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.)