street I walk down as they are all the same. At each corner in Vilas I would fret on which way to go knowing full well than something would not be seen.

Chose the alleys – real alleys some not paved not cement blocked fortressed back gardens. Property delineated by shrubbery. Where in Chicago status is conferred by how many German engineered machines you have in the garage, here it was the quirks. Whereas in Chicago concrete seems to be the city mineral, in Madison, there were more bird feeders per house than I have seen anywhere this side of Britain.

The day passed with me zigzagging to Monroe Street. Stopped in to see what type of art was up at Edgewood College and entered without being stripped searched. More wanderings to Regent Street trying not to walk on the bike path.

General paranoia and fear of others is general trust and acceptance. Haven’t gone far but have made a far amount of snaps without falling into the rampant urban formalism that occurred in Balamer and San Fran. I was making snaps of things and situations. Neighbourhoods out commercial streets – Monroe to Regent back, noticed lofts beginning to take over by WORT but was more upset that the launderette had closed, a sure sign of gentrification.

A large Chai at Zoma in Atwood out in the back garden looking at the community gardens before choosing a different way back, thinking that I have fortified myself for the welcoming nurturing atmosphere of the greatest art school in the history of humankind.

My ex professor on whom I trained my secretive mailing runs when he lived in Beloit – the big O – says Balamer is good for my work wonder what he’d say about Madison.

noticed...

at the security desk
person– I guess that my i.d. has expired
security guard – are you an alum?
-yes
-go ahead

that welcoming feeling...

the thursday ritual

What’s the problem here

In the Sunday New York Times Style magazine on travel there is Sofia Coppola's Paris. I pass over it. In the newsprint travel section a shorter article on the Cerrados. I look up Cerrados as I did when there was an article on Casa de Areia filed in the Lençoís in Maranhão.

There is an article on food in Lucca Italy in Travel. In the book review, A LAND GONE LONESOME - an inland voyage along the Yukon River by Dan O’Neill I race to addall.com to see its price.

I cannot tell if I choose the more remote places due to curiosity or my disdain of those who champion the more well known ones.

We head down to Columbia College, Amy and me, to listen to Tim Davis talk. Want to make the effort to go to their lectures again. It brings back memories of my time there. I want to see who still goes from Columbia.

While the area is gentrifying quickly due mainly to Columbia and the other colleges just north of it, it still can be a bit raw, but even so there are no blockades at the Michigan Avenue entrance, nor the Harrison Street one. There is a lone security guard well beyond the lift, the foyer is teeming with students and non students alike. We walk by and head into the auditorium. I find my seat then head up to the second floor to the toilet before the lecture.

After the lecture we all wander over to the gallery to have some of the wine and cheese before heading out.

Back over at THE School facing the park, around the corner from where Daley is dumping money for beautification of the lakefront, the security guard wants me to scan my I.D. as I pass through the barrier before entering nearly deserted building.

Belgium, Denmark, Luxemburg and Beyond

I had planned to leave at 7:30 it was 8:30 but I wasn’t going to let that bother me. I was not in a rush. I had plenty of time. I wasn’t going to leave things out.

T.B was holding court at Alterra as I was picking up my coffee for the week. I nodded.

-Hey…you.

Was back on the road before I was forced to exchange pleasantries or enter his little fiefdom. Traffic was fine, I knew that I had to get out of the boring parts – problem with heading north out of Milwaukee – it is only I-43 tended to try to ignore everything until Sheboygan when I needed a coffee but wasn’t going to the Starbucks.

I can make it to Manitowoc.

Pressing my luck with the great outing to Silver Lake and actually photographing things that I had planned. I thought I would combine two outings by photographing in the towns we speed through trying to make it to Door County for breakfast at the sister Bay café.
I would actually stop in Algoma, I would pull off the road when the fancy hit. I brought along Joãozão – it will be a loss when that camera finally gives up.

I also wanted to see work of some students at UWGB and since I was heading that way I could sneak something into Stephen Perkins’s box in De Pere. Since I was heading up via Manitowoc I could also sneak by and drop off something at John and Julie’s. I’d make it a day of dump and runs.

Weather was so good that I hated being in the machine. Windows open and seemed to be doing well time wise.

Stopped at the Culture Café for a large dark roast and chatted with the owner and some locals for a bit. Seemed like he wanted to sell the place and move somewhere where there wasn’t a Wal-Mart. Talked about homogenisation of the country – without looking at the city limits sign you could be anywhere. Both picked remote locations we would like to see and hang out.

I was somewhat surprised at my lucidity and my lack of wanting to make time, usually I must get away from these chats – even though I like them - as I have a long way to go. It could have been the lady in Silver Lake but I was not in a hurry at all and like hanging about to chat. This was mirroring the outings of Gros Morne residency. Headed out to the machine to get Joãozão to make a snap of him and was on my way.

The dump and run in De Pere was a slam-dunk, as I knew he wasn’t at home and I had done it enough that I had it down pat. Year of this sort of activity with the big O in Beloit trained me well.

The show at UWGB was a mixed bag, smaller than I thought work all over the place, varying quality, but knew three people in it. Would have a look then head on to make snaps, walking slowly by Perkins’s office when I leave for while I know what he looks like he has no idea of what I look like.

I liked it like this. My anonymity meant that I could possibly be seen dropping things off but not be caught. It meant that while the correspondence started out with him having the upper hand, I now had it as I would/could drive up drop off and leave. I simply at times want to test fate but knowing that if I become known the whole exercise would change.

There was a mistake in the show – an image was mislabelled. My plan changed, I would go to his office – the door was open – knock and state that there was a mis-labelled print in the gallery.

Went to the bog to gather courage but when I came out his assistant was in the office and spending forever with some problem she was having.

Now I was getting antsy, I saw time passing my day out and about shortening, me panicking and racing back. I gave myself fifteen minutes waiting time.

Well 20

Well 25

I was going to leave when I heard that they both were going to leave to check on something together.

An even better plan sprung to mind.

As they left the office…
-Excuse me I have to get back to Peasants Pissoir – I said shaking his hand – but there is a print mislabelled in the show, it says Polaroid Pinhole when it uses conventional film.
-Oh, oh thank you as he walks on and I walk in the opposite direction.

I reach the end of the hall when
-Excuse me
I slow and turn around
-What is your name?
-You don’t want to know. I round corner and disappear.

Out in the car park relishing the time it took to realise who I was, I headed east toward Luxemburg, passing Denmark on my way to Algoma.

Still quite pleased with myself but this time for noticing things along the road and actually stopping and at times making a u turn and heading back. Bright early afternoon sun, remarked to my self when the temp gets to about 10-15C I really start to work.

Parked at the lake but was more interested in the village, went for the usual suspects, areas between houses, the football/baseball stadium like the horseshoe pitch complex, taverns, motels.

Again what a difference being above the tension line meant, the one cop and me crossed paths many time but he didn’t bother to get out. Made a strange pattern walking the town and spent more time that I thought I would meaning that I wouldn’t be able to take in Kewanee – nice temperature but shorter light hours. The trip south was via the back roads that I usually don’t take when we are racing to and from D.C. this was mainly for the drive as it was too dark to make any snaps. It was reconnaissance for the next time.
Wanted a decent place to eat found a Cousin Submarine in a pathetic mall attached to the K-Mart. Stopped once again at the Culture Café

-Hey you’re back also.
Ordered a lattè we made fun of someone who wanted decaf skim mocha. He mentioned that I wasn’t making photographs this. Took him up on his dare and got out Joãozão this time photographing the other person in the place. I was shown pictures of a cat his dog had mauled – it was sitting quietly outside the shop. Saw that he had sandwiches and vegetarian fare but he was closing soon had to be somewhere else.

He asked what I thought of Governor Doyle. He isn’t Mark Green was the only good thing I could say, a discussion of Wisconsin politics and a mention that he asked as the Doyle campaign was wanting to use his café for a stop in Manitowoc. He was on the verge of okaying it.

-But if it were Green? Hell no, I’d tell him to fuck off

Misjudged the remaining gasoline and the distance remaining meaning that I had to buy outrageously expensive gasoline in Whitefolks Bay.

An outing of old 380 miles and I wasn’t even winded.

the new/old normal

Coming back from a new pizzeria in Wheatland – Luisa’s, which is in a hollow that speeding fibs pass when racing to Lake Geneva – we were always interested and for once we decided to try it out.

Didn’t buy the owner yelling to the hostess to give us the best table in the house (non-smoking) as it was in the middle of the room in front of the big screen TV. I would have preferred the second best – the empty one by the window. But liked the place it was a bar with a restaurant attached where around here we get eateries pretending to be restaurants or take-aways with a couple of tables in a strip mall. It was a place that locals hang out in again endangering the roads of western Kenosha County when they have to drive home. It had things that would bring me back to make snaps both formally and for the street furniture– horseshoe pitch, playground.

Driving nostalgically back through the lake district it was too dark to make any snaps so I made my usual note to myself to return to make some snaps.

Surprisingly I did just that to-day. After the usual stop at the post office in Bristol, I headed over to Silver Lake not ready to photograph Luisa’s – still in big city mode where suspicion abounds and since they lived above the place, didn’t want to have to explain why I liked their scoreboards. Headed to a forlorn playground with a basketball court in the middle of a field and the most frightening duck rides I have ever seen.

There is a reason why – while the most mendacious of us prefer cities that have more people than most provinces – I like places that would fit into St. Pat’s ball park. Left the machine open while wandering along the river, people who passed did the Wisconsin version of the Newfoundland nod – it involves waving.

I slowed down. Utility people said hello, and nice day and didn’t worry about the safety of their electric lines. I could stop every place simply pull over get out and wander.

Did it three times. Stopping in front of taverns – the Riverview and Uncle George’s for the buildings but for how things were arranged around them. Another basketball court, again in a strange place – miss a shot and get it by the passing delivery van.

While wandering downtown Silver Lake by default, I kept going a bit further when something caught my eye, was stopped by a lady who was out getting her post.

She was curious and oddly proud that someone would walk about here town. She had lived there 52 years taught at Westosha Central and Wheatland Middle told me the history of every building in the village. She sits on front porches for their sociability disdains back decks. In talking about Silver Lake she was telling the history of most small towns – post office now out of town, bank closed – now a restaurant, where there were two grocers now she has to go to Paddock Lake. A group still meet in the morning at the Citgo for coffee before heading off to start the day. People waved as they passed, she’d crane her neck to see who was in the machine.

Finding people who have time made me have time. At the beginning of the chat, I was trying to check my watch – like I had things to do – but an hour later when she had to go back and feed her cat, I had the sense of mind to make a snap of her as if I were in the true north. Acclimatised now, I wish that I had stopped at Luisa’s.

Yet another reason why being away from the rock for long periods of time is not good for my reasoning.

I just replaced my courier bag – which I should have done three years ago when I lost Carol’s Mont Blanc fountain pen while walking the East Coast Trail to Cape St. Francis. Now I fear that all the technology i carry in it will plummet to the ground.

It is being custom made and my colour choice is that of the Republic of Newfoundland – pink white and green.

Up there it will be seen as love for the intangibles of the province – they already know I am crazy. Down here though, I fear that I will be perceived as yet another aging metrosexual.

What was the last line of ANIMAL FARM?

Am on my way to the train pretty pleased with myself after buying some inkjet paper from Calumet – and drooling irrationally over the used Leica M6 in the case. I still fill that to be a real photographer one has to have one. Irrational as I had just walked from the school and chickening out on my own manner of working for the term, I brought along Joaõzaõ, instead of the leiquina. Walking from the greatest art school in the history of humankind to the shop I kick myself for not following my own rules as I see many potential snaps – if I could get through all the stuff in my bag and slow down to make them as I am afraid that I’ll miss the train.

Again I had misjudged the time, things went more smoothly than I had expected and now I could dig in the now even fuller bag and make snaps along the way.

I see a giant patio brolly stuck through a wall with the back half bent so that a worker can have a place get out of the sun.

I see the worker – a flagger directing traffic for a construction site – we exchange weather greetings I make the snap – actually two – and am on my way.

-who are you with?
-huh? As I turn to see two men coming toward me
-who are you with.
-what do you mean?
-you have a camera.
-what’s your hobby
-my hobby isn’t photographing electric substations, we can call the police and have for this.
this may be what they call maturity but I didn’t get snide, took a deep breath and …
-you see that brolly there I wanted… I walked over to where I stood, held up my camera and beckoned them over. Holding up Joãoão so they could look through it,
I made this snap. when I did this I thought is boring so I came around to her – ordered them to where I was – and made this snap.
One man – the silent one - was smirking.
-by the way although “things have changed” the street is still public and I am allowed to do what I wish.
-yes but with terrorism.
-ok I am terrorist. I want an image of this do I take a camera out as big as this? I walk by and make a snap with my mobile camera phone. I realise that you cannot determine what and who is a terrorist why anyone of us three can be one so some sort of …. – I couldn’t think of the word profile – assessment is made. But your fear and suspicion effects everything. I spoke to that woman – pointing to the flagger – when I am up north in Canada I would have made her snap as I make a snap of everyone I speak to up there. here I don’t as everyone is wary…you can see everyone as a terrorist and not function as you walk the world in doubt or you can realise that most people aren’t have some trust and continue to have a pretty normal life. I choose the second as it is too exhausting to suspect everyone.

- i cannot get my students to venture outdoors to see the surreal in the real world because of incidents like this. They anticipate this and prefer to stay in the studio.

They leave but I yell across so if you fish I can ask where you sell them?
-no I fix cars
-so what garage do you work at?
-I don’t I don’t want money to ruin it.
-me too.

Leaving I felt that the terrorist tipping point has been crossed. the country really is on a downward spiral. People approach others not out of curiosity – but suspicion. Logic is no longer in the equation. The two forgot that the newly built substation was built by a yachting club, and a commuter train runs behind it.

Realising the last time that I was stopped when photographing in the streets was in the Soviet Union – well no we were told not to photograph bridges and airports. The last time was in Rio de Janeiro, during the dictatorship when I leaned a military installation to photograph Santos Dumont Airport for a paper on modern Brasilian architecture.

To paraphrase Pogo "I have seen the enemy and they is us."

after four days of rain...

On the Metra I see the allotments at Peterson and Ridge are becoming quite strange.

Driving up Clark I find a part of Chicago where façade ennui hasn’t taken over.

I have to help someone set up their website in Andersonville a place where one enters amon goeth like but leaves puravida.

An outing of nostalgia, where I don’t hold out as much hope as the walk through Bucktown for while I won’t run into any urban pioneers afraid that I’ll take their basketball hoop, the area isn’t renown for serendipity - streets too straight, alleys too neat, shops too tidy. It is more out of curiosity and to walk Clark Street north of Devon that I go at all.

Going against what went well in the Bucktown outing, I take Joãozão. Don’t expect to photograph anything moving. Andersonville seems more rural than urban.

The first half of the walk – up Ravenswood from the station - was as predicted, a walk nothing really caught my fancy to stop, wondered what would have been if I had taken a more residential street. The alleys seemed promising due to their age more than the mismatching of styles. I was just barely on time so I kept moving.

Then I forgot where Hermitage was, west of the tracks or east – thought east but when I saw Ashland I began to panic. This doesn’t happen to me, I don’t get lost in a grid in my old neighbourhood.

Headed west of the tracks and again as I approached Damen knew it couldn’t be this way. The address would put it in the middle of a cemetery.

Asked bike messagers
-Is Hermitage this way?
-Armitage is four miles south
-not Armitage, Hermitage
-don’t know we are from the south side.

I try again this time some workers
-Is Hermitage this way?
-Armitage? And he begins to point.
-no Hermitage
-kak?
-Hermitage kak ermitage
-not Armitage.
-ah don’t know.

Finally found a couple of cops doing what a couple of cops do talking to each other from their respective machines and asked.

The supposed real purpose of the trip was a washout. Incompatibility problems P.C v. Mac. My programmes wouldn’t work etc. To save face showed her how to use blogger toshare images.

After a respectable amount of time I left and continued my trek northward to the Rogers Park station.

This part of the journey lived somewhat up to what I was looking for. The allotments were more than I expected. I wanted a snap of this deck set up where to people had left out two deck chairs a table and a couple of brollys, to overlook the vegs, there was even a bit of indoor outdoor carpeting.

Being there however I was more intrigued by the differentiation of the spaces, and how paths were made to get to the allotments that were in the back near the railway embankment – it seems this is the place carpeting goes to die. Two Asian women were working in theirs, one picking some vegs, the other watering, both in their world ignoring everything outside.

I tried to photograph, the irrigation systems and what people had left to make their place like their garden. Was astounded by the trust as with the patio set they could be taken at anytime – but this may be due to my world’s greatest art school cynicism where trust only goes as far as making sure you scan your i.d. when you enter the building.

Clark Street was too crowded and things already open. Driving it was on a Sunday when the shops were closed and I didn’t have to bother with people wondering why I was aiming Joãozão at their building. The image that stood out was the made bed in a loading dock with the owner’s possessions in a shopping cart nearby a block from the police station. Some thing was made of the trip as at Lunt with time to spare I started to explore alleys again and made images that while formal dealt with the social also – hoops, excavated lots, shopping carts filled with possessions, closed taverns, toys, barking dogs.

-thanks so much i couldn't have done it without you. what do you want the most?
-time
i am given cash.

60622

A rainy wander through Bucktown as I am to hand over the negs of the wedding from the camera that wasn't dropped in San Fran. Train to Clybourn – hoping – can that be right? – to see the encampment on the platform that was there the last time i detrained here.

Ignoring everything I wrote not a month ago I take a 35mm, thinking that it will be perfect for documenting the plethora of preggers pushing prams at Milk and Honey – pure fantasy on my part. Am a bit edgy as I didn’t bring anything but the 35 – I am going Luddite until January forsaking digital picture making devices. It isn’t so much raining but heavy misting but it is one of those rare moments when I am lucid and while I start with the usual fall back of looking for the formal, it ends pretty quickly as once again I head for alleys that I haven’t been down.

The snaps seem to be heading back to the essence of people not there with a little social context thrown in. The usual suspects show up in the imagery – basketball hoops, chairs, street furniture even an Atget like broom. At times I forget that it is raining and aim the camera skyward to photograph some trapped balloons – imaging the house they were at they were probably trying to escape. Wipe the lens with my shirt – forgetting that it isn’t a Holga.

Typical Chicago street theatre – best example was a couple on bikes crossing against the lights – make that ignoring them – upset when a lorry driver almost runs into them and gives them the finger. Hear them bitching as they head up Wood Street
-The man should just chill out (do people even say “chill out” anymore)?

As usual I gawk so much – this time only under the eye of a Latino worker wondering – to himself – why I am photographing in the rain – that I have to race to make the meeting.

An attempt as being social at lunch. The place lives up to my stereotype as the young and visibly knocked up come in to place their orders am pretty proud as I seem to be handling the day well until we go our separate ways and I have the choice of making a train in 15 minutes or waiting an extra 60. While I could be wandering and snapping the urge to flee Chicago takes over and I walk decidedly toward the station trying to ignore all these situations determined to slow me down.

A shorthanded meeting with an ex student at the Ashland and Cortland bus shelter.
-Hey, still living in Lincoln Park
-Yep. Still teaching at the tute?
-Yep.
-Gotta catch a train.
-Gotta wait for a bus.
-Heard from Branko.
-No but there is his website.
-Still have yours.
-Yep. You?
-Yep.

Even though I knew that it was coming, Enright waxing nostalgic about his summer sojourn on the Bonavista, opening the new season of the Sunday Edition, it didn’t help my more than a year absence from the rock.

I had already started a strategy that will help me through the term. The various stimuli range from the overtly sentimental – listening to The Ode, television adverts for the province and the Nissan Bonavista on youtube to heading over to the Can Lit section of my bookshelf and playing book tag.

It started with Michael Winter’s This All Happened, and was going to continue with the new Lisa Moore novel but am going to continue with Winter's The Big Why before moving on through the Ship Inn writer’s mafia.

I do intend to continue with Moore, Michael Crummey and end up with Wayne Johnston’s latest – hope it is better than the Navigator of New York – hoping that it will be out in paperback by then. By then new links will appear and I’ll be carried on until he experience is firsthand.

The habit doesn’t break me – thanks to addall.com, the only rules are that I don’t buy hardcover as they are too heavy and awkward to carry with all the new technologies that I have to tote back and forth to school.

I only buy the next book when I have finished the one that I am reading.

The last is no books set in pre confederation Newfoundland – which may kill the Johnston book.

without comment

Needing to get away from things cyber, I bike to the lake to prepare for upcoming classes – like driving, biking gives me time to think.

School is in, it is after Labour Day, the beaches along the lake are empty. I get to choose the bench with the best view.

As I slow at a promising picnic table, a cargo shorted, button downed shirted, sandaled man appears at a particularly messy table talking to himself. He has one of those mobile earphone jobbies. He seems as startled as me as he walks back to his van.

I choose a table nearby – stare out at the lake and begin.

He seems at a loss as he returns with his Schwinn still talking on his mobile. He glances over, he rests his bike on “his” table, looks again and heads to the beach.

He paces between breakwaters, 100 metres, every time he turns around, he acts as if he wants to be at ease, he ventures into the lake then seeming to feel that this is not the manner of a mobile toting man comes out. His shirt is unbuttoned and he stops talking but starts again even louder. He ventures into the lake again, shivers and leaves this time still on the phone. His sandals come off and walks the tide line, on the return trip, he leaves his sandals. His shirt dangles from his shoulder GQ style, on the return, it has disappeared. He walks into the lake again this time resolved that he will never reconcile being away from his desk and at ease continuing his conversation on the phone.

The shortening days catch up as I race the light to make one more platinotype. In July I could have still started one at 5PM I move the frame further and further away until it is out on the state road where it catches the attention of passers by – and works a conversation starter but not as a effective means of exposure as the setting sun wins.

A friend of mine, in a post card, rails against the art world saying that it is more and more inward looking excluding the rest of the world.

While I am in agreement, I think he is hyperbolising a bit as I scan my I.D. to be allowed entry to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

I have a pint (US) of Smithwicks at Brehon’s hoping that my alcoholic Madeleine will transport me to the Duke.

I blame its failure on the idea that the beer doesn’t travel well.

One year away, Montréal bagels from the Georgetown Bakery have become delicious in theory.