Introducing “Notes on the Visible”

In my work—for example in my Woven Portraits, Winter Solstice Pinhole Photographs, and Attempts at resolution series—months and, often, years pass between initial steps and final results. During these stretches of time I execute heaps of pre-planned work and dialed-in, meticulous process. And the results’ perspectives often speak in formal tones, from a third-person perspective.

Naturally, I enjoy working in this way and plan to continue doing so; the dialed-in, meticulous process and the advance planning-out of research, photoshoots, materials handling, logistics, etc—that’s all very me, and I’ll likely never change. However, I feel my practice has been a bit unbalanced in some ways, as I am also pulled towards making more spontaneous, informal, and open-ended images that perhaps speak from a first-person position.

So here it is, a new project: Notes on the Visible. Here I’m going to post photographs (strongly leaning analogue) and probably also some sketches that provide ballast (at least for me) to the other side. I think it will exist as more of a score than a catalogue, and it should not be overly explained. Please follow along (here as well as on Instagram), sit back, and listen.

Belated studies

Last month, around New York, on yet another expired roll of 35mm film. I dropped off this film at the lab in Brooklyn, with time to spare, but, one week later missed the pickup time buy minutes, as my train from Manhattan was racked with delays. As my schedule these days allows only a weekly trip to Brooklyn, this put me behind considerably. Daylight Savings Time has come into effect since then, we have “sprung forward.” Since these photos were taken, springlike temperatures even crept into a couple days a couple weeks ago, and, though I’m certainly not one to shy away from cold-weather photography, I can understand the photographic draw of places like the American southwest, with its mild temperatures and ample sunlight, and the romance of its vast spaces.

1st Avenue

More camera tests along 1st Avenue, near the UN headquarters, pre-snowstorm. New York’s architectural salad bowl has its moments of Mid-Century purity; the real deal shows decades of wear to be sure, but always ages better than its derivatives.

Snowstorm

Earlier this month—around my birthday, always the coldest time of year—I tested the new Leica with a roll black and white film that expired seven years ago, and nature gave me a subject that never fails to pique interest: a snowstorm. Going for a short walk in the snow, I took some photos steps from my building in Turtle Bay, Manhattan.

When I was a kid, these storms happened; they canceled school, buried parked cars, and spurred the digging of trenches. But these days, here in New York, the storms are infrequent, occurring maybe once or twice every few years. At least, that’s how it seems to someone who grew up near Lake Michigan.

I like that one must accept what nature wills. If a blizzard comes, there’s nothing to be done about it. The city, for a day or two, quiets down and softens its edges. The pace slows and expectations of prompt productivity lower. We North Americans hold ourselves to those expectations all the way to the end.