diesel
I’ve been taking walks most afternoons.
I posted my thesis book for sale on Blurb…. if you are rich you can afford it. Damn, Blurb makes it expensive to make a decent book.
I like Tim’s work.
opened opened opened
photograph by Greg Turner
Train yard memorial (color, detail)
Photograph
Copyright 2011 by me
I took some photos yesterday. I drove south on 6th, right off 441 and spotted a flock of wild turkeys in the field behind The Rancher, a former western wear shop long closed. After I took some unsuccessful shots of the turkeys, I decided to walk up the railroad tracks. I walked north towards 84 Lumber, past what looked like a field of solar panels in early construction, then spied a cross made of white, weathered four-by-fours. Someone had placed a rusted rail spike on top of the cross and hung an ornament near the top. The ornament looked like an abstract butterfly. This plaster mold sat in the grass at the cross’ base along with a small, mosaic cross and little bronze butterfly painted yellow and violet.
I don’t know if someone died on this spot or elsewhere, and I wonder whether it was from natural causes or an accident. I also wonder about their love for trains.
Photo credit: Neil Krug
I know it’s sometimes impossible to give credit, but I hope it at least produces a little guilt.
(Source: fuckyeahsk8net)
In an interview with Dangerous Minds, author William Gibson reveals he has given himself permission to not take photographs when traveling. His reasoning?
When I visit a new place what I’ll value most, after I’ve returned from that place, is the peripheral feed. It’s sort of why I’ve decided—that I don’t like taking photographs when I travel. And I’ve given myself permission not to—now that I’ve given myself permission not to take photographs when I travel, the reason I’ve never been fond of it is that it gets in the way of the peripheral feed. And the peripheral information is what I will ultimately make the valuable memory out of.
In Jim Jarmusch’s Mystery Train, we see Jun (Masatoshi Nagase) taking photographs of objects and places most banal. He photographs the wall at the cheap hotel. He photographs an open suit case. His girlfriend asks him why he photographs things that don’t make any difference and why he doesn’t photograph anything important like Graceland or Sun Records. To paraphrase:
The important things will stay in my head long after I have experienced them. The small things are what I will forget. This hotel room. That rug. I need these unimportant things for my memory to be complete.
Why do we photograph? Is it so we can remember the things that will otherwise fade? Is it to create or re-write our narrative past and help us with the continuity of our lives? Do we eschew photography in favor of our own sepia’d nostalgia? In the end, do we imbue photographs with meaning and narrative of our own making?
What do you notice when you make photographs? What do you notice when you don’t?