Time it was, and what a time it was, it was

A time of innocence, a time of confidences

Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph

Preserve your memories; they're all that's left you 

Subway Story ll- Redemption

Anyone who ever spent time in the NYC subway, at least in the latter half of the last century knew what it's like to have people coming into the subway cars on a regular, if not daily basis, begging, pleading, scamming for whatever coins would come their way. Mostly it was a standard, perfunctory pitch, although it could degrade into a delivery straight from a drunken, misspelled play book. The hook, nevertheless, was always the same- I need money to help me over this once in a lifetime crisis in which I was totally blameless and could not possibly foresee, so I can get back on my feet and return to my previous life of spending whatever money I had getting wasted. They always left out the last part, of course- the audience always filled it in.

One afternoon, a neatly dressed man in his early thirties entered and began his soliloquy. I rolled my eyes and lowered my head on cue, and he began to recount how years previous he had often begged for change in the subway- and now simply wanted to thank everyone who ever gave, or simply tolerated him. And to thank everyone, he would now recite "Thank You" in 100 different languages. Well, this most definitely perked up my ears- what manner of theatre was this?

As I sat there disbelieving, he then proceeded to do just that. I couldn't verify the exact number, nor recognize each and every single language, but I do know that each "Thank You" uttered in a foreign tongue was spoken clearly, distinctly... sincerely. This was a heartfelt proclamation, a statement of redemption where the joy was palpable, and real as it ever gets. And up until the very end, some part of the jaded, cynical New Yorker that I am awaited the pitch that would no doubt follow. His final thank you over, he smiled and quietly strode to a repeat performance in the next car- leaving no doubt whatsoever who had given on that day. 

Subway Story

Stephen Mallon (via NY Times) 

New Yorkers are a hard crowd. We neither laugh nor distract easily- particularly on the subway. And the crack heads, hustlers and pan handlers that frequented the NYC subway system in the early '90s were not quite the purveyors of good times and cheer as they'd regularly recite their various one note tales of woe designed to separate the occasional coin from some trusting out of towner. These scripted tales of bad luck and misfortune would immediately commence upon their entry when the train was in motion, and wind down by the middle of the subway car to allow time to collect on their way out. They would all start with an apology to their captive audience for interrupting our day, and then immediately cut to the trail of tears. It was a well rehearsed and strictly linear process from start to finish- both the storyline, and the physical journey from entrance to exit.

One afternoon after work, three (count 'em three) "guest speakers" entered, recited and exited in immediate succession as if choreographed to the very second- one would leave on the left, the door would close and the other would open and enter on the right... Their opening lines identical, "Excuse me for interrupting your afternoon ladies and gentleman, but I..." The audience remained unmoved, unfazed, and heads down silent throughout the procession,  preoccupied in our perpetual daze of New York induced detachment. 

All that instantly changed when the... fourth installment arrived on cue and began his spiel- "Excuse me for interrupting your afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, but I..." Right there and then, our fourth guest speaker was stunned into silence and bewilderment as heads lifted in synchronicity and fits of laughter broke out in tandem throughout the subway car- we had suddenly all realized that we had somehow, someway been transported somewhere not quite listed on any local or express stop on any NYC subway map. Three may or may not be a charm, but in the subway- four was not to be believed. Even in Gotham...

Transparent As Shit

You can vote for him again if you want, and name any reason you want, but at the very least, the other wolves out there are promising neither Hope nor Change, and definitely not Transparency- and by default are that much more honest...

There is no further need for present or future presidents to commit obstructions of justice (like Nixon's bribes to potential witnesses) to conceal such acts.  Under the new laws, Nixon would have stayed in office, and the Vietnam War would have continued at least several more years.

Likewise, where Nixon was the first president in history to use the 54-year-old Espionage Act to indict an American (me) for unauthorized disclosures to the American people (it had previously been used, as intended, exclusively against spies), he would be impressed to see that President Obama has now brought five such indictments against leaks, almost twice as many as all previous presidents put together (three).

Lighting Up The... Darkness!

 They don't know how to light a black girl.

  

Hhmmm...  well, easy enough fix- just add a new studio class to the undergrad photography curriculum. Done- and done! 

They absolutely don't want black girls.

Ohhhhh......  maybe not so easy! Wait- how quickly we forget! No Worries......................

Losing What's Needed Most...

When I was lamenting the absolute dearth of people of color who were gallerists, editors, etc in NYC (and in general)- Mrs. Deane commented that there were, in fact, people of color whose work, participation and organizational skills in the arts and photographic fields were of vital and acknowledged consequence throughout various areas of Europe. Actually, it was to Europe that I warily looked for the spark of "enlightenment," FOAM's resolute and misguided inactions served only to dissolve and deflate those hopes.

Yesterday, Hester of Mrs. Deane was gracious enough to write and inform me that one of those shining lights, Karmin Kartowikromo, along with fellow gallerist and lifetime partner, Emmo Grofsmid, were killed in a tragic car accident. Of course, I knew neither of them, but from all accounts, Karmin was a much loved, highly generous and very supportive member of the arts community, as was his partner. Mentor, friend and nurturing elder to many up and coming artists in his community (as is Alex Harsley in his), I can only hope that there will be more people of color who have the opportunity to try on his shoes in a worldwide community badly in need of their presence.

A New American Picture- Doug Rickard

Photos: Google/Rickard

Upon first viewing Doug Rickard’s A New American Picture online, I filed it under "pretty cool gimmick," or at best- "pretty cool... next!" Then I just happened to see the actual show at The Stephen Wirtz Gallery- and Rikard's work (like his blog) is pretty damn cool, period!

It plays with a lot of preconceived, misconceived photographic truisms- like the Photo 101 course that has you spend the day shooting "blind" without raising the camera to eye level. If you're a photographer, it just plain messes with your head as to what a good photograph is, and can be. The first thing you notice about these "photographs" (can they be considered photographs?) is that they're as modern and contemporary compositionally (and printed just as large) as any other work seen hanging in any fine art gallery. The second thing you can't help but notice is that they are of such wretchedly poor technical quality- low resolution to the extreme, you'd get more detail from a half frame camera loaded with TMAX P3200. The third thing you notice is that despite the markedly stripped down technical limitations- visually, they still manage to pull it off and shine! There's zero grain but plenty of artifacts from what are essentially cropped online panoramic views from Google Street View, and the lack of detail gives them a very... painterly look. And yet, they retain the look and feel of a photograph- you'd swear they were composed in camera (albeit with a very primitive, pre-2k digital test model). The main thing lost (more important to some than others) is that you can't get up close and appreciate the detail. Other than that (and a significantly shorter tonal scale), they seem to exist hovering in a blurry Bizarro netherland of Eggleston meets Shore.

I could not look at A New American Picture without also calling to mind The Killing Fields- extraordinary work created as far away from the pretense of art as humanly possible, that nevertheless remains some of the strongest, most vital portraiture ever created in the history of photography. Neither body of work qualifies as photojournalism (these images didn't set out to tell any particular story per se- their initial purpose simply to document in the most basic of terms)- but as "Fine Art" (that ever so redundant oxymoron), they most certainly fit the bill.

For more on this subject, see here, and here...and here- where the Comments eventually get into the "ethics" of "photographing the world" from the comfort of your home computer. While an ingeniously inventive use of the mediums involved, and certainly worthy of its 15 minutes, as was the large format, selective focus craze of a couple years back, how long this one trick pony lasts... as of this writing, it's up to at least two.

The person pushing the button in front of the monitor that guides a military drone may be quite effective, at times, but it's a safe bet no one will ever mistake them for a warrior born.

Photos: Google/Rickard

Congratulations, Mavericks!!!

I'm not much of a fan anymore, although I make the occasional effort come Finals or World Series time. And when I tuned in to the initial loss by Dallas, my only question was- how the hell did they make it to the finals anyway? They were hopelessly outgunned and outclassed- the Miami Heat were in a class unto themselves, the heirs apparent, the reigning gods of hardwood. A virtual superstar team unto themselves, led by the the sovereign power of Lebron and the force of nature called Wade- they simply had to show and unleash the spectacle, as they most surely did in Game 1 to no one's surprise. This series would be neither pretty nor easy to watch.

All the Mavs had going for them was an awkward looking white guy who was almost painful to watch even when he was doing good- but his shot was as good as his play was ugly. And the rest of his spectacularly unspectacular teammates never gave up, never rested, never stopped coming back- stealing and rescuing game after game at the very last second, the very last shot. They never considered the championship their birthright, over the course, they simply demonstrated they were- the better team.

Congratulations!

(from someone who never thought he'd ever root for anything from Texas)

Think You Know Art?

Verily, I think thee not... (via HuffPo)  Wonder how he would critique her? 

If We Had A Responsible Press...

...who actually did their jobs, the people who sanctioned, ordered and perpetrated the most heinous forms of torture imaginable in our name (you know- US, the good guys) would be sitting at a war crimes tribunal awaiting judgement and sentencing along with certain Serbian, African and other such foreign monsters. Instead, the majority of Americans believe that our torture policy amounted to little more than college hazing pranks and "stress positions," when, in fact, people have died and have repeatedly been tortured to within inches of their death.

Priorities, Priorities, Priorities...

Great little article. There's little doubt Lance Armstrong doped, but as one of his fellow doping teammates remarked- if you took all his Tour de France victories away, the next twenty guys you'd end up giving it to also doped. Figuring out who then won what would be significantly harder than... proving him guilty.

Meanwhile, it would indeed be nice if these super zealous Federal prosecutors with god on their side went after someone really worthwhile like, say: Bush, Cheney, Rove, Rummy, anyone in their administration, practically anyone in Goldman-Sachs... good freakin' Christ- just about any of the goddamn white collar crooks out there with the blood of millions on their hands instead of some jock on a bike!

Things I Should Never Wash...

I washed my wallet last month, it survived but a couple of signed mementos my friends gave me did not. I washed my film changing bag which made its way into my laundry bag last weekend. Four years ago I managed to wash my 20mm Nikkor AF-D that somehow got in my dirty clothes bag on the last leg home from a road trip- still don't wanna talk about that one. I really should be more careful about what I wash...

Fear Causes Racism

En Foco In Focus

En Foco was established by a small group of dedicated Latino photographers in NYC back in the mid '70s. Tired of the continued lack of racial and ethnic diversity in the photographic landscape, they decided to initiate their own process of inclusion by organizing and reaching out to photographers of color, mounting their own exhibits, holding their own workshops, etc. They've come a long way, and have expanded quite nicely over the decades into a sizable organization that includes: publications, stipends, awards, exhibitions, classes, etc. and through their programs have provided valuable training and exposure to photographers of color throughout the world.

That's the good news... I must say however that I am more than somewhat disheartened that they have chosen to completely stay clear of our online discussions concerning the very topics that led to their creation. This was quite apparent when recently discussing FOAM, and also back in '09 when discussing the PDN Annual judging panel.

I realize that En Foco has struggled long and hard to establish themselves and get where they are, and that they are not going to in any way jeopardize their current standing or position in that precarious world of art, connection and funding. But when Joerg Colberg at Conscientious (not exactly your fly by night presence on the web) lets out an earnest, heart felt plea asking what the photo community at large can actually do to help level the playing field in so many of the areas yet to be reached- it's really inexcusable that there is not a single word of advice, affirmation or explanation from the very organization that should be leading. A viable opportunity to enlighten and quite possibly set things further in motion both squandered and negated- it's still not too late...

Encl: My 2nd email to Miriam Romais, En Foco Executive Director--

Dear Ms. Romais,

I'm sorry you've apparently chosen not to respond to my inquiry. I thought a statement, a bit of advice or dialogue to the question posed on Conscientious would have been beneficial, particularly towards helping to explain the barriers and obstacles that still exist when it comes to people of color in the arts. Coming from someone with your experience would have had the ring of authority, rather than conjecture.

I realize, of course, that your interest and loyalties are to En Foco and those that support it and its various programs, but I don't see how this would have in any way detracted from or compromised said interests- in fact, this might have been an opportunity to help acknowledge those efforts.

Sincerely,

Stan Banos

PS- In the interest of full disclosure, I was a member of En Foco for approximately a year and a half back in the mid/late '70s before we gradually drifted apart- not because of any great political or philosophical rift or confrontation, probably more because I was in my very early twenties and not focusing on any one thing for any great length of time...

Matt Black

Photos: Matt Black

About a week ago when I met up with Pete Brook of Prison Photography fame, I asked him what photographer(s) out there were worth looking at- and he kept repeating one name with a wry smile on his face- Matt Black, Matt Black, Matt Black... 

Every great once in a while, I have the self deprecating pleasure of posting about a photographer who's so damn good that it embarrasses one to be even seen with a camera- and yeah, Matt Black most definitely fits that description without any question or doubt. His photographs are epic, try finding a weak one in any of his essays- they don't exist. And they help tell a tragic story so often seen and recounted, but seldom explained and never really understood. Matt lures us in visually, and once you catch your breath, actually attempts to tell us just why the conditions he photographs exist.

Photos: Matt Black

The Tree Of Life- Hallmark v 2001

I really wanted to like this film. Really, really wanted to like it... And I did just that for the first hour- all through the introduction of The Family, the Creation, the... dinosaurs! Every scene had a purpose, every composition- a thing of beauty! Then dad goes on a trip, and the whole damn movie leaves town with him. It drags into second gear as we delve into a son's increasing Oedipal Complex, only to get worse when dad finally comes home and it mutates into some monotonously repetitive Hallmark greeting card/hand lotion commercial where constantly articulating hand close ups are interspersed with beach landscapes of seemingly undead zombie family members wandering about aimlessly. The last hour was excruciating.

Pssst... Did I mention the entire "narration" of The Tree of Life is whispered (and in the interrogative)? And that this silent, slow motion, orangey vaginal luminescence appears every half hour for reasons unknown?

Dumber and Dumberer Still...

I didn't think anyone was gonna go anywhere near Michele Bachmann's miscombobulation of American History, but I misunderestimated just how far Sarah Palin is willing to go that extra mile in her race to the absolute zenith of fantasy, distortion and ignorance. Aint nothin' stopping this girl!  Update...

Mother Jones' Photo Gallery

Hadn't realized until now that Mother Jones has quite the impressive gallery of photo essays. Philip Cheung is but one of the accomplished photographers you'll see featured there- many, names you'll recognize...

Photo: Philip Cheung

God Saves The Day

Another dreaded roll of almosts... if only the light, if only the shadow, if only a split second sooner, if only the person had moved a little to the, if only I had moved a little to the, if only that person just wasn't there... 

It would have been just... right! I wouldn't have wasted my time, I would've had at least something to show for it, I wouldn't feel so damn disappointed- yet again...

And then god stepped up and saved the day on the very last scan, because... god is

Obama- Same As It Ever Was

If anything so clearly telegraphed how so little would change...

Internet Scary, Or Real Life Scary?

I thought this was pretty damn insidious- but this is really downright scary! How'd you like to have something in that vastly spreading zone of danger and death end up on your dinner plate? Germany is certainly to be applauded for their astounding leap of faith in favor of logic and humanity... But who will protect her from the nuclear disasters just beyond her borders, and further still?