Lost but Not Forgotten, from the Dark Heart of a Dream.

Front Room and Kitchen of 200 Broadway, Sunbury.
Estate sales are strange. The act of dragging out a deceased relatives belongings onto the lawn and letting perfect strangers bid on objects that someone lived their entire lives with and, in some ways, through is a weird thing to witness.



Backyard of 200 Broadway, Sunbury.
My aunt's (technically my mom's cousin but it's a minor detail of being from a small town) father passed away last month and they had a houseful of a two lives fully lived in one place to take care of. After taking what they (her herself and her sisters) wanted from the house, they called in an auction company to organize and clean out everything that was left.



Driveway of 200 Broadway, Sunbury.
I pointed myself and my car north and westward on Saturday morning and arrived in Sunbury at 11.15 or so. My main goal of the morning was to bid on a silver 50's dinette set in immaculate condition with all 6 chairs, which was successful. I spent the late morning and early afternoon chatting with people I haven't seen since I was 9 or so, eating hot dogs from a church vendor and listening to the chatter of the auctioneer.



Front Door of 200 Broadway, Sunbury PA.
I hadn't been in the house since I was probably 4 and I have only small, vague memories of it. While I've been in houses that are totally empty before, I was struck by how vacant the spaces felt. The carpet in the living room was faded around where furniture sat, the floor worn was down in the upstairs hallway. Closet doors hung open, pillows and clothes lay in corners. Dust shone in the sunlight and despite the backyard being full of people, the upstairs was silent.



Front Bedroom, Upstairs Hallway of 200 Broadway, Sunbury PA.

These photographs ended up being edited as darker than I expected, especially since they are digital. I always find myself making all of my photos darker than I shot them (even though I underexpose them by 1/2 a stop), especially interiors, because I like how aggressive the colors become. I especially enjoy it when the little bit of light in the interiors glows.

On Vernacular Photography, Mostly.

Recently, I started working at a large photo lab here in L.V. Through the tedious and unending process of scanning film and eventually printing pictures (I'm still in training alright?), I see a large number of photographs that normally I wouldn't even bother thinking about. I get an odd excitement when I get to make reprints or when I pull film out of the C-41 machine. I find it extremely interesting to get to look at photos, be they good or mediocre. It's getting to see into a life that isn't yours.

I've been pondering ideas and thoughts about the snapshot, it's place in society and our hearts. I wonder why people choose to take photos that they've taken, what makes them press the button at that moment. I am perpetually surprised at the more-often-than-one-would-think great shot that comes out of the average picture taker. I've seen a lot of really bad pictures. I've grown to hate disposable cameras, given my propensity to stab myself with the flathead screwdriver that we use to pry them open with (high tech, I know).

In the few short weeks I've been working there, I've gone, through the magic of the snapshot, to at least 20 weddings (mostly all of which were shot on shitty disposable cameras but that's another post for another day), to the Carribean, to Alaska about 6 or 7 times, to Nevada, the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Boston (aw.), Texas, and a Redwood forest. I've been at lots of 1st birthdays and Christmas mornings. I went to Disney World in 1994 (albeit underexposed and heat fogged, but still). I get to see stuff that I generally wouldn't get to see were it not for the inherent need to capture the same moments in time for a lot of us. It's like watching the good, important moments of your life happen to other people you don't know. You get to witness the trips and moments you missed out on. It's strange.

As I see it, all of the pictures that come into and go out of the lab are an endless look into what we love, hate, desire, and hope for. Collectively, it's a window into (and I hesitate to say the word, since I harp on it a lot) American life. Thousands of photographs by mostly anonymous picture-takers is a "universal" glimpse and a catalog fleeting moments that are held near and dear. The snapshot camera gives a way to hold onto them, even if we just let them sit in albums or on a harddrive.

I am sure that by next month I will get good and jaded at look at pictures. I will get really sick of Disneyworld and Alaska. But right now, this is a novelty.

Welcome to the Neighborhood.

Tecumseh Trail, West Allentown.

It's Been Awhile.

Old Country Buffet, Watertown MA.
Tonight was the first night I could manage to sit down and upload some new photos. These two photos are only related in the fact that they both represent how I spent my last few days in Boston: eating with company.

I'm home and moved in. Work is kicking my ass. I have a crush.




Neighborhood Restaurant, Union Square, Somerville MA.

The American Pastime.

Lebanon Middle School, Lebanon CT.
I am not particularly emotionally invested in baseball. I grew up only vaguely aware of the Philadelphia Phillies perpetual defeat. Football was the staple sport in my house and in my family; rarely was there a weekend when someone wasn't going to a Penn State football game. Football blared from the TV from late August until January, when the Superbowl's last seconds ticked down in the corner of the screen. Sure, I've been to baseball games (The Former Scranton/Wilkes-Barre Red Barons) and I understand the basic premise of the game. I won't ever ask what quarter the game is in, I vaguely understand stats, and occasionally I listen to a game on the radio if I happen to catch one. It was only recently I admitted my love of football to the outside world, as sports were a symbol and part of dominate culture in the U.S. that was really alienating to me. They still are part of that culture, but more recently I've found myself able to relax and enjoy them. Games are better digested live, instead of through a TV screen. I look forward to going to IronPigs' and Penn State games when I move home.

But I don't love baseball. I feel like I should love baseball, given it is America's Pastime and everyone knows that I like to be a good American . There is something about it that is closely linked to early 20th century history, the rise of leisure and the middle class. It's kind of romantic, in the context of history. I don't really know anyone who doesn't know who the Babe or Jackie Robinson is or why they're Important. Honestly, I'm totally winging this from my impression of baseball in America but it seems so closely tied to democracy in a way that I can't quite put my finger on. I also suspect that it's tied to the American dream. Movies like The Sandlot and Field of Dreams are gleaming examples of this; work hard and you, too, can have success and fame and prosperity, despite whatever obstacles of class and race you will have to overcome!



Mount Carmel Little League Baseball Field, Mount Carmel PA.
Baseball diamonds dot the American landscape. Rarely can you drive through a small town that doesn't have something resembling a baseball field, be it overgrown or perfectly manicured. It is something huge when a new stadium goes up or an old one comes down. There is something strangely magical about standing at home plate or on the pitcher's mound of ANY baseball field, be it Fenway Park or the field down the street with no lights or bases. One can't help but feel connected to something bigger than themselves, as the baseball diamond is so pressed and adhered to the collective memory of the U.S.



Pitchers' Mound, Framingham, Ma.
Over the past year or so, I've taken notice to baseball fields, photographing them if I get the chance to. I love the way dilapidated or DIY'd backstops look. I like the freshly combed dirt, the overgrown outfield, and the geometry of the diamond from the corners of my eyes when I'm standing at home plate or on the pitchers' mound. While baseball diamonds are designed to function the same way and hold a specific sport, it is endlessly fascinating to me their immense variation, which is tied to location, class and level of skill of the teams that play on them. I find them to be really amazing things to photograph and awesome spaces to occupy. I recently started a flickr set, Playing Fields, where I'll put any and all future developments in this strange, totally-out-of-context interest of mine.

Build it and they will come, right?

Of Making Pictures.

A Huge, Old Lincoln. Revere, Ma.
Photographing has always been an escape from my day-to-day life. I have considerable trouble making photographs in my every day observance of the world because, I suppose, photography is about escapism for me. I find the act of making a photograph is about seeking and exploration; I rarely let them wonder into my life unexpectedly. It’s not as if every single photograph I make is premeditated or I knew exactly what I wanted. It’s more like I set my sights on a place or an idea or even at the suggestion of history and then those pictures can come to me.



A Virgin, Condemned. Somerville, Ma.
I often ponder over missed photographs that are worthy images but don’t find their way into my camera because I’m not paying attention with my photo-brain or I hadn’t gone out that on particular instance to make photographs. I’ve tried to do that romantic “always have a camera with you” notion in the past to find myself lugging around a camera that I am not paying attention to.

I have an on-going list of specific places that I want to go out and make pictures of. They aren’t limited to one particular thing or place or state or town. That list extends in all different directions, from mere ideas to specific places that are linked my personal history, to fleeting objects and places that I see in my day-to-day life. The list is vaguely organized by place and also happens to be a 2 paged double columned Word document.



All the Radiators One Could Ever Want. Somerville, Ma.
I always think about pictures when I am moving about the world. The act of photography, for me, is a deliberate and focused action that requires some traveling, serious concentration and dedicated time. I can’t just hold up a camera to my eye during my life and make the pictures. It seems that the act of making photographs is less immediate and more about meditation, slipping into a place of intense observation of the world where I am mostly watching and only sort of participating.