Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner!

Baby, baby, baby. . . call me next week--cant' you see I'm on a winning streak!  Yea, baby, look at that!  I hit it!  Jackpot!  Money!  

Well, I like it, anyway.  

There is nothing wrong with the cameras.  There is nothing wrong with the lenses.  I have hit focus on both the Liberator and the Chamonix multiple times now.  I've reached the "first goal."  Now I will need to quit doing "test shots" and begin a project.  But more on that in the coming days.  Right now, I'm basking in my own glory.  

I've eschewed all other cameras until I get good with large format.  There is, I am finding, something thrilling about making pictures with big cameras, about developing big negatives.  It is difficult to explain, really, but each one seems especially precious.  I could probably have made this photograph with a Hasselblad, but it would not have been as deliberate.  I can develop only four negatives at a time.  If I added up all the time it took to take, develop, scan, and post-produce those four. . . but I won't.  

I can only say that right now, I don't want to use any other cameras.  

Here are some large format photos from another photographer, Christine Osinski, and her one book, "Summer Days, Staten Island."  

In 2005 Osinski became a Guggenheim Fellow and in 2015 she received a grant from the Pollock-Krasner Foundation. Her work has also received support from New York State Council on the Arts, The Graham Foundation and Lightwork. 



Osinski's work may be found in many collections including: MOMA in New York City; Museum of Fine Arts in Houston; Museum of the City of New York; Portland Art Museum in Oregon; Bibliotheque National in Paris; Fogg Art Museum, Harvard; Berkeley Art Museum in California and the New York Public Library among other collections. 

She made the pictures in 1988.  Easier then.  I know.   The Great American Paranoia had yet to set in.  But I want to make them now.  I want to begin my own Summer Series, something like the one I did in "A Few Days One Summer" (link).  But Holy Hell. . . that was hard.  How much harder would it be today?

We'll see. 

I'll simply say I have interest. 

I was dragging yesterday when I got up, and I had much to do before cooking for my mother.  I thought that maybe a trip to the gym would straighten me out.  Just blow out the bad juju, etc.  

It didn't help.  I felt worse.  But I showered up and cleaned up the house and called my mother and said I was ready.  When she got here, I started making lunch--big hamburgers that I had the butcher grind from stew beef, low fat and medium fat hot dogs, baked beans, etc.  I had moved the grill off the deck when I cleaned it and decided to just leave it where it was.  Problem--it wasn't level.  When I put the hot dogs on, they kept rolling to the front.  Not feeling well, I tried to do too much all at once wanting simply to have it done.  And, of course, I fucked it all up.  Hot dogs rolled off the grill onto the ground.  I dropped hamburgers.  I burned the buns I was trying to grill.  Still, there was enough food for the picnic.  We ate outside in that little bit of time that Mother Nature gave us a small breezes.  My mother said it was good, but I know it wasn't.  Worst bbq ever. 

By evening, I was feeling worse.  C.C. and I had planned to have lunch today, but last night I wrote to warn him that I was not feeling fine.  I woke up this morning feeling no better.  I even have a stiff neck.  It hurts badly to move my head in any direction.  I'm going to have to cancel, I'm afraid.  I'll call my mother at a proper hour and see how she is feeling.  I guess I'll need to get a Covid test.  I don't think I'll die, but what a drag.  It might not be Covid, though.  There is a terrible cold plaguing the community.  I've known several who have had it.  Either way, I should probably not go to lunch with c.c. which sucks as he said he had something for me brought back from Paris.  

June 1.  The kids are out of school.  There have to be pictures everywhere.  All one needs is skill and courage.  

I'm getting the skill part down.  

Mistakes, Mangoes, and the Unofficial Start of Summer

When I was a kid, veterans used to stand on street corners and sell little fake poppies to wear in your lapel to honor all those who served and died in the Armed Forces.  I always wondered why they sold poppies.  I just Googled it.  It is an ancient symbol, that is all.  Poppies help ease suffering, so maybe. . . .  

I never see those vets with poppies anymore.  

Today, I will prepare a Memorial Day Feast for my mother--hot dogs, hamburgers, beans and chips, beer, etc.  We will be stuffed and there will be lots of leftovers.  We only do this on Memorial Day and the 4th of July.  Maybe on Labor Day, too.  I can't remember.  

Yesterday I sat with my mother and her neighbor who is also 90.  We always talk about the old days.  Yesterday we spoke of poppies and picnics and then got to ice cream.  The homemade kind.  We remembered putting the ice and rock salt in the ice cream maker and churning it until our arms ached.  I remembered that I had an ice cream maker and said I would make some this summer for all of us.  There is nothing like homemade ice cream we all agreed.  But you have to eat it fast because it melts more quickly. 

I have been meaning to make a mango drink these past few weeks.  A boy at the sandwich shop was confused about what I wanted to drink when I ordered mango juice.  

"A mango smoothy?"

"No.  Just juice."

He didn't understand.  That's because, I learned, I'm the only one who gets mango juice.  It is not on the menu.  The owner just knows I like it.  So the boy gave me a mango juice smoothy with nothing but ice and mango juice.  It was pretty good.  So yesterday, having purchased mango juice the day before, I pulled out the blender.  

But wait.  I'm messing this all up.  I need to tell you about the refrigerator first.  It is a mess.  I just keep putting things in it.  All kinds of things.  The bottom shelf, for instance, is full of film.  When I got home from the grocery store, I tried to make room, but it was impossible.  I pulled out an old box of Nabisco Vanilla Wafers that I have no idea how long they've been in there.  Old, open jars of dressing, too.  Several.  Old half eaten chocolate bars.  Some ancient cookies.  Then I reached in the way back on the top shelf.  What was this?

What?  I never. . . oh, shit. . . these were Ili's.  I was embarrassed for myself.  Really.  How long?  But this happens all the time.  There is still some of her stuff in the bathroom, and if you recall, it has been completely rebuilt.  I'm still using some facial products she left.  I'll reach into a drawer and. . . voila!  Something of hers will appear.  It's not that I am making a museum.  I just don't organize much.  

This week, I will have to empty the refrigerator, wash all the shelves, and start fresh.  I will.  

But yesterday, I decided I would put the Hemp Yeah! in my drink.  I couldn't believe how much fiber and protein it contains.  Old Ili.  I didn't appreciate.  

So. . . I put ice in the blender, poured in some mango juice, and hit the switch.  So to speak.  I tried a taste.  It was o.k. but I had an idea.  I added a little milk and the hemp.  Oh, yea.  This is all I'm going to eat this summer--or drink--after today.  It is a summer treat.  

I texted the photo to Q and asked him if the Chlorofresh would still be good.  Sure, he said, try it.  Why did I ask Q?  How would he know?  

I will try it and see.  It will clean me out one way or the other.  

Sooooo. . . . I told my mother and her neighbor that I would make mango ice cream.  

Whew.  It was a long and bumpy road to get there.  I'm not at my narrative best this morning, it seems.  

I developed film yesterday and hung it to dry.  That picture at the top tells the tale.  That is the photo I took the day before of my mother with the big Liberator camera.  Obviously I have mastered the process.  

The process of no focus.  

WTF?  I can't figure this one out.  She was in perfect focus in the viewfinder.  I'm wondering if the film holder didn't seat properly.  But if it hadn't, there would be light leaks.  

I don't know.  I thought to try again.  I put my new Chamonix camera in the car and was coming back to get the Liberator when the cat showed up.  She doesn't come around as much now.  There are other cats that are claiming her territory.  This has happened since my neighbors have gone on vacation somewhere.  They've been gone a long time, and their cat has not been out.  In addition to being the most beautiful of cats, he is a badass and is constantly prowling the territory keeping the other cats away.  And he looks out after the little feral one.  Without him, she seems helpless.  She is a nervous wreck and can only manage to come out for food every once in awhile.  

When I saw her, I went in to get her food.  And I forgot all about the Liberator.  So when I got to my mother's, I had only one camera.  O.K.  I set it up first thing, got her out back, and took two shots.  I took two more of her sitting in her chair.  

AND. . . when her friend came over on her tricycle, I took her picture, too!

How about that.  I will develop those in a little while.  God please. . . fingers crossed.  I just wonder what mistakes I might have made this time.  

When I got home, I had no Campari, no Margarita juice. . . so I decided to make a Perfect Vodka Martini.  I don't drink martinis, really, but when I do, they must be Perfect.  

I swore to myself that I would not take a picture of it and send it to my friends.  I swore.  However. . . . 

When it was gone, I remember why I don't drink martinis.  C.C. says that is why they call it liquid marijuana.  

Now it is time to prepare for the day.  It will be a lunchtime thing, and I still have to get gas for the grill and buy a few more things at the grocers.  And I have to develop film.  And I need to clean the place up.  All surfaces are covered with photographic paraphernalia.  Besides, the Wrecking Crew comes tomorrow. I need to get a head start.  

I'm hoping to get this big camera technical stuff down.  Right now, I am not even thinking about aesthetics.  I'm just snapping the photo.  Composing with these cameras and getting people to stand or sit a certain way, paying attention to everything in the frame, all of that is yet to come.  

O.K.  It's time to begin.  Have fun today.  It's the unofficial start of summer.  

The Schlemiel

I'll try to write this even though I'm loopier than a carnival ride.  I have little tolerance for drugs, I guess.  I took an Advil PM and a Tylenol before bed.  I slept through the night and into the morning almost pain free, at least as near as I come to such a thing.  But, per usual, I cannot come to my senses very well this morning.  Per usual after taking the Advil PMs, I mean.  WTF do they put in those things?

I've been watching a series on Netflix that comes out of Isreal.  I think.  It is about a Jewish family in Palestine in the earlier parts of the 20th century, between WWI and WWII.  I am part Jewish, maybe, from watching comedians when I was growing up, that whole Borscht Belt crowd. On my first trip to NYC long ago, I wanted to go to a Jewish deli.  When I got there, however, I didn't know what to order.  Knish.  That was all I could remember.  

"What kind?"

I didn't know there were "kinds." I ended up with a potato knish.  

It was awful.  

I went to a camera store run by Hasidic Jews.  I asked a man if I could see a camera.  

"Are you going to buy it?" he asked. 

"I just want to see it."

"Get out of my store, you don't want to buy!  I've got no time for you!"

I didn't know what to do.  Should I beat him up for speaking to me that way?  It didn't seem like a good idea.  

I wasn't as Jewish as I thought. 

But the protagonist on the show owns a deli in the Jewish Quarter, and the food all looks so delicious.  I think I'll buy some Halvah today.  They eat Halvah and drink dark tea out of small, clear glasses.  

I hung around the house yesterday in spite of my better desires.  Sometimes, you know?  I just didn't seem to have any gas in the tank, so to speak.  I putzed with some old files on the computer and eventually got the big camera out and exposed some glass plates.  I wanted to try an idea for developing them.  

It didn't work.  I got nothing.  I will begin again today.  

I scanned some negatives that I had hung to dry the day before.  The photo at the top is one of them, a photo I made so long ago with the Liberator.  Why didn't I develop them back then?  Why did I quit using the camera?  I look at the pictures now in wonder.  They are haunting, I think, and utterly beautiful.  I want to take more.  I need to get used to carrying the camera.  

In the late afternoon, when it was time to go to my mother's, I thought to call her and say I wouldn't make it, that I wasn't feeling well.  But I was developing film and was running out of fixer.  The camera shop would be closed Sunday and Monday, so I needed to go.  I decided to pack up my vacuum cleaner and the weed killer that I told my mother I would bring to her.  

Good son that I am.  

I packed up the Liberator.  I would stop somewhere and make pictures, I thought.  I grabbed one film holder.  

On the way to the camera shop, I passed the big open park that lies between the city's theater, science center, and art museum.  I'd forgotten.  There were cars everywhere.  Big tents filled the empty spaces.  The Fringe Festival, that paragon of bad theater, was in progress.  

"I should stop," I thought.  "I should get out now and take some photographs."

Potential images ran like a film through my brain.  

"Stop the car," I thought, but I didn't.  I was a mess.  But I would go back.  I would.  I'd get up some gumption and go with the big Liberator and get some of the greatest photos I'd ever taken.  

Tomorrow.  Yes. . . there is nothing that can't be done. . . tomorrow.  

After the cameras store, driving to my mother's, I passed another huge empty park.  More tents.  More cars.  But this was for something weird and cultish, it seemed.  Were they going to joust?  There were no horses.  But people looked to be dressed as in the Middle Ages.  They had long swords and. . . and what were those?  Jesus, man. . . stop the car!  Take some pictures.  

Oh, no. . . no, I need to get to my mother's.  

They wouldn't be there tomorrow.  

At my mother's, I gave her the vacuum cleaner and changed the bag for her, then I went into her backyard and sprayed the weed killer on her fence line.  

"Hey, ma, come here.  I want to take your picture out here in front of your garden."

I got the Liberator and the film holder from the car.  I took one.  I flipped the holder and took another, only the camera strap fell against the shutter knob and held it open.  Oops.  

"I have to practice.  I keep making mistakes," I told her.  

I should have brought more film.  

When I got home, c.c. had sent me a photograph of his cocktail and a note saying, "Back in the USA."  He had gotten back from Paris the day before.  I sent him a photo back. 

Last of the Couintreau

I sent it to many of my friends, too, the ones who still drink or who have not gotten tired of the repetitive cocktail images.  The list is still fairly large though it has shrunk a bit.  I, of course, got multiple responses, people sending me pics of what they were drinking.  Obviously, it was the cocktail hour.  

Red sent back a picture of her Saturday. 

"I'm not living right," I wrote back.

"I'm spoiled," she said. 

"I'm ruined," I replied.  

Other messages came in, my only contact with "the world out there."  When the cocktail was done, so were the conversations.  I was on my own for dinner.  I watched some videos while I ate.  This one stung. 

You don't have to watch it.  But it explains some things I haven't quite said.  The Cat's cool.  Maybe it's just the accent.  Well, he's a good looking fellow, too.  And he's self-effacing.  What can I say?  He seems a real mensch.  

I'll make pictures today.  I just don't know if I have the chutzpah to take my Liberator to the Fringe Festival.  I want to be August Sander, but it takes more than fay desire.  I tell myself it would be easier if I were somewhere else, if I wasn't in my own hometown.  It would be better to look like a nut where people you know wouldn't see you.  But you know, that fellow in the video. . . . 

C.C. also sent me a song along with the picture of his cocktail.  A good one.  A really goddamned good one.  Oh, yea.  Makes you think.  Old c.c. and his ironies.  

I'm so glad to be living in the USA. 

Take a Memo

I found my Dictograph.  Now, any time, I can "take a memo."  

"Take a note--Jeremy's House of Pancakes."

"A young woman in the dirt front yard of a bunny hutch home badly in need of painting checks her mailbox.  She is pretty and stylish in her way--a horizontally striped shirt under bib overalls rolled up to her calves.  High tops and curly hair in a poodle cut a la Suzanne Pleshette."  

You see what I mean.  I'll knock out that new novel in no time.  

I spent the day "doing" photography.  "Doing" it like a job.  All day.  I think I have things mostly in hand now.  I've worked through all the old film holders, developing some that were blank and some that had images on them, and I shot some that I thought were blank and got double exposures.  But that is all over now, for the most part.  I've emptied and loaded the holders correctly this time.  The white part of the dark slide faces out now so that when I shoot the film I can reverse it and have the black side facing out to let me know the film is exposed.  No more guessing, no more double exposures.  And I know what film is in each holder.  In the past, I'd shoot with the 4x5 until I was frustrated and then leave it sit for months.  I never really got the process down.  

I still don't know how I'm going to feel about it in the end, but I am not going to quit until I have gotten everything to the point that I know I can make good negatives.  Not necessarily good pictures, but proper exposures.  

The "good picture" part is not so easy. 

I shot some glass plates yesterday.  It didn't turn out too well. 

I shot the plates at box speed which turns out to be a mistake.  It is not as sensitive as advertised, and from now on I will overexpose the plates.  This one was shot with the Liberator.  There is an image there, and I can see that it is in focus.  But there is the light leak on the left side and a bunch of bad emulsion at the top right.  I will shoot some more with the Liberator today to see if the light leak is just inherent in the camera.  If so, I will have to send it back to John Minnicks for repair.  Or let him repair and sell it.  The camera has been a lot of trouble.  

This one was shot with the new Chamonix.  Focus was right on, so there's that.  The plate was terribly underexposed, though, which is why it has such a short tonal range.  I was able to pull an image off the scanner and cook it up, but there is little detail.  I don't know if you can see it here, but there is some fogging on both the left and right sides of the plate.  I don't know if this is an emulsion problem or if the film holder leaks or if it is a matter of how it seats in the camera.  I will have to do some more experiments and figure this out.  

And I will.  Today.  I need to nail this process so that I can get on with a project.  

After working with the cameras all day, developing two glass plates or four negatives at a time, loading and unloading film in the dark tent, standing before the sink developing, fixing, and rinsing film, hanging it to dry and starting again. . . after that, I wanted to go out.  I wanted to have an Old Fashioned somewhere like I used to after work on a Friday night.  I mostly wanted to go out with my gal, but barring that, by myself so the girls could have a gander.  I was mad with it, really, remembering all the Friday nights Brando and I would get together for an after work drink, then go to dinner, then out for just ONE drink before an early night that always turned into many at a bar where the barmaids flirted and we would inevitably run into some other rogues or women we knew.  

But there is no Brando and my best friends all live out of state now and almost everyone I know is somewhere else on vacation.  I'm not very good at making plans anyway.  I just want to make a quick call and meet someone for a drink ten minutes later.  

I have none of that now.  So I made a drink and prepared my dinner of lentils, rice, and broccoli with cut chicken thighs lightly cooked in olive oil.  Oh. . . my dinner was so good. . . .  I ate alone in front of the television watching the closing arguments in the Heard/Depp Show.  Now we wait for the verdict.  

There is no way the jury is going to give Depp anything.  It is too outrageous.  Imagine if they did.  Imagine the consequences of that.  Trump will start suing EVERYONE who ever says a word against him.  Everyone in Hollywood will be suing all the time.  Nope.  It can't happen.  

Carnac Predicts!

So I smoked some pot and ate watermelon and drank some scotch, and by nine-thirty, I was in bed.  

It was one of the worst night's sleep I've ever had.  Old C.S. is going to have to give up the shuffling.  My back and hips and knees won't take it.  I was in agony all night.  

And so now, on Saturday morning, I should be heading out with my cameras to make strange and wonderful images.  That's what I should be doing.  But I am miserable and will probably stick close to home.  I'll make pictures, but they will not be of the wild world.  They will be of the mundane things that surround me.  That's o.k.  Maybe I can make them sing.  

Sing!  Yes, by gosh, that is what I need.  Singing.  

Let's try this and see if I can change direction.  

(link)

Nailing Focus and Other Mysteries

Little by little, things are coming together with the big camera.  Yesterday, I set up a couple more test shots around the house, took my time, and hit focus!!!  That may not sound very exciting to you, but I had begun to worry that maybe some critical tolerance was off with the plate holder, that what was focused on the Fresnel screen was not focused on the film plane.  But that fear is gone now.  I took this photograph yesterday.  

No, not the one above.  That was done by August Sander.  You may remember that I spent a ton of money and bought a huge book of his portraits.  For me, he is one of the most intriguing photographers around.  There are many famous large format photographers, but no one photographed as many people as Sander.  Steiglitz, of course, famously photographed his wife, Georgia O'Keefe.  Edward Weston photographed his girlfriends, sons, servants, and a few of his friends.  Ansel Adams hardly ever photographed people.  Eugene Atget is, of course, famous for the thousands of photographs he took of Paris, but there is hardly a portrait there.  Sander gave rise to later photographers like Arthur Penn who did it so well, and later Richard Avedon.  And, of course, Fran Leibowitz and her view camera photography for Vanity Fair.  

And then. . . there is me.  

The Infamous Coffee Pot!  In focus!  Sharp.  I'm getting close.  Soon, I may have the confidence to shoot people.  But I need to be certain about everything.  There is nothing worse than having someone take tine to be photographed and then end up without a photograph.  I need to nail these things every time.  It must be so.  

Oh. . . wait. . . I left out the not as famous Michael Disfarmer. 

He certainly did a lot of portraits, too.  As did Dorothea Lange and Margaret Bourke White, also with larger format cameras.  Both Disfarmer and Sander shot on glass plates.  That is my next test today.  You remember.  I've done it fairly unsuccessfully before.  Not today.  I'm gonna kill it.  

I hope.  You'll know by tomorrow.  

Then. . . I'll be on the prowl for victims.  God knows if I'll have the chutzpah to do what I have in mind.  It takes a certain je ne sais quoi to approach strangers with a 4x5 camera on a tripod.  It can be fairly dangerous, I've found, with smaller cameras.  Just the other day, I was walking with my Canon camera loaded with Babylon 13 and saw light hitting a second story balcony.  I pointed my camera and shot.  Took me maybe three seconds.  As I walked away, a woman came running out of the house screaming at me.  I stopped and smiled and walked back to where she stood.  

"Did you just take a picture of my house?!?!?"  

Oh, boy, she was ready for reality t.v., this lady.  I continued to smile and pointed to the balcony.  

"Yea, look at the shadows and the light."

She quickly glanced.  She wasn't enamored by it, I think.  She was more interested in standing her ground.  Righteous, she was, in her indignation.  I smiled and waved and walked away.  I should have told her I was working for Google.  

Photography has become a pernicious plague upon the planet. People taking photographs deserve to be punished.  

We'll see.  

I packed the camera and gear and took it with me when I went to lunch yesterday.  Afterward, I decided to drive to a ramshackle outskirts of town that I have photographed before.  But it was mid-afternoon.  It was getting unbearably hot, and the light was flat and dull.  I drove for awhile looking for a place to set up my gear, but I never stopped.  The streets were busy and the people poor.  Not just poor, you know, but of a criminal I.Q.  If I am getting yelled at by fancy women in the rich part of town. . . . 

I'll go back some early weekend morning when the light is nice and the ragged people are asleep.  

Oh, I know.  I am joking.  I love all people.  I've just been trying to write descriptions of people I see.  Yesterday, a girl and a boy walked into the restaurant just as I was paying up at the bar.  He was a bit ragged, a scraggly beard and unkempt hair, a sort of sallow, sickly pale that matched his thin physique covered by what I guessed to be a second hand racing jersey of some kind.  She was short with long, thick hair.  She wore glasses that were too large for her face, the kind that might have been worn by Charles Nelson Riley in the 1980s.  But she had cheekbones that wouldn't quit and thick, pouty lips that framed her slight overbite.  She wore old clothes, some off-brand jeans, and a beat pair of old hightop Chuck's.  I watched them as they found a table and took their seats.  She seemed very happy, near giddy, and when she took away her glasses, she was gorgeous.  She and the boy seemed very happy, and I wanted to ask them about their lives.  They, like me, didn't seem the types to be spending fifty or sixty dollars on lunch.  I wanted to sit with them and listen.  It might, I thought, clear up one of the mysteries of life.  

Oh. . . there was one problem yesterday.  

I took this with a 250mm lens. It glows.  There is a penumbra of some sort surrounding the white of the pot.  This was the same ghostliness as I saw in the picture I took the day before of the wrought iron chair.  I'm not sure what is going on with that.  I will ask my camera repair buddy, but I may have to send this lens back.  On the one hand.  On the other, you know, it is sort of a "glamor glow," something I might be able to work with.  I haven't decided yet.  

O.K.  I want to develop more film from yesterday and shoot some glass plates in the morning light.  It is Friday.  The long weekend is upon some of you.  Me, too.  I'll need to plan hamburgers and hot dogs for Ma.  And maybe some portraits, too.  

Terribly Flawed

There has to be something wrong with you to want to shoot large format film.  You must be terribly flawed.  

That is my takeaway, anyway.  I thought this Chamonix was going to make things easier, if not easy.  And it is in many ways.  I can fit the camera, film holders, lenses and small tripod into a school backpack, so toting it is easier, at least.  To take a photograph, all you need to do is take out the tripod, extend each one of its legs to the right height, unbox the camera, put the plate attached to the bottom of it onto the tripod head and lock it in, open the back of the camera and lock it, set up the front element in the right position for the lens you are deciding to use, take the lens out of its carrying case and attach it to the front of the camera, look at the rear screen and screw the focusing knob until you have an image, frame the shot and balance all the bubbles so you have a straight horizon, pull out your focussing aid and go under the dark cloth to finish focussing, get out a film holder and put it in the back of the camera without shaking or moving it too much, close the lens, use a light meter to get the correct exposure, set the f-stop and shutter speed, remove the dark slide from the film holder, press the shutter, and replace the dark slide.  

And just like that, you have a picture.  

Maybe.  

As long as you didn't forget to shut the lens before you took the dark slide out of the holder, or as long as you didn't move the camera when you put the film in the back.  That is, if you have a holder that you have actually loaded with film (which is a pain in the ass) and as long as you haven't forgotten which side of the two sided film holder you just used for making the picture.  

And then, you just reverse the process, putting everything back in its case, and just like that, you are off to take your next photograph.  

I decided to use a rum bottle instead of the coffee pot for yesterday's trial run.  Isn't that something?  It would be if the fucker were in focus.  Correction--it IS in focus, just not on the label of the bottle.  Somehow, the focus is slightly behind.  Huh. 

I did a second shot with the flip side of the film holder.  Fortunately, I did it right and don't have another double exposure.  This one has a smaller aperture meaning it has greater depth of field.  No matter.  The fucking label is still somehow out of focus.  Well. . . not somehow.  I don't know.  At this point, I just don't.  

I took my new lenses and camera to my buddy's repair store yesterday.  One of my new lenses doesn't fit on the camera.  I need a new lens board.  So we chatted about what to do.  Then I had another of my new lenses fitted onto the right lens board and bought caps for another lens.  After that, I headed to my car, but I saw the light falling nicely on the chairs in the courtyard and thought, "you need to practice. Pull out your stuff and take a picture."

And I did.  It was hot, and quickly I was sweating.  I set up the tripod, attached the camera, put the front standard in what I thought would be the right position, attached a lens. . . . etc.  

When that was done, I changed  to another, wider lens.  But when I picked up the film holder, I had forgotten which side I had just shot.  Oh, there is a good way to tell--IF you load your film properly.  There are two sides, of course, to the dark slide.  One has a white top and the other a black top.  When you put in fresh film, you put the white side of the slide face up.  After you take the photo, you reverse the slide to show the black.  Brilliant.  Only I hadn't paid attention when I loaded the film and so they were randomly black or white.  

50/50 chance, I put the film holder back into the camera. 

When I finished, I packed up all my stuff.  It had probably only taken me twenty minutes to make the two photographs.  I was wet through and through.  

When I got home, I took the film holders to the garage to load the film into the developing tank.  Then, I loaded them with new film.  And THIS TIME, I was clever.  I put the white side of the dark slide out.  Yes!  Small victory.  

I trudged back to the house with the developing tank and looked up the developing times for the film, poured in a dilute mixture of Rodinal, and stood at the sink rotating the tank every 30 seconds for ten minutes.  Then rinse.  Then fix for another four.  Then rinse.  And then. . . hang the negatives up to dry.  All FOUR of them.  

At least there were images on them.  That was good.  

I got ready and headed to my mother's house for my daily chat, then came home to make a meal of cod, broccoli, and rice.  While the rice and broccoli were cooking, I poured a Cuba Libre, but it wasn't what I wanted.  I poured it out and had a glass of wine instead.  Slowing down the old alcohol intake, I thought.  Dinner plated, I sat before the television and watched clips of the daily Heard/Depp trial.  

Oh. . . those crazy kids.  

I cleaned up after dinner and decided to check the hanging film.  It was dry.  So I loaded two negatives into the negative holder that went onto the flatbed scanner, set up the parameters, and set the machine to work, first one negative, then the other.  Then I put the big negatives into plastic protective sleeves and went back and loaded the next two.  

Brrrrrrrrrrr. 

When all of that was done, I pulled up the images in Photoshop.  And that is when I saw--THAT IN EVERY PHOTOGRAPH I MISSED FOCUS!  

Somehow, I managed to focus just a bit further back than the mesh of the chairs.  

There's a day's work.  

Yes, there has to be something wrong with you to want to do this.  Very, very wrong.  

Shhh.  Don't tell Q.  

I will shoot more film today.  No worries.  It is free.  

Ha!

Why, dear lord, why?  

My goal today will be to hit focus.  Every day, a little closer to perfection.  I won't give up until I have figured everything out.  Maybe it will get easier.  

But you know, even then. . . I'll still look like a nut.  

Hoping for Heard/Depp, Season Two

I did what I told you I would do.  I chemically cleaned my new deck.  Big mistake.  There will be no painting and sealing of it today.  The wood is not ready.  I will have to let it continue to dry for another month.  But, I was successful in my incompetence.  I mean, an hour after I had opened the sprayer and puzzled over how to put it together wondering fifty times at least about why in the hell I was required to assemble any of this mechanism, after putting the wrong end of tubing on the wrong spout again and again, after all of that, I poured the chemical cleaner in the sprayer--and it worked!  My deck is 16x22, so I would slowly walk the sixteen feet one way and slowly walk the sixteen feet back spraying one board at a time.  It wasn't quick.  I worried about running out of cleaner at the halfway point, so I speeded up my walk and made it through.  Then I scrubbed the wood with a big, rough broom.  And then I sprayed the deck down over and over and over again.  And what I noticed was that the water was still beading up on parts of the deck.  N.G.  When that was done, I went inside and Googled "painting pressure treated wood."  I swear I have Googled this multiple times and have read multiple times that the wood would cure in two months.  Everything I read yesterday said three to four.  

In the afternoon, I put everything back on the deck.  I will wait another month or so.  By then, however, the rains will have come.  I don't know.  Whatever.  We'll see.  

Meanwhile C.C. was texting me snapshots of Courbet's L'origine du Monde while he lunched at the Musee d'Orsee, one of my favorite places to be.  We are living different lives, he and I.  

"Why don't you just hire somebody who knows what they are doing to do it?"

But that is what I did instead of trying out the two new lenses that arrived, one from Japan and one from Europe.  They are real beauts.  Now I'm all upside down in camera gear that I am not using.  

I will use them today.  

Oh. . . I must answer some queries about yesterday's post.  Yes, it may be true that southern men squinted because of the brightness of the southern sun.  That could be.  But then, I ask, why did they try to talk without moving their jaws?  They always seemed to talk with their jaws clenched.  

The whiskey, of course, was Southern Comfort.  The drink was Southern Comfort and Coke.  

And the humping in the backseat of cars was dry humping, clothes on.  

Dry humping.  Ha!  I'm pretty sure those are not words in the current youth vocabulary.  Dry humping, indeed.  

Sex was still a mystery then.  You really had a night if a girl let you "feel her up."  And if you were a decent kid, you felt really conflicted.  If you truly liked her, you might be thinking about marriage.  

But I didn't know too many "decent" kids.  The boys I knew were real bad kids.  I will tell you more stories sometime.  These were boys without moral compasses as far as I could tell.  Later, for many, their moral compass would be formed by prison.  

It was all just motivation for me, something to get away from without knowing exactly where I was going.  Just away.  

I had to take someone to the airport mid afternoon, so I stopped by my mother's house early on the way back.  When I got home, having been robbed of my afternoon nap, I felt pooped.  I finished setting up the deck and poured myself a drink.  

What better on a hot summer day--wait!  It is still spring!  With global warming, they will need to change the calendar a bit.  

What better on a New World hot New Summer day than a Cuba Libre.  Or in this case, a Haiti Libre.  Barbencourt is one of the best rums in the world.  Aged eight years.  It is almost a crime to mix it with anything.  It has a good flavor on its own.  It is the drink of rich smugglers and pirates.  That, at least, is who introduced me to it long ago in Old Key West before the time of cable t.v. and internet.  If you have never had it, do yourself a favor.  

But the day had left me wasted, and after a simple dinner, I sat down to watch some more of the Heard/Depp trial.  I'm sure hoping that there will be a Season Two.  Season One has been spectacular.  But I was tired and fell asleep.  When I woke, it was well before my usual bedtime, but what the hell, I thought, take an Advil P.M. and go for broke.  

I slept fine.  

And now, with a full day before me, I will fit my new lenses on my camera.  I'll probably photograph the coffee pot again.  Surely.  But, you know. . . when I'm dead and gone. . . . 

Penance

Things I've ordered keep coming.  Last night, I opened the door to a package from Japan.  It was the 250mm lens that I ordered for the Chamonix 4x5 camera.  Another barrel lens is supposedly arriving from Europe today.  Exciting, right?  

It would be if I were out using the camera.  Oh, that would be fun.  Rather, I am cleaning my deck.  I didn't know I had to clean it before I sealed it.  Luckily (or not), I decided to watch some YouTube videos on deck painting.  This was AFTER I had made a trip to the Benjamin Moore store only to find they didn't have a clear deck sealer.  And so, I drove to Home Depot to get the sealer and a sprayer that the HD lady said would be the easiest way to apply it.  O.K.  

After watching the video, though, I trekked back up to Home Depot where I bought the chemical cleaner and a big scrubber to rub it in.  Terrific.  

By this time, however, it was above ninety degrees.  I cleared the deck of all you might see in my later afternoon phone pics--big planters and small pots, a cast iron table and its big glass top.  This scared the hell out of me, of course, for as you probably don't know but might depending on how long and how reliably you have been reading here, I dropped a similar glass top on my right big toe while moving furniture for the big hurricane that never came shattering it into jigsaw pieces and spewing blood and guts all over.  That memory was with me every second as I hauled that five foot glass table top to the yard.  I was fairly shaking when I sat it down, leaning it against a tree trunk in order to invite any miscreant with a rock to take a shot at breaking it.  

I moved the wrought iron chairs, and then the grill and two tanks, and the door mat.  Of course, almost everything I moved left a damp spot.  The chemical cleaner box said that the wood had to be dry before application.  Fuck it.  I was done.  It was hot.  The deck cleaning would need to wait a day.  

Which is today.  In a minute, I will be out giving this whole thing a shot.  The tenant asked me why I didn't hire someone who knew what they were doing.  Good question.  Because I am a retiree in the time of inflation, I guess.  Because this is what REAL men do?  

Of course, we all know the REAL reason.  It's because I just spent my money on camera gear I am not using.  

But she's right.  I'm sure to fuck this up.  I can feel it in my bones.  But as my mother said last night, "You'll know how to do it next time."  

Yup.  

In the evening, sitting in the chair now in the yard having the evening cocktail, I decided to change plans.  I had decided to just seal the deck with a clear acrylic sealer, one over which I could paint if I decided.  I decided over the cocktail, however, to just seal the deck with the acrylic paint instead, the color to match the trim on the house.  Which means a return trip to Home Depot.  

I got gas at the big industrial gas station there.  $4.59/gal.  I don't want to keep driving to Home Depot.  

Yesterday morning, I had my Apple Music station playing when this came on. 

Holy smokes, that song is just too good.  But it takes me back to my hillbilly youth among the rednecks and crackers here in the sunny south.  This is exactly what it sounded like to live here then.  I need to generalize and stereotype here, two things I just love to do.  But these are my recollections and impressions.  Southern men had small, squinty eyes.  There were no large eyed crackers unless they were rich, but barely even then.  You did not want to be doe eyed in the south.  No sir.  You would be meat.  So, if you didn't have small, beady eyes, you constantly squinted.  That's the look of a southern man.  They always looked pissed off that the world was so damned confusing.  To combat this, they were certain.  They had learned the Homer Simpson philosophy of the playground--don't say anything unless you are sure that everyone agrees.  

Nights were hot and dangerous, boys smoking cigarettes and drinking beer and whiskey outside the youth center dance.  Inside you danced and sweated until the colors of your madras shirt had run.  Outside, beady-eyed boys were looking for a fight.  Later, once in awhile, there would be making out with some big-haired girl or even later hunching one out in the sweaty back seat of somebody's car.  

That's what this song sounds like to me.  Those were horrible times, but goddamn that song is good.  

A Selfish Little Prick

 I was pretty useless yesterday.  I got up very late and didn't move until just before noon.  Then, in the midday sun, I decided I needed to get my aerobic self going.  I took myself to a shaded park and shuffled around the Pars course doing various stretching exercises along the way.  The afternoon was cloudy, so the temperature was still fairly manageable.  I decided I would shuffle up and down an overpass hill.  

After that, I was feeling a bit better.  

So I went home and took a nap. 

I played with my DJI Mojo (or some such name), the little auto-sensing gimbal that I bought many, many months ago when I had some ideas about making videos.  Back then, I made one test run with it after watching hours worth of tutorials.  

I've forgotten everything in the intervening months.  

I had to start over from the beginning--the DJI quick tutorial.  And I had the basics down again, or so I thought.  There are only five buttons, but each serves many purposes.  Touch this button once, touch it twice, hold for three seconds, touch it three times quickly. . . .  

I actually managed it all for a moment.  Later, though, I couldn't remember everything.  

I had gotten it out because I was telling the famous German auteur about it.  She is making a documentary on her iPhone, she said, so I thought to help her out. I made a demo video to send her showing her the benefits.  

"Goddamn," I thought, "look at you."

What I meant was I wasn't disgusted by my visage.  Nope, not for an old cripple.  

But I had shot the day in the ass, and it was time to go to my mother's house for dinner.  I asked her to make salmon patties for me.  It is one of the things she does well.  I was beat and didn't feel like making another meal, so this was good for me.  I grabbed a beer and 3/4s of a bottle of Vouvray and headed out the door.  

When I got there, she was in her old recliner, the one I spent months in after getting run over, watching t.v.  Her hearing must be going because it was really loud.  

"Let's go outside and get acquainted before we eat," I said. She laughed at that.  I poured beer and went into the garage where we sit every afternoon with the doors open to the world.  After the air conditioned house, though, the air seemed terribly tropical, heavy and sticky.  No matter.  We acclimated rapidly.  I sat down, lit a cheroot and we began to chat.  

After we had consumed the beer and had gotten acquainted with one another once again, we went inside to eat.  She had made a salad, sort of.  It was a prepackaged one to which she added cut tomatoes.  

"You know, this salad would be much better with some garlic or onion." 

"Yes," she said. I guessed she wasn't into making dinner, really. 

Then we dished up the rice and patties.  I took the first bite.  

"What kind of salmon did you make this with?"

It tasted awful.

She told me it was "organic."  

"Organic?  What do you mean?  They didn't use any antibiotics or pesticides on it?  WTF?  What kind of salmon was it?"

"It was organic pink salmon."

"Mom!  We've had this conversation before."

O.K.  I guess I was a dick.  I criticized the meal.  But why?  Why did she buy pink salmon?  Because she is a hillbilly from the depression, because of price.  "Good enough" is the hillbilly way.  Whatever.  

Whatever.  

After dinner we were drinking the wine and just talking.  At some point in the conversation, she said, "Nobody takes care of me."

"What?!?"

"Who takes care of me?"

"Alright.  O.K."

She has an iMac and an Mac Air computer, an Apple tablet, an Amazon tablet, an iPhone, a scanner, a printer, all of which I bought her.  I pay for her phone and part of her internet.  I moved in with her twice to take care of her when she broke first her left and then her right shoulder.  I send her emails every morning, call her every day, and go sit with her every early afternoon.  I cook meals. I take her to therapy. 

"Nobody takes care of me."

"O.K."  

I was feeling miffed.  Perhaps it was because I was a dick about dinner.  

On my way out the door, I told her thanks, it was nice. 

"It's good to have someone to eat dinner with," she said.  

"Someone?  Yea.  O.K."  

Whatever.  

All of her friends tell her how lucky she is, what a good son I am.  I have to wonder for a minute, who do I do it for, me or her?  Maybe my acts are not as selfless as I like to think.  Maybe I think I deserve something.  

At home, I reflected.  Isn't that the way, though. Isn't that what disappoints us most in life?  Don't we all think, "I deserve more than this"?  

It is a wrong way to think.  It is a wrong way to live.  And it is certainly a bad motivation.  

Karma became a bit clearer to me.  Live, said the Buddha, with an open heart.  Most of the time we live as if we are making a business deal.  Too much, we are negotiating.  

"I'll do the things it takes to release me from existence.  I'll take the appropriate steps to enter the gates of heaven."

Etc.  

I am nowhere near enlightenment.  I am, I realize, a selfish little prick.  Or can be.  That selfish little prick lives in me.  I hate it.  

I guess that is why people meditate.  I guess that's why they pray.  Meditation and prayer and self-revelation.  All the studies show that they are good for you.  But to do it for that reason. . . well, if you do, you are just a selfish little prick, aren't you?  

I poured a drink and sat out on the deck.  I took my DJI Gizmo and iPhone and tried to practice a little more.  All I could remember how to do was turn it on.  I tried to get it to track me, but I was at a total loss.  When I played it back, the resulting video seemed funny to me, sort of like the one of Robert DeNiro recording himself while trying to figure out how to use his iPhone.  He posted his (or maybe his son did), so I posted mine.  

"Follow me. . . follow me," I kept saying.  

It seemed an apropos confession for a selfish little prick.  

I'll Admit It

A forecast of rain kept me from sealing the deck, a rain that didn't come until nightfall.  I coulda/should/woulda sealed it early in the morning if those liars at the Weather Channel hadn't told me not to.  

I decided I would go do an ungodly amount of aerobic exercising instead.  As I move toward my Orson Welles weight, I keep telling myself that something has to change.  I need to quit eating.  I need to quit drinking.  I need to do more calorie burning activity.  

Instead, I sat down at the computer and cooked up the scans from the roll of Babylon 13 I did the day before.  I like saying "Babylon 13," but I truly love the creaminess of the images it produces.  So. . . not just one image did I cook, but another, then another, then another.  And then I looked at a pile of pictures I had been asked to scan for the famous German auteur who was coming to my house for dinner that night, and I decided to get that done, too.  

By the time I was finished and stepped outside, the mugginess was overwhelming.  It was too late to think about exercising outside.  Oh, well. . . what is easier to skip than a day of exercise?  

I went back to the computer and worked on some old things I shot in the studio so long ago.  I practiced my chops.  There are hundreds of images that deserve cooking. I scanned some old Polaroids, too, and tried the old magic on them.  

And then, through some sort of witchcraft or wizardry, it was mid-afternoon.  Demands were being made of me.  I needed to go to the grocers.  I needed to clean up the photographic messes I'd left lying around the house.  I needed to shower.  I wanted a drink. 

Before I left, though, I sent some of my cooked up scans to Q.  He didn't like them much, or so it seemed. But such has been my lot lately.  I am under a dark art cloud.  I've not been getting much positive reinforcement for my people-less Covid work.  But don't worry.  I am not like some kid on TikTok who is not getting likes.  I'm not going to hurt myself or someone else.  I'm stable and cocky, see.  I've got two feet under me, so to speak.  

I get the feeling, though, that Q didn't like my treatment of the picture I posted of the kid and his coach.  He didn't realize that I was sincere in my fascination with such things.  I just told myself he didn't like my new identity as Plant Portraitist because he was being mean.  

So I went out and got the things I needed, laundered the new Jap pants that came in the mail that day, showered and got pretty, then put on my groovy new duds and poured a cocktail.  I had half an hour to kill.  

Which turned into hours.  The famous auteur was famously late.  So. . . I'll admit it.  I'd been drinking.  And we had wine with dinner, one bottle, then we opened another and then I offered up some Vouvray for a desert wine which won plaudits all way 'round.  You really must try a bottle of Vouvray if you have not yet.  

And then I switched to scotch.  I wasn't drunk, mind you.  I didn't knock over glasses or tip a lamp.  But I was. . . AN ADVOCATE!  For her.  Oh, yes. . . I was full of ideas for the famous German auteur.  Sometimes, you know, I'm full of them.  

Now, perhaps, however. . . I have some work to do.  A little follow up, you know. . . on my ideas.  I put some good ones out there.  

By the time the party was over, it was midnight, and when everyone was gone, well. . . I'll admit it. . . I had a bedtime drink.  

There should have been water somewhere in that day, I know.  I know it this morning.  I didn't get up for a very long time.  

And now the day is muggy once again, and I am slow, and god knows all I want is brunch with mimosas.  And maybe later, a little nap.  I feel the oppression of the new camera gear, however, the money spent, the need to use and justify.  

But good God. . . I'm taking photographs of plants with the old Canon EOS 1 camera I bought for $30 off eBay filled with that luscious Babylon 13 film.  

Whatever.  I think they are sexy. 

My YouTube channel is "blowing up."  Meaning I have literally tens of people coming there.  Actually, the  Larry video has reached over 300 views, I think.  I have another one of him that I am not sure I can post.  It is a bit graphic.  Maybe I'll need to start a new channel to do what I talked about doing last night.  I don't know right now.  I'm in no mood to strategize.  

Music!  There must be music!  I haven't given you any for awhile, so here. . . hear.  Make yourself a mimosa and relax.  

(link)

Addled

I would absolutely buy a book made up entirely of pictures like this.  Such, my friends, is True Photography.  It puts you "in the moment."  It tells a story.  It documents an event.  It flatters the participants while ridiculing them at one and the same time.  It lets one know who "these people" are the moment you walk into their home and see it.  You know exactly what sort of evening you are going to be in for.  

To wit: I promised Dad that I would not write things like, "Here's a picture of a man touching a boy."  No mention of Sandusky.  Mom might be reading.  Of course, she's left out of the photo.  This is "man's" stuff.  

This is in reality a picture of Coach and one of his players.  A.A. has really helped.  

"I kid," as the comedians say.  Q sent me this photo with an acknowledgement of how much I would enjoy it.  If this were a video, it would go right next to "Larry" (link).  

In the national news: 

The Princetonian also reported that Dr. Katz had made at least two other women uncomfortable by taking them out to expensive dinners — and in one case by commenting on the woman’s appearance and giving her gifts. All three women were identified by pseudonyms and could not be reached for comment.

The dastardly Katz!  The Times had to also report:

Ms. Gold, 27, who is finishing her Ph.D. in classics at the University of Cambridge, graduated from Princeton in 2017. She said that she had been his student, but that there was no romantic relationship between them at the time. They married in July 2021.

They point out that Katz is 52.  

Ageism.  Sexism.  The key is to be against things, most things, anything.  Just let people know how you feel.  Let them know you are uncomfortable with what they are/do/say.  It is important to have an opinion. 

Unless you are Dr. Katz.  He is being fired after publishing a controversial op ed in the Princetonian.  But not for that.  He is being fired for having an affair with a student fifteen years ago, something that he was already punished for then.  

God loves a sinner.  

No segue.  I had several deliveries yesterday.  

My very own lens for the 4x5 camera arrived.  It's a real sweet lens.  I ordered another that is coming from Japan in a few days.  And I have my eye on one more.  

I also got hundreds of dollars worth of 4x5 film.  I'm balls deep, I guess.  I've even been flirting my friend from the factory into letting me have her three teenage daughters sit for me.  I guess I shouldn't say "balls deep" and "teenage daughters" in the same paragraph.  I probably shouldn't say "balls deep" at all.  But I'm done with all "that."  I want to make sweetly procrastinating photos, nothing provocative.  Things like that picture of Coach and Player.  Real Owen/Mills stuff.  The old Sears Portrait Studio.  

That's why I am spending all this money.  Ha!

Oh. . . I didn't go to my dinner party last night.  The hostess had a fever in the morning and felt ill.  The dinner was cancelled.  Thank God.  Had she not felt ill until today, I would have been infected.  Covid is on the rapid rise once again in my own home state.  I guess my training as a depressive monk will serve me once again.  I may get my second booster sooner than I planned.  

Instead, I made my own dinner--avocado salad, lightly breaded, slightly fried cod pieces over jasmine rice and broccoli, and a bottle of Vouvray.  

Vouvray?

Yes.  I wanted a bottle of Riesling but I couldn't find one at the grocery store.  I did see, however, a Vouvray and remembered it as a sweetish wine.  The last time I had it (the only time) was at my wedding reception.  

It rather complimented the dinner.  A bit sweet, but nice.  

We've had three weeks or so of the Heard and Depp Show.  It is almost over, sadly.  It has become the most watched thing on television.  I don't know that for a fact, but it seems true enough.  The case was simple--did Amber Heard's #MeToo op ed slander Depp and cause him a loss of income.  The resulting trial, however, was a shit show of horrors.  But it has been informative in a larger sense.  Who do you believe?  Because that is what it comes down to.  Which fucked up addict's tale is true?  

There is no way the jury is going to give Depp 50 million dollars.  But God, thank you for this.  It has filled my lonely life with hours of recollection.  They should make every kid coming of age sit through a class dedicated to the showing of this trial.  Perhaps we could keep people from acting like shitheads to one another.  

O.K.  Again. . . I kid.  In my experience, nobody ever learns anything.  We are blind, stupid animals clawing our way through the dark jungle.  It's best to stay away from others and to keep your hands to yourself.  

Like me.  

This was an absolutely addled post.  I have only regret and the simple excuse that I didn't sleep well last night.  But, as any idiot will tell you, it is what it is.  

Thank you, Dr. Phil.  

Routine

 I have a busy weekend.  It freaks me out.  None of it is anything special, just two nights of dinners and drinks and conversation.  I've spent so much time alone now, however, making commitments like this feels stifling. They are not productive in any way but merely distractions from the ultimate lonesomeness that afflicts us all.  I never want to do these things, but afterwards I am almost always happy that I did.  But tonight, I am having dinner with the people whose kids gave me Covid last time I went to a dinner party indoors.  Covid is on the rise here.  I pray that I won't get it again.  

After this, I'm declining all invitations to go indoors.  The great outdoors. . . that is where I will be.  

With the rest of America, apparently.  You can't get into a National Park this summer.  You need reservations.  Wild, right?  Anything that has to do with the great outdoors right now is expensive.  Q wants to buy a Winnebago.  They have gone up in price.  You would think people would be giving them away now that gas prices have skyrocketed, but Q tells me that is not the case.  I know you can't buy a small camper for anything close to pre-Covid prices.  Usually the price has quadrupled.  

One of my new "friends" from the gym is going on a hiking trip to all those great Four Corners parks--Bryce, Zion, etc.  Oh. . . he is inappropriately wealthy.  He probably was able to skip the line somehow.  I am unconscionably envious.  

The weather has gotten ridiculous here.  The low last night was 75.  In fucking May!  I am in a hurry to seal my new deck.  The rains have just begun.  I need two days of dry weather, I think, before I put a coat down.  Today may be the day, but I will have to do it early or die.  That means rearranging my Rain Man schedule.  Uh-oh.  

But it must be done.  

After that, I will be fairly free of "must dos".  Fairly. 

The photo at the top of the page is from the Liberator.  I just developed it.  The negative has been sitting in the car for months.  It's a cool picture.  I hauled that big f'ing camera around the park and took maybe six images.  It is a beast.  So I bought the new Chamonix.  It is much lighter and folds up into a small footprint.  I put it, the lens case, and six film holders along with the small tripod into a school-sized backpack.  Easy to carry. 

But. . . setting it up, pointing it in the right direction, getting under that dark cloth, framing the upside down and backwards picture, checking the levels and making adjustments, focusing, taking a meter reading, setting the shutter speed and aperture opening on the lens, dropping in the film holder, pulling the dark slide, tripping the shutter, putting the dark slide back in. . . Jesus.  What was I thinking?  It takes about ten minutes to take a photograph if I am quick, and half the time I fuck it up.  There are so many ways to fuck it up.  

I got a focusing loupe yesterday.  It helps, but I shot four images using it and none of them were great.  

Here's the infamous coffee pot.  It is the only one of the four where I really hit focus.  But look.  I forgot to check the levels.  The photo is irritatingly off-kilter.  

The Chamonix is BEAUTIFUL, but it has a very distinct usability and purpose.  Landscapes and portraits.  That is what it is good for.  So, yea. . . I can take pictures of trees and shit.  Maybe I will go out of town where nobody knows me and find a good urban scene and wait for people to look at me so I can ask them to stand before the lens.  

"Hey. . . let me take your picture!"

Sounds pretty. . . awful.  

God knows what I was thinking about when I bought it.  I spent yesterday making a few pictures, developing film, loading film holders, scanning, and doing post-production on the computer.  This coffee pot is the result. 

The Liberator may be heavy and horrible to haul around, but at least you can frame, focus, and shoot fairly quickly.  I mean within a minute since it is not on a tripod.  And that lens. . . you can't beat it.  

So. . . maybe don't tell Q any of this.  I will try to Tom Sawyer him into buying the Chamonix from me.  He'll do it.  He has lots of money.  

Miles to Go

Man. . . the fun just never ends. . . as long as you pago y pago y pago.  This is my new TTArisans 50mm f0.95 lens mounted on my Leica M10.  It's a beast.  I took photos with it immediately.  You may recognize the subject matter in this one--the first. 

Ah. . . look at that.  It does what it advertises.  Yup.  

I spent the entire day with that lens and the Chamonix 4x5.  Entire.  I developed the four shots I took the day before.  Went to the tent and loaded film into the developing tank, then took all my empty 4x5 holders and filled them with film.  Then I developed what was in the tank.  

Here's part of what I got--a double exposure.  That's mom at the top of the palm trees and under the oaks.  I have a bunch of film holders with film in them.  I don't know which have been exposed and which haven't--obviously.  I need a better system.  I do this far too much. 

The other film I developed turned out to be from my Liberator camera.  I used it many, many months ago when I went to a state park.  I never developed the film.  I'll post those photos later.  

 

Like you are holding your breath.  

I shot some old Fuji Instant film with the 4x5 to see if I was getting good readings from my new phone app.  That is the big holder for the pack film you see in the Chamonix.  The film is many years old and faded, but I could tell I was getting accurate readings.  Of course, this photo was taken with the new 0.95 lens.  

I ran those back to the computer to "cook them up."  

Then I ordered a lens for the Chamonix.  Now I have one of my own.  I also ordered a four inch magnifying loupe so that I can focus on that (as you can see) shiny ground glass.  It is almost impossible to do with the naked eye.  

The Money River is flowing.  I need some ebbing, too.  

I reached the end of the day without having ever taking a shower, without changing clothes. . . .  I called my mother.  

"Ma. . . I won't make it over today. . . . "

"That's alright, honey."

I feel badly, though.  I have dinner with my replacement at the factory's house tomorrow night and dinner with the famous German film director on Saturday.  What am I doing. . . trying to have a life?  

As soon as I finish up here, I am going to develop the film I shot yesterday.  My fingers are crossed.  I don't want to lose interest in this new camera on day two of owning it.  Let there be images.  Let them be in focus.  At least some of them.  Is that asking too much?  

I get my focussing loupe today.  I get my new lens tomorrow, and another next week.  Oh. . . and I ordered a bunch of 4x5 film that will arrive tomorrow, too.  

It is entirely possible that. . . oh. . . no!. . . I don't want to think of that.  I don't wish to admit failure already.  

"Hey, Q. . . you wanted one of these fancy assed Chamonix cameras, right?  Man. . . I've got a deal for you. . . . "

O.K.  Much to do today.  Miles to go, etc.