Alley no. 106 – Stacked (2008, Mare Island, CA, 10:30pm)

She was tasked with writing a school paper on a particular image and photographer. She chose to write about Goast Pier (which was shot with another friend, Kathy). I thought she did a good job, so here’s her paper:

Alley no. 102 – Goast Pier (2008, San Francisco, CA, 11:30pm)

It’s still all clear to me the day Xavier sat down and told me the story about his latest photograph of Hunter’s Point. The sky was a dark grey, almost like a blank cement wall. The clouds hung low, hugging the city tightly.
Ever since he was a teenager, he’d find himself digging through restricted areas for hours, just to get the right shot. He’d climb over fences, venture under overpasses, anything to get that perfect shot. My friends and I thought we were the only ones who did these kinds of things until we befriended each other. But the stories he had up his sleeve were far more exciting than the ones I had to offer.
I couldn’t even explain how I felt when I first saw the photograph. There were endless details, your eyes always finding something new. The colors were so vibrant, the detail of the buildings so crisp, and sharp, it was unbelievable. So, I asked how it all went.
The moon was high, and the night was dark, as Xavier drove up to the abandoned district at about midnight. With the gravel crunching under his every step, he tried to be as quiet as possible while carrying the equipment he needed for the shot. He’d been waiting for this moment, and was quite excited to see such a great spot. I respect him for this, for the stories I heard about Hunter’s Point at night weren’t too pleasant. Hunter’s Point was one of the most dangerous crime-infested areas of San Francisco, the homeless and gang population was sky rocket high, but that didn’t stop him. He felt that no matter what, he needed to get this perfect shot, and nothing was going to get in his way.
Hunter’s Point was not the nicest area you could think of. The water surrounding the harbor was clear until about a foot off the coast, where oils and green materials stuck to the surface. The local refineries and industrial buildings producing gases that smelled of rotten eggs and fecal matter. But once you really dug into the abandoned buildings, and old shipyards, it was the most interesting place on the planet. So much history crammed in one little place. He set down his tripod, and loaded his Hasselblad with Kodak Ultra 120 millimeter film. With that, he began the twelve minute exposure, and kicked back. Everything around him was visually pleasing. It wasn’t going to be a very long twelve minutes because there were many things to look at, and question. For urban explorers like him and myself, this sight was the most beautiful thing on the planet. Whenever an abandoned area is open, we don’t even hesitate to go inside and explore.
Xavier focused on the area of the shot, the water was perfectly still, grasping onto the dock’s support poles. The railings were broken in half, some dangling over the water, the others flat on the dock. The part of the dock closest to Xavier looked like it was broken off, as if someone took a saw to it. The buildings on the left looked newer, and still operating. The lights shined bright, like stars in the sky, illuminating the abandoned building. The abandoned building had boarded up windows; the wood looking like it had taken a beating or two in the past. The wood across the surface appeared to be weak, and rotting. Both buildings were covered in graffiti, different colors used in each piece of art. The red tower lights from the airport blinked repeatedly in the background, signaling the planes to land in the correct spot. The tall skinny tower sticking out of the building looked as if it were being held up by four pieces of hair, almost as if it was pointless to even have the support lines there. The big wire framing on the dock looked like it was about to fall, the cement block on the verge of losing all support from below.
As the shutter close, Xavier got up, and began to pack his belongings. He put his camera back in his bag, and put it around his shoulder. Picking up his heavy tripod, he looked back at the scene. He smiled, he was quite satisfied with what he saw, and was very anxious to see the final result. Little did he know, he had just produced one of the world’s most amazing photographs.
I looked up from the photograph at Xavier. I still couldn’t get over how amazing it was. The water was a deep violet, and the sky a mixture of peach, dark blue, and purple. The reflection of the docks as red as blood in the water, and the color of the wood deeply saturated. Looking at this photo reminded me of what being an urban explorer was all about. It was about making a simple alley, or even the ugliest shacks in the middle of nowhere, look like art. This task was never impossible, as long as you took the picture just right. As an urban explorer, it’s my goal to show society how beautiful abandoned places just might be.

Its appropriate because it is a haunting song with references to a dystopian future (somewhat like my Alley images) via Orson Welles narrating his classic 1938 radio broadcast of War of the Worlds. And it is coincidental because its Halloween, and the song is called…  boo.

Here’s a link to a video of it, although, as with many music videos,  its probably best to just listen, and ignore the video part, which really takes away from this beautiful song. Here’s an idea… I think the song makes a good soundtrack for the Alley slideshow.

Part of the package is that I have bad dreams related to this. I had one recently that was unusual because of its humorous ending:

The foolish decision is made to launch a first strike. The nuclear codes are entered and an electrical current carrying the launch command is sent to the missiles. In my dream, I see this current leaving the pristine government office and running along street cables at night. The current, carrying this doomsday command, is now running along cables through desolate, abandoned city streets, still late at night. It reaches its destination: a boarded up building at a vacant street corner, and comes to a sputtering halt. The missiles can’t be launched because some go-between business, required to get the missiles up, has gone bankrupt under our faltering economy.

Strange and beautiful clouds near San Quentin penitentiary, last Friday

On my way to Ann Arbor from Minneapolis a few days ago, a massive storm gathered on the horizon as I drove down I-94. Lightning strikes were occurring more than once per second – I don’t think I’d ever seen that before. The sky was lit up more often than not in a glorious display of nature’s awesome power. I had to get off the interstate where I found a dark road with a great view. I stopped and walked into a field where I just stared in awe for 20 minutes at this storm as it slowly approached. Eventually huge blobs of water started coming down and I was no longer in awe as I ran back to my van.

As I continued my drive, now in a torrential downpour, I thought about nature’s power when it descends upon urban ruins. The elements – the rain, the cold, the heat… even oxygen – start eroding away the buildings, while the bugs start eating and chipping away, since they’ll eat any old crap. In no time, plants begin growing in the mortar and in all the little cracks. The roots go deeper and get thicker and somehow these fragile little things begin cracking the bricks and the concrete and the wood, slowly consuming the building. The powerful, yet gentle arms of nature reach around these structures and slowly but forcefully pull them down to the ground, drawing them back to the earth, as earth, from whence they began. It’s an incredible cycle that is both inspiring and frightening.

Don’t turn your back on this harmless looking Pansy (shot in 2002)… it could punch your lights out!!

But I’m excited… I hope to finally get that Milwaukee shot tonight.

Three years ago, I moved in with Pam, who didn’t watch TV. I was just fine with that, and have been happily TV free since then. But here I am, sitting in the waiting room at St Joseph’s hospital in Ann Arbor, MI (my friend Mary Ellen had to make an emergency visit… she’ll be fine). There’s a big TV blasting one of the all-time lamest shows: Wheel of Fortune.  I have my laptop, hoping to get stuff done, but this horrible show keeps drawing me in like a crackhead.

I’d like to buy a vowel… Is there a vowel? is there a vowel?? there are THREE vowels… yay!! (to wild cheering and applause)

Somebody, please help me…

This is my brain after watching too many TV commercials (shot in San Francisco, 2007)

I had to add this… I dozed off in the waiting room and had this dream:

A contestant in a TV game show is trying to squeeze his head through a wall of bubble wrap, while the names of other contestants roll down. As each name passes, he shouts variations of, “Screw him, I’ll beat him!!” There is wild cheering and applause.

Part of my fascination with ruins and decay and dark foreboding places is my fear and obsession with a post-apocalyptic world - which I’ve had since my early teens. I connect with a scene if it has an aching hollowness; if it conjures up a sadness for what we do, and for things to come; the depiction of a possible grim future; a scene where people no longer exist, except in random bits of evidence. Its a bleak future created by little boys with power, throwing stones in the shape of ICBM’s.

But then I can’t accept this, and I have to turn the scene inside out, glorifying what we have, and making monuments from these desolate places. In the end I celebrate life and I throw rainbows at the scene, and this makes me happy. Its an odd form of propulsion.

I’ve discussed other aspects of all this in two previous posts, appropriately named The Apocalypse, and The Apocalypse, part 2

Here’s a very non-apocalyptic scene. “Friends” (1985, Cape Cod)

I just did the 57th Street art show in Chicago and will do the Old Town show next week, which is also in Chicago. In between I’m flying back home to California. The normal way to plan this is to leave my van at the airport parking lot, instead of driving the four hours back to Ann Arbor, my home in the east. But I don’t think I’ve planned this in a normal way, so after the show I get on the 94 eastbound towards Ann Arbor. Eighty miles later I call my wife, Pam, and tell her I should have flown out of Chicago and not Ann Arbor. “You are flying out of Chicago.” “WHAT?? AAAARRRGGGHHH!” I turn around and drive the eighty miles back to Chicago to catch my flight.

Here are some more sad examples of why I’m the Incredible Shrinking-Memory Man.

- I rarely remember the name of my favorite beer. I’m constantly asking my wife what it is before ordering a beer somewhere. If they don’t have it, I’ll ask her if I like any of the beers on the menu. “You don’t like this one, this one you think has a funny after taste, this one you like.” (btw, its Newcastle)

-I had my Sirius satellite radio stolen out of my van in Chicago during a recent Steal-Xavier’s-stuff rampage (2 break-ins in 3 days). I went to eBay and bought one. Then forgetting I’d already ordered one, I bought a second… then this is where I leave everyone in the dust. Forgetting once again that I’ve placed an order for a satellite radio, I bought a THIRD one!!  Anyone want to buy a satellite radio?

-If I’m in a store browsing, I have to be careful. Just before exiting the store, I’ve learned to slow down and ask myself: “Is there any merchandise in my hands?” No. Good. I can leave without getting arrested.

There is another problem with having a bad memory. Here’s a short list of treasured things I’ve lost, left behind somewhere, misplaced… who the hell knows…

- all my paintings and charcoal sketches from my teens. I still have many smaller drawings which were kept in a different place.

-a few years ago: a box full of all my personal pictures. Hundreds of them - including four big albums. Pictures of me and my friends and family – school pictures dating back to kindergarten, some pictures of my parents in their youth, all my old friends… lost.

-all my trophies and medals from playing hockey and baseball as a kid. The two that I really miss: 1. a trophy for best goaltender of the year, 2. a bronze medal when my team came in third at the Quebec Provincial hockey championships.

Oh I could go on and on but it hurts to think about it. That part of my brain works.

On the bright side… We don’t carry our souls in little boxes.

Looking for stuff I lost (1999, Toronto). I bet some was under here – I should have looked.

But this isn’t the Steve I know… the one I grew up with was a maniac. There are many stories that could get Steve in trouble, so I’ll refrain. We had an unleashed youth, but today Steve looks like the professor that he is. He is responsible, he loves his wife and two daughters, his students love him (especially since some of the maniac remains, and he seems to like jumping on his desk in the middle of lectures), he works hard, publishes scholarly papers and books and is quite happy in this near role reversal. People get older, and they are the sum of every day of their lives. The older I get, the more I look at the really elderly and wonder what lives and stories lay buried deep in their past. I used to look at old people and young people and think that our ages were fixed. Some old man in a store had always been old, just like I’d always been young. The older I get, the more I understand that we are all the same, and this makes me feel closer to everyone.  Steve and I toured around France and Spain in the 80’s – I shot this image of him in Barcelona.

The song is Chemicals Collide by Cloud Cult