Going Solo

New York Magazine's most recent cover story was on the subject of loneliness. They included some photographs, and since my latest post was to be on this same topic, I thought I'd point to their well-done article and include some of my own shots on the subject.


I find that New York can indeed be a most lonely place if you let it. The very fact of eight and half million people within an hour's travel by body-packed mass transit presents the mind with a seemingly unassailable wall of humanity impossible to ever fully know, let alone become acquainted with. With so many possible assignations, how does one even begin to form their own tiny island in such a vast ocean? And yet people do. Some are lucky in this regard - they are, consciously, or just as often unconsciously, social loci, meeting points for social networks. Somehow, everyone knows them and they know everyone. And even when they don't know someone, chances are good that they're never too many degrees away from knowing them.


I have a friend who I think may be like this. She's young and enthusiastically into the art and indie music scene in New York, and thanks to her tireless energies when it comes to attending shows and parties and openings, as well as keeping up with Internet chat conversations, email chains, and for all I know, meaningful relationships via carrier pigeon, can lay reasonable claim to knowing just about anyone you could encounter within that small but vital universe. Conversations with her often include amusing things like this: "Oh, (insert band/artist/creative type's name here) - I've known those kids for years. They're geniuses. My (best friend/former roommate/professional colleague/ex) did their (publicity/album art/mixing/flap copy) on their last (creative product). I think they're having a (show/opening/release party/happening) this weekend that I'm supposed to be at, but I dunno if I'll make it cause it's (friend's birthday/reunion dinner/long-established social tradition within personal universe) tonight and if I miss it (...) will fucking KILL me." Essentially her speech in these instances is a vast game of Mad Libs, and we're all of us possible words. The point is that this friend of mine is rarely if ever, in the traditional sense of the word, "lonely", because she's spent her entire life actively building a support network that, though it may not fully be aware of it, centers around her. It's damned impressive.





We aren't all able to do this. It takes time, effort, and no small amount of luck, charisma, and simple interest. My friend possesses the skills to create such a network for herself and the abiding interest in what all those people have to offer to keep her working at it. (An excellent essay by Malcolm Gladwell describes another such person, though of a previous generation and located in Chicago and in many ways very different, lest my friend call foul on the comparison.) She recently moved away from New York, far away across the country to the west coast, to live with a roommate who is, natch, a very old and dear friend. She told me not long ago that she finds it hard to imagine a finer existence than what she's got going: a job she loves, a roommate she adores, a new city she can't get enough of, art at all hours, biking, cooking, fresh air, ease, happiness. A better life in many ways than that in New York. And yet, and yet... She may correct me, but it seems that a part of her longs for what she left behind, the faces and personalities, once within easy reach, now lie at the far end of the United States, accessible by phone or the Internet. What she feels most acutely is not a sense of loss from the people she cares about - they will always be a part of her life as long as both she and they make the effort to retain the connection (and, given the type of people they tend to be, this condition may be generally accepted across the board). Rather it is the sense of herself as the locus of that network, the spider at the center of the web, feeling every tiny vibration from any part and being in a position to react accordingly, that she misses. She is not self-centered (far from it, as she is generally far too busy worrying about the fortunes of the people she knows to be wrapped up in her own stuff) but nonetheless I think she enjoyed herself. But now she must take the role of observer rather than actor in the New York drama, and she perhaps understandably feels the awkwardness of yelling advice from the fifth row to the actors onstage. It's a hard thing to let go of.

And so for her and people like her, a city like New York is a near-inexhaustible department store filled with every imaginable (and unimaginable) sort of person to collect and enjoy, and life can be a sort of perpetual social free-for-all in which near-familial bonds apply to the broadest possible cross-section of society, everyone is welcome, all are eligible to play a significant role, and the whole thing is improvised so it's more fun. For others, though, all that selection can weigh one down. Sometimes one simply wishes to find a few people or a certain type that fill the specific holes in one's life that need filling. And among eight and a half million folks, stumbling upon those few individuals is a daunting prospect indeed. They know those people are out there. Maybe they sense that they've met some of them, and perhaps the knowledge that such a person came and went hangs heavy on their shoulders. Perhaps they fear another failure. They are cautious: they're not apt to stumble blindly but prefer the way well lit. And so they don't make friends easily, they are often alone, building their own personalities as best they can and hanging out a sign, hoping that the right folks will come along and be interested enough to step inside and have a look, and approve. But as often as not it simply doesn't work, because other people aren't psychic, and they're usually just as terrified of disapproval as our loner. Putting one's personality forth unreservedly is not as easy as it seems. There are countless theatrical metaphors to be used at this point, but in the name of good taste I think I'll let the implication do the job.


Bosh, you might say. Everyone needs alone time now and then, and making friends and being social is easy. Just relax, be yourself, and people will appreciate you. But stop and consider for a moment: how many of the folks you've met can well and truly be counted - not simply counted, relied upon as friends? How many of them can you expect to be there when you fall on hard times, to wonder about you when you're now around, to love you in whatever way is appropriate for whoever they happen to be, and above all, to get you? The only creatures generally capable of doing this all the time are dogs (and not all of them; I have a scar on my right hand as proof). Humanity isn't quite so reliable. A crowded party, when there's none of those people in attendance, can be as barren as a desert and as lifeless as the waiting room at the DMV.

What a downer, huh? To be realistic, the sort of person who thinks like that all the time probably shouldn't be at those parties, because he's forgotten how to lighten up and have a good time. My point is simply that when all is said and done, I think a well developed person holds out hope that there will be someone in their life who will be the person to help them home after they've drunk enough alcohol to power an eco-friendly tank, and made out with three different people, only one of whose names they know. And who will give them a call the next morning (well, afternoon) to see how they're doing and make fun of them. And who will feel incomplete without them, and continually wonder what they might be doing or how they might be feeling, even if that wondering is only a little throb in the back of their minds as they carry on with their lives, working, creating, feeling, loving, fucking - that throb is always there, like the LED on a smoke detector that shows you that yes, still here, still ready to sound the alarm. I know I have a few of those folks out there. They're the ones that, whenever I find myself on a windy promontory over the ocean, or staring at something unintelligible at an art museum, or smelling the needles of a Christmas tree, or anticipating the bump of wheels on tarmac as the plane touches down on a foreign runway, or waiting for a subway at four in the morning after a wild night that has finally, finally ended, I wish could be with me. So if we're lonely, our loneliness is measured, perhaps, by how far away they are, and the time until we are together again.

Independence Is Bliss

CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF, the most magical word on a film set is neither "Action!" nor "Cut!", nor even "Light the robot and standby on the napalm!" No, the single most glorious phrase, which brings joy and a sense of deliverance to very nearly everyone present, is, "Martini's up!" This odd saying has a simple explanation: it refers to the

final set-up of the shooting day, the last shot the director intends to get before wrapping. In the minds of the crew, get this out of the way and we can all pack up and head for the bar. Hence, "martini", though most professional film crew members would likely go for a nice pint.


(TOP) H, on the set of Shine On in Parkchester, Bronx

(NEXT) Eliseo, P.A., on location in
the north Bronx

(NEXT) Shine On Unit Production Manager
Isaac stays late

(NEXT) Shine On set, Parkchester,
the Bronx

(NEXT) Sean, P.A.

(BOTTOM) Director of Photography
Mark Schwartzbard coaches actor Flaco Navaja on his death scene

Independent film in New York City is a little like tyring to get through customs in a communist country - after a few hours have passed and you've filled out the apparently necessary seventeen thousand and forty-one pieces of paper identifying yourself, you're not entirely sure what you were trying to enter the country for in the first place. On a film the standard shooting day is meant to run twelve hours, with a ten hour turnaround time for all involved, as per contracts negotiated between the producers and the various unions at play. These contracts, though, tend to occupy more than their fair share of time on set. Despite signatures on pages, perhaps an hour out of every
day seems earmarked by the crew to
be put towards re-negotiations, which the producers are not interested in hearing about. The crew are most interested indeed, and spend much time and energy strategizing and plotting courses of logic designed to show that they have in fact been obliged to do more than what they signed on for, and are thereby entitled to a higher rate, more overtime pay, better selection at the craft service table, or just a quicker turnaround on reimbursement on taxi receipts after a particularly long day's work. Producers of independent films are almost universally strapped for cash, having spent quite a bit of it courting a big (or medium sized) "name" to appear in their film at a rate that far outstrips everyone else's; the idea being that such marquee cred will help them recoup their inevitable loss on the project. And so at day's end the producers are off to a fine restaurant, ready to pick up the tab for, say, Peter Coyote, who's playing a kindly uncle in two scenes, or Vinnie Jones, who they just crushed with a fake cow and who now demands his special brand of imported cigarettes. This last is one of the key duties of the Production Assistant.


Production Assistants occupy a strange netherworld of independent film productions. Generally young and green, they are often neither full professionals nor interns - for at least interns have the ability to do as much or as little as they choose based on the extent to which they wish to impress the powers that be. Production Assistants, on the other hand, arrive first and leave last. Their primary function is to support the production, which is to say make sure everything's where it's supposed to be by the time the bigwigs show up some hours later. Theoretically, the director and actors must walk onto the set fully able to go directly to work. Every department must unload its gear from its truck, organize it in a staging area and create the first set-up - gaffers, electricians, grips, props people, special effects folk, art department artisans, camera and sound crews must perform an elegant, complicated dance so that when the director wanders (as they frequently do) to his chair, he need only say "action." P.A.'s, then, are the grease that allow the components to work smoothly. They give people chairs to sit on, deliver messages from one department to another, watch out for stray pedestrians careening towards the camera's field of vision, guard open trucks of very expensive equipment (despite questions as to what sort of thief would really wish to make off with a forty pound 4K film light), pick up actors from their hotels (this often involves waiting in the lobby for an extended period of time while the actor in question preens/dresses/wakes up from last night's partying, while at the same time fending off frantic calls from the assistant directors wondering where on earth their talent is), fetch and carry, wait, try to work up the nerve to talk to people more famous than them, contemplate the future, cadge off the craft service table, develop fleeting crushes on fellow P.A.'s, make friends with background players, and get some reading done. The walkie-talkie on their belt makes them feel a little like a gunslinger, a foot soldier on the front lines of a rebel army attempting to mount an assault on the fortress of Hollywood.

The most difficult aspect of doing this sort of work, beyond the ridiculous hours, the tedium, and the knowledge that though it's arguably necessary to hold lockup on this far distant street corner out of sight of the camera, is perhaps the uncertainty inherent in any independent film production. One observes the producers, director, screenwriter and actors, bathed in the glow of the lights, creating grand drama in the little arena laid out in front of the camera. arrayed around them in the shadows are all the rest, the dozens of people known only to the dedicated few who watch the film's credits in their entirety. And that's only if the film makes it to a theatre. In order for that to happen, the film must be accepted into festivals and film markets, and be good enough (or at least commercial enough) to attract the attention of a distributor. Given the limited budgets of most independent productions, elements that might help the film to sell to a mass audience (special effects, big name stars, glossy design) are generally out of reach. This leave the film to rest on its laurels as a good story well told. the catch, of course, is that truly great screenplays are few and far between. The vast majority of screenplays independently produced are not worth the money, time and effort - they generally run the line from poorly conceived horror excursions to mumblecore non-dramas to witless comedies replete with bad jokes delivered badly. The people involved are involved because it's a paycheck, but given the small budgets, the money is so poor that it hardly feels worth it when the material doesn't live up to the labor.

This isn't always true, of course. Sometimes the lightning strikes, and you wind up with a Little Miss Sunshine, or a Half Nelson, to name two recent hot independent properties truly worth seeing. But alas, the rest is mostly dreck. And so the erstwhile P.A., if he wishes to make a career out of this sort of work, must have steel nerves and a firm determination. Only then might he work his way onto the sets of movies that one would work on for free. It is true that the job of a P.A. is very often thankless, tiring drudgery. They are the first to arrive, the last to leave, and often take the blame for problems on set. But the feeling of comeraderie that evolves on a set, though those endless days and nights, through the rain and heat and boredom and pettiness and absurdity - there really are few substitutes. To join your fellows in the seats to view the film's premiere, and to hear the reactions of the audience - and the applause after - and to sit with them in a booth at a pub with pints of beer and a cheese pizza, to share stories and jokes and phone numbers, and to know that you were there, just off to the left of the frame, when the magic did happen: such feelings might just make it all okay.

There are two films which capture the essence of what I mean better than almost any other: Tom DiCillo's Living In Oblivon (trailer), and Frank Oz's Bowfinger (trailer). Granted, they do stray a bit from reality, but whatever. It's a movie.

Four at Coney Island

Coney Island is a place lodged irretrievably in the memory not only of New Yorkers, but of just about every American, and many more besides. It is one of those semi-mythic New York names, in company with "Wall Street," "the Lower East Side," "Harlem," "42nd Street," and others, that conveys what has become a universal image. Before moving to New York, the sounds of those names brought forth a nostalgic familiarity that I couldn't quite understand. I'd never been to the city, never seen sideshow freaks or the Mermaid Parade, never eaten a classic Nathan's hotdog, but all the same there it sat in my mind as the seminal amusement park, where you went to hang out and stroll the boardwalk and watch carnival barkers and maybe get swindled by a cardsharp offering good odds on three-card monte. In the imagination everyone at Coney Island appears to exist in either the 1940's or the 1890's - bushy sideburns and calliope organs exist cheek by jowl with sailors on leave from duty in the Pacific and suspendered Italians enticing you into their booths to win a prize for the girlfriend. Coney Island is America's playground. This year may be its last.

Well, if not the last of Coney Island the island (originally the westernmost of the collection of pols, sandbars, and islets that litter Jamaica Bay, and now mostly absorbed by the mainland), than perhaps the last of the Coney Island of popular consciousness: Astroland, Nathan's, the Deno's Wonder Wheel, the Freakshows, funnel cakes, free concerts, the boardwalk. The owner of Astroland (the last of the theme parks that have been a mainstay of the waterfront since as early as the 1870's), Carol Hill Alpert, facing decreases in attendance against rising overhead costs, agreed to sell her property to Thor Equities, an investment firm which plans to pour up to $1.5 billion into an extreme makeover of the area by building luxury condos, a hotel, a new roller coaster, and renovating the New York Aquarium (itself built on land once home to amusement areas). The upshot is that Astroland will be closed after the end of the 2008 season. When the plans for the development surfaced in 2006, Thor initially downplayed the project, even going so far as to remove some condo units from the blueprints and emphasizing the beautification and improvement of the area. Critics have pointed out that Thor has a history of acquiring property and fighting for rezoning only to sell at a profit as soon as the city council approves their request - a tactic that combined with a habit of evicting tenants and bulldozing structures prematurely has left Thor-owned areas undeveloped and desolate (Wikipedia: Coney Island). And now they have arrived, bulldozers roaring, to lay waste to another monument to the American story in the name of condo sales and heavy pockets.

My roommate is at Coney Island today, and had I been free I would have gone with him, if for no other reason than to inhale the curious salty-sweet odor that sweeps in from the beach through the close passageways of the amusement booths to Surf Avenue and up into the subway terminal, where one can stand in the morning and watch the hopeful families, the playful twenty-somethings keen to indulge in ironical nostalgia and get a tan, the natives who remember the old days and know that the place is already lost to them forever, but they might as well get one last hot dog. Then one can return in the evening and watch the slow, happy, sand-crusted and sunburnt procession up the ramps to the waiting trains, see the exhausted joy in flushed faces, young cheeks still grubby and shining with grease and ice cream, damp towels wrapped around sagging bodies, groups huddled round their digital cameras sharing memories. Hopefully everyone who ever goes to Coney Island from now until that horrible day when Thor's bulldozers fire up their engines will fill their camera cards and rolls of film because soon enough, barring a supreme public efforts, that is all that will be left. Change is inevitable, but it doesn't have to be negative. The sad fact, though, is that far too many people at the wheel of change haven't read the map, decide that their "shortcut" will be better for everyone, and wind up lost in a swamp somewhere while the party goes on without them. Somewhere, Coney Island, in all its grimey, debauched glory, will rumble away forever, a crazed cultural Whack-A-Mole Thor's hammer will never strike.

Pike Place Market, Seattle

This is where I'm from. To be precise, I was born in Ballard, a community north of the ship canal with a strong Nordic heritage, though I think the fact that my maternal grandfather is Norweigan is a coincidence. I grew up across the water on Bainbridge Island, a city of some 23,000 people, a thriving arts and theatre scene, pastoral landscapes, and a dwindling sense of identity. I suppose that if I could act on my fantasies I'd buy the whole thing and redistribute it to everyone who already lived there, then close the gates unless you could pass a rigorous battery of civic pride tests. These days I live in New York City. Actually, in Brooklyn. Bed-Stuy, to be exact. Stuyvesant Heights, if you want complete honesty. It's what might be described as the "nice" bit of Bed-Stuy, a neighborhood that is home to as much history as any, yet still remains almost totally dull, particularly if you're from someplace outside of the Five Boroughs.

Which isn't to say that Seattle and the surrounding environs are dull. Far from it - I feel a little electric thrill whenever I touch down on the runway at Sea-Tac, and tumble out of the 174 express at Coleman Dock and breathe for the first time a luxurious breath of sea air tinged with creosote and pine needles. I look eastward to the glittering (or if it's any later than about 11PM, darkened) surfaces of downtown, considering the grade of the hill, the familiar corners, the order of the streets - ColumbiaCherryMarionMadisonSpringSenecaUnionUniversityPikePine - and the character of the avenues - seedy, glorious 1st, pedestrian 2nd, cosmo 3rd, slick, glossy 4th, cultured 5th, eager 6th, and beyond them the great sliding worm of I-5 and the view south down its gullet towards Mt. Ranier, which on fine days appears to float above the ground, suspended on a ponderous, expectant rain cloud. And turning west I peer over the Sound to the green bulk of Bainbridge Island, its lumpen form seeming to struggle, like children beneath a blanket, while the twin ranges - Olympic and Cascade - look on like admiring parents. Soon enough I'll coast down the gangway from the ferry and step onto my Island again. But for the moment I am at the Market, in search of salmon.

Pike Place Market is a locus, a focal point for the city. Situated just off the "up" end of 1st Avenue, it serves as a center of Seattle culture, summing up in its hive-like collection of shops, stalls, stands, stairways and sidewalk sellers much of what appeals about this city. Left Bank Books, and, around the corner, Metzger Maps, expand the worldview, while Mee Sum Pastry, down cobbled Pike Place, on the right, squares it firmly in urban Shanghai. From all sides come the aromas of Chinese kitchens, Russian bakehouses, Mexican taco stands, Taxi Dog franks, the little tea shop up in Post Alley, the minature bar and bookstore combination just next to the tea shop, the Irish pub down the alley, tsatziki sauce slathered over gyros in a hidden courtyard. Venturing inside, you find yourself jockeying for floor space with crowds gathered to watch the cocky fishmongers fling large trout from one end of their shop to the other, complete with theatrical cat-calls and jokes to the onlookers, especially when one of them, who has been quiet until now, shyly suggests that an out-of-towner peer more closely at the monstrous monkfish that sits off the side in bed of crushed ice, glaring indignantly at passers-by. They do, sometimes offering their learned opinion on the merits of such a fish to the industry and a few knowledgeable tidbits about its feeding habits, and then leaning in to stare into the dead gray eyes, marveling, perhaps, the resemblance to Mussolini, and at that moment, when their attention is total, the shy young fishmonger yanks on a length of cord and SNAP! The rigged fish appears to snap at their face, eliciting screams of shock and delight, and on occasion curses from the embarrassed expert, who chortles merrily with his family behind him, rolling their eyes. Nearby, a giant bronze pig looks on impassively, as it has done for several decades. Perhaps, if it is lucky, some kind-hearted person will rub its snout and drop a few coins through the slot just behind its ears.

Downstairs the sent of the candy shops and incense, permanently baked into the hardwood walls and floors, threaten to overwhelm the casual stroller. Shops are stuffed into every available corner, and the whole affair is a masterpiece of economy of space. Most of these shops have been there for many years, and some even still sell the fish and farm goods for which the Market was originally established in 1907, when the small producers reasoned that they'd had enough of middlemen cutting them out of profits, and elected to establish a convenient spot at which they might do business directly with the customers. Seventy years later, Starbucks founded its first store near the north end of the market, moved once, as they found their economic sea legs, and finally put down roots. To its great credit, the Starbucks company has not seen fit to retool their original decor to match the soothing sand and pine scheme of every one of their other 16,000 stores. So from the outside, at least, one can be reminded that one of the world's most recognizable franchises began life as a small, independent shop run by locals, catering to the (then) unique tastes of Seattle. It's a feel that permeates many corners of the Market, from Golden Age Collectibles on the second floor down to the Lark In the Morning Musique Shoppe, at the tip of the southernmost wing, to the open stalls of fruit, vegetables, flowers, crafts, and other things that make up the northern spread. Buskers have been given regular spots on the property that they must audition to earn the right to play in. The pan pipe and guitar combo from South America is camped on the outer landing; the wild-haired man with a piano and seemingly unending catalog of directionless New Age-y tinkling has chosen the corner of Pine and Pike Place; the fishmongers compete with the warbling blues guitarist who leans against an iron pillar just under the overhanging roof.

When I'm at home the Market is my first stop for smoked salmon and olive oil and achiote seeds, muckraking literature and antique maps, strings for instruments only six people in the world actually know how to play, Moroccan beads, Bhutan's national newspaper, handmade leather goods, Italian cookware, the latest issue of Uncle Scrooge. There is a couple who live on the Island (as locals tend to refer to Bainbridge) who run a well-known toy store downtown. Every evening after locking up their shop, the duo, who are as inseparable as they are uniquely kitted out - he in dark suits and small spectacles practically lost in his great shag of graying black hair and beard, she in meticulous, excited outfits of bright hues replete with expansive hats and hangy-down bits - make their way dutifully up the hill to the Market and leave for the ferry loaded down with bags of fresh vegetables, breads, and other items for the evening's dinner. There are two perfectly good supermarkets on the Island, a Thriftway and a Safeway. At either one is to be found practically any ingredient one could be after (with the notable exception of the achiote seeds). Why, then, would this couple add to their daily commute, which when one factors in a half-hour boat ride and the requisite waiting, crowding, and waiting, and crowding again is already considerable, by adding this seemingly needless detour? It may have something to do with what it feels like to take an apple in one's hand and negotiate a price with someone who actually works for the farm that grew it. To look them in the eye and see a local looking back at you, with your nourishment and the growth of the community in mind. That's what Pike Place has been about for the last hundred years, and despite occasional attempts, as in 1963, to pull it down and put up something a little more practical, a little more modern (read: the usual developers template of condos and commercial space), Seattle clings to its meeting spot rather dearly. Well they should.

Welcome to PHOTALES.

I'm a photographer, and on this blog you'll see a new photograph, and the accompanying story, every week or so. Perhaps more than one photograph. Perhaps more than once a week.

I began taking photos in high school. When at 16 I watched the first image appear in a shallow tray of developing fluid - a rather striking, if I may say, portrait of a rusted old bulldozer - I was smitten. Since then I've traveled a bit, and in so doing realized that photography is perhaps the most potent force in the modern world to effect awareness of the world around us. Modern individuals, by and large, haven't the patience for text; even the most gloriously composed analysis of international affairs goes largely unread by the general populace. And yet few can forget the grainy image of a man falling to his death from the towers of the World Trade Center, the ARVN officer executing a Viet Cong fighter with a bullet to the skull, a lone, small Chinese man solidly positioned in front of a tank in Tianamen Square, the brilliant, bottomless eyes of an Afghan girl, the half-melted spectres of soldiers caught in the surf and machine gun fire on Utah Beach on D-Day.

Elliott Erwitt claimed to have learnt photography by reading the instructions on a packet of film. A teacher at my high school taught me how to develop prints and some things to keep in mind looking through the camera, but I think Erwitt meant something a little more than what he said. What he meant is that taking photos is easy. Making pictures is hard. Anyone can set their camera's dials - or let the camera do it for them - and snap away, but to capture real people in real moments: that takes patience, sensitivity, taste and talent. I can't claim to possess all those qualities in amounts comparable to Erwitt, Capa, Bresson, Bourke-White, Kessel, and so many others, but I do think I've got some of each, and I hope to do well in showcasing on this blog a bit of what I've come up with over the years.

The photos presented here were shot on one of five cameras: a Minolta X-370, a Nikon N80, a Kodak Easyshare 550, a Canon Powershot SD870, or a black plastic Holga. None of these are particularly expensive, but they've served me well. Someday, perhaps, I'll own a Leica, or a Mamiya, and play around with those wonderful square negatives. I prefer to shoot on film. I'm not averse to owning and shooting with, say, a 12 or 15 megapixel Canon with a 400mm telephoto lens that can produce a crystal clear image of a hummingbird in flight just above the sweaty, porous surface of a Burmese man's chest as he sleeps in a prison yard. If I wish to be a photojournalist I will have to buy such a camera at some point. I could shoot twelve frames in a second and review them all instantly. I could fill a 4 or 8 gigabyte card with thousands of attempts, trusting that somewhere in there is a usable image that'll sell. But for now, I like the challenge in knowing that there are only 24 or 36 chances on the roll of film, and that I'll have to wait until the negatives are developed to know if I got anything at all. There's something rather exciting in the anticipation and the fear that you may have blown it, but maybe not. Maybe you got something amazing.

Comments, reflections, shout outs, burns...anything is welcome. Burns are not quite as welcome as the other ones, but who am I to stifle free speech? For example, you could scold me for the slightly ridiculous name I picked for the blog, and that would of course be your right. And I would very likely agree with you, and hope that if you had any suggestions for an alternate title you might pass them along. Or you could point out that this little welcome message smacks of self-importance. And probably you'd have a point there, too. I'll do my best to avoid such slip-ups in the future, because if there's anything that annoys, its self-important folks who don't realize that there's more to the world than what's their small orbit. So far I've done what I can to explore beyond mine, with some success. But it's not enough. There's still plenty to see and to photograph, and the sooner I can light out for the territories, the better.

For now, though, enjoy the photos and words, and good luck.

- Ned

(The photo at the top, to kick things off, is a self-portrait in Edinburgh. I wandered off the Royal Mile to find this little hidden garden. I stuck my camera on a bit of wall, settled onto the bench, and that was that. I rather like it. If you'd like to find the garden, it's just across from a Starbucks on the lower reaches of the Mile, if I recall correctly.)