In last week’s post I mentioned actors who dress up and busk in public places for tips. Barbara found one outside the Louvre and tried and tried to get some kind of reaction from him to no avail. As soon as she dropped some cash in the bucket, she got the reciprocal bow from “Tut.”
Also in last week’s post I suggested small movements to manage distractions in the background, a lesson I clearly forgot here where the suggested continuity of the street traffic posts and the street lamp has Barbara’s head in a vice grip. Oops.
Based on a very unscientific, anecdotal survey of thousands of photography students from all the years of teaching I did, it’s a wonder there are any pictures of people at all. A substantial number of people say they are not “people” photographers. I get it. Landscapes hold still and don’t talk back, normally.
But if you were to look at a collection of those peoples’ photos you would almost certainly see a number of people pictures, of family and friends. The avoidance (and that’s what it is) is about approaching strangers and asking to photograph them. I get that, too. At 18 I was a shy kid suddenly a staff photographer at a daily newspaper. Photographing people for an assignment was “the family/friend” picture, easy because it was already a given when I got there. But to do the “Man on the Street” interviews, cold stopping strangers on the street, was a real struggle.
Fortunately there is a relatively painless option to photograph strangers, by going places where they expect it–farmers’ markets/fresh markets, festivals, etc. This photograph was from a summer in Prague where multiple performances of concerts and theater were all around, and young people were hired to promote the events on the street. (Barbara and I saw a performance of Don Juan at the Estate Theater where Mozart conducted the premier almost 200 years earlier, handing the last pages of the score to the orchestra just before the show. Pretty cool.)
A quick nod and ask for permission, a quick yes, snap, and move on. Don’t dwell. Of course take a minute to be sure the background is not close behind the subject, and by moving a little left or right you may be able to make the background simpler, less distracting, more supportive of the portrait–micro movements that change the relationship between the figure (subject) and ground (background).
There are some costumed-target rich environments that are a photo hustle, where the actors expect some cash in the hat for the photo. If you like the look, pay up. It’s a lot cheaper than hiring a model.
“Whimsy” is a word I seldom reach for, but the discovery of it is one of the great pleasures and rewards of aimlessly wandering unknown streets in distant cities.
I have recently become fascinated with the endless contortions of growth in the numerous oaks in our extensive urban/suburban forest. I see tentacles reaching for the sky, the ground, and all in-between, each attempting to stake a claim to some portion of the light. Larger, older trees seem to defy gravity; I wonder why some limbs don’t fall just from their own weight. Younger versions feel positively spry. This photograph is how I imagine Ents, from “Lord of the Rings,” should look.
It is hard to see clearly in your own hometown, because you become immune to what you see everyday, no matter how beautiful or curious. It’s all just background noise, as we go from one task to another.
A friend and former Nikon School colleague still does some small group photo trips, and told me he wanted to bring 6 people to Savannah for a few few days; would I help with the itinerary, and would I like to assist? Of course. Helping with the itinerary meant I could show the group more of this region than just the “Historic District” (technically the “Historic Landmark District” since we have something like 15 designated historic districts).
Assisting was a bit of a concern for me. It’s been about 10 years since I’ve done any teaching, and I have not kept up with a lot of camera/photography technology advances because…I don’t want to! Been there, did that, for about 50 years. So my role was to just talk as we went, about making pictures, what to look for, what to look out for, where to stand, etc. It took a day to really get into it, but it was fun, except for not being used to intense 12 hour workdays anymore. And what I got in return, watching them, was a fresh look at home.
As I went walking that ribbon of highway And I saw above me that endless skyway I saw below me that golden valley This land was made for you and me
I roamed and rambled, and I’ve followed my footsteps To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts All around me, a voice was sounding This land was made for you and me “This Land is Your Land” Woody Guthrie
The first recorded ‘Road Trip’ may have been “The Odyssey,” but the Siren call of the open road seems a particularly American thing, although that could just be a kind of patriotic home team pride. Whether on foot, horseback, Conestoga wagon, train, or by car, we long for distant, unknown landscapes, from the Louisiana Territory to the Moon and Mars. And when the road beckons, many of us find resistance difficult.
Watch my back and light my way (My traveling star, my traveling star) Watch over all of those born St. Christopher’s Day (Old road dog, young runaway)
They hunger for home but they never stay They wait by the door They stand and they stare They’re already out of there They’re already out of there “My Traveling Star” James Taylor
When I was attending the University of Georgia in Athens, my girlfriend at that time, still in Savannah, sent me a card with a Carole King lyric inside, “So far away. Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?” We commercialized wanderlust; anyone sentient in 1950’s America could finish this jingle by the second note:
See the USA in your Chevrolet America is asking you to call Advertising jingle for Chevrolet
In the 1960’s we all watched the same TV shows, and I fantasized, like many of my classmates, of driving a sporty convertible through the west, with no particular place to go, or time to be there. A few years ago, a Nikon School colleague and I talked about renting a vintage Corvette and doing the Route 66 drive, but realized that trunk wouldn’t hold all our camera gear, let alone luggage.
Well, if you ever plan to motor west Travel my way, take the highway, that’s the best Get your kicks on Route 66 “Route 66” Bobby Troup
It’s a seduction, the magnetic pull of mystery, a presumed promise of something more, better, a pot of gold at the end of the asphalt rainbow.
I’m going up the country Baby, don’t you wanna go? I’m going to some place Where I’ve never been before “Going up the Country” Alan Wilson
Saint Patrick’s Day in Savannah is our annual, riotous, pagan festival. Our parade is the second largest in the US, after New York City. I marched in it as a teenager, and walked in it many years later as a City Councilman, and it is interminable, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a technicolor presentation of local business, and politicians, and families, with some weirdness thrown in for good measure; if you have been here for more than a couple of months, you will know people in the parade. It’s patriotic with many military and ROTC units marching, many of the soldiers and cadets sporting bright red lipstick markings from the young women who “assault” them in their moving formation.
I said pagan, although, technically, the parade is run by Catholics, but the day, and especially the evening, is a bacchanal. We have a complicated relationship with alcohol here.
When General James Oglethorpe founded the colony of Georgia in 1733, with the establishment of Savannah, one rule he had was, “No Rum, No Slaves, No Lawyers.” That rule did not last long.
It used to be we would see some ceremonial events a week or so before the day, and celebrating might start a day or so early, but I think I first noticed these decorations a couple of weeks ago, and there seems to be a little more every day–trolleys with green wreaths on the front, sophomoric humor on green t-shirts–and we are still almost three weeks away from The Day (Sunday, 3/17), or the parade (Saturday, 3/16).
It’s the 200th anniversary of the parade this year, with only a couple of years when it did not happen, during Covid, and it’s on a weekend, so the street party will be big. By the Wednesday evening before, we will start hearing inebriated, weepy or angry debates from the street, around 3 AM, about who was supposed to remember where the car was parked. One favorite plea for help is saying, “We parked on the square.” Yeah, we have 22 of those just downtown.
So come and enjoy if you are so inclined, but please get an app that will remind you where you parked, please try to hold down the late night noise in residential areas, and please don’t pee in my flower beds.
(Announcement: I have had several people ask me about prints of photographs used in this blog, so I’m trying an experiment. From now until June 1st, I’m offering a $250 price for an archival, custom print of any photograph used in the blog (go to www.savannahphotographicworkshop.com to see them all), signed, unmatted, approximately 10×16 inches on 13×19 paper. Caveat: no photograph looks the same on a screen and in a print: my goal is to retain the feeling of the picture, not to duplicate.)
Sittin’ in the mornin’ sun I’ll be sittin’ when the evenin’ come Watching the ships roll in And I watch ’em roll away again, yeah
I’m sittin’ on the dock of the bay Watching the tide roll away Ooh, I’m just sittin’ on the dock of the bay Wastin’ time
“Dock of the Bay,” Otis Redding
Time is a human construct, and it is relative. I saw a show recently where two teenagers found an unprocessed roll of film and took it to the store to have it developed, rolling their eyes impatiently when the clerk pointed at the sign that said it would take 1 hour. I suppose if you’ve only known a world where you can shoot a photograph with your phone, see it immediately, and send a copy to almost anywhere in the world instantly, 1 hour may seem an eternity.
This reference point on TIME resonates with me because I lived the evolution. When I started working in photography (1965), the way you got pictures in a hurry was to have your own darkroom, but even then it would be 15-20 minutes after getting into the darkroom before you might have a print, and that still dripping wet. Most people dropped their film off at a camera or department store. From there it was picked up once a day by a courier and carried overnight to a large commercial lab somewhere (I think Charlotte is where a lot of Savannah work went). So in 3-4 days you would have your photos back.
Of course there was Polaroid, but the high per picture cost of that made it a budget buster if you shot much.
Sometime in the 80’s, innovations in compact, automated processing and printing equipment led to the “1 Hour Photo” concept, with lots of false starts and lost investments, but it did eventually become the standard as even small businesses could affordably set up in-house labs. And then customers insisted on getting 1 Hour service, even paying extra, even when they knew they would not return that quickly. We are an impatient species.
So digital capture came along, and we could see the photo as quickly as shooting it. The “instant gratification” aspect alone was enough to know it would become the dominant medium, but the important thing is, still, to slow down, and look closely.
I can taste the salt in the air; feel the gritty friction of sand, sweat and lotion on tender skin. Somewhere behind me there’s a murmuring of overlapping voices, like the adult conversations in a “Peanuts” movie, randomly interrupted by squawking gulls.
Temperatures in the 70’s here in February, a tease of Spring just around the corner, and this photograph, trigger memories that are real, but from infrequent experience. I always preferred the beach in winter.
Over the years many people have made a point of telling me what an angel Barbara is. I know her better than that, and could quibble a little, but since I mostly agree with the sentiment, I was happy to find photographic evidence of her persona.
“To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour” Auguries of Innocence--William Blake
I have made thousands of close-up photographs of flowers over the years. I am hypnotized by the sinuous lines, sensuous tones, synesthetic textures, lush colors. The shallow depth of field at such acute proximity causes rapid softening; some suggestion of great mystery, just out of reach. The subject becomes an abstract for something “other.”
“Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door.” Look Homeward, Angel–Thomas Wolfe
I have been accused of eroticizing these subjects, to which I have several replies: 1) So what? 2) Georgia O’Keefe did it, so that’s pretty good company. 3) These are the reproductive parts of the plant, so it’s just documentation. 4) And, most importantly, what someone “sees” in a photograph says more about the viewer than it does about the photograph or photographer.
