tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-391883751064199332008-06-26T10:20:00.004-04:002008-06-26T10:43:44.237-04:002008-06-26T10:43:44.237-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_GSS_fGKzVCk/SGOp2b3NrOI/AAAAAAAABH4/Yx4Wpcr0PQU/s1600-h/fries.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_GSS_fGKzVCk/SGOp2b3NrOI/AAAAAAAABH4/Yx4Wpcr0PQU/s400/fries.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216199546082536674" /></a><br />A man with a camera.  I don't know if it happens to everyone or if it is me, but taking photos, no matter how innocuous, seems to cause me trouble.  I walk around with a little Leica D-Lux in my bag.  I forget about it most of the time, but last night, the sun was setting and the sky was blazing and the shadows were wonderful.  I remembered the camera and pulled it out and took a photo of the sky, then of a building with shadows.  I was walking by a Johnny Rocket's diner, and the rich light outside and the garish light inside made me think of a painting by Hopper, so I pulled out my tiny digital and took a photograph from the sidewalk.  I took a couple.  They are all of no consequence (the one's I post here as Exhibits A and B should convince you of that).  Suddenly, this fellow in an apron and a hat and an aggressive look on his face comes out the door and says, "Can I help you?"  <div><br /></div><div>"What do you want to help me with?" I said, confused.  </div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, I just wanted to know if you needed anything."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Like what?"  </div><div><br /></div><div>"I was wondering why you were taking pictures of my store."  </div><div><br /></div><div>His store?  I'm sure he lived in a rental apartment with three other fellows who played online games all night.  I wanted to tell him I was a double-aught spy like Jethro in "The Beverly Hillbillies."  Instead, I tried to avoid complications and said, "I just liked the light."  </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe he had never heard a statement like that before, so he said, "Well, we have rules against taking photographs of the restaurant."  </div><div><br /></div><div>"Where am I," I asked him.  I was beginning to be pissed in spite of myself.  Maybe the question or maybe the tone of my voice and my obvious fatigue with being nice made him nervous.  He couldn't think of an answer.  </div><div><br /></div><div>"I think I'm standing in a public space with my tiny little camera taking pictures.  Am I allowed to do that?"  Now in truth, I wasn't certain I was in a public space, but people take photos with little digitals everywhere without trouble.  </div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, corporate said we can't let people take pictures."  </div><div><br /></div><div>Where in the hell do they learn to talk this way.  </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_GSS_fGKzVCk/SGOqA5VxHjI/AAAAAAAABIA/ByP3PTmomPw/s1600-h/diner.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_GSS_fGKzVCk/SGOqA5VxHjI/AAAAAAAABIA/ByP3PTmomPw/s400/diner.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216199725794008626" /></a><br /></div><div>Once, I was taking photos at a Christmas Day parade when a woman came up to me and asked me what I was doing and who I represented.  Again, there were cameras everywhere.  </div><div><br /></div><div>I must be misshaped somehow like some odd dog you see off in the distance.  </div><div><br /></div><div>A man with a camera.  </div><div><br /></div><div>I have made some new photos I am happy with and I will post them here soon.  I'm off to a workshop in Atlanta this weekend to learn some encaustic techniques.  New tools.  I'll try to post something this weekend.  </div>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com3