non-sequiturs

heard on the cbc that a military imaging technician had been killed in afganistan. the newsreader obligingly translated from the military jargon - a war photographer.

filling up at a gasbar in sheridan road a lexus s.u.v. stopped behind a motor that had seen better days.
the woman started yelling at the top of her voice - you bitch, you fucking bitch, you bitch, you fucking bitch - it became a mantra. while she was screaming she was also reaching around to the back seat to get her baseball bat and was beginning to swing it in the car i am guessing for the benefit of the worse looking car in front of her.

the light changed she went into oncoming traffic to pass while still screaming you bitch and swinging the bat.

it is published

bem...

The anticipation of a road trip has its usual consequences, in writing about the long stretches of the trip to Pouch that would be less than thrilling, I looked for ways to avoid them.

I know that I wouldn’t take the Northern U.S. route as it is nothing but tolls and I cannot see paying money when I don’t have to – remember being a backwards, hateful skitcher, I still have to support my film habit.

I could go further north, however. This was a fantasy a couple of years ago racing to the overly crowded border at Sarnia and then replacing NPR with CBC. In a moment of pure lunacy I did check to see how out of the way going via Thunder Bay would be – too far – a pity – missing all of lower Ontario up to the Québec border.

Returning to the possible. I could see turning the trip into the type of outing that I like to do. While having to head through Toronto and Montréal, I could some of my secret drops at houses along the way – an international version of what I do around here, drive up, drop something off and leave without detection. There are still packages that haven’t been found up and down – well down – the east coast.

Three drops in Toronto, one in Montréal, the southern shore of the St Lawrence – being tempted to cross over to the northern shore and my ultimate outing through Labrador.

I would miss northern Maine and thought about an even more obscure crossing not at I-95 but at Calais, but that would be balanced by even more time on the Trans Canada and being tempted by a diversion to the Gaspé – as well as being away form the national paranoia of the land above Mexico, would more than make up for that.

Need to be in Chicago for 30 minutes. I have to approve a test strip and pick up one more print for pouch. Problem is I have to head down at 8AM and wait until 12:35 when the train returns.

Think about getting down at Clybourn to head over to Bucktown for a wander but the area is rife with artists and I cannot deal with them this early in the morning – although Filter was tempting as it would be after nine with little coffee.

The lots for the train in Winthrop Harbour are full so have to park “downtown” and walk which gives me the incentive of trying out the new coffee house that everyone seems to steer clear of. I reckon that it is because the coffee not looking like tea is either too strong or not burnt the way they do it at the Clark gas bar.

After getting coffee, it could be due to the fact that there is a picture of the last supper above the coffee bar and I interrupted the barista’s bible reading. It could also be the “You are holy" refrain from the jesus rock station.

The coffee was good – triple shot of espresso French roast in 20 ounces of hot water – lovingly made as I almost missed my train while the espresso maker actually did drip the coffee drop by drop – needs cleaning perhaps.

It was to be a simple day only the leiquinhas wasn’t expecting much. Since I didn’t have to make the pilgrimage to the WGAS, I was free to make another way through the loop and thought about heading down to the crumbling college. About six months ago my ex-departmental assistant rang on the phone from her machine and I summarily hung up. Thought enough time had passed.

Along Van Buren by Cal’s I see two coffee cups half full and make a snap. The last of the roll as I am reloading, I find out that one of them belongs to Tim, a 45 year old bike messenger who has been one for about 16 years.

It seems that to-day wasn’t the best day. He left his keys at home and had to go back for them then realised that he had locked some other keys in the pizza delivery van of a friend of his and was drinking coffee awaiting his arrival.

We chatted, he introduced me to people along the block. Made a few snaps and after about 30 minutes headed south again promising that if the images came out, I would drop them off.
Wandered the South Loop making my way to South Wabash staring at the loft conversions and all the bank branches.

Always get nervous entering crumbling college as I can simply walk in. I am not strip searched, fingerprinted, photographed or tackled by the guards the way one becomes accustomed to at the WGAS but then again – crumbling doesn’t pretend to be that. After all there isn’t all that world’s greatest art to protect and being more of an urban college are more comfortable with diverse peoples.

One would hope that crumbling would follow the methods of the school up the street and stop all their renovating and upgrading – they don’t seem to realise that all they have to do is make plans and never follow through – as I couldn’t find the art department nor my former assistant – but then again that may have been her doing.

An exchange of opening insults, tea at the Dunkin Donuts – noticed that she had started smoking – trading of bragging – she won as crumbling is sending her to Firenze for a month - exchange of horror stories, making me glad that I am at the WGAS as there is no expectation from anyone there – it seems that people where she was were expected to work. Faculty actually carry a full load. Reminded her of the good life in the slacker Valhalla up the road but actually preferred being at a lesser institution – go figure.

It was time – headed up to the Ivory Tower in South Wabash – luckily there was one of the old guards - to look at the proof gave my ok picked one print that was ready and made it to the train – two rolls down wandering back to the train.

I notice that no one asks me for anything – no Streetwise, no spare change, no having to buy a poppy - when, I am carrying a 40 inch roll of paper, maybe they mistake me for another middle aged messenger who cannot afford a bike.

morning marl

am listening to a certain week-end am morning programme from the regional service of a coast to coast to coast broadcaster. not sure why as while the programme is supposedly about the local arts scene most of the music – and there is a lot – is off island. the standard format is one interview then 10 minutes of music but since three hours have to be filled, instead of going into more depth with the interviews, the host plays more music.

so here i am listening and my ears perk up as the host is going to interview a photographer who is documenting fort pickering/pleasantville before it is turned into condos. hold out no hope though when the interview starts. the first thing is – of course – the camera. she mentions that it is something that looks ancient with bellows and wood, something that hasn’t been seen in a century.

the photographer follows suit and talks about the camera for a good five minutes – it isn’t in fact old at all, it is made by wisner who is a harpsicord builder, who bla bla bla.

i may have zoned out but don’t remember any description of the snaps at all, except they are in colour and one was sold to THE ROOMS. i know that they are based in some sort of personal history – some yank ancestor was at fort pickering during the second war, when newfoundland was a republic.

didn’t hold out too much hope as the local presenter was given a national programme during the summer holidays in which she would interview artists from coast to coast to coast but instead of asking anything about the work and why it was made, she decided to find the wacky and accentuate it.

one person dresses in the clothes of people she is interested in so what does this presenter do? she doesn’t go into why the artist does it or how she is turning what was an interesting idea into pastiche by doing the same – and doing it on the highly visual medium of radio.

the programme – which i only hope was canned – only reinforced the public’s view of artists as those wacky characters doing wacky things.

i was thinking of taking the deardorff up north again – it is this strange nostalgia for 2005 and the manner of printing large format negatives even though yesterday i was pulling my remaining hair out trying to get a decent print – but fearing running into her and one cannot help it as she is constantly on the prowl for spots to fill up the six hours every weekend, am sticking less conspicuous modes of photography.

am surprised she hasn’t hit on the macadamia nutted swiss cheese head playing in the tidal pools along cape st. francis as she would be perfect. she could talk about the underwater camera and the fixation on tidal pools. they should have cross paths by now.

because everyone loves a sequel...

Picture this: two years later, faced with carting a lot of stuff North and East, the option of driving out to the Rock is viable – not that I need a viable excuse to do anything.

It is the hate of aeroplanes, the carting of overstuffed bags for miles in airports, the overcrowded late planes. It must be that or else why would I put up with Northern Indiana and Ohio, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut and Massachusetts.

Being a sequel things cannot be the same. The travel mate, now ensconced in the real world and living in Twin cities, means no human books on tape sharing the trip and sharing of things surreal that are passed along the way – the illegality of the importation of bees,into Nova Scotia, Marine Atlantic's poster proudly proclaiming three days accident free - leaving the hernia causing large format cameras and all its paraphernalia and only taking the gang – Ubaldo, Ziquinho, the leiquinhas and mounds of film. No worries about passports, taking off shoes, or x-rays.

The machine will be different – the now nearing in on 200 000 mile Saturn - which won’t return. It will be left to be sold – would like to keep it as a way of getting about when I had to use airports.

The excuse is having to ship mural sized prints – 20 of them – to a place where things arrive or not and if they arrive they do so on their own time. There was the worry of customs thinking they were valuable opening the packages with less care than required and worse charging some sort of duty.

I reckon that my excitement on driving has more to do with the distance and the near goal – nothing was better than driving north through Maine, the entry into New Brunswick and the Newfoundland lite feel of Cape Breton.

I have forgot the frustration of the first day where after driving forever we were only in Scranton Pennsylvania. I don’t think that I can take yet another trip along the turnpikes of the Midwest.

Again there is this irony. With little time, I would think that I would want to get there but the flights make the next day almost useless as I am running about trying to get my normal bayman’s life back – car, Montréal bagels, drinks at the Duke, cracked eggs at Bruce's. Driving I don’t mind – I think that I would mind if I had to do two days of Midwest turnpikes. As soon as I realise that I really don’t have to make time – well I do have to make that ferry – I can press on when needed then divert when I have time on my hands.

Then there is the freedom of a machine when I am there I can then motor to my hearts delight – or desire or content.

Since the beginning of the semester, I have been printing the murals for the show up at James Baird > Pouch Cove in July. I have been staring at snaps made on the rock for big chunks of the day, places that are familiar and almost intimate.

At the same time, when the sun has finally decided to become a constant, I have been running out into the gardens – depending on the time of day – making platinotypes of the time in Gros Morne to make three artists books, stop survey the snaps and make constant edits.

With my philosophy of why do one thing well when I can spread my thin and do a lot with mediocrity, made two books more rock based books.

My screensaver is of the now closed Seabreeze.

Despite constantly being surrounded with snaps of the North Atlantic and no matter how much I want the images to bring back not only memories but the experience, they don’t.

I am driving down Route 50 between Paddock Lake and Wheatland between some chore, driving almost automatically, I remember an e-mail from a macadamia-nutted-Swiss-cheese-headed transplant about a dead seal in the cove and I am there. I see the town, Henry coffee in hand, preparing to head back with his Canadians, Hap looking over the ocean, the kids getting ready to take over the park as Percy, and Sam head home.

(for those nitpickers the snap is of grate's cove)

It started,

I think with seeing all these books come from the crumbling college down the way from the WGAS. It seemed that being on faculty meant a book from the Centre for American Places. Wondered if it could be Centre for NORTH American Places.

I tried to suss out how this was happening and if one not of that august institution could do the same – I must admit though they do kick ass when it comes to photography – something that is considered a dirty word six blocks north – only to hear stories of having to back the production oneself with half the funds. I heard that down the street the department having people who can raise funds, actually bankrolls part – don’t know how true this is though.

Then over at Daiter Gallery, in disguise as no-one from the recent incarnation of the WGAS would deem to be seen in a purely photographic gallery, where I found that they were publishing a catalogue along with the Joan Flasch Artist Book Collection via this company called lulu.com.

It looked good and was inexpensive. I was also told that they are using lulu to layout other books saw another and except for the brown tint to the images again the quality was impressive.

In a moment of weakness when I was missing my days as a plastic camera person – one feels like such a pro when lugging a brightly coloured bit of plastic that makes duck calls when winding on – bought LIGHTLEAKS out of Toronto and lo and behold they are published by lulu.

Was wary here though as I didn’t care too much on the print quality – looked more like the layering one would find with an inkjet printer on glossy paper. Now I don’t know what to think.

Browsing one of the sites I look at with regularity – Flâneur – out of Argentina, I noticed that he has a book coming out via lulu.

I was sold. While I hesitate in pressing the return button on my computer to start the printing – which is on demand and can be ordered via lulu – I have laid out and everything is ready to go.

I have to gather the courage to do it soon as I want my book to come out before that foodie/Ideas presenter comes out with his. I suspect that since he has been writing his for the last century – he was sequestered away in Martin and Gabrielle’s back in 2004 supposedly working away – that it is a ploy. After all The Rooms have invited him out to talk about it. Living NL - pronounce it quickly – has had him on to make a dish – something with vegan caviar - and I am sure he uses the line whenever he enters the Duke and wherever Upper Canadians drink when they are at home.

Limited the text so no Guardian type typos, checked the images three times…
Hope there is a take back…

Intercoursed

Postage went up. I was prepared for it what is 2¢ it is just part of inflation, I thought as I made a ceremonial effort to get everything over to the Bristol Post Office before the increase on Monday. What I missed I missed.

Then picking up a chart to see how much those cards Europe and the True North Strong and Free, I noticed that it wasn’t as easy as I thought. I can afford even the 6¢ rise to the rest of the world outside of North America but hidden in all of this is a new rate calculation – size – well size and thickness – anyone outside of Mercedes SUV driving artists notice the similarity to pricing porn?

It seems that my clear wraps are fine as first class but the mailings of the books of wander will go from 39¢ the first ounce to$1.13 as it is no longer a fat letter but a parcel and thus will cost more.

It won’t be nearly that bad as they usually weigh between three and four ounces at four ounces it is only 33¢ more while not quite the sticker shock I first saw this will make my already national debt sized postal bill out of control.

It is time to cull.

life as a fibroid

racing the postal increase

It was becoming common place, popped Joãozão in the bag grabbed ten rolls of film and headed west when I left the train. Another day at the fair grounds and I had 90 minutes to kill.

The plan was to get as far north as grand - past the Italian bakeries -and as far west as Ogden – trying not to buy a coffee at Sip - before wandering back. Didn’t want a coffee at Sip as I wanted to be close when I had my coffee and I actually wanted to have it grazing but seated calmly before heading into MFA fair.

I was conscious before all this West Loop wandering, that I was mindlessly rushing to school and had recently noticed that I hadn’t sat outside before the madness started at roughly nine o’clock – give or take an hour.

I had planned to walk through River North when I didn’t have to be at school early to return to a morning stroll through areas that weren’t as busy as Michigan Avenue. Of course no self respecting photographer – in fact if one were a self respecting photographer at the WGAS one would never say it, as the word has such a bad connotation that one should simply say the “ph” word – no “ph” would be out and about anyway. For as we all know one goes to one’s studio and experiences the world outside via osmosis, then recreates like ol’ Henry Peach Robinson. And if they were caught outdoors there would never be a camera – marling and skitching don’t mix.

This was better. Even though, with its rectilinear streets, it was becoming harder to be surprised, I tried to walk where there was a chance of change and surprise. Randolph Market where restaurants were closing as quickly as they had opened. Photographed safe things – the outdoor cafés not quite ready to go – ah eating within smelling distance of the meat packing district just two blocks away. Photographed things left by closing restaurants.

Tried to work along Fulton Street – for some reason trying to dodge giant juggernauts as they are barrelling down on you gets the observation juices flowing much more so that the mere merchant lorries, I am pretty sure that I would bounce off one of them.

This day it seemed that the spirit of Richard Wentworth had taken over my psyche – kept seeing his works everywhere – the same bit of fence mended three times in different fashions seemed to be the culmination of that experience.

Did a lot of zigzagging, thinking that if I made some sort of drunken oval I would hit just about everything I wanted. Did a better job than I had expected as with only 30 minutes to get to the fair grounds on time – a novel thought at the WGAS where on time is seen with the same guidelines Amtrak within the hour – while I hadn’t made my destination – too many alleys – I was pretty close.

This meant radical steps to get back – familiar route to cut down on the gawking – large coffee and cranberry muffin – I pretend it is a partridgeberry - to take away. I try to walk and chew muffin at the same time.

pool at a doggy day care - lake street

The MFA/4H Fair this year is certainly going to be an anticlimax as once again I have to head over there for crit week – the crits are happening before the show actually opens.

This time I don’t even think, I pick up Joãozão, 10 rolls of film and head west when I get down from the train. Back to the way it used to be one camera – pretty trusting considering how rickety Joãozão has become – limiting non-productive options.

I wander. I try to wander streets that I usually don’t go down, but again try to choose those that seem rife with potential. I went from areas with people heading someplace else to begin their day through areas empty, to an area where the day was well underway.

I did try to get past the area that I had parked when I had to head out to the western suburbs. Having time to kill I did venture down cul de sacs. I tended to stay away from the main drags and the meat packers. Away from the Starbucks but wandering the mix of rotting meat with exposed wood loft condos.

Don’t remember much in particular, simply swarving, gawking and skitching taking the longest way possible to the fair grounds. . The darkest roasted largest sized black coffee at the Morgan Street Café to fine tune my shakes.

in an unrelated development...

we of the greatest photography department of the wgas, in planning the new lab space, forgot to set aside a room for the development of large format film. we were blinded by the lure rows of luminous computer screens.


most think that no one will notice.

possible future site for the manipulations and extensions class.

Am all enthusiastic on my second foray in to wandering before work, again I have to head over to WGAS’s Fair Grounds where the annual MFA/4H fair takes place but don’t have to be there until 11 AM. Even better I’ll have to walk between the exhibition grounds and the school twice.

I see all sorts of potential in wandering the West Loop except that it is raining. The type of weather that Joãozão and the leiquinhas seem to rebel against. Besides I am tired after the evening on the Island and three hours sleep. My constant companion - the below 49th headache - was stronger than usual, defeated, I head to the school.

For some reason three hours to waste at the school didn’t seem all that appealing and it is now only a drizzle and the headache would be there walking or fuming I decided to walk. With two hours to make it to gallery, I headed south of the Loop hoping that I could get away of the utopian fortresses – lots of glass, lots of guards one non governmental building even has x-ray machines - of the Loop.

Wasn’t good, was seeking out situations rather than walking receptively. I can tell as I fall back to the formal. Walked along Harrison knowing that at a time there were smaller shops and by the river encampments. No longer. The area is so tarted up that restaurants are now banks, and everything else is a condo. Nothing that would actually be found in a real neighbourhood – tavern, food shop etc.

Daley has cleaned up the homeless. There are at least three a block outside the utopian fortresses but where they live has been obliterated from sight. I used to be able to count on some encampments on the banks of the river - better view than the usual underpasses.

Walked in a daze until I got to Clinton then decided another ploy that works in rectilinear cities. I looked up and down the streets to see if anything peaked my interest.

Headed south toward Roosevelt Road – more because it seems that I could see a new utopiaville being built. I also wanted to photograph a café that had been on the corner so long it had become an ikon, a beacon of safety in the area late at night.

It was still there, sandwiched between the Starbucks and the soon to be built Wholefoods just down from the Panera.

I was getting exercise but nothing much else.

Turned right in Roosevelt and entered a different world. Local shops, trades that I thought were dead - schmate, wigs, nail parlours, furriers - remnants of what Maxwell street used to be crushed into one block as across the road was a Home Depot.

Could tell I was out of the Loop as a cop hops out of a car and tells a nattily dressed chap to move on.

-i am waiting for a bus.
-wait for the bus over there. move it.

now I wanted to slow the pace but the time of the meeting was approaching. Didn’t dally –except to let the cop know he was being watched (like he cared). Walked up on the east side of the Dan Ryan hoping to find some possession stored in the relative safety on the verge of the interstate. It seems that one person had escaped Daley’s clean-up.

A vest pocket park here, a graphically numbered building dock there formalism at the Citgo station. No chance of choosing streets due to the expressway. I was at the WGAS Fair Grounds ready for the five minute meeting.

wondering...

with the arrival of the new nomadic c.f.a.
the impression of a regional airport crowded at midnight thirty
when the scent of pine will noticed.
if my evil twin passed himself off as me.
when the nod with be grasped.
when the realisation comes that the rest of the world that is 30 minutes out of kilter.
the answer to “lovely day” when there are gale force winds stinging rain and fog. (we love thee windswept land)
if percy, henry, and sam will be understood
notice the difference between yes b’y, yeah b’y and yesssb’y.
when the screeching in ceremony will be – it is only a matter of time.
if it’ll be bayman or townie - am betting bayman – yes b’y
how long the five minute walk to bruce’s will actually take.
how staring out at the north atlantic horizon looking for greenland and eire compares with new zealand and asia just beyond the horizon in the pacific.
when “kiddie viddy” will be understood.