Borrowed Light Photography

THE MACHINE IN MY GARDEN

2011-02-13T20:54:00.001-05:00

There’s a Machine in my garden, and it is definitely not the one that Leo Marx wrote about. It’s been silently rusting & weathering in the right back corner by the fence for decades, never thinking but always knowing. All its delicate pieces are gone now, what’s left is the rough evidence of its strength clad in a seductively rich, dark, flaky red cloak. It can stare down any invader; its self -assured gaze never wavers. Why from its front gate it can even see the red cows in the pasture across the pond.

Years ago, The Machine would gobble acres of wild grass and spit out neat cubes of dried hay, identical in every way.Conformance, after all, was the key to survival back then. Also, the grass stretched to the horizon giving it an endless task to complete. There were no limits and there were no consequences until, one day, it stopped in this small god-forsaken corner of my conciousness. It grew comfortable and didn’t move; it just waited for something to happen.

The Machine waits for a chance to rise again and conquer new unruly fields. It has an analog memory that stores its processes in thick coils of corroded steel.And those coils know that the simple life is the happy life and that only the weak snivel about seasons and the future. The Machine exists for the NOW and always has, never moving quickly but always moving deliberately, building momentum by the mile and becoming increasingly difficult to stop until a total breakdown steals its power. It never ever changes (except for those annoying tiny parts falling off damn it!).

However, as The Machine sits and waits, the fields change. Now they are fewer, richer, more rational and disciplined. The fields work with the newer digital methods of exponentially increasing complexity and elegance to achieve a tenuous balance between machine and nature. The field is now infinitely responsive and no longer needs the brute discipline of The Machine. Sadly, The Machine can no longer move.It seems that the tiny missing parts were critical to its purpose. The coils tight with potential have no vehicle for release. Even sadder, The Machine doesn’t know it cannot move. Reality is no longer a part of its existence.

But rust is.

Bones

2010-11-21T16:01:00.001-05:00

There are the bones of giants that can still be found along the Road to Nowhere.
They are the bones of an ancient race that disappeared billions of nanoseconds ago.

They are the bones of a world of bright neon.

They are bones of faded yet imposing stature.

They are bones upon which once hung messages of importance.

They are bones that once bludgeoned those messages into our small and weak perceptions.

They are the giant remnants of an analog world, a world that was replaced by the age of the digitals. But they continue to impress.

Seawillow Road

2010-07-23T08:11:00.001-04:00

The summer of 1971 sure seemed like an electric technicolor wasteland. It was Texas hot and dry and I was a teenager then, that time of freedom when you know both everything and nothing at once. It was a time of aimless mental wandering along a bright and dusty way lit by confusing flashes oversaturated Polaroid colors because, in 1971, there was war, a deteriorating environment and an uncertain economy. Lots to think about.

Even in a small and unknown place like Seawillow, the music of that time resonated with a naive, pure energy. Songs like Babba O'Reilly were about those BIG issues. And for some reason, the music I liked best seemed to also describe a journey. Maybe some answers there? But back then, the road ahead seemed loud, exciting, bright and uncertain, mainly because it was.

The summer of 2010 sure seems like a wasteland of another color. Seawillow Road is now mostly forgotten, but still Texas hot & dry. Not much changed on this road except that it is paved... mostly. It's a little less dusty, a little less bumpy and the colors have faded revealing the darker toned clarity of black and white and beautiful shades of grey. And it is not less interesting.

It is a way slightly more organized and guided by a map crammed with chaotic memories that defy cataloguing. I am wandering still, but maybe with a little more purpose. All I really know is that the landscape hasn't changed that much and the music I hear as I travel describes a richer path traveled by Miles and 'Trane.

But the echoes of Baba O'Reilly still resonate.

Tropical Heat

2010-06-05T13:54:00.001-04:00

Tropical climates have weird and wonderful light. That weirdness, combined with a relentless heat, tends to translate

into the wonderfully vibrant colors typically used on everything from shirts to signs. On a recent trip to Mexico, I was impressed by the use of color on buildings,

especially the small workaday ones like corner bars and restaurants. The strong colors and light inspired me to create this series of photographs celebrating color and heat.

Or maybe it was just the tequila.

There's a Shark in my Garden

2010-03-05T09:14:00.020-05:00

This is my garden. It exists in the crack of time between dusk & night.

It exists in many places in a single moment, quiet with muted colors and gentle warm breezes and more than a few scary things. It reminds me of an old Japanese story about sushi.

Once there was a Japanese ship's captain who fished for sushi fish of all kinds. The fish he caught were put in a large tank of fresh seawater on his boat.

He cared for them carefully and fed them well and they had a good and safe life on his boat. He sold his fish to a restaurant, but the owner of the restaurant complained that his fish were bland and the customers were not satisfied. The captain thought about this. On his next voyage he caught his fish and cared for them carefully.

He also put a shark in their tank.

The fish swam vigorously and only the most clever and creative outwitted the shark and survived. Ultimately, their individual fate was the same as their colleagues, but they were remembered for their tastiness.

Maybe I need more sharks in my garden

Arcosanti

2010-02-26T09:45:00.025-05:00

In 2007 I made what was, for me, a pilgrimage to place I had studied years ago in architecture school: Arcosanti. One of my professors had been spent a few months working there in the late '60's

and he had told us about the rise of a theoretical city in and of the desert; a place that was a mind meld of architecture and ecology.

Paolo Soleri first envisioned Arcosanti in the late 40's or early 50's. The idea of arcology (architecture+ecology) was born in the heyday of mid 20th century urban sprawl. If you are not familiar with Paolo Soleri's ideas, a good source of information is arcology.com. My overly simplified short version (at least as I understand it) is that Soleri's idea of the city is based in creating extremely dense urban environments, called arcologies, through a complex miniaturization of

infrastructure that would necessarily include both passive and active systems. This results in a city that, theoretically, requires only about 2% of the land area of traditional cities of similar population. This frees vast amounts of land to either remain in its natural state or be cultivated to feed the urban population.

A great theory, but difficult to apply in a practical way given our then and now technologies. Even though there have been tremendous technological advancements in the past 50 years, advances that would seem to help move arcologies from theory to practice, not all apply. For example, advances in wind power generation may not be what Soleri had in mind because of the sizable land area required to generate meaningful amounts of power. However many of the advances in solar energy technology have been in the miniaturization and increased efficiencies of collection devices that would seen to align with the theories of arcologies.

Even more important than the technology, however, is the need for the urban form to be organic, sensitive to nature and in tune with the cycle of the sun and seasons

to afford maximum efficiencies that such densities require. Without the proper orientation to nature and artful manipulation of form and space an arcology would be all but impossible.

At any rate, it's better to read what Soleri himself says at arcology.com.

The photographs here represent what I saw in December of 2007 at Arcosanti. I was impressed by the theory and that people could actually pull off a practical demonstration of such a complex theory. Arcosanti is a real place where people live, make things, build, socialize and they have done so for decades. It seems sustainable, but clearly there is much work to do. I'm looking forward to visiting again to see how both theory and place continue to evolve.

Panis Angelicus: The Bread of Angels

2010-01-19T21:10:00.015-05:00

Driving slowly down the one lane road, trees towering all round and dappled light filtering through my windshield, I can just see the clearing ahead. Buried deep in the hardwood forest we find the place, not a hermit’s tattered house, but a cheery sunlit little place with an “open” sign. Park the car in the tree bark and stroll out of the dark woods into the light by the bell tower. Through the front door we are welcomed by Jan and Anna into an unexpectedly quiet world of musical form.
There’s not so much of a sound in here, just the sensual curves
and rich dark wood colors of stringed instruments hanging from above, suspended in rows like notes from a little etude.

We walk into the workshop where these artisans create and repair their instruments.
Tools are scattered all around, an orderly clutter necessary for their craft. Luthiers are special people; they feel the wood and string and they carve. They mold and shape the everyday things we can touch and smell into instruments of unparalleled joy. They practice an art that allows art.

Outside, leaves are blown by the breeze and the light filters softly through dusty workshop windows creating gentle rhythms within. We wander, we touch and we listen. Jan will only let us try those instruments
he has played recently. According to him, the others have a sound that is too lonely and neglected; there is not enough time to pay proper attention to each in a day, or even a week. One child is drawn to an instrument and reaches for it. The selection is made and the music prepared.
The first sweet notes rise from the strings and we are rewarded by an innocent, joyful and satisfied smile.

The Bells of Cosanti

2009-12-15T20:16:00.004-05:00

Paolo Soleri’s bells are part of a design theory that runs the scale from art object to megastructure. I have a half dozen of these beautifully crafted objects
that bring joy not only from their sound, but also from their place in a scheme of urbanism that foretold the value of density and conservation during the mid 20th century, a time when just the opposite was in vogue.
The bells, like the city of Arcosanti are organic in design, each seemingly dwelling within the other.

Visiting Cosanti is very much like tripping back to a desert commune of the ‘60’s.

It’s an intriguing place caught in time. The bells are cast each morning and the sand molds are broken in the afternoon.
If you are in the Phoneix, Arizona area, it’s worth a trip to both Cosanti the foundry, and Arcosanti the urban experiment.

Urban Fragments

2009-12-04T10:29:00.019-05:00

URBAN FRAGMENTS and the CYCLE OF CITIES

Fragments of decay of the urban environment are intriguing bits of evidence of city life. Sometimes it’s a wall; skin peeling like a swimmer’s the day after a bad burn.

Sometimes it’s an orphaned element of space or structure,
lonely, abandoned, and lacking a functional purpose.

Often artful and seldom boring, these fragments of decay tell, if we pay attention, stories of long vanished places and events,

those things that make up the soul of a city. They are pieces within pieces within pieces that spiral inward and outward, telling the tales of a dynamic city life.

We live in cities and they dwell within us.

All too often we use them up leaving behind the fragments of a society outdated.

But, as fast as we use them up, we create new trends, new spaces, new structures, new stories and ultimately, new places. We resurrect the urbs from the places we only recently laid to waste,

accepting and rejecting their history as it suits our purpose. We build them, fragment by fragment, incomprehensible and incoherent pieces joined one to another until, suddenly, they begin to make some sort of intuitive sense. We delight in their creation, play with them and in them a while until we become bored and leave them to decay and fragment again until, one day, the urge to create strikes hot and bright once again.

This is the cycle of the living city.

Nowhere Square

2009-11-17T20:21:00.009-05:00

Nowhere Square, once the center of its small universe at Main and First now sits at the intersection of Inconsequential Avenue and Purgatory Road. The county courthouse presides over it, seated uncertainly on its seedy unkempt lawn where old men once played their dominoes in the shade. It was long ago bypassed by roads of past and future relevance, their gaudy arteries clogged with neon fast-food franchises and anemic big box chain stores.

The street’s now quiet; it’s Saturday morning and there’s no courthouse business to be done. Nowhere Square is lonely surrounded only by the quiet great grandchildren of enterprises that once thrived on the profit of agriculture. The courthouse clock looks down on them, then sighs

and peeks over their leaky roofs and looks sadly toward only remaining grocery store, the new hub of town life.

No bright jazz in this square, only the odd wailing of “Barbeque Music” (whatever THAT is) whose festival is proudly announced on a forgotten yellowed banner in a dusty storefront. Faded plastic roses announce the “hair today gone tomorrow”

special at the barbershop. A car parked at the closed jewelry shop looks like a wallflower at the prom in 1969. Another car scurries past, in a hurry and on its way to someplace, any place, but not this place. Time moves a bit slower in Nowhere Square. Decades of social and economic change fostered a gentle neglect and fed the atmosphere of abandonment in the street. Look up at the dark blue sky. Notice how the building cornice, rich in detail and and substantial in mass, is scarred by shadows of chaos thrown by angels with their lines of power feeding lord knows what.

Maybe the memories of small towns and their squares still thrive in isolated pockets of time and memory, but increasingly their reality seems destined only to exist in the orbit of a larger urban area.

Their relevance deteriorates. No longer the focus of their own community, they begin to lose their unique character and grow colder as they fade away and are absorbed by newer cities in search of a soul.

This is a sad thing to see, especially in place with a history, a place remembered for its sense of community and the roots it provided for the people who lived there. Ah well, who knows, things have a way of flowing full circle. But for now no one sits or plays on these courthouse steps. The only sound is the faint clacking echo of domino games that ended long ago. The ghosts of the old men still linger though, like bums on the neglected grounds quoting Kerouac, “We all stand on the sad earth throwing long shadows…”.

Boats of Brazil

2009-09-04T10:14:00.010-04:00

Boats seem to have a special relationship with their owners, their partners. Their reality reflects the lives of their people. I love boats. Not so much the big, sleek cruisers harbored in marinas that live bloated and pampered in a protected and unreal world apart. I love the blue collar, the scarred and leaky working boats that are held together with nail, rope, glue and hope. I love the boats looking for a better day.

I've been interested in the boats of Brazil for a long time, especially the utilitarian working boats that take on the character of their owners and partners. These boats become characters unto themselves. Their skin is cracked and lumpy, a few bones are bent and creaky, and they aren't quite as fast as they once may have been, but they have a grace and dignity that is difficult to precisely define. They seem wiser in the ways of the waters, or at least the survivors do.

The boats of Brazil I’ve paid the most attention to in the past were the small quick boats of the Amazon. Mostly handmade, but some a little larger and made to navigate the long distance runs of an ever changing and dangerously beautiful river world. They made their lives darting from shadow to light, moving people, catching food and living off the great surreal environment of the Amazon. To survive they must be ever vigilant and at peace with their world. But when I was in Brazil recently, mostly near the Atlantic coast city of Porto Seguro, I met a subtley different boat. Working boats yes, but these more lighthearted. These are boats that enjoy the sun and watch the ocean when they’re not at work. They sway gently at their tethers rocking to a sweet samba rhythm, waiting for the sunset.

Brazil is, for me, the perfect place to see how boats are inextricably tied to the lives of their people. These boats say a lot about their partners, especially when their owners live in a place where boats are their home, their living, their life. These are a few of the boats made for living that life.

To see more of the boats of coastal Brazil and the Amazon River, click on either of the photos here.

Kind of Blue: A Jazz Guide to Location Photography

2009-08-23T21:05:00.002-04:00

Walk down the street of the blue city. Don't think about it, do it. No rehearsing, no maps and no plans. Shoot from the gut, shoot from deep down. No room for pragmatism in this city, don't plan the journey. Wander, discover - Miles had it right. Reach from within, but don't stay in that studio, feel the cool night notes instead.

Layers of colors are waiting, not just the eight, but the four in between hidden in the real world of light and waiting to be revealed in an alternate chromatic reality, surprising in their richness and consistency. Not planned, but discovered, one following another in a modal path from blue to green to...

Keep that background cool and simple: decaying walls & windows lining the rhythmic old pathways of stone reflecting the streetlights. Find that cool sound in the messy and complex visual melodies left by the bits and pieces of humanity littered on those walls and paths. Filter that experience through the lens and find the way only you can see, images drawn from today's mundane familiarity, yesterday's surreal encounters and the more exotic experiences long forgotten.

And don't be afraid. After all, the blue city is your city of sweet sounds and dreams.

For the Photo version of this, go here: http://www.borrowedlightphotography.com/Art-and-Photo-Stories/Kind-of-Blue/9123805_bNUQf