Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Lately I have been a Factory Drone. One has to make a living, and sometimes that takes hours one would rather spend elsewhere. To wit: I don't get to read, write, or make pictures as much as I would like. The overload will end, but it has brought me to some conclusions.
I look around the internet quite a bit for good current photography. What I find right now seems to be running for public office. I mean. . . one must be careful, no? I still look at Mark Tucker's photography. His techniques are beautiful and his images have never been thematically challenging, so I am not disappointed but still fascinated. He serves a commercial clientele and still manages to make interesting images. He is good at messing photographs up.
It takes a lot of time to develop a style and make images that are identifiable and that stand out. Now that I haven't a studio, it hits me. I spent a LOT of time working on images. Now I don't. I keep factory hours which means daylight hours. Without a studio, I can't make pictures at night. And with a job, I only have a couple days of daylight with which to work, and truly, there are many things that demand my attention then. Including some rest. So. . . I haven't gotten good with the Hasselblad yet. I haven't been working with the Black Cat Liberator, either. My intentions are good, but inauguration is stifled.
I want to get good at it.
It might be a while.
I miss the studio very much. I can still see each item where it lay. I can smell the heating wax when I made encaustics and the dangerous solvents when I did transfers. I can hear the printer and the soundtrack to each shoot. I remember the feel of the keys in the locks when I stepped up to the front door.
All of that will fade away, I'm sure. But nothing is easy now. I have everything piled up in the garage. It is storage, not working space. Everything must be moved each and every time.
Mark Tucker is a camera, or many cameras. He can take a month and just do something new. I read that is what he did with wet plate work. One month of nothing else. Every day, he packs up some cameras and goes.
I don't know him, don't know that. One imagines things.
What I don't need to imagine, though, is that it is time to ready myself for factory work. The whistle blows. I put this away for the day. Listen to the drone.
Posted by cafe selavy at 8:09 AM