Category Archives: inexplicable shit

hey bingo, it’s all good

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I don’t know how it works for you (assuming ‘you’ are somebody who attempts Iron Photographer projects), but for me the IP process follows a few common patterns. Sometimes I know exactly what I want to do—and even if the final photograph has almost nothing to do with my original idea, the process is smooth and harmonious and I get that whole ‘A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot‘ feeling.

Sometimes I have absolutely no idea at all what to do (even though I help come up with the elements, along with the Blessed Jamelah—may her hair grow long), and I spend the two weeks of the project squatting toadlike and glaring at anything that might possibly relate to the three IP elements.

And sometimes I just say ‘fuck it’ and start jamming stuff together. Which is what I did here. The elements of Iron Photographer 143 are 1) something with a handle, 2) the colour orange (we add the irrelevant letter ‘u’ as a sop to our Canadian and British members), and 3) vignetting. I was shaving and I noticed the blue razor in the mirror and thought “Oh, something with a handle. Hey, bingo—Iron Photographer!” So I brought the razor with me from the bathroom. As I dressed I remembered I owned a seldom-worn orange t-shirt. Hey, bingo—two elements down.

But that would be a pretty dull photo, so I grab an old mirror off the dresser. Orange t-shirt as background, razor on the mirror and hey that’s still pretty damned dull. Wait, there’s an old Coca Cola bottle I’d set aside for the last IP project but didn’t use. Put it on the mirror and lawdy, it’s still dull.

Add some drama. Have the light reflect in the mirror, meter off the reflection. Nope, still dull. Get a sheet of black plastic, wrinkle it up for texture, put the t-shirt back down, fold it over a bit, add the mirror and the razor and the coke bottle, make sure the light is reflecting in the mirror and hey bingo—still needs something. Fuck fuck fuck.

Okay, maybe the bit of red plastic mesh I used in a much older IP project. Find that, knot it up. The red clashes horribly with the orange. I like that. Finally shoot a photo and—well, it’s better, but dull. Still dull. Still missing something.

Shift everything around. Shoot another dull photo. Shift it all around again. Shoot a couple more frames. The phone rings; I ignore it. Shift all the stuff around maybe three or four more times and shoot a couple more frames. Shifting it all around doesn’t help because it’s missing something. Shifting doesn’t add anything.

Study the mess I’ve made on the table for a bit, thinking about any of the bits that might please me. Decide what I like best is the curve of the mirror, and the curve of a fold in the t-shirt, and a curve in the knotted mesh and clearly what it needs is another curve. Grab a hanger from the closet. Slide it into the frame. No…slide it a bit farther into the frame. A bit farther. Too far. And there. Shoot two more frames. Process the one I like most, add a whole lot of vignetting (the third IP element) and…

Hey bingo, IP 143. Done.

Return the phone call I ignored earlier. First thing said: “What’ve you been up to?” And I realize I’ve just spent 90 minutes arranging and rearranging a jumble of random objects that are entirely unrelated to each other in any way. A razor, an old Coke bottle, a bit of mesh left over from some cherry tomatoes (that I didn’t eat, but bought purely because I wanted the mesh), a mirror, a t-shirt, a sheet of black plastic, and a coat hanger? So I confess to that over the telephone. After a long pause, “So, I’m thinking about going to Spain next summer.”

The phone calls ends after a brief chat. I look at the photo. It makes no sense. Nothing even remotely like sense. I consider deleting the photo. Then I figure, “What the hell. It’s Iron Photographer. The people who get it, will get it. The people who don’t will still discuss their travel plans with me. It’s all good.”

the evolutionary process

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Well. I suppose it’s a good thing that Bosch believes in evolution. That certainly puts the company ahead of the entire field of Republican presidential candidates.

But perhaps this is a way to make evolution palatable to those Republicans? Maybe they’ll accept the science if it suggests women were created by god to do laundry—and evolution has made them fit to do it in heels.

still talking

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It was 34 degrees Fahrenheit when I gave into the fool notion to take a walk yesterday. I decided to visit the chunk of curbing. It’s been over a year since I first came across it—a small, displaced bit of asphalt curbing around which somebody had tied a length of red PVC wire fashioned into a sort of carrying handle. The bit of curbing had been toted a short distance from its original location—though I’ve no idea why anybody would do such a thing. It made absolutely no sense at all. That, of course, was its appeal.

After discovering it, I returned periodically to the site (an old, deteriorating parking lot that once surrounded a supermarket, but now surrounds the grassy field where the supermarket used to be) to look at and ponder the meaning of the chunk of curbing and the wire. It attracted attention from other folks as well. I never saw them, but the chunk of curbing was moved on at least one occasion.

Since I tend to over-think almost everything (apart from my behavior) I developed the conceit that I was engaged in a sort of ongoing conversation with the chunk of curbing. I looked forward to seeing it, which I realize sounds completely unhinged. But there it is. I’d developed a peculiar fondness for a bit of molded asphalt.

On my last visit—back in October—I noticed somebody had tried to move it again, and the red PVC wire had completely snapped. The chunk of curbing and the red PVC wire were no longer connected. I fully expected the next I visited the lot, the wind would have swept the PVC wire away. The conversation seemed to be over.

But I was wrong.

As you can see, the red PVC wire is still there. Totally divorced from the chunk of curbing, but it’s still there. I’ve no idea why; we’ve had serious wind storms—storms powerful enough to knock down trees. And yet there it is, splayed out slightly differently than before but in what appears to be the exact same spot. The original chunk of curbing, along with a companion chunk that appeared some months ago, seem to have moved again—which is entirely inexplicable and illogical. But against all expectations, the wire and the curbing are still there.

I find that reassuring. I guess the conversation isn’t over yet. I’ll visit again in a few weeks and see what I can see.

one conversation is nearly over

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For almost a year I’ve been visiting an odd bit of curbing in a vacant lot where a supermarket was once located. There are two or three places where the curbing of the store’s parking lot had been broken up. It’s not clear if that destruction was accidental, intentional or organic. What was clear, though, was that somebody—for reasons entirely unclear—had tied a length of red PVC wire around a chunk of the broken curbing and carried it some sixty feet away.

And then set it down. I’ve been fascinated by it ever since. Why was it moved from its original position? Why that particular chunk of curbing? Why fashion a carrying handle from red PVC wire when it would be just as easy—easier, in fact—to carry it in your hands? And why leave it where it was left? It made absolutely no sense. I loved it.

Over time, the chunk of curbing was moved again—maybe twenty or thirty feet from its last position, and perhaps it would have been moved farther had the red PVC wire ‘handle’ not snapped. On a later visit I noticed the curbing had been overturned and another chunk of curbing had been carried and set down nearby.

It continued to make no sense, and I continued to be fascinated by it. But now the conversation is almost over. On my last visit, the curbing had been moved once again.

As you can see, the chunk of curbing has been moved and the red PVC wire left behind. In fact, both chunks of curbing have been shifted a few feet from their last positions.

I suspect kids are responsible for most of the recent moving, if only because young boys do things for reasons even they don’t understand—or no reason at all. It doesn’t matter, really who moved them, or even why. There’s something appealing about these migrating chunks of curbing. But the wind will probably blow away the red PVC wire eventually. And then the conversation will be over.

I’ll continue to visit the vacant lot, of course. There’s something about the slow reclamation process that I find weirdly comforting and attractive. There’s a sort of drama to it, though a very patient drama. It’s a different sort of conversation—less peculiar, more fundamental.

This abandoned lot is set on a fairly busy thoroughfare in a moderately poor neighborhood. Nearby is a car-wash, a small local Latino-operated auto repair shop, and an indie copying center that never seems to have any customers. The road noise is vicious—at least until you get near the back of the empty lot. Then it becomes muted, and it’s difficult to distinguish between the road noise and the sussuration of wind through the trees.

It’s not quite tranquil. But you can sense that tranquility used to exist here, and may some day return. That’s a conversation I’d like to join.

loss of control

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Nobody warned me.

I can’t believe it…but nobody said a damned thing to me about the danger of typography addiction. There I was, innocently trying to create a cover design for an e-book. A babe in the woods, that’s what I was. A babe in the fucking woods. “Go download some fonts,” they said. “Try a little League Gothic. Have a taste of some Trajan. Go ahead, it’ll be okay.”

Do you know how many typefaces are out there? More than Carl Sagan could count. Do you know how many of them I downloaded? ALL OF THEM. I don’t know serif from Shinola, but I’ve probably got a typeface by that name. Right now I seem to be drawn to something called Astonished. Why? I have no fucking clue. I think because it looks like it was designed by somebody trying to scratch his way out of an abandoned refrigerator.

I’m exaggerating slightly. In truth, I’ve always been attracted by the idea of typography. I like the theory behind it. I’ve just never had to deal with the reality of it  I suspect that after a few days I’ll develop some sense of discretion, of aesthetic discernment, some sideways control over my indiscriminate font-bingeing.

But right now, I’m just another sailor on shore leave, looking for a gypsy good time.

are you fucking kidding me?

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I’m stupid enough to spend part of this morning watching highlights (if you can call them that) of the GOP debate last night. They took a video question from a gay soldier serving in Iraq, the question being would the candidates re-institute the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy.

Two things struck me. First, the audience booed. The actually booed a person who volunteered to serve his country–a person who is on active duty and serving in Iraq. Are you fucking kidding me? You don’t have to agree with a person’s beliefs or how that person lives his or her life to respect the fact that they’ve chosen to serve the nation in a low-paying job that offers not much more than a chance to get killed in some foreign country. Can you imagine the response if a Democratic audience booed an active duty member of the military?

Second, the question was answered by Rick Santorum. He complained that by allowing gay men and lesbians to serve openly in the military, the government was granting them “a special privilege.” A special privilege? Are you fucking kidding me? How is being allowed to serve in the military a special privilege? Were the people in the audience–the ones who booed–being denied the special privilege of putting on a military uniform and serving in Iraq? If so, we surely ought to make that privilege available to them.

Who the hell are these people? The ones who boo an active duty soldier, the ones who shout out that a person without health insurance should be allowed to die, the ones who cheer for the death penalty? How did they lose all their compassion? What’s made them so selfish and self-centered?

And what’s most desperately sad is they undoubtedly consider themselves to be patriots.

trees

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Maybe it’s silly, but I develop a sort of relationship with certain trees. I grow fond of them; it pleases me to see them when I’m in the vicinity. It’s something about the shape of the tree, or maybe where the tree is located—who knows how these things begin? What matters is there are specific trees that make me happy.

This is one of them:

That one off to the left—the one that looks sort of like a mitten from this angle—that’s the tree. I actually shot this photo of the feral cat that followed me around one foggy day. See that little white speck? That’s the cat; the little bugger paced me for half an hour or so, never getting any closer than this. But even though I shot the photo of the cat, I made sure the tree was in the frame.

I like that tree for several reasons. I like the way the bike path curves gently around it. I like that crows and hawks hang out there (though not at the same time). I like the fact that unlike some of the other trees along this stretch of the bike path, it was never trimmed back to make it ‘pretty’. It’s just a friendly, accessible, pleasant, unpretentious, somewhat disorderly tree.

It’s a nice tree, isn’t it.

They tore it down.

By ‘they’ I mean city workers. They’re refurbishing the bike path, partly because it’s in a flood plain. Two or three times a year the nearby creek (it’s just on the other side of the tree line) floods. It’s always done that. In fact, the worst train wreck in Iowa history took place just up the road, a result of flooding. Last summer, nearly 300 people had to be evacuated from their homes along the flood plain. So the city bought the property, moved the people, and set about ‘correcting’ the problem. Which required tearing down that tree.

I quizzed the workers about it. As much as I hate to admit it, they seem to have had a legitimate reason for removing the tree, though the reason was incomprehensibly technical. But the men I spoke to assured me no other trees would be removed. And, in fact, they’ve encircled the more tame and orderly trees with plastic snow fencing and yellow caution tape. I guess it makes me feel a tad better.But only a tad.

I miss that tree every time I ride or walk that stretch of the path. Eventually I suppose I’ll get used to not seeing the tree. And that will be a little sad too.

a small drama

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I was in the skywalk when I spotted this kid strolling down the sidewalk and texting. I probably wouldn’t have paid him any attention at all if he hadn’t come to a sudden John Belushi-style halt. He sort of bounced up and down on his toes for a moment, then rushed over to the standpipe, sat himself down, and began texting furiously.

I started to take his photograph, then hesitated. There was something about his posture that led me to think he wasn’t getting pleasant news. I watched for a bit, feeling sorry for the kid and feeling a little guilty for spying on him in his misery. At least I assumed he was in misery; for all I know he could have been involved in some furious last-minute Ebay bidding on an autographed Lady Gaga poster.

So I stood there for a moment. It occurred to me that I’d have had no hesitation shooting his photo if he’d appeared  happy–so why shouldn’t I take the shot just because he seemed distressed? Why should his mood be the deciding factor on whether or not I take a photograph? Why should that matter?

But it did. All the same, I shot the photograph. I felt like a voyeur, and in the end I only shot the one frame–but I took the shot. Afterwards, I found an exit from the skywalk and strolled over to the drugstore, though I’m not sure what my purpose was. I guess I thought maybe I’d see or hear something that would give me some hint as to the kid’s mood. But by the time I got there, he was gone.

I wish now I’d taken my time and shot three or four frames. If you’re going to do a thing, whether it’s morally questionable or not, you may as well do it properly.