monochrome class: the high line

jen and sheena

my turn (thank you, sister)

november 13, 2010

all photos © anita aguilar

read a good poem (or two): "as" and "apostrophe to the apostrophe"

it's picture/poem time again.

i haven't taken a single photo this week--so i went to the old hard drive to see what there is to work with. here's today's:

i've never been sure about this picture, but i liked something about the window setup (at a men's retail clothing store in nolita) immediately as i strolled by. i like the uneven edges of the cross, staked behind the little desert plant, though the crack in the glass adds the real interest.

in searching for a poem, i avoided anything about "a cross" -- not interested in that kind of deep, for here and now. but i looked for poems about signs, symbols.

this one is clever and nice and even if it doesn't work here, i hope you like reading it.

"apostrophe to the apostrophe"

small floater, you stay above the fray,

a wink at nothing's nod, a raised brow

watching p's and q's, a selfless mote

between I and m, a little horn of plenty

spilling plurals, disdaining the bottom line.

unlike your twin relatives—groupies of wit

and wisdom, hangers on in the smallest talk—

you work alone, dark of a crescent moon.

laboring in obscurity, you never ask why,

never exclaim, never tell anyone where to go.

caught up between extremes, you are both

a turning away and a stepping forth,

a loss and an addition. you are the urge

to possess everything, and the sure sign

that something is missing.

--by eric nelson, via the poetry foundation

***

this is an excerpt from one i found last night.

had a change of heart about offering this one, in part because i just don't get it. but like these lines.

"as"

...as cathedral gives way to cavern

and cookie cutter gives way to cookie

and the rookies give way to the All-Blacks

and the shad give way to the smoke shed

and the roughshod give way to the Black Horse avern

that still rings true

despite that T being missing from its sign

where a little nook gives way to a little nookie

when I give way to you...

***

(you know he got me with "cookie" and "nookie," right?)

***

read the full poem, "as" by new yorker poetry editor, paul muldoon...and if you're like me, you'll be googling finn maccool, i am curious (yellow) and (blue), and all-blacks.

and looking up what a hummock is (a knoll).

if you get it all, please share

***

happy friday

inspiration: eve arnold

i thought i would have a photo job tonight, shooting an event for a volunteer group that my friend works with, so last night i got everything together: recharged all the batteries, cleaned the lenses on both canons, freed up the memory on my cards, etc.

then i emailed my friend to get the last minute shot list and realized the job is for next thursday.

somebody needs to start taking her vitamins.

***
and somebody always needs a little inspiration:

"If a photographer cares about the people before the lens and is compassionate, much is given.

It is the photographer, not the camera, that is the instrument."

image via copula studio

eve arnold photo via http://www.cursumperficio.net/1956.html

if you have a few minutes, watch magnum's photo essay, she narrates the slideshow and has a few interesting stories about her most famous subjects (especially marilyn monroe and joan crawford)...

happy thursday, the 11th.

"meet me at the turnstyle"

striding up and down park avenue, on a bright and brisk november morning, rocking out to this song, feeling like a real new york girl--well, i'm nowhere close to the tough and cool of debbie harry.
but then again, neither are these kids in the audience



(do you love the drummer? i do. also her blue dress)

here they are, sounding good live, at glasgow's apollo theatre.

read a good poem: waving goodbye

the lovely natalia vodianova in "brief encounter."

photographed by annie leibovitz for vogue, feb 2010 issue.

i have this thing about goodbyes-- not just the breakup goodbye or the big bon voyage.
sometimes the common ones get to me.

i'll go a few extra blocks out of my way to walk a friend to her subway stop or the bus station.

there have been times, after having friends over after a party or a visit, when i'm not quite ready to close the door. literally. i'll tiptoe out into the hallway, peek my head around the corner for a quick chat, until the elevator picks them up.

i've been known to stand a bit too long on the platform.

maybe hang on a little tighter and linger a little longer than i should.

i suppose i'm greedy for extra moments?

***

i read this poem for the first time many months ago and remembered it today.
"this small flag" leaves me on the brink every time, "when the space gets too large for words."

i hope you like it.

***

Waving Goodbye


Why, when we say goodbye
at the end of an evening, do we deny
we are saying it at all, as in We'll
be seeing you, or I'll call, or Stop in,
somebody's always at home? Meanwhile, our friends,
telling us the same things, go on disappearing
beyond the porch light into the space
which except for a moment here or there
is always between us, no matter what we do.
Waving goodbye, of course, is what happens
when the space gets too large
for words – a gesture so innocent
and lonely, it could make a person weep
for days. Think of the hundreds of unknown
voyagers in the old, fluttering newsreel
patting and stroking the growing distance
between their nameless ship and the port
they are leaving, as if to promise I'll always
remember, and just as urgently, Always
remember me. It is loneliness, too,
that makes the neighbor down the road lift
two fingers up from his steering wheel as he passes
day after day on his way to work in the hello
that turns into goodbye? What can our own raised
fingers do for him, locked in his masculine
purposes and speeding away inside the glass?
How can our waving wipe away the reflex
so deep in the woman next door to smile
and wave on her way into her house with the mail,
we'll never know if she is happy
or sad or lost? It can't. Yet in that moment
before she and all the others and we ourselves
turn back to our disparate lives, how
extraordinary it is that we make this small flag
with our hands to show the closeness we wish for
in spite of what pulls us apart again
and again: the porch light snapping off,
the car picking its way down the road through the dark.

-by Wesley McNair via The Writer's Almanac, April 29, 2010.

monochrome class: the nypl

went to the new york public library (my new favorite neighborhood haunt) to check out a tight little collection of portraits they've assembled for the "recollection" exhibit. frame after frame of big name photographers, though the ones i'm recalling now are eugène atget, berenice abbbott, brassai, helen leavitt, walker evans, robert frank, cindy sherman, joel meyerowitz, david wojnarowicz and (a really cute) william wegman (i'm not usually a fan). i also really liked two from photographers i'd never heard of before: a self portrait by louis faurer and a trude fleishmann early portrait of a hedy lamarr, as an ingenue, and these:

from margaret bourke-white "raymundo, coffee worker, brazil." gelatin silver print, 1931, which was transferred to the collection in 1986.

edward schwartz, "mexico." gelatin silver print, 1954, which he donated to the library in 2000

the gorgeous haya harareet, photographed by eve arnold in the 1950s, which was transferred to the collection in 2006.

the exhibition will be on view through january 2, 2011. if you're in the bryant park neighborhood and would like a break from the frenzy that surrounds the area, thanks to the lord and taylor flagship, the citipond (hooray, actually) and the holiday market, you could take a quiet stroll through. expect quite a few camera hounds (tourists and me), but still, it will be nice.

here's my practice from the day:

apparently i caught the eye of a tourist from san francisco, a lean, older japanese man, with a ponytail and a cap and a nice compact camera. i could tell that he'd been watching me as i worked my way up, down and around a particular stairwell, crouching, leaning. he smiled at me once, not in a leering way, just sort of as an acknowledgement of what i was trying to do. eventually he came over to chat with me and give me a few tips. i must really have looked like i needed some? one i tried right away--in a low-light situation, in order to minimize "hand shake," set the 2-second timer. it worked pretty well.

all photos (unless otherwise noted, i.e., the really good portraits ) © anita aguilar

november 6, 2010

on library way...

...bohumil hrabal (1914-1997), "too loud a solitude."

41st street, between 5th/madison

november 6, 2010

fall: into black and white

a couple of weeks ago i slipped into the mary boone gallery to catch lee friedlander's recent western landscapes on the last day of the exhibition.

individually and as a collection, the photos were tonally soothing.

some were haunting.

some were pretty.

(i maybe love fallen trees and bark a bit more than the average person, as any poor soul who saw all my snapshots from bryce canyon will attest? i have tons of photos like this, taken with my very first point and shoot, a canon A95)

but what stood out to me was how perfectly exposed the friedlander black and whites were. no heavy shadows. no blowouts. how did he do it? a white sky and dark bark give a lot of contrast--you really have to know light and metering to find the right balance.

when i started to really become interested in photography a couple of years ago, even before i bought my digital slr, i sought advice of everyone i knew that was a photographer (enthusiast or pro) or photo editor.

one friend recommended that i take a black and white film photography class, she said it would be the best way for me to understand "light," which sounded incredibly romantic to me--the sensitivity of the film and paper, all those groovy chemicals, the "big reveal," in the bath.

everyone else simply said, eh, shoot "raw" in color and convert it later, which struck me a little as cheating?

(voila! i mean, that took 5 seconds. and it's not bad, eh?)

anyway, i went both ways--took one black and white photography class at SVA which wasn't great (and i wasn't great at it). i'll occasionally convert color images to black and white, but mostly as a way to salvage a poorly exposed shot.

***

last year, i came across a short interview with ny times photographer todd heisler--i think his black and whites are so elegant--and i remembered almost every bit of advice he offered (it was after reading this that i started to play with curves; i also employ his post-prod "time limit" to judge a particular shot) but i didn't really adopt his use of the monochrome setting. but i've decided that's the next step for me, to shoot, and try to "see," in black and white...(though this is there is so much nice new york color right now, it's gonna be hard to resist).

these first test shots reveal...there is a whole lotta learning to do.

union square, nov 3, 2010

union square, nov 3, 2010

union square, nov 3, 2010

all photos © anita aguilar

this umbrella

isn't gonna cut it today.

but it was pretty yesterday.

(happy thursday, anyway.)

read a good poem: hotel lautréamont

east 33rd street/park avenue. election day.

nov 2, 2010.

photo @ anita aguilar

1.

Research has shown that ballads were produced by all of society

working as a team. They didn’t just happen. There was no guesswork.

The people, then, knew what they wanted and how to get it.

We see the results in works as diverse as “Windsor Forest” and “The Wife of Usher’s Well.”

Working as a team, they didn’t just happen. There was no guesswork.

The horns of elfland swing past, and in a few seconds

we see the results in works as diverse as “Windsor Forest” and “The Wife of Usher’s Well,”

or, on a more modern note, in the finale of the Sibelius violin concerto.

The horns of elfland swing past, and in a few seconds

the world, as we know it, sinks into dementia, proving narrative passé,

or in the finale of the Sibelius violin concerto.

Not to worry, many hands are making work light again.

The world, as we know it, sinks into dementia, proving narrative passé.

In any case the ruling was long overdue.

Not to worry, many hands are making work light again,

so we stay indoors. The quest was only another adventure.

2.

In any case, the ruling was long overdue.

The people are beside themselves with rapture

so we stay indoors. The quest was only another adventure

and the solution problematic, at any rate far off in the future.

The people are beside themselves with rapture

yet no one thinks to question the source of so much collective euphoria,

and the solution: problematic, at any rate far off in the future.

The saxophone wails, the martini glass is drained.

Yet no one thinks to question the source of so much collective euphoria.

In troubled times one looked to the shaman or priest for comfort and counsel.

The saxophone wails, the martini glass is drained,

and night like black swansdown settles on the city.

In troubled times one looked to the shaman or priest for comfort and counsel.

Now, only the willing are fated to receive death as a reward,

and night like black swansdown settles on the city.

If we tried to leave, would being naked help us?

3.

Now, only the willing are fated to receive death as a reward.

Children twist hula-hoops, imagining a door to the outside.

If we tried to leave, would being naked help us?

And what of older, lighter concerns? What of the river?

Children twist hula-hoops, imagining a door to the outside,

when all we think of is how much we can carry with us.

And what of older, lighter concerns? What of the river?

All the behemoths have filed through the maze of time.

When all we think of is how much we can carry with us

small wonder that those at home sit, nervous, by the unlit grate.

All the behemoths have filed through the maze of time.

It remains for us to come to terms with our commonality.

Small wonder that those at home sit nervous by the unlit grate.

It was their choice, after all, that spurred us to feats of the imagination.

It remains for us to come to terms with our commonality

and in so doing deprive time of further hostages.

4.

It was their choice, after all, that spurred us to feats of the imagination.

Now, silently as one mounts a stair we emerge into the open

and in so doing deprive time of further hostages,

to end the standoff that history long ago began.

Now, silently as one mounts a stair we emerge into the open

but it is shrouded, veiled: We must have made some ghastly error.

To end the standoff that history long ago began

must we thrust ever onward, into perversity?

But it is shrouded, veiled: We must have made some ghastly error.

You mop your forehead with a rose, recommending its thorns.

Must we thrust ever onward, into perversity?

Only night knows for sure; the secret is safe with her.

You mop your forehead with a rose, recommending its thorns.

Research has shown that ballads were produced by all of society;

only night knows for sure. The secret is safe with her:

The people, then, knew what they wanted and how to get it.

-john ashbery, via the poetryfoundation.org