Showing posts with label photography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label photography. Show all posts
17 August 2009
18 November 2007
I usually excuse myself from portrait requests and justify the lack of humans in my photography by claiming that I'm terrible at portraiture. Architectural spaces, especially large and deteriorating ones, are my forte. But this season, Zara's catalog has proven that portraiture and deteriorating industrial spaces can be dramatically combined. Wild.
17 September 2007
Vanishing Point: 50 Years in Photography
Oh my goodness I'm glad I receive the George Eastman House's mailings because even with the flyer right in front of me I nearly missed the fact that one of my favorite photographers is coming to town for a lecture in October: David Plowden!
21 July 2007
Rotterdam 2007: City of Architecture
I love Rotterdam. After quite a costly ticket and lots of hurrying, I made it to the Netherlands Photomuseum and didn't regret a single cent or drop of sweat. And the Nederlands Architectuur Institut finally brought Le Corbusier's posthumous Eglise Saint-Pierre in Firminy, France to my attention. Not quite on the posthumous scale of the Sagrada Familia, but still damn cool. Anyone want to make a pilgrimage with me? Or a Paul Rudolph road trip?
I took home a new favorite Dutch photographer from the Fotomuseum, Aart Klein. Yet another reason to avoid the photography shelves at De Slegte... this could be very dangerous.
I took home a new favorite Dutch photographer from the Fotomuseum, Aart Klein. Yet another reason to avoid the photography shelves at De Slegte... this could be very dangerous.
09 July 2007
towards a definition of photography
I have finally found a definition of photography as art that satisfies me:
“One might compare the art of photography to the act of pointing. It must be true that some of us point to more interesting facts, events, circumstances, and configurations than others... The talented practitioner of the new discipline would perform with a special grace, sense of timing, narrative sweep, and wit, thus endowing the act not merely with intelligence, but with that quality of formal rigor that identifies a work of art, so that we would be uncertain, when remembering the adventure of the tour, how much our pleasure and sense of enlargement had come from the things pointed to and how much from a pattern created by the pointer.”
MoMA photography curator John Szarkowski helped elevate photography to the status of art in the 20th century (thank goodness). He passed away on Saturday. What he describes is just what I mean to do with my photography -- to point. There are things I tend to point at that probably constitute a pattern and could comprise a tour. A good photography book certainly gives me the feeling of having been on a very specific tour dense with meaning.
“One might compare the art of photography to the act of pointing. It must be true that some of us point to more interesting facts, events, circumstances, and configurations than others... The talented practitioner of the new discipline would perform with a special grace, sense of timing, narrative sweep, and wit, thus endowing the act not merely with intelligence, but with that quality of formal rigor that identifies a work of art, so that we would be uncertain, when remembering the adventure of the tour, how much our pleasure and sense of enlargement had come from the things pointed to and how much from a pattern created by the pointer.”
MoMA photography curator John Szarkowski helped elevate photography to the status of art in the 20th century (thank goodness). He passed away on Saturday. What he describes is just what I mean to do with my photography -- to point. There are things I tend to point at that probably constitute a pattern and could comprise a tour. A good photography book certainly gives me the feeling of having been on a very specific tour dense with meaning.
30 June 2007
design discovery
22. The magic number for Highlight in Photoshop. Now that I've had the leisure to play with Photoshop features I've skipped over before and experiment with them on batch after batch of potentially good photos, I feel as if I've finally reached pro uz0r status. Some results of these experiments are on Flickr, and more are forthcoming.
By the way, the product of my late-night toils is finally complete: the booklet for the Roosevelt Academy Summer School 2007.
By the way, the product of my late-night toils is finally complete: the booklet for the Roosevelt Academy Summer School 2007.
23 February 2007
memory
I honestly barely remember designing this poster. Not too happy with the way it turned out (didn't follow my intuition on the text being too damn small), but at least it did turn out... not easy to follow your intuition at ungodly hours. Chris at MinuteMan Press threw in a free copy for me (definitely better quality than what the ESM Copy Center could do, although I'm still not happy with how Photoshop communicates with printers and wish I could learn more about what happens in between and how to control it), but unfortunately a gust of Rochester wind blew it onto the ice after I'd shielded it carefully all the way to Swan St. Figures. The postcards came out great. Yummy.
18 February 2007
Hooray! I finally dug up the library's February issue of The Diapason and saw my photo in Joel Kuznik's article about the 2006 EROI Festival. I ought to make a list of the publications my photography has appeared in, because I've already lost track of who's published me so far. Not to say that I ever expect to make a cent off of the photos that get published. But there would be something badass about having a photographer's CV.
08 January 2007
is it a photo anymore?
26 November 2006
giving creativity a wiggle
It took just 20 minutes to cycle from the River Campus back to my apartment, and yet in that short time, I saw much more than I'd seen before. Perhaps the story began earlier. Perhaps it began with my trip south, when I scolded myself for always forgetting my camera for early evening rides. The brilliant autumn-like winter day, over 50°F in late November, was not unlike that day of pain a year before (incidentally, I forgot to deliberately go cycling that day--disappointing, but a good sign that my life is so full that I can't be bothered to commemorate). For the first time, the reflection of the new apartments in Corn Hill was perfectly still in the river and glowed golden in the twilight as if to herald Christmas with its lights, and the Parisian Troup Howell Bridge did the same. I finally caught sight of my carillon tower through the tangle of riverside trees by the red light bejeweling its apex.
An open door in Spurrier led me to discover new gym-like hallways and exits that made sense, and a corridor of typical practice compartments that I'm now hoping I can steal for the practice carillon. Practice itself was nothing brilliant - I had forgotten my shoes and earplugs and had to improvise, but developed a new idiom for myself learning John Cage's "Music for Carillon, No. 3." Roy Hamlin Johnson's octotonic setting of "Wachet Auf" seemed masterwork, and the penultimate two pages of Geert D'hollander's "Een Aangename Voois" fit my hands better as I applied techniques he'd taught me for his and others' compositions to the fleeting, dancing layers of "mijn vrolijk hart dat lacht..." And then I launched off the hill for home, glad to have the Cateye headlight my parents had sent me to light the way. But it wasn't just the dark segments of the path that I could see better.
A radio tower blinked back at my Cateye at the end of the Riverway Trail, startling me with its towering likeness to the Eye of Sauron as portrayed in LoTR movie. Amused and perturbed that it should look so threatening and tall in darkness, I raced through the construction beneath the Court Street bridge skimming the bumpy dirt path to emerge into a rush of warm air. Downtown was a few degrees warmer than the River Campus and the Genesee, thanks to buildings spewing warm air from giant vents and the windbreaker effect of a densely built environment. For no particular reason, I took Woodbury Boulevard east for once and realized that the Geva Theatre was right below Washington Square Park. I cycled through rather than past the park, finally drawn to the Civil War monument at its center from the history I'd learned at the Center at High Falls. There was a time when the statue had been monumental rather than dwarfed into invisibility by highrises. Those evil highrises nevertheless looked more monumental and well-designed than before, perhaps because I understood what they contained from the Center's exhibit. They had become receptacles of light; even the fan atop one building no longer looked tastelessly 70's, but as it might have looked to admirers in the 70's. My eyes were so receptive to imagination that I was stunned by the nameless highrise across from Manhattan Square Park, which looked at its edges as if it had been sliced away or as if some building the same color as the darkness was covering the rest of it. Downtown had never looked beautiful before, and now it was nothing but.
Even small details--the play of form and complementary aesthetics between the Eastman School and the Miller Center, the patinated scalloping of the Eastman Theatre's marquee and perspective lines of its glowing show bulbs, Christmas lights encircling what seemed like baubles of nothing because the trees had lost their leaves, the glazed corner of the heretofore ugly YMCA that split a harsh concrete edge into four glowing windowed angles--leaped out at me despite my visibly worsening eyesight. I couldn't have escaped the sight of beauty if I'd tried, although these same things had disappointed me with their lack of beauty before.
I spent most of today preparing my octotonic improvisation for tomorrow. It wasn't the same kind of work; for the first time in a long time, perhaps since before I started college music theory courses, I composed not because I felt strong-armed into doing it, but because I felt compelled to do it, because ideas were escaping me into soundwaves and I wanted to record them. Perhaps this unleashing of creativity made me receptive to imaginative visual perception.
But what even spurred that after years of struggling to revive a stifled desire to write music? Part of it must have been knowledge, the knowledge I've gained of Rochester from cycling around aimlessly or purposefully and visiting the Center. Part of it must have been the break from monotonous work that I chose to take despite my plans to accomplish mountains of work this week. Part of it must have been the photography I've done intensively over the past few days, both on the road and at my computer. I've trained my photographer's eye on Rochester, and it's gotten sharp and developed an appetite for more of the city. Part of it must be the fondness I've developed for the Flour City exploring it over break. (If you can't escape Rochester, why not escape Eastman into Rochester?)
All of this has led me to reconcile myself with not being immersed in European beauty. In Europe, I lost use of the American eye that enabled me to see the beauty of this country while I developed an eye for my surroundings in Belgium. Naturally, that eye was disppointed with the offerings of America. But I knew all along I had a good eye for beauty. Now I've realized that I have two. If that makes any sense without sounding absurd.
An open door in Spurrier led me to discover new gym-like hallways and exits that made sense, and a corridor of typical practice compartments that I'm now hoping I can steal for the practice carillon. Practice itself was nothing brilliant - I had forgotten my shoes and earplugs and had to improvise, but developed a new idiom for myself learning John Cage's "Music for Carillon, No. 3." Roy Hamlin Johnson's octotonic setting of "Wachet Auf" seemed masterwork, and the penultimate two pages of Geert D'hollander's "Een Aangename Voois" fit my hands better as I applied techniques he'd taught me for his and others' compositions to the fleeting, dancing layers of "mijn vrolijk hart dat lacht..." And then I launched off the hill for home, glad to have the Cateye headlight my parents had sent me to light the way. But it wasn't just the dark segments of the path that I could see better.
A radio tower blinked back at my Cateye at the end of the Riverway Trail, startling me with its towering likeness to the Eye of Sauron as portrayed in LoTR movie. Amused and perturbed that it should look so threatening and tall in darkness, I raced through the construction beneath the Court Street bridge skimming the bumpy dirt path to emerge into a rush of warm air. Downtown was a few degrees warmer than the River Campus and the Genesee, thanks to buildings spewing warm air from giant vents and the windbreaker effect of a densely built environment. For no particular reason, I took Woodbury Boulevard east for once and realized that the Geva Theatre was right below Washington Square Park. I cycled through rather than past the park, finally drawn to the Civil War monument at its center from the history I'd learned at the Center at High Falls. There was a time when the statue had been monumental rather than dwarfed into invisibility by highrises. Those evil highrises nevertheless looked more monumental and well-designed than before, perhaps because I understood what they contained from the Center's exhibit. They had become receptacles of light; even the fan atop one building no longer looked tastelessly 70's, but as it might have looked to admirers in the 70's. My eyes were so receptive to imagination that I was stunned by the nameless highrise across from Manhattan Square Park, which looked at its edges as if it had been sliced away or as if some building the same color as the darkness was covering the rest of it. Downtown had never looked beautiful before, and now it was nothing but.
Even small details--the play of form and complementary aesthetics between the Eastman School and the Miller Center, the patinated scalloping of the Eastman Theatre's marquee and perspective lines of its glowing show bulbs, Christmas lights encircling what seemed like baubles of nothing because the trees had lost their leaves, the glazed corner of the heretofore ugly YMCA that split a harsh concrete edge into four glowing windowed angles--leaped out at me despite my visibly worsening eyesight. I couldn't have escaped the sight of beauty if I'd tried, although these same things had disappointed me with their lack of beauty before.
I spent most of today preparing my octotonic improvisation for tomorrow. It wasn't the same kind of work; for the first time in a long time, perhaps since before I started college music theory courses, I composed not because I felt strong-armed into doing it, but because I felt compelled to do it, because ideas were escaping me into soundwaves and I wanted to record them. Perhaps this unleashing of creativity made me receptive to imaginative visual perception.
But what even spurred that after years of struggling to revive a stifled desire to write music? Part of it must have been knowledge, the knowledge I've gained of Rochester from cycling around aimlessly or purposefully and visiting the Center. Part of it must have been the break from monotonous work that I chose to take despite my plans to accomplish mountains of work this week. Part of it must have been the photography I've done intensively over the past few days, both on the road and at my computer. I've trained my photographer's eye on Rochester, and it's gotten sharp and developed an appetite for more of the city. Part of it must be the fondness I've developed for the Flour City exploring it over break. (If you can't escape Rochester, why not escape Eastman into Rochester?)
All of this has led me to reconcile myself with not being immersed in European beauty. In Europe, I lost use of the American eye that enabled me to see the beauty of this country while I developed an eye for my surroundings in Belgium. Naturally, that eye was disppointed with the offerings of America. But I knew all along I had a good eye for beauty. Now I've realized that I have two. If that makes any sense without sounding absurd.
19 November 2006
voilements
Photographic memories of the visit of electroacoustic music father Jean-Claude Risset, one of the mildest, kindliest, and most unassuming composers to have changed the course of music and technology.
to be neither proud nor ashamed
The second ECMC25 concert didn't go off completely smoothly, but the music was so outstanding that nobody seemed to care. Our guest composers fearlessly brought their best new works to the stage, and Jason Price and Randy Hall rocked our worlds.
Bob Pierzak is from Poland. After less than two weeks in Poland for the WCF Congress, I suddenly find myself surrounded by the Polish wherever I go. And while all I can remember from my practical Polish lessons from Kasha is dzien dobry, tak, dziekuje, and toileta, they love it anyway. Bob, by the way, rocks. So sincere. So Polishly sober after knocking back at least six rum and Cokes. And so not planning to become a composer although he's earning a master's degree in composition at Eastman. No, he wants to go into theater after "learning about composition" and working unpaid overtime as designated ECMC "grunt" and having some fun and maybe even writing a carillon piece for our little instrument here. The world needs more fun people like that.
Bob Pierzak is from Poland. After less than two weeks in Poland for the WCF Congress, I suddenly find myself surrounded by the Polish wherever I go. And while all I can remember from my practical Polish lessons from Kasha is dzien dobry, tak, dziekuje, and toileta, they love it anyway. Bob, by the way, rocks. So sincere. So Polishly sober after knocking back at least six rum and Cokes. And so not planning to become a composer although he's earning a master's degree in composition at Eastman. No, he wants to go into theater after "learning about composition" and working unpaid overtime as designated ECMC "grunt" and having some fun and maybe even writing a carillon piece for our little instrument here. The world needs more fun people like that.
05 November 2006
healing or temporary salve?
Wearied and discouraged by the people around me and the length of the tasks before me, I cycled out to Image City Art Gallery as I had been planning to do for two months, bringing my portfolio from Mechelen along just in case there was someone who might take a look. Sure enough, featured artist Betsy Phillips was there between the final hours of her exhibition there and the opening of another elsewhere, and she took a generous interest in my work. Before I knew what was happening, I had spoken to a number of gallery members, including executive director Ed Vesneske and Croatian Rochesterian Dan Neuberger, and they signed off on my application and tentatively scheduled me for a panel exhibit in February. Heaven bless them.
Who should call in the middle of it all but Giancarlo, set this time on persuading me to change direction at the last minute. (Funny that I probably seem absolutely unspontaneous to him, when spontaneity is the modus operandi against which the requirements of the rest of my life struggle.) Fortunately, California Rollin' was just a few blocks away, and he made me the biggest sushi selection I've probably ever eaten in my life. It was such a treat to eat truly good food, especially after a week of shoveling take-out while running between tasks. I was so defeated by the end that even my dessert stomach declined the first opportunity to enjoy tempura ice cream in a year, excluding Thai Taste with JR in June. And it was also a treat to spend the afternoon talking with people who added more than the typically two dimensions that seem to form and cage in my world at Eastman.
But being in such a lively and vibrant place as the Village Gate, talking to someone full of energy and with a life beyond of music for whom I haven't found time in weeks, I felt a mantle of melancholy settle. It was strange to feel as if I didn't belong. It doesn't seem my world anymore. It should be. But if Eastman isn't my world and neither are the places I've been today, where do I belong anymore?
I thought this afternoon would be a relief. But I've been trying to find relief for days since finishing my Soros application. And no amount of relief seems to address the dissatisfaction at the base of it all. Every break puts me further behind in my work and makes me wonder who I can turn myself into at Eastman or if Eastman will dictate how to mold me.
Who should call in the middle of it all but Giancarlo, set this time on persuading me to change direction at the last minute. (Funny that I probably seem absolutely unspontaneous to him, when spontaneity is the modus operandi against which the requirements of the rest of my life struggle.) Fortunately, California Rollin' was just a few blocks away, and he made me the biggest sushi selection I've probably ever eaten in my life. It was such a treat to eat truly good food, especially after a week of shoveling take-out while running between tasks. I was so defeated by the end that even my dessert stomach declined the first opportunity to enjoy tempura ice cream in a year, excluding Thai Taste with JR in June. And it was also a treat to spend the afternoon talking with people who added more than the typically two dimensions that seem to form and cage in my world at Eastman.
But being in such a lively and vibrant place as the Village Gate, talking to someone full of energy and with a life beyond of music for whom I haven't found time in weeks, I felt a mantle of melancholy settle. It was strange to feel as if I didn't belong. It doesn't seem my world anymore. It should be. But if Eastman isn't my world and neither are the places I've been today, where do I belong anymore?
I thought this afternoon would be a relief. But I've been trying to find relief for days since finishing my Soros application. And no amount of relief seems to address the dissatisfaction at the base of it all. Every break puts me further behind in my work and makes me wonder who I can turn myself into at Eastman or if Eastman will dictate how to mold me.
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