And So It Goes...

Photo: © Stan Banos

As you can plainly see, practically ALL of the photos below on this entire site (post 8/2011) have simply... vanished. I unknowingly deleted them while "cleaning house" on some SOB Google related site that had accumulated a seemingly random collection of my photos along with a host of other unrelated odds and ends I had never seen and had somehow gathered under my name. Of course, I had no idea I'd also be deleting content from my blog (Google purchased Blogger)- but there you have it. 

At this point I have neither the time, will, nor energy to repair and restore 10 yrs of said damage, even if I could- perhaps nature's way of telling me the time has indeed finally come to end this little endeavor. I will soon start work on (self) publishing three photo books- 2 B&W and one color, which I have every intention of completing this coming spring. And lord knows I still have a shitload of B&W files and restorations (last year's mega-catastrophe) yet to complete thereafter. 

Again, thank you one and all for having dropped by. Perhaps, I will again return at some later date- under a new venue. But right now... I'm tired, not in the best of health, and need to regroup just to keep keeping on. This is the last thing I expected to do today- but then, life has a way of doing that. All my best...

Fridgeir Helgason- Landscapes Heavy With Life

Photo: Fridgeir Helgason

One can almost hear the stillness in Fridgeir Helgason's photographs, solid affairs that weigh upon your interest not unlike the heavy, bayou humidity that presses tightly to your skin. And his landscapes do that despite the weather or latitude- they're rife with presence, thick in atmosphere. His work a mirror of an existence that does not come without cost.

Photo: Fridgeir Helgason

That's What I'm Talking About... Luck & Lucky Streaks, Pt. 2

Photo: © S. Banos

Recently, I wrote about hot streaks and riding the wave of "luck," something which doesn't much come my way. Hot streaks are such incredibly rarefied creatures, it's hard enough conjuring enough luck for one good shot.

On an ordinary day, on an ordinary late afternoon, there wouldn't have been an extraordinarily handsome couple locking lips all Hollywood like as I was going from point A to point B on a daily errand. And even if there was, that alone wouldn't have made for more than a sappy romantic postcard, unless: the begging guy had also been there to add his layer to the story, and he would've been too far removed, unless the guy walking outta the subway (gotta love that face) hadn't walked between him and the couple to help tie the two ends together, and if the sun hadn't kissed the lovers' faces just so for the spot fill... and had I come just a few minutes sooner, or a few seconds later...

But on this particular day I was still riding the streak; otherwise, the only thing there would've been exactly what I saw there some weeks later- a skinny, dead tree in a pot.

RIP- Chris Wood

The subject of mothers-in-law is a sometimes thorny, difficult or emotionally ambiguous affair. I was fortunate, I had a good one. She was open to all people in a manner that boarded on... innocence- the very basis of what constitutes a humanitarian, and a very rare human being.

RIP

Jose Banos (1923-2016)

LIFE- It Don't Always Make Sense

     Photo: © S. Banos

I spent a considerable amount of time, money and effort to do "the right thing" and get my father in a different place where he would hopefully have a better time of it in his remaining years. This not to laud my own efforts, they've been absolute minimal- my mother has done the totality of the heavy lifting. And I mention it only because in the end, I succeeded in getting him placed in a setting where he this week broke his hip and now lies in a hospital post op in stable condition with a screw holding him together. 

And all he wanted to do was die in a dignified manner a few years back, when he still had his mind.

Dad

Jose Banos (1923-2016  ); Photo: © S. Banos

Like most men, my father was riddled with all too human faults and frailties, and as with most of us, it would be best to delve and concentrate on our own inadequacies. As a man, he was best defined by his life long religion of hard work. Arriving in NYC with wife in hand in 1946, the subway was a nickel, a cold water flat (in SOHO, no less) cost all of $15 per month, and when necessary (ie- Puerto Ricans weren't always treated with kid gloves), he could quit an unskilled labor job in the morning and have another by lunch. He loved his homeland dearly, but developed a strong affinity for his new island of tall buildings and even taller contradictions. He worked, endured, had a son, and ultimately retired (although he continued to work P/T till ninety). How does one reduce an entire life's frustrations and accomplishments into a few short sentences- how does life itself betray one of its very sense of self?

With each passing day my father now loses yet another small part of himself, replaced with some mutant aberration, some mocking misrepresentation of what he once was. At times, one can actually see him struggle still, trying to make sense of a situation of which he can no longer make sense of, and then just as, just as... Poof- the fog again takes hold before it ever cleared. Soon, even those brief, approximations of clarity will also dissipate. And you're left wondering- where is the fine line where you stop being you; where does your true self, the totality of all you learned, shared, succumbed to and overcome then reside? 

No amount of work will ever make sense of it.

Sound Advice

Take it from someone who... can't do it very well.       Photo: © S. Banos

I did do it once, swim that is. Kids always ask, "You know how to swim?" And I would always reply, "Yes, of course." Like who wouldn't? And technically, I was being quite truthful- I did know... I just couldn't do it very well, if at all. I knew what I had to do, and how to do it- but like most other things physical, I was damn shitty at it. I was very familiar with the forward sweeping motion of the arms and the repeated paddling of the legs in a coordinated movement that thrusts the body aloft in a steady forward momentum; saw it countless times in books, movies, even in person even- could say I was practically expert in how it was done... but damn if I could actually do it! It took all my effort just to keep my mouth sucking in precious oxygen one quarter inch above water while the rest of my body inexplicably remained at a 45 degree angle rapidly going nowhere no matter how hard I tried. Naturally, I never wandered more than a few inches away from anywhere I couldn't readily stand up.

But there's always that one day, that one day where all the artifice must fall and your soul laid bare... And on that day I found myself with a friend and some of his acquaintances, who had since moved upstate (New York), on the way to the local watering hole. The "conversation" rapidly devolved into a mockery of how city boys couldn't swim and the inevitable, "You know how to swim, right?" "Sure do," I truthfully replied, wondering all the while how the hell I was gonna get outta this one.

And I was still pondering that very thought as we all plunged in, putting into play my vast encyclopedic knowledge of all things swimming. The group objective was to reach a water slide on the... far side of the lake, a goal well beyond ridiculous for me to even contemplate as I nevertheless huffed and puffed along as if, as if reality had no say in any of it.

My epiphany soon occurred about 1/10 of the way there when my subpar, labored thrashing about forced me to the realization that this fool's errand would guarantee I never make it to seventeen. The others had already pulled ahead by this time, and left quite alone, knew I was out of reach from being saved by any of my peers. I felt a wave of panic start to descend, and I wanted to scream in fright and anger for being so spectacularly stupid to have put myself in such a predicament. As an adult, I would have simply said, "Go off and enjoy yourself young lads while I quietly engage this good book in the company of this fine drink." As a dumb ass kid, all I could do at the moment was recall reading that after the initial panic- drowning was indeed, a rather genteel manner to die, a rather peaceful and euphoric affair towards the end.

Perhaps not wanting to die in a watery grave with virtue intact provided the necessary incentive, but right there and then I resolved to live another day, focus like I never had in my previous sixteen years, and turn the ship back to shore where I would continue to pursue the life of a happy landlubber the rest of my godforsaken years. Which is somehow exactly what I (barely) succeeded in doing.

Several hours later, everyone returned and someone asked if I was OK, "You don't look too good!" Don't quite remember what I replied, but I do remember telling myself- I don't give a bloody damn what anyone says or thinks (of me) anymore...

Which Would You Choose!?!?

This is one of Life's toughies- no hints, no clues... ya just gotta man up, steel your resolve and hope for the best!

Photo: © S. Banos

customer survey

So It's Been Said...

Photo: © S. Banos

Great Advice; Greater Action

Good advice any day, any year- too bad we're still in such dire need of it.



(available on Netflix streaming)

Gideon's Army is what can happen when people get that chance of a lifetime and fight to try and salvage others in similar circumstances. Call them heroes, call them saints- they're people who actually care and won't turn their backs, or shrug their shoulders, or just keep going on with their own world of problems... like most of us.

Good Riddance 2015...

Photo: © S. Banos

Probably worst year of my life. The year I discovered, much to my dismay, that my photographic 'legacy' had been substantially compromised. Fortunately, many if not most of those images can be digitally restored, thanks to the 'magic' that is Photoshop (and the long man hours required of each that very much ain't). Have already successfully completed some twenty-five 65MB restorations- otherwise, I may very well have taken that proverbial long walk off a short pier. Just another 300+ to go...

And if I didn't have the handful of images as proof, I'd probably overlook the fact that I actually purchased a Fujifilm XT-1, my very first foray into the digital imaging world; one undeniably gorgeous, little camera, and most capable performer (as was the amazing 14mm Fujinon). I anticipated we would bond immediately. Alas! The finder is amazing in low light, great in open shade, but in direct sunlight/contrasty lighting- adequate, at best (and it's supposedly the preeminent EVF out there)! Still, if I shot color like most everyone, I would have kept it all the same for its stunning results. But being the B&W kinda guy that I've become, still didn't like the results it delivered in... direct sunlight; and it's the latter that most profoundly reveals just how different an animal B&W digital truly is. It can recover incredible shadow detail, but there's something in the highlight gradations that just... fall... short. Don't bother me with the physics, and the curves, and the charts- already have something (called film) that delivers the look and feel I want. And I already got more than enough work to do (see: Para.1), than struggle to make due with something that only approximates what I call home. Maybe I'll give the digital realm another go round 2020 (or not)... till then, my F3, FM3A and Tri-X will suffice.

What can't be undone or ameliorated however, is my father's diagnosed dementia. That assault and robbery is not only non negotiable, but ongoing. Another sad and sorry aphorism: a train wreck in slow motion. And neither faith nor technology will halt that inevitable descent. As recently as the previous year when he could still reason and function logically at 90, he said without fear or anxiety that he had led a full life and was ready to go- lingering is what he dreaded most.

What possible life lesson is to be learned when one can no longer remember, let alone understand? What life debt are you possibly balancing when you can no longer even conceive the equation?

Losing One's Voice

Don't know if the movie was all that great, but the content sure was, and her talent was as real and rare as it ever gets. I didn't know Amy Winehouse from shit while alive, by the time I found out who she was, she had already become the mumbling, fumbling, public butt of jokes; and that is, I must confess, how I happened upon her. A joke, a sham, a vapid publicity stunt gone terribly wrong.

Truth is, she was an exceptionally rare talent with a gift that comes along only once in several generations. Most recording artists artists in general must strain to get every last ounce of whatever talent they possess to make themselves shine and be counted. Amy's voice was an absolute force of nature, she had to corral and tame its sheer brilliance. And she could do so with surprising ease and regularity. I have to go back to a young Aretha to think of someone who actually had to restrain their voice of its own natural intensity, a voice that could just wail seemingly of its own accord and volition. She didn't have the Biblical soul of Aretha, but the subtle intonations she delivered were nothing short of magical- so unlike the squeeze every note into every syllable histrionics of the Mariah Carey School of Yarbling.

Unfortunately, she could not curtail and control the very demons that lived within that voice. And she very rapidly regressed into the same sad story of an enormous talent imploding under the pressure of drugs, stardom and wanton self destruction. 

Ironically, and unlike so many others- she wanted neither the fame nor celebrity, and knew it would be the death of her...

Been A Swell Ride- FAREWELL, AND PEACE...

I was looking at my website recently, and despite my plethora of art world rejections (as regular readers will attest), couldn't help feel some small sense of accomplishment. It was short lived. This weekend I discovered that much if not all of my 'photographic legacy' had been damaged to some extent by some insidious mold, fungus, whatever. Losing one's original images is every photographer's worst possible nightmare- losing all one's equipment is a cakewalk in comparison. You can never get back yesterday, the year before, let alone any decade previous.

Photography has been my one personal joy (and torment), and my photographs, more than anything, are my... friends. They accompany me throughout life, some go back aways and we know each other well, others, newly formed acquaintances, and we're just starting to have fun. But young or old, new or familiar, we were all family- and I wanted to protect them.

And protect them I did in a small, fireproof safe- but it was my very precautions that would prove my undoing. I 'upgraded' to a modestly priced safe that was not only fireproof, but also supposedly waterproof, complete with rubber linings. It helped put my mind even further at ease- not only would my precious negs not melt into an unrecognizable blob, they also wouldn't suffer water damage form the fireman's hose. I'll never know if those seals would have ever done their job of keeping water out, unfortunately, they were more than capable of keeping moisture in, therefore providing an excellent environment for negative devouring fungus/mold. How's that for some wicked Greek tragedy?

So now I get to wake up every morning for the rest of my life, and the first thing, the very first fuckin' thing to come to mind is- how does losing some of the most important moments in your life for the last forty years feel, Stan? Hhhhmmmm???

People tell me tomorrow is another day, there'll be other pictures to take. They mean well, and yes, there (hopefully) will. But how does one relive and redo the fleeting moments of forty years of youth? When you're about to break that most disgusting of numbers... 30 may be the new 20, 40 may be the new 30, 50 may be the new 40, but 60 is still fucking 60, and it sucks any way you look at it. And yes, I fully realize there are people throughout the world with much greater and much more pressing, real life problems- like... where are they going to eat or sleep at day's end? Granted.

I always strive to turn things around in some positive manner when hit by one of life's seemingly endless supply of pernicious, personal injustices. One of the reasons I feared this one so, is because I full well knew there would be no recourse, no positive spin, no happy face to put on it. Still, deal with it I somehow must- if only for my own sanity.

I took the following day off work (I could barely function), sat down and started cleaning said negatives with Edwal's film cleaner (Isopropyl alcohol) and managed to get through 350 strips of negatives (from 9AM to 1AM)- and that is just the start. I hope to salvage around 60% (maybe more) of my work- the alcohol actually cleans up some of the fungus on the less affected negatives and should cease any further damage; those more heavily damaged can only await some miracle software of the future. After cleaning, my first move, my only move, is to make high resolution files of what remains and go about restoring them as best possible with my admittedly limited skills. Hopefully, I'll be able to salvage enough to ultimately self publish what remains. Point is, that's one helluva load of work that starts now, and ends...

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Which means my friend, that Reciprocity Failure has finally come to the end of its run. Perhaps, I'll post something in a fit of rage, or perhaps in a year or two to update my progress; but for all practical purposes- it really has been fun. Thank you, one and all (truly) for dropping by. Keep caring, keep shooting- and best to all...

Triptych To Love

Photo: © S. Banos

Photo: © S. Banos

Photo: © S. Banos

An Assistant's Tale

In the late seventies I had one very brief career run as NYC's least illustrious photo assistant. One Sunday after straggling in around 6AM, I got a call some two hours later from this studio photographer I worked for once before. Of course, no amount of money was gonna get my sleeping, still drunken ass all the way back into Manhattan. N-F-W. But he pleaded, and pleaded, and pleaded some more, and not having any solid work dates lined up, I gulped down major aspirin and dragged my sorry twenty year old butt back into the subway.

Long story short, I go to collect my forty bucks at day's end (the going rate then for second assistant) and the SOB tells me he's only going to pay me... thirty. After begging me to come in, on a Sunday no less, the guy's actually gonna stiff me ten miserly bucks when he should have been paying me double! I look at the guy incredulously, ask for my money again, and get the same response.

Clearly, I had lost this argument. Leaning into his desk, I smiled into his self satisfied mug, yanked the cord and repositioned his office typewriter onto my shoulder (that's right kids, computers were just a gleam in your mama's eyes), walked out the studio, and slept soundly every Sunday morning since.

Anxiety Of Seismic Proportion...

You might feel a slight pinch.

Translation:  You are about to experience a piercing, penetrating pain in an extremely sensitive area.

You may experience some pressure.

Translation:  But you'll definitely feel a very pronounced and prolonged pain- so don't say that I didn't almost warn you.

Those are the inevitable and oft repeated threats I have accustomed myself to after year upon year of: cracks, crowns and fillings, et al.  But there's one I haven't quite conquered, the one far back in those reptilian recesses, the one that comes inexorably forward with every succeeding visit- because it could, just could, manifest into reality... 

What if THE BIG ONE just happened to hit right when he's plunging in the needle, or powering up the drill as you open up your widest so he can reach all the way back there?

Honestly, I try not to think of such things...

All Ahead, Impulse...

This SOB cost me endless hrs, days... probably weeks to finally get right- Photo: © Stan B.

It's winter, and I usually undergo a quiet panic round this time each and every new year. When will I take my first worthwhile photo(s)? Every year, same story, guaranteed. And here in San Francisco, it's not even cold, so the pressure's even greater- in New York, you could always blame the weather. Fortunately, I've learned the photos will come on their own time, of their own accord (provided, of course, you do your part).

In the interim, I try to keep myself occupied, amused and somewhat productive. I explore my most recent monographs that I have yet to familiarize myself with, get busy with Photoshop, order my now traditional, 20in, annual print (see left)- and just generally try to hurry up and wait, and somehow calm the nerves. Addressing the latter, it's a guilty pleasure to catch up on: Shorpy,  Tokyo Camera Style,  In Your Bag,  Burn...

With the added realization that I probably won't be posting on Reciprocity Failure as regularly as before, comes both relief, and anxiety. Together with some serious familial obligations I'll have to begin attending to this year, well... I just ain't gonna can't sweat it.

And we'll go from there... Meanwhile, as someone has dutifully reminded me on a very timely basis, this is also the season when the opportunity to humiliate oneself is most nigh...

Sound Familiar?

Chris Rock- Photo: Martin Schoeller

Being a comedian, 80 percent of the job is just you notice shit, which is a trait of schizophrenics too. You notice things people don’t notice.

Birdman

Interesting flick where life and acting, acting and life interact and intercede, and everyone gets called on who they are, what they are and what the hell they're trying to prove. Self indulgent? You bet- but everyone pays the price. And the only Black in the whole movie is the same guy providing the sound track, who we catch occasional glimpses of in the background, laying down the film's cacophonous drum beat, as if all the while reminding us that even in these "post racial" times, many of these artistic and lifestyle problems and decisions still remain in the realm of... "White people's problems."