llamas on parade

Posted on June 16, 2013 by greg

I was surprised to learn the Llama Futurity Association, in conjunction with the International Llama Registry, was having its 2013 World Championship Show & Sale this weekend. In fact, I was surprised to learn there was a Llama Futurity Association and an International Llama Registry. But they actually exist and they were having a llama show.

I’d never in my entire life been to a llama show before. Not once. This one promised to have pack trials (I still have no idea what llama pack trials are), costume classes (sadly, the costume event was held earlier — but c’mon, llamas in costume? It is to swoon), a llama cart pulling competition (which I assume involves llamas pulling a cart), and a live auction (in case you wanted to buy an extra llama while you’re there). Was there any way I was going to miss what might be my only chance to see an international and world llama event? Hell no.

Llamas all around

When we arrived, there were two events underway. The main event was a sort of llama conformation judging. Like the Westminster Kennel Club, only for llamas. A man in a burgundy coat was examining groups of llamas with a critical eye. He had them stand, he had them walk in a circle, he had them…well, stand and walk in a circle. That was pretty much it. Then he’d frown a bit and point at one, then arrange them in some sort of order and everybody mostly seemed pleased.

I confess, I didn’t give much attention to the llama conformation event, though I’m sure it was fascinating. But somebody mentioned that at the same time, at the other end of the arena, was — and I swear I’m not making this up — a llama agility trial.

Llama standing on a square

It was described to me as the llama equivalent of a dog agility trial. As it turned out, that was a rather generous description. There was certainly an agility course — a set of standard obstacles laid out — and the entrants were required to attempt the course while an impartial judge evaluated the animal’s success at each obstacle. And it was certainly a trial for many of the contestants, both human and camelid. But the concept of agility was stretched pretty thin.

Llama standing on a raised square

The llamas were required to 1) walk under an object, requiring them to lower their heads a few inches, 2) stand on a square, requiring them to stand still with all four hooves on the square, 3) stand on a platform, which was basically a square elevated to a height of maybe six inches, 4) hop over a pair of jumps approximately a foot in height, 5) walk up a ramp, turn a corner, and walk down the ramp without falling, 6) walk backwards for about a meter, 7) walk sideways for about a meter, 8) walk through a puddle, and 9) walk through a short tunnel.

Llama walking on a ramp

Now, this may sound silly. And in some sense it is — it really is. Unlike dogs, many of whom seem to really enjoy running agility obstacles (or at least enjoy the interaction with their handlers), the llamas clearly didn’t give a rat’s ass about the trial. They were mostly willing to be led through the obstacles, but it didn’t take a llamaologist to see that, given the chance, they’d have preferred to just be standing around looking dignified.

Llama walking backwards

I’m told llamas are intelligent animals, and I’ve no reason to doubt that. They have a sort of lofty poise, and carry themselves with solemn stateliness. But I’m not sure anybody could claim they’re particularly agile. Only one of the llamas I watched actually completed the course without incident. With that single exception, the llamas were entirely dismissive of the small jumps; most of them just strolled right through them, not even bothering to acknowledge their existence. It was as if they were too polite to point out that some ill-bred rascal had inadvertently cluttered up the area with some planks.

Llama walking sideways

What kept this event from being completely comical was this: the love and affection felt by the handlers for their llamas. They wanted their animals to do well, to be sure, but mostly they just seemed to enjoy being actively engaged with them. It was rather sweet to watch them together, even when the animals appeared absolutely puzzled about why in the world this human expected them to walk sideways (if llamas had thought balloons, there would have been dozens that said I’m terribly sorry, but I just don’t understand the point of this.)

One of the things that surprised me (and there were a lot of things that surprised me) was that most of the llama handlers were women — primarily young women. In fact, women seemed to be in charge of almost every aspect of the entire llama-fest. There were men and boys there, of course, and a few of them participated in the activities (it also appeared that most of the judges were men), but everywhere I looked it was women who were making things happen and keeping things running smoothly.

A girl and her llama

There’s something wonderful about events like this. There’s no money in it; the only reward is the pleasure of participating. These people brought their llamas (and a handful of alpaca) from all over the U.S. simply out of passion. And that’s beautiful.

So sure, the notion of a llama agility trial is absurd. Who cares. These folks were having fun, and the llamas didn’t seem to object very much. I’d be hard-pressed to find a better way to spend a couple of hours on a Saturday afternoon.

done for the season

Posted on May 30, 2013 by greg

Okay, that’s it. Morel season is over. Done, finished, kaput. Oh, there are probably still some ‘shrooms out there, but I won’t find them because I won’t be looking. At this point, the undergrowth is so thick that searching for morels would be almost like work. Where’s the fun in that?

It was weird Spring — weird in a lot of ways; weird weather, weird things happening in the world — and I didn’t get to hunt nearly as often as I’d have liked. Four times. That was it. Four times between May 1st and May 19th. The video above was shot on the first hunt of the season. Last year I’d been hunting three or four times by May 1st. Two days after the video was shot, it snowed. Snowed. Like I said, weird.

Mostly I went morel hunting with my cousin Scott, who’s like a brother to me. He’s an ideal ‘shroom hunting partner because he doesn’t fret. I’ve been hunting with other folks who are uncomfortable in the woods. They always want to be near you — in sight of you, in shouting distance. They call out to you periodically. Not Scott. He assumes you know what you’re doing. He says stuff like “I’m gonna walk along this hill line, see where it leads. You try another direction, I’ll meet you somewhere in about an hour.” He trusts that in around sixty minutes he’ll find you or you’ll find him. Somewhere in the woods.

This second video was shot ‘somewhere’ in the woods — in the same general vicinity of the first video. In fact, all the videos here were shot in the same general vicinity (we hunted other spots, but we always included this area because we knew we’d find morels there). Here’s the thing about the woods. ‘Somewhere’ looks a lot like ‘everywhere else.’ Once you get far enough into the woods, everything around you looks pretty much the same.

It’s not uncommon for me to be searching for ‘shrooms, then look around to get my bearings, and realize I have no fucking clue where I am. I have to stop and think about the terrain I hiked — or any unusual features I noticed on the way — and figure out how to get back to where I started. Or how to locate the ‘somewhere’ I was supposed to meet Scott. Yes, a compass would help resolve that, but my compass is in a box in Ohio and I never seem to remember to buy a new one. But I’m comfortable enough in the woods to assume I’m not actually lost. I may not know where I am — but that’s not lost. I’ve always managed to find my way back, or to find Scott ‘somewhere’ in the woods. So far.

What I like most about hunting morels (aside from the morels) is this: it’s tranquil. It’s not exactly quiet because there are always birds, and wind in the trees, and the occasional critter moving through the underbrush, and sometimes the chuckling of a brook. But those are peaceful sounds. The tranquility allows your brain to do double duty. On one level your brain is monitoring the search for that particular shape and pattern that indicates morel. The little bastards can be hard to spot, but once spotted are easily identifiable. So there’s always a part of your consciousness that’s scanning the earth, engaged in primary pattern recognition. But another part is placidly turning over other thoughts. Nothing too intense, of course, or it overrides the pattern recognition process.

I often think about writing. Sometimes it’s my own work — mulling over any issues I’m having with a story I’m working on. Sometimes I think about whatever I happen to be reading at the time. Sometimes I think about the work of my students. For example, I’m working with a former student who’s writing a wonderful story that revolves around the murder of a nun, but also delves into a such complex social issues as the sexual abuse of children by clergy, drug trafficking, and corruption in public housing. I’d be searching for morels and thinking of ways to simplify her story without sacrificing its scope and complexity. All those thoughts are periodically interrupted by the brain suddenly alerting you to the possible presence of a morel. It’s like a little alarm — morel alert morel alert, all brain functions report to duty stations.

My fourth — and last — hunt was less than three weeks after the first. As you can see in the video, the undergrowth had grown significantly thicker in those three weeks. The trees still weren’t fully leafed out. By now, they are.

That matters, because what you can’t tell from these videos is how increasingly difficult it becomes to move through the woods as Spring progresses. Early in the season you can pretty much wander at will. You have to wear a thick flannel shirt and jeans because of the thorny bushes, but so long as you carry a stick (and all serious morel hunters have a mushroom stick) you can usually work your way through them without much damage. But as the undergrowth gets thicker and the trees and shrubs and bushes get leafier, it not only makes movement more difficult, but you can’t see nearly as far. It becomes even harder to tell where you are and where you were. And, of course, mushrooms become much harder to spot.

On my last hunt, I spent much of my time bent like a dwarf, duck-walking along narrow deer tracks, struggling with thorns, looking less for morels and more for a small clearing where I could stand up and stretch out the kinks in my back. And even though it was fun and interesting, I’m in no hurry to do it again. That’s why I’m done for the season.

a very small, very welcome clearing

It was a good year for morels. An odd year, given the weather. Where morels grew, they grew in profusion. If people found them at all, they found them in staggering amounts. They collected bags full of morels. Pounds of morels. The shock absorbers on pick-up trucks were distressed under the weight of all the morels.

How many did I find? None. Not one. I found other mushrooms, but no morels.

I’m okay with that. Mostly. I love morels. Hunting them, finding them, cooking them, eating them. But so long as I get to do that first part — hunting them — I’m mostly satisfied. Mostly. But even though my ‘shroom bag remained empty all season, I enjoyed myself. Not just mostly, but always.

love and hope

Posted on May 12, 2013 by greg

I’d only walked about five yards into the woods when I saw the grave. I’d left the manicured, family-friendly part of the park and was wading into the scrub to search for morels, but the small grave marker made me pause for a while and reflect — which is, after all, exactly what grave markers are supposed to do.

This was a pet’s grave. A well-loved dog, I assume; it seems likely a person would walk a dog near those woods. The cross at one time had the pet’s name painted on it, but the weather had erased it some time ago. There was also a framed photograph, presumably of the pet, but the sun had bleached it entirely white. Still, a dog seems more probable.

It’s clearly an illegal grave. The land is public land — just over 1,800 acres owned by the county — and I can’t imagine county officials would allow folks to bury their pets there. Besides, the grave was in the woods, not visible from the part of the park maintained by park personnel. Whoever buried this dog had to bring its body to the woods at a time when he wouldn’t be spotted, carry the body far enough into the woods so the grave site wouldn’t be seen by park rangers, dig the grave, place his friend in it, and cover it up. That’s a lot of work. Whoever buried this dog had to love it enough to put its photograph in a nice cherrywood frame. Whoever buried this dog had to make the grave marker, and paint the dog’s name on it along with the letters RIP. Whoever buried this dog wanted it to rest in peace, under a Christian cross. Whoever buried this dog had to love it a lot.

There’s a sort of defiant audacity inherent in the Christian cross (and I say that as a non-Christian). Turning an instrument of governmental torture into a religious symbol is an act of insurrection. It’s an in-your-face statement of resistance. By co-opting the instrument of torture, Christians were saying to their oppressors “You can kill people, but you can’t kill an idea.” It wasn’t like the symbol of the fish — a secret code to be recognized by other Christians; it was an open display, a message to the Romans that despite the fact that he was tortured and executed, Jesus continued to live through his followers.

The Christian cross doesn’t really mean that anymore — at least not in its common usage. The four crosses in the photograph below, for example, aren’t symbolic instruments of torture. They’re not an expression of religious freedom or a token of a struggle against religious oppression. Those crosses are a simple expression of love and hope — love for the person who died, hope that the person is at peace in the company of their god.

And that’s why the cross is appropriate to mark the grave of somebody’s pet. It doesn’t matter that Christian theology denies the existence of a soul in animals. Nor does it matter that Christian orthodoxy says that without a soul, animals can’t be redeemed and thereby enter heaven. The cross over that pet’s grave has nothing to do with theology at all. That cross is an expression of love and hope — love for the dog, hope that it’s at peace, and hope that he’ll somehow be re-united with his friend in a better world.

You don’t have to be a Christian to see and appreciate the beauty in that.

a cold, wet, miserable day is trumped by seriously badass fudge

Posted on May 5, 2013 by greg

It was thirty-seven degrees Fahrenheit yesterday morning. Over the previous two days, we’d had seven inches of snow. The morning vacillated between mist and drizzle, interrupted by brief periods of actual rain. The only good thing you could say about the weather was that it was washing away the snow. It was a cold, wet, miserable day. The fourth day of May, and it was cold and wet and miserable, and the only sensible thing to do was stay in bed. Maybe read a grim Russian novel about peasants. Starving peasants.

But yesterday was also the opening day of this year’s downtown Farmer’s Market. And that meant Spring was officially here. And that made everything pretty much okay. Bugger Russian novels. I was going shopping.

Farmers’ market – from the skywalk, looking south down 4th Street

I love the Farmer’s Market. Every Saturday morning from the first weekend in May to the last weekend in October, the city closes off a few streets and vendors set up booths and stalls from which they sell their goods and wares. These are small, local producers of victuals and crafts. They sell a lot of fresh fruits and vegetables, of course, and all the expected pies and jams and pastries and herbs and breads and honeys. But there are also folks selling locally produced eggs, beef, poultry, lamb, rabbit, and goat. Hell, you can buy elk, ostrich, or buffalo, if that suits your tastes. There are folks selling locally made cheeses — cheddar, gouda, blue cheese. There are folks selling local wines (which can be an adventure) and usually somebody selling Templeton Rye — a marvelous locally distilled whiskey. There are skilled craftsmen selling ironmongery and hand-crafted furniture and all manner of jewelry. And there’s music, even in the rain. And puppetry sometimes. And of course you can buy food and drink to eat while you’re shopping — the usual burgers and barbecue, to be sure, but you can also pick up some regional delicacies made and sold by immigrants from Bosnia, Thailand, El Salvador, Morocco, Viet Nam, India.

I didn’t buy a lot. An asiago focaccia. Some asparagus. Some cherry and apple pastries. A half dozen pieces of frightfully expensive artisanal fudge.

This is not your momma’s fudge. This is a confection meticulously prepared by Master Fudgesmiths. This fudge is handmade by craftswomen following arcane fudge-making techniques that have been handed down from generation to generation of Flemish bekwaam handwerkswomen. Red velvet fudge, praline fudge, traditional old school chocolate-walnut fudge, raspberry fudge, peanut butter fudge, and a milk chocolate fudge with teensy Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups cleverly grafted into the mix.

Dude, we’re talking some seriously badass fudge.

Seriously badass fudge

But it’s not just the stuff you can buy that makes me love the market. It’s the gentle carnival atmosphere. Everybody is friendly, everybody is happy, everybody wants to be there and they all make an effort to get along. I know that sounds terribly sappy, but there it is. Even as cold and wet and miserable as it was yesterday morning, the people were having fun.

Happily, three of the downtown parking garages offer free parking on market day. On cold, wet, miserable days like yesterday, it’s possible to park inside, take the skywalk to an exit near the market, and remain dry and warm going to and from the market (and on those hot days in summer, you can use the skywalk to keep cool and in the shade).

Warm and dry in the skywalk

Farmer’s markets are pretty common these days. Every city and most large towns have one. I’m sure this one isn’t radically different from a weekend farmer’s market near you. That’s part of what makes them so wonderful. Farmer’s markets benefit everybody — the farmers and the artisans who produce the goods, the consumers who buy and eat them, and the community itself. Everybody. Think about that for a moment. How many activities can you think of in which everybody benefits?

You should go to your local market next weekend. Seriously. Get up, go to the market, buy yourself some fresh vegetables, if you’re a carnivore you should buy some chemical-free chicken (yes, it’s a tad more expensive, but you’re getting better food with better flavor), buy yourself a treat of some sort, meet and mingle with a lot of strangers, pet a dog, be a part of your community. Then go home and take a nap. If you don’t wake up feeling refreshed and satisfied with life after that, then you probably belong in a coldwater garret somewhere, eating stale crusts of bread, and reading Russian novels.

wishing flags

Posted on April 22, 2013 by greg

Most last week sucked. It sucked on so many different levels. You’d need an abacus to count the many ways in which last week sucked. But on Friday afternoon Suspect #1 in the Boston Marathon bombing was dead. Suspect #2 was said to be injured and corralled in a ten block area of Watertown. So I felt free to abandon the television and the Internet for the first time in a couple of days and take a much-needed walk.

It wasn’t an ideal afternoon for it. The weather sucked too. The temperature had struggled to climb up into the low 40s, but I got the impression it wasn’t very committed to staying there. The wind was fluctuating between 6 and 7 on the Beaufort scale (not that anybody still uses the Beaufort scale, so let’s just say it was blowing about 25-30 mph) and shoving around massive wads of discouraged-looking clouds. Every so often, though, there was a break in the cloud cover and the most incredible sunlight would gush through for a moment.

So I stuck my little Fujifilm X10 in a jacket pocket and set off for the river.

The river was flooding a wee bit because of all the rain. Not enough to cause any serious damage, but the river had risen enough to cover the lowest level of the riverwalk. As I approached one of the pedestrian bridges, I heard an unusual noise. I assumed it was just the wind through the girders, combined with the rushing of the water. But it wasn’t.

It was flags. Lots of flags. Lots and lots of small flags.

Cord had been strung crisscrossed through the girders, to which small squares of something resembling cloth had been affixed. Even though the little flags were weathered and a tad faded (not surprising after a few days of rain), they gave the pedestrian bridge a rather festive look. They couldn’t quite overcome the gloomy weather, but they made a brave attempt.

I didn’t look at the flags very closely, I’m afraid. Not at that point. I noticed one of the flags had the logo of the Principal Financial Group, so I dismissed it as some of corporate promotional stunt. And it was, after a fashion. But as promotional stunts go, this one happens to be pretty cool.

A local bookbinding company donated recycled clothette (a durable paper that resembles cloth and is used in — that’s right, binding books). Using still more donated materials, children turned those squares of clothette into ‘wishing flags.’ Each flag is a celebration of Earth Day — which, it turns out, is today, April 22. The materials were also made available near the riverfront one day recently, so anybody could create and contribute a wishing flag to the project.

Something like five thousand of the small flags were created. Volunteers, most of whom were students, worked with the Parks Department to string them up along the river. Not just across that particular pedestrian bridge, but for a mile or so along the riverwalk itself.

Remember, this was a cold, windy, cloudy miserable day. Somewhere just west of Boston a 19 year old kid who was responsible for at least four deaths and well over a hundred horrific injuries was cowering, wounded, in a tarp-covered boat in somebody’s backyard, hunted by dozens of police agencies. Thousands of lives had been disrupted, and some will never recover from it. And yet that Friday afternoon, for the first time in a week, I felt a sense of joy.

I’m going to say something sappy here. Sappy and sentimental and goopy. Here it is: By and large, people are pretty fucking great. Sure, there are always going to be folks who hate, folks whose anger and resentment and fear will cause them to do horrible things. But as we saw in Boston, good people outnumber the bad people. And here, along a small stretch of river in the Midwest, a group of kids collaborated with a local bookbinder and a multinational corporation to celebrate Earth Day. So yeah, haters are assholes and corporations are almost certainly inherently wicked, but people in general are pretty fucking great.

They’ll remove all those flags in a few days. And that’s okay. They’ll have served their purpose, and they’ll be recycled again. After a week like the one we’ve all just suffered through, it’s good to see something hopeful and cheerful. Like a kid’s painting of two happy girls, a few flowers, and some sort of mutant ferret.

And you know what else is cool? That building in the background? It used to be the main branch of the public library. Now it houses the World Food Prize, an honor given annually to somebody who has “advanced human development by improving the quality, quantity or availability of food in the world.” The prize was the idea of Dr. Norman Borlaug, who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1970 — the very same year as the first Earth Day celebration.

People. I’m telling you, they’re pretty fucking great. In general

my 188th thursday walk

Posted on March 25, 2013 by greg

Every couple of weeks I’ll head downtown, run a few errands, grab a venti white mocha (and a glazed donut) from the Starbucks directly next to the main branch of the public library, then spend a couple of hours noodling around in the stacks. I know a lot of folks consider Starbucks to be the Devil — and they may be right — but its right there, just steps from the library. Besides, I’ve never been known to shun the Devil.

In any event, the library is a good place to begin a Thursday Walk. The Utata group has been walking on Thursdays since April 20, 2006. I don’t always participate in the project, but I try not to let more than a couple of weeks go by without joining in. Last Thursday was the 361st consecutive Utata Thursday Walk. Isn’t that amazing? It was my 188th; I’ve done just over half of the Thursday Walks.

The date is in danger of not being saved

I began by heading back to the Save the Date scene, which was hidden away behind construction equipment on my last visit. It’s still behind a bright orange warning fence, but at least I can see the spot where the message is located. I talked to some of the construction guys — they said the building has been bought by an architectural firm, which will use the ground floor as offices and turn the upper floor into loft-style apartments.

In a way that pleases me. I love to see these old industrial buildings restored and put into use. But it pretty much ruins any hope of learning what I was saving the date for. And in related bad news — I was able to see that my chalked question had been washed off (I presume by rain or snow or ice or some other meteorological eraser).

Smoker’s haven

Around the corner there’s a converted garage entrance that’s been turned into a place where smokers can gather and escape the worst of the weather. It’s a weird little place. They open the garage door in the morning and close it at the end of the working day. They’ve made an effort to make it comfortable, and it’s kept surprisingly neat.

I walk by this spot periodically, and occasionally I’ll stop and say hi to the smokers. They’re a camera-shy group. So far none of them has been willing to be photographed. It’s a guy thing. But I’ll keep trying. Maybe some day one of them will relent.

Stacks of yellow crates

There’s an alley that runs behind a few bars, a coffee shop, and a somewhat seedy hotel. It’s a nice alley (as alleys go) and there’s usually something there worth photographing. But I rarely shoot anything there because it’s always clogged with cars or delivery vehicles. People seem willing to park anywhere, without any regard at all for photography.

I always glance down the alley as I pass, hoping that one day it’ll be free of parked vehicles. Last week it wasn’t exactly clear, but there was a space between vehicles where I could see some stacks of seriously yellow crates. Even as I walked toward the crates, I could see a transit van entering the other end of the alleyway. So I hustled and managed to shoot one frame just as the van pulled up. I shot a second frame before he honked his horn, and one final frame after the honk, then waved him into the spot.

Riverside bike path

I was heading east toward the river. If the weather is nice, I usually head toward the river. In fact, if the weather is less-than-nice, I often head for the river. Oh hell, I’ll head toward the river even if it’s pissing down rain. I’ll head to the river if a hail of scorpions is falling from the sky. I like the river.

Nobody would call the weather nice — it was cloudy and pretty cold — but it wasn’t raining or snowing, and the sky was scorpion-free. So…river.

Under the Court Street bridge

There’s a bike path along the river and a fairly new pedestrian walkway, though much of the time the two are merged. There’s also an old river-level walkway down below the balustrade. On windy days the river often laps up over that walkway. Sometimes you’ll find fish — usually small ones — that have leaped out of the water and onto walkway. You’ll also find the occasional old grommet where boats and barges used to tie up back in the day when they were allowed in this stretch of the river.

Dead fish and grommet

One of the things I like about the riverwalk is that it’s out-of-the-way. There’s absolutely no reason to go there unless you want to be there. I mean, it’s not on the way to anyplace else, and there’s no purpose in walking the river level other than to be walking the river level. You rarely meet people there — but when you do, the people tend to be interesting. Or scary. And sometimes both.

On that day, there was nobody on the river level except me and a few dead fish.

At river level

Most days I’ll only walk a short stretch of the river. Just far enough to generate some river-calm. You know, that feeling that comes with spending time along a slow-moving body of water. I find it soothing to know the water sliding by me began in Lake Shetek in Minnesota, and 525 miles later it’ll join the Mississippi River on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. I like knowing the river is following a course carved out by glacial melt some 13,000 years ago.

It makes me feel small and impermanent. I’m aware some folks are uncomfortable with that feeling, but I find it weirdly comforting. It reminds me that whatever crap is going on in my life — and right now my life is pretty crap-free — isn’t all that important or momentous. That’s a nice thing to remember.

Pedestrian bridge over the Center Street dam

I continued all the way to the end of the riverwalk, just below the Center Street dam. From there I could see the crazy-ass pagoda constructed by the Chinese Cultural Center, and the crazy-ass John Anderson White paddle-wheel riverboat, and even the crazy-ass dome of the Botanical Center. Each of those things is maybe a wee bit weird, but seeing them all in one place always makes me feel like I’m hallucinating. I like that.

Center Street dam

That dam, by the way, is fifteen feet tall. The water rushing over it makes a hell of a noise. It gives you a real sense of the astonishing power of the river. Even though it’s a fairly slow moving river, it’s a lot of water and it just doesn’t stop. Eleven people have died in the boil below that dam — mostly stupid boaters who got too close despite all the warning signs and the rescue cables.

I’d have kept walking, over the pedestrian bridge, down the riverwalk on the east side of the river, and back again over the lower pedestrian bridge. But by then it was nearly five o’clock and I had to meet a friend, and even though it was only a three and a half mile walk, I was feeling the cold in my knees.

But it was a good walk. They all are. Man, I love Utata for giving me an incentive every week to get out, put a camera in my hand, and walk someplace. And there’s something really special about knowing that other folks all over the globe are out doing the exact same thing for exact same reason. This is going to sound really corny, but I don’t care. These Thursday Walks are like being part of a river. And I’ll leave it at that.

no defense

Posted on March 21, 2013 by greg

Freeze and melt — that’s been the pattern for the last week or so. Snow, melt, freeze, melt. It’s not so bad on the main streets and sidewalks, which are cleared and have enough car and foot traffic to keep things tidy. But it plays merry hell in the alleys.

A couple days ago I decided to wander back to Save the Date Alley to see if I’d gotten a response to my question. It was pretty treacherous footing. In the sunnier parts of the alleyway the ice and snow had partially melted, leaving a layer of water over the ice. There were occasional patches of snow, which gave a bit of traction, and even a few places with clear concrete — but for the most part, walking in the alley took a lot of care.

It was slick enough that I considered giving up the idea and returning another day. Why risk breaking a bone just to satisfy my idle curiosity? But I could see some sort of construction was taking place down the alley — and it looked suspiciously near the spot where the Save the Date invitation (if it was an invitation) had been left.

I apparently have absolutely no defenses against curiosity, even idle curiosity. I wanted to know what was going on. So I slowly soldiered on.

Until I got distracted by a fire escape.

Well, not so much the fire escape itself, which isn’t all that interesting, but by the hundreds of icicles that formed beneath it. I think most folks are fascinated by icicles and how they form. And I suspect most folks feel a powerful impulse to touch them. Or knock them down. Or, of course, photograph them.

The fire escape was in a shaded part of the alley. I’d been walking on the bright, sunny side. So I had to cross the alley, which doesn’t sound like much of a feat, but lawdy I’m telling you it was incredibly fucking difficult. It took me maybe three or four minutes to slowly slide across maybe ten feet of icy alley. And then, of course, the light sucked.

But I shot a few photos anyway, and even though they don’t give any real sense of how magnificent the icicles were, I’ve decided to include them here. I mean, if I can risk my aging bones to satisfy my curiosity, you can damned well spare a moment to glance at a couple of uninteresting photographs.

The child in me (and yeah, that’s an awfully big part of me) wanted to knock the icicles loose, just to hear the sound. Or at least I wanted to take off my gloves and maybe pull one loose. But the adult in me insisted the responsible thing to do was leave them untouched so the next idiot to slip-slide down the alley could enjoy them too.

So that’s what I did. I made the adult decision, then another three minutes sliding back to the less hazardous side of the alley (there is, I suppose, some irony to be found in the fact that I’m proud to have made an adult decision while in the midst of an entirely juvenile enterprise). And I was back on my way.

Here’s a true thing about alleys: they can be sort of generic. The alley entrance to a radiator repair shop isn’t very different from the alley entrance to an electronics store or a pet shop. So from a distance, it’s not always easy to tell one section of alleyway from another. But as I got closer, it became apparent that the construction was taking place very near the location where Save the Date and my question were to be found.

In fact, it was the very building.

I got as close as I could. I was able see workmen working, but I couldn’t tell what they were working on. I couldn’t see if they were working on the building or on the alley itself or on something altogether different. I tried shouting to get somebody’s attention, but there was a generator banging away loudly and a small diesel-powered Bobcat idling. Nobody heard me. Of else they just ignored me. Either way, I learned nothing.

I made my way back out to the street and approached the construction site from the other end of the alley. No joy there either.

So there we are. Save the Date suspense and drama. I’ll wait another week or so and return to the alley to see if Save the Date and my question are still there. If so, then I’ll keep going back to see if I get an answer. If not…well, I’ll probably keep going back anyway.

Seriously, I have no defenses against curiosity.

brutal bastard

Posted on March 14, 2013 by greg

You get that one moment. That’s it. You either get the shot or you don’t. And let’s face it, most often, you don’t. And in some types of photography, there’s no second chance. I love that. I hate that.

Yesterday was a cold, bright, sunny day. A good day for a guy with a fine little street camera to take a walk through the city. As I was walking along I saw this dark gash of an alleyway running between a building and a parking garage. I have a thing for alleys, so I decided to wander down it. But it was on the other side of the street; I had to wait for traffic to clear before I could jaywalk to the alley.

As I stood there I saw an obscure shape moving in the alley. A guy. A guy with a red hat. And I knew there might be a photograph to be made.

This is what I love: sometimes you can anticipate that moment. You can see the shot developing. You can visualize all the elements potentially moving into place. Potentially, that’s the key. It’s all about the potential, because any number of things can happen to totally fuck up the situation. A cloud might obscure the light. A car might pass in front of you at the critical moment. A passerby could throw off the balance of the composition.

I saw the guy with the red hat. A moment earlier I’d noticed a doorway with a red logo at about head level. I figured there was a good chance the guy was going to walk out of the dark alley and into the light. So I hurried to my right so I could include both the red hat and the red logo — and the moment I began moving I also began to kick myself in the ass. I was thinking “Idiot, you should have closed in on the alley and caught the guy stepping into the sunlight.” But it was too late to change my mind. I’d committed myself to a wide shot.

Sometimes the shot never comes together. You know that going in, of course. Sometimes all those elements you saw moving together simply move away from each other. The guy could turn around and go back down the alley. He could step out of the alley, but remove his red hat. Somebody could could open the door with red logo. So many things could go wrong.

But they didn’t. Things not only didn’t go wrong, they actually got better The guy stepped out of the alley and into the sunlight, just like I’d hoped he would. His red hat was almost perfectly in line with the red logo on the door, just as I’d hope it would. And then a little black and white dog followed him out.

So I took the shot.

It was the shot I wanted. It was almost exactly as I’d envisioned it. But it doesn’t really work. Not at this scale.

The guy gets lost, the red hat gets lost, the red logo gets lost, even the little dog gets lost. I think the photo might work if it was printed very, very large — but dammit, it doesn’t work at this scale. It just doesn’t.

Even when all the elements do come together — even when it all coheres perfectly and organically, as if it was predestined — even when you get the shot you want, it might not actually be the shot you want.

It gets worse. I got the shot I wanted. I knew it as soon as I released the shutter. I’d no idea it wouldn’t turn out, of course, but at that moment I knew I’d got the shot. I felt satisfied and full of myself. For maybe half a second. Even as I was lowering the camera, I saw the guy hold something out in his hand. The little dog leaped up to get it. And I missed it.

Photography is a brutal bastard. And I must be masochistic, because I’m okay with that.

gregfallis.com

it's this or get a real job

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