Oliver Hartung

Photo: Oliver Hartung

Despite the rigid stereotype, I'm happy to report that all things are indeed, possible- not only do Germans with a sense of humor exist, some even incorporate a few laughs into their photography, thank you very much.

And speaking of stereotypes, seems Mr. Hartung's roadside Americana type curiosities are not solely limited to America, or even the Christian persuasion for that matter, as clearly evidenced in his travails throughout The Middle East.  My admiration of his work did fall into momentary jealousy when I discovered we had traversed some similar paths in the American Southwest and he had managed to come upon a few gems that had totally eluded my travels- not surprising since things are kinda "stretched out" over there,* though still subject to change more than one would think (one of the reasons I continue to love returning there). Petty "jealousies" aside, it's a joy to look at his work- been a while since I've felt the urge to get a photo book.

*Being a city boy, I'm used to experiencing change within a few city blocks. In desert environs, those same changes are measured in... hundreds of miles.



Photo: Oliver Hartung

 

An Abbreviated Vacation

Bring the step ladder, bring the step ladder, bring the freakin' step ladder! That's the mantra I've kept telling myself over and over since our last road trip years ago. Road trips are when you can bring everything plus the kitchen sink, since ya don't have to carry it all with ya. And from previous trips, I've found that what I've really needed much more than a tripod was a step ladder for those scenics and architectural shots where one doesn't have view camera controls for the necessary height and perspective control. So needless to say what particular item I yet again forgot to pack...

Anyway, Uncle Amex could only afford us a rental for three nights/four days last weekend; the plan was to head south and hit Sequoia National Park (always wanted to see those big mothers since I saw the HUMONGOUS cross section of one displayed in The Museum of Natural History since I was but a wee lad) and then swing back home via Death Valley. We arrived at the former around five late afternoon, and it was not quite what we expected. It wasn't a magical forest of unbelievably huge and majestic grand Sequoias, rather a large forest with what appeared to be a few sprinkling of said trees. To get to General Sherman (the BIGGEST tree in the world), we would have to park the car, stand on line, then jump on a bus to see him. Considering the time, we forgoed that option since we still had to secure a motel somewhere in the general vicinity; we would return the following day. Winding our way out of the park, it took what seemed forever going up and down endlessly curving mountain roads that increasingly devolved from scenic opportunities to repetitive stress related syndrome. Halfway outta the park we realized we would not have the time to return the next day, and seriously wondered if it was worth the effort even if we did. Redwood National Park is a truly magical place with its own wondrous aura, Sequoia National Park on the other hand... to be honest we didn't give it a fair shake, but...

Outside the Mad Greek's Cafe @ Baker, CA- "Gateway To Death Valley;"  Photo: © S. Banos

So on we went to Death Valley where we had made a night's reservation at the "world famous" Amargosa Opera House and Hotel. The aforementioned has quite the fascinating history, having been purchased by NYC ballerina Marta Becket in 1968, where she continued to live and give solo performances (she just celebrated her 90th birthday there) in the middle of the desert. It is also said to be haunted. Love the place: stark, desolate, dilapidated- literally in the middle of nowhere. A place I really feel at home in...

Next day, we formally entered Death Valley National Park, first stop was Zabriskie Point, where if it wasn't for the locale, one would swear was somewhere mid Europe- the only languages heard: German, French and a smattering of Italian. While there, we were treated to a mid morning summer storm- complete with lightning, thunder, dramatic skies and flash flooding... Quite the once in a lifetime treat, but try as I might (and I most certainly did), could not get the requisite lightning enhanced landscape shot. Didn't need the step ladder either...

Barstow, CA;  Photo: © S. Banos

Validation, Redemption, Vacation

Got ya covered!

Finally managed to purposely stumble into some worthwhile photo scenarios and fire off a few frames of potential good fortune. Strange to seek validation from the capture of a handful of selected photons unto a slice of emulsion the size of a postage stamp. But there's no doubting what a few photo possibilities do to lift morale.

Speaking of validation- here's one, last chance gasp for redemption in 2014 (and travel, as in v-a-c-a-t-i-o-n, is exactly what I and the guy above need most)...

49 Mile Scenic Drive

Just make a left (or not).      Photo: Stan B.

Don't even dream 50!

A map? An actual... route!?! Can only mean there's also an... app (sigh).

The first time I visited San Francisco back in '89, we (Hi, Sharyn!) couldn't help but notice these cryptic 49 Mile Scenic Drive signs that would sporadically appear driving throughout various parts of the city. They would manifest at irregular intervals, point you in general directions that would invariably lead to congested intersections without further notice, and ultimately leave you to your own devices. It very quickly became a running joke, these serene, baby blue signs to nowhere with the stoic seagull that was very purposely shitting all over you should you chance to take him at all seriously. 

Anytime one would inevitably pop up without rhyme or reason, we could once again rest assured that we were indeed headed in the right direction, whatever direction that might be...

Cristophe Kutner- The US

To be quite honest I'm not all that excited by this guy's photographs- many of them are simple snapshots, many unnecessarily overexposed, and quite a few others- quite good, indeed! What I do love is the concept-  the candy colored covers, the idea of one book for each state. Nicely understated, yet- Brilliant! And can't believe it hasn't been done (or at least attempted) before...

Photo: Cristophe Kutner

In The Interim....

Will be traveling to hometown NYC this 6/15 for ten days, so things will be kinda crickety the two weeks following... Time for the annual, obligatory sojourn to visit the folks (one already in, the other near their ninth decade). These days I get a kind of perverse kick visiting NY as a "tourist." Hopefully, catch a worthwhile show, and take a photo, or two. Will be traveling light with my FM3 w/20mm, and a Widelux F8 for laughs in my comfy new bag- and always up for a beer if you are...

Sometimes Ya Win, Sometimes Ya...

Mt. Rushmore- S. Banos

As a photographer, whenever you arrive somewhere of special significance, somewhere you've always dreamed of seeing- you, of course, want to get a picture to remember it by. Not just a picture- hell, you can get any number of perfectly good picture postcards anywhere, but one you can actually stick in the ol' portfolio. Something halfway unique, something that puts your particular stamp on it. Sometimes you win, and sometimes, well... ya just don't. Of course, having enough time (a luxury most of us don't get) increases your chances. That said, I've been to Paris a few times and have yet to get a decent shot that includes Le Tour Eiffel- sometimes it's just a matter of turning around for something else, or trying your luck elsewhere.

Mt. Rushmore is one of those places one dreams of seeing ever since you're a kid- something wonderfully surreal about it even before you're old enough to know the meaning of the word. Hitchcock shot a movie there as if just to prove it. So naturally, when I finally got to see it in person in '07, I was hot to take the picture to remember it by. First instinct was to go right into the viewing area along with the rest of my fellow tourists and take some Winogrand/Parr mutation with them in the foreground in some weird juxtaposition with the overbearingly large Presidential stares looming in the background. And again, given enough time, I probably could have done just that, but the fish just weren't biting, and alas, I didn't have all day. Next, I discovered there were trails leading closer to the giant busts where guides were leading tours which definitely offered some possibilities- but again, to no avail. It was time to go, and once again I was a beaten man. Time to hit the road again, but first the lieu... and a photo!

Pretty Damn Amazin'!

Gotta give the guy credit for even attempting it! Hell, I'd be pretty damn proud of myself if I could freakin' do it- no doubt get a couple of photos out of it too! But just thinking about doing something so damn mundane, and monumental, makes my mind reel- and my legs ache... Don't forget folks- the borough of Queens alone* is five times the size of Washington, DC.

Good Luck, Matt Green!

*And there's four more where that came from in NYC- The Bronx, Staten Island, Brooklyn & Manhattan. 
PS- Only the borough of the Bronx is on the mainland, Brooklyn and Queens are on Long Island.

Livin' Large

The Extraterrestrial Highway is literally in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in the desert of Nevada. The area is desolate- not even the occasional billboard. It's located near Area 51, yeah that Area 51, and hence the name.

Rachel is the only town, if one can call it that, along the entire route. A literal handful of tiny homes and trailers dotting the desert brush- along with The Little A'le'Inn. We decided to stay the night one early evening, the "motel" consisting of a trailer in back of the bar. Hot and dusty, we decided to shower before dining on what had become our standard desert fare- the hard (but not impossible) to fuck up grilled cheese, when we heard sounds, then muffled voices emanating from our bathroom. Had we come these many miles only to have our bodies dismembered and strewn about a desert too hot for even vultures to inhabit? I grabbed my pocket knife and tripod, "Who's in there?" Seems le concierge had neglected to inform us that the motel trailer consisted of two bedrooms, and one shared bathroom in between.

Lost In Time

Was it '90, '93? Even during peak tourist season, Versailles is a place where time is almost transparent, those powdered wigs and minuets still linger uneasily within its finely manicured grounds. Funny thing about time (at least as we understand it), one day you're drinking brews with your buds, the next, it's twenty, thirty years down the line and (if you're one of "the lucky ones") you find yourself doing whatever it is you happen to be doing. 

Someone once asked Miguel Pinero (a compatriot of mine who lived a much harder life, and frequently rose to much greater heights) how he'd like to be remembered, and he replied something to the effect that once they got past his life, he just wanted people to read his stuff and say, "Ya know, that motherfucker could write!" I long ago abandoned any idea of fame and fortune, but I'm still not past the occasional daydream where a few of my images somehow, someway survive to the end of the century and unto someone's hand or screen, and with a wry smile on his or her face, some future denizen of this planet proclaims "This fucker had an eye." 

Hey- it's my daydream.

The Left Coast

via Give Us This Our Daily Bread

I moved to San Francisco about ten years ago, round about when I was 40. I had a one bedroom sublet for $850 a month in Loisaida. Many a New Yorker would have killed me on the spot just for saying that. So why did I move? Basically, I just wanted a change having lived in NY all my life; I wanted to "reinvent" myself, like Madonna- without the cheek implants. I wanted out while I still had enough change in my pocket to make the move before I too turned into some sad, old New York caricature of my former self. 

So I moved to San Francisco, something I had considered upon seeing the utterly dreamlike street scenes featured in Vertigo- not to mention the haunting panorama in On The Beach. Why not LA? Cause I'm a city boy, and for those outside the States, LA is not a city. It's a vastly over extended suburb, not unlike most US cities, an over extended extension of countless, identical strip malls. A sad excuse for a city where you have to jump in a car to do the most simple, everyday things- like getting toilet paper to wipe your own ass. And unlike that sad situation, the city famed for having a heart left within it is one of a small handful in the US which is a real life, functioning city that one can actually live and walk in.

The first thing I noticed about San Francisco were the pigeons. They look exactly like NY pigeons, except that so many more of them were literally squashed flat on the streets. Like the hippies this town is still famous for, they're so laid back they don't get out of the way of oncoming cars and therefore suffer the most obvious results. Which is particularly telling when you consider that cars actually wait for you to cross the street here. That's right! People behind the wheel see you on the corner and they actually (as in literally) wait for you to cross the street before proceeding. In New York, drivers dare you to cross the street (I still haven't let go the sneaking suspicion that I'm just being lulled into complacency here).

Another weird thing is that people sometimes walk around... smiling. You heard right- I've actually had women smile at me as they walk past here. There are only two kinds of people who walk around smiling in NYC, those who just got laid for the very first time in their life, and those who are psycho- in all their innumerable, insufferable variants.

Personally, much as I appreciate and return said smiles whenever I travel, I find it strangely reassuring that in NY, if someone doesn't know ya, they're not likely gonna smile at ya. It's an earned response, like everything else there. But in my endless quest to expand my horizons, I've learned to adapt to my new environs- the inexcusably lousy pizza and bagels however, are quite another story....

Atomic City

A still inhabited ghost town named after the insidious unseen power source whose deadly legacy will long outlive any earth bound ghost.

666

Early July saw a significant rise in my carbon footprint thanks to my self induced, self awarded 2010 Amex Grant. Between 7/07-7/15 we put 2,960 mi. in nine days on our car rental, covering the vast expanses of: CA, ID, NV and Ut. Among the sights seen:

1) several amazingly scenic Nat'l State Parks (incl: Craters of the Moon, Canyonlands, Zion, Yosemite, Arches)

2) a Mormon sect wife who strode with the ample strides of a Bigfoot as her ankle length "prairie dress" swayed vigorously to and fro at the local gas station

3) late model, yacht sized pick ups with plastic (rubber?) balls (yes, as if in a scrotum) attached to the underside of  the vehicle towards the rear license plate (I kid you not) for the American male who has... everything(?)

4) an authentic 1960's nuclear submarine conning tower from the USS Hawkbill emblazoned with the number 666 rising from the potato laden soil of mid Idaho 

5) a horrific SUV accident somewhere in the middle of the Nevada desert,

6) and an animal sighting directly beside the ever so bleak and barren Extraterrestrial Highway (IS 375) that was so truly stunning and magnificent, that only it's sudden movement jolted me into the reality that it was not (as first thought) someone's fanciful roadside monument to the animal kingdom (or heat induced desert mirage).

Among the trivialities discovered, I finally became acquainted with Sirius Radio, the audio version of cable TV, in other words, another pay for play mass media wasteland sans the visuals. Among its features: an all 60's music station which seemed like a little piece of heaven (until you realize it has a play list of 25 songs), an all-Elvis station ('nuff said), and a slew of stations featuring death metal bands such as Mastodon (of  smash hit Megalodon fame- but you knew that).

I also tried my hand at some Friedlander interior car landscapes to get a feel of how hard, or easy, or totally gimmicky his whole series was to shoot. Result: as expected, definitely not a gimmick and much harder than it looks to get a good composition.  Even though I didn't have his Hassy SWC (sigh!), my 20mm Nikkor sufficed nicely at the attempt- and BTW, one really has to be a bit OCD to keep the windshield clean of dead and splattered insects.

Of course, it was America we went to see in all its scenic, obese wonder, an America I once had so much hope for, and now...

I always thought down deep inside that it would ultimately prove itself a country of generosity and common sense, a country that given time, could only improve, if ever so slowly. And yet, the years have seen my illusory hopes vanish, and this country turn more vindictive and narrow minded- just as its physical assets become more depleted and despoiled. Much of the land we drove through was once the repository of wanton nuclear fallout from the atmospheric nuclear testing of the 50's, landscape often described as wasteland, despite its vast expanses of incredibly dramatic vistas filled with the starkest, most desolate beauty. Beauty in the eye of the despoiler.

 More photos to follow...

Around The World In 80 Seconds...

Got a couple of extra minutes, hours, days? Then check out LikeCOOL...

All Hail, The Single Speed!

San Francisco is not a particularly fashion conscious kinda town, like a London or NYC. And the California slacker motif just doesn't cut it for this New Yorker. But it does have way cool bikes! Mountain bikes, racing bikes, commuter bikes and cool ass single speeds. What's so cool about single speed bikes? First, a lot of 'em don't have brakes- you read that ever so rightly. Which means if you wanna stop, you slow up the pedals (given you have enough time), slow the back wheel by reaching back and applying friction with your shoe sole (requires particular speed, agility and balance), or just plain crash. Having one speed is fine if you live where it's flat, San Francisco- anything but. All this means that you rarely see anyone but twenty year olds atop these particular steeds, those athletic and crazy enough to actually attempt such an alternative life style.

The really cool thing about single speeds however, is simply how they look. Aesthetic purity on wheels- clean, graceful lines with no extra anything! Man and machine as one.

Fortunately, some do come with hand brakes- but I'm happy with as many speeds as I can get in this horizontally challenged mecca. My half century legs may not get many admiring glances, but they still get me up the hill (with camera in tow).

Mmmmmmmm........

“There is no sincerer love than the love of food.” - George Bernard Shaw

Whenever I think of Europe, I always think of the sights- and the food. And the latter often made up for the fact that despite all the beauty, I'd often come back with a less than satisfactory number of quality images. When going cross country (NYC-San Francisco) two years ago in well under two weeks however, I managed to compile a good number of keepers- but anything near edible eats was slim pickins at best.

I was reminded of that fact while viewing This Is Why You're Fat, which actually features a few items I would have gladly substituted for some of the greasy gastronomic cardboard I had to endure. "Favorites" include The Slinger and the Hamburger Crust Pizza! (via boingboing)

El Camino del Rey

I recently posted on what a grand adventure doing Bolivia's Road of Death would be- but this is one I have no such "romance" for whatsoever. Why the former and not the latter? Besides the more obvious, in your face confrontation with acrophobia that the latter provides, it also presents one with little more photographic opportunity than some apprehensive point of view shots, and a few picture postcard scenics. The ends just don't justify the means in my book...

Extreme Travel Photo Competition (A Proposal)

I was thinking of once in a lifetime places to photograph and experience, so I got to dreaming about a travel photo competition where top prize would not consist of some lame cruise or vacation resort, but more like an all expense paid trip that puts you in the driver's seat (make that the passenger's seat) of the ultimate road trip... Bolivia's Road of Death!

Here you have a place where people literally risk their lives simply to get from point A to point B on any given day, and they're not even in a war zone! Not to say that it doesn't exist, but I have yet to see the quintessential photo essay documenting this infamous sojourn. Regardless- I sure know I'd love to give it a shot! Personal risk? You bet (part of the challenge, part of the reward), and although not quite on the level of The Wages of Fear, we're still talking 2-300 deaths per year. Of course, with my luck, if such a competition actually existed, I'd probably take second prize- a lame vacation cruise... from which I'd probably drown in drunken boredom.

DEJA VU...

Photo: S. Banos; Badlands, SD

I used to have these very strong deja vu episodes. Most of the times I'd just tell myself that I'd done similar things before, in similar places, under similar circumstances- and I'd be right. Other times it just felt a whole lot stronger, a whole lot stranger, and not quite so easily explained away. Once passing through Glasgow, a barfly approached me and as soon she started to speak, I had the overwhelming sensation that I had this conversation before with this very same person who I somehow, very much recognized. It spooked me enough to hastily finish my drink and run out the bar. Still, though I had never been in that particular city before, I had definitely been in enough bars in arguably similar circumstances to hastily file away the episode in the over active imagination file...

One summer however, the aforementioned ambivalence would give way to quite another level of discovery, uncertainty and wonder. It started in spring with a dream in which I met two young college students, one a thin male, the other a short female. We all get into a car and after a brief ride emerge to find ourselves flanked on either side by long thin figures in earthen colored robes. The three of us all walk down the middle of a long alley, the robed figures walking silently along adobe like walls. The male student then exclaims, "Jeez, aint this fun!?" And I reply, "Fun my ass, they could all be marching us to our death!" End of dream. Unusual in itself for my actually remembering it.

That summer I went to Spain and gradually made my way southward one tinto de verano at a time. Having reached the appropriately named La Linea, I proceeded directly across to that most famous of grand British rocks; and while peering across the Strait of Gibraltar decided, all spur of the moment like, to hop a quick plane to Marrakesh, just so I'd be able to claim that I had, in fact, stepped upon the great continent of Africa.

Once there, I jumped into a taxi with a couple of other passengers who were also looking for a place to stay near the center of the old town. Emerging from the taxi we were immediately surrounded by... you guessed it- numerous, lean, brown robed figures that would supposedly guide us to a hotel. And there I was walking down a long, narrow alleyway with two young college students, one a thin male, the other a shorter female, and flanked on either side by the aforementioned, now silently pacing, robed figures. Needless to say, I was growing a tad apprehensive surrounded in a nightmare labyrinth where even street signs would be useless, had they existed. I also sensed another wayward presence, vaguely familiar but equally foreign all the same- the very strong feeling of deja vu. And when the male student cried out, "Jeez, aint this fun," it literally felt as if I was walking into some interdimensional portal, a living, breathing, three dimensional photograph of my own making- as I found myself mouthing my preordained reply.

Somehow, someway, I had been allowed a very short glimpse into my future, purpose and reason unknown. Probably not the first time, but definitely the first time I had actual "proof" (if unverifiable to anyone save myself) that deja vu wasn't always just some weird vague combination of familiarity and imagination.

Travel

Make no doubt, I love to travel. Put me on something that moves, and if it gets me someplace I've never been, I'm one happy guy- even if it's someplace in New Jersey. Truth is, seems I get more good photographs from places not especially known for there beauty or grandeur. I get more keepers from quirky little, domestic side roads, than the most glamorous must see spots in all Europe- though there's no question where I'd rather eat!

Seeing new places just sets my mind reeling, all five senses and then some, all alert and firing. I'm looking through a child's eyes again in a heightened state of awareness that is both exhilarating and analytical, in other words- the perfect photographic state of mind.

Anyway, here are some other reasons people love to travel... And what I wouldn't do to have this guy's job- especially when "staycation" lies so prevalent on my horizon...