A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.




 

The Wonders Of Image Degradation
Saturday, September 13, 2014

Caitlin Legault

Yesterday I took my venerable Dresden-made (when Dresden was in the Russian Occupied Zone) Pentacon-F to be repaired by Horst Wenzel. He looked at the camera tested the functions of the 50mm Zeiss Tessar lens and informed me that the shutter just needed to be cleaned and re-lubricated.

As I wrote here, repairing the camera, a waste of money in Wenzel’s opinion, has something to do with my allegiance to inanimate objects that have served me well. I felt guilty looking at it on my den bookshelf knowing that it had a faulty shutter and that unlike in other countries here we have in Vancouver a stellar repairman.

Its beautiful Zeiss Tessar f-2.8 lens probably could not compete in sharpness with my new Fuji X-E1s exotic aspherical zoom lens. Nor could it compete with a early 80s vintage Pentax M 20mm wide angle that I have kept because of its remarkable lack of apparent distortion. It is as rectilinear as a wide angle gets.

Since the early 80s the main lens in my working collection has been a floating element 140mm Mamiya lens for my Mamiya RB-67 Pro-SD. I have two of them. Some years ago when I was about to take pictures of Raymond Burr the mainspring went. I was forced to use a less sharp 90mm that made Burr look fatter than he was. I vowed never again to have this happen to me so I purchased a second 140 lens. Wenzel has a spare main spring spirited away in his repair shop.

For years I have maintained that all photographs (and particularly portraits) have to be sharp. If you cannot see individual eyelashes, throw the negative or slide away. The exception of course is when the photographer intends for the picture not to be sharp for some particular motive. Another fine exception is the look of old optics, even optics that were sharp in their time. I used a 1953 Leica IIIF for these pictures that have a look unmatched and different from anything that I might use now.



Horst Wenzel
 To this day I question autofocus lenses and the idea of an automatic follow focus lens does not apply to me as I never shoot basketball, hockey or football.

I know that the sharpest f-stop of almost any lens is somewhere (usually halfway) between its minimum and maximum aperture. I know that bracing the camera with a tripod is a sure way of maintaining the inherent sharpness of a good lens. I know that the flutter of a reflex camera’s mirror can degrade the image at a slow shutter. With my Mamiya I always use its lens mirror lock mechanism.

So much for sharpness via the camera.

In my fridge I have 30 rolls of the sharpest most detailed film ever made. This is Kodak Technical Pan in 120 format. So much for sharpness via film.









I also know, and this is increasingly a decreasing factor  for most photographers that the best test for sharpness is the detail of an actual print be it a darkroom printed photograph or a well executed digital giclée or light-jet print. Looking at pictures on a monitor (to me) is a waste of time.

How fast will that car go? Don’t give me numbers. Drive it. I think that applies to photography, too.

It was a few days ago that a tweet by my friend Tim Bray caught my eye. In his tweet he linked it to a man who writes about the wonders of a medium format camera that has an aftermarket digital sensor attached. There are even more expensive dedicated digital Hasselblads.

I read the article, obsessive, by a man (Zack Arias is his name) obsessed with detail, sharpness, colour saturation and the ability to crop minute parts of an image and still render it all in close perfection.

I read the article and I smiled as I seem to be headed into the opposite direction with my Mamiya RB-67 Pro-SD described as a tank by someone in the comments section of the essay. He further says that at the end of the world only cockroaches and RB-67s will survive it!

Case in point in my contrary ways is the story behind the image here and its almost identical but not as dramatic companion negative which was shot one click before.

My goal was to attempt to imitate the wonderful (paradoxically very sharp) wet plate portraits taken by Mathew Brady in his New York City studio in the early 1860s. His lighting consisted of a very large skylight. Having some idea of the fact that sensitized plates (like all film, video tape, and even modern digital sensors) were more sensitive to the blue light coming from skylight, Brady tinted his skylight glass blue.

Since I no longer have a studio with a high ceiling I mounted a large softbox light that is five ft by 6 ft on a boom light stand. This meant that I could suspend the light high and pointing down on my subject (Caitlin Legault) to give the feel of skylight. Generally I use a 3 by 4 softbox very close to my subject’s face so half the face is always in some shadow. Behind Legault I put up a red backdrop (the colour unimportant as I was going to shoot it all in b+w). I had all this in a shady part of the garden and I set my camera shutters to expose the existing light to one stop under the correct exposure. The flash was set at f-16 both with two rolls of Ilford FP-4 Plus IS0 100 and two rolls of Kodak T-Max 400 (the images you see here are the T-Max).

I was able to keep the f-16 exposure with the two different rolls by controlling the output of my stable Visatek monolight flash.

The less dramatic image is almost a straight scan (an Epson Perfection V700 Photo scanner). I scanned it dark and in the warmish tone on purpose.

For the second image, I placed the negative emulsion down on the glass with no holder. This means that the negative curled on the sides and it was not completely flat. On top of the negative I placed a sheet of my letterhead stationery. I left the scanner top open and I scanned the negative from the bottom as I would scanning a 8x10 print. The resulting image I then reversed (as it appeared as a negative) in Photoshop.

The paper adds to measures of degradation. Because the paper was in close contact with the negative, the scanner “sees” some of the flaws and texture of the paper. The light of the scanner, instead of penetrating the negative fully it bounces off the paper and back to the scan. That reduces the contrast.

It seems to me that so mush emphasis this day in photography lies with the technical aspects of the gear used and there is less on the wonder of an image and how it affects us when we see it without having to delve on all those pixels and MOS sensors, etc.



Helena Brandon de González-Crussi
Friday, September 12, 2014



Helena Brandon de González-Crussi  - Archivo Casasola 1915




 One of my favourite essayists is Mexican-born Federico González-Crussi. He is a retired pathologist.  He began his career in 1967 in academic medicine in Canada, at Queen’s University (Kingston, Ontario), and moved to the United States in 1973. He was a Professor of Pathology at Indiana University until 1978, when he relocated to Chicago; there to become Professor of Pathology at Northwestern University School of Medicine and Head of Laboratories of Children’s Memorial Hospital until his retirement in 2001.

Gonzalez-Crussi, writes in precise English (his books are then translated into Spanish) and I have three of them: The Day of the Dead and Other Mortal Reflections, On Being Born and Other Difficulties, and On the Nature of Things Erotic.

González-Crussi was born in 1938. His father was friends with pioneering Mexican photographer Agustín Ignacio Casasola (1874-1938). Casasola started what really was the first ever photo agency and recorded and catalogued the Mexican Revolution (1910-1920). Perhaps since one of Casasola’s sons was called, Federico (Casasola Zapata) González-Crussi was named Federico.

Last year when I visited Mexico I ventured to Pachuca in the state of Hidalgo to the Fototeca Nacional at the Exconvento de San Francisco. While pouring through the Archivo Casasola I spotted this strange photograph of a woman who did not look Mexican. Her name in the files was Helena Brandon de González-Crussi. Attached to the photograph was the date 1915 and nothing more.

I have in my memory that wonderful photograph taken by Mathew Brady in the 1860s called Mrs. Brandon. There is no other information on who she was or why she would have posed for Brady in his New York City studio. It would be too much of a coincidence to connect her to Helena Brandon González-Crussi. I am also curious as to how Helena was related to the retired pathologist/author. Perhaps I will never know. In the museum of the Fototeca I was able to purchase a nice sepia-toned print of the woman and here she is. Note the eyebrows on both women.

Mrs. Brandon - Mathew Brady circa 1860-1865






Arthur, Arthur, Art & Arturito
Thursday, September 11, 2014


Arturito's girl


The idea for what promises to be a long blog came to me last Sunday. Both Randy Rampage and
birthday boy Zippy Pinhead kept calling Art Bergmann, Arthur. It struck me that his real friends call him that and for the rest of us Art is enough.

I then wondered how many Arthurs had gone through my life, who I not only photographed but somehow had left something of themselves in me.

So there is Arthur Erickson, Arthur (most called him Art) Phillips and Arthur Bergmann. There is one more.

Arturito Durazo Díaz (33) showed up in Vancouver in 1982. At the time I had some dealings with the unofficial Mexican Tourism Director in Vancouver, Carlos Hampe. I visited Hampe and noticed Durazo sitting behind a desk that had nothing on it in a room that was virtually empty of furniture and decoration. I was introduced to him. He was affable, friendly and interested in the fact that I was a photographer and that I spoke Spanish.

During his stay in Vancouver which was around two years he often came to my house for dinner. He had a passion for jig-saw puzzles. He often stayed for hours with my daughters fitting the pieces to 1000 plus puzzles. Durazo told me he had helicopter pilot’s license and wanted to learn to hang glide. I accompanied him to many of these lessons in Langley. He was brave and he tried to convince me to try. I told him I had no life insurance and since I was a free lancer, any accident would leave my family with no financial support.

My daughters liked him as did my wife Rosemary. One day he showed up with a box full of beautiful Florsheim shoes. He told me that inmates of several Mexican prisons made them and he was starting a business to import them to Canada.

Arturito's 2005 police mug shot


Any questions I directed to Hampe about his “assistant”, who seemed to do nothing at the office, only resulted in the rolling of his eyes and silence.

All I knew was that Durazo’s father, Arturo Durazo Moreno had been the chief of police in Mexico City, between 1976 and 1982 during the 6-year rule of President López Portillo.

During those 6 years Durazo Moreno’s underlings had to pay their quota of contributions. There was an organization that arrested promising thieves who were protected and of course had to pay their quotas. In some cases these trained thieves and the policemen robbed banks. One of the biggest scandals was the appearance of 13 Colombians in the city’s main sewer. Some had their heads missing; others had been mutilated and tortured.

López Portillo’s successor, President Miguel de La Madrid initiated an investigation and the murders were linked to Durazo who fled the country.

That would explain why his son, also left the country and why Carlos Hampe could do nothing about having the man appear in his office and get a salary for doing nothing. I remember that Arturito had a better car than Hampe. It was a very large Pontiac.

Arturito was a handsome young man. His father was quite ugly and because he was dark-skinned he was called El Negro Durazo. Durazo died in 2000 after having served 6 years (he had been extradited from Puerto Rico, and given a 16 years sentence but because of “good behaviour” and delicate health he served those 6 for drug trafficking, corruption and extortion). At his funeral a police mariachi played a famous song about El Negro Durazo.

As soon as Durazo Moreno died the army generals rescinded his lofty rank of General de División. They had been furious when President López Portillo had celebrated the man with the rank.



But what perhaps riled the usually patient Mexican populace were the many mansions that the Police Chief built. The most famous one La Partenón in Zihuatanejo was said to have gates that had been stolen from the storied Chapultepec Castle (where young Mexican cadets had fought back with heroism but in futility by well equipped American Army). You might know that U.S.  Marine Corps song "From the halls of Montezuma..."

La Partenón


In the late 80s a Mexican cumbia band, La Sonora Dinamita recorded a song by its then singer Juliette called El Africano (The African) in which one of the lines “Hey mom, what does El Negro want?” to which then Juliette answers, “Could it be another Parthenon?” Of interest to readers here is the fact that Ray Conniff did an instrumental version of the song called African Safari.

This was my Arturito’s father. In 2005 Arturito was imprisoned for unlawfully taking over a large property. He is now probably out and is on Facebook.

If you look for images of Arturito you will only find one through Google. The Mexican newspapers announcing his arrest have blank squares where his picture should be.

I was never allowed by Arturito to take his picture but he did ask me to photograph his lovely Mexican girl friend who had brilliant bleached blonde hair. I have lost the colour pictures and I have forgotten her name but I did find some negatives which I took with Kodak b+w infrared film.

If I were to run into Arturito I would invite him for dinner and I would take out a box with a 1000 plus piece puzzle.





Will My Pentacon-F End Up In A Shoe Box?
Wednesday, September 10, 2014







Do you have film in your camera? Your flash did not fire. You have your lens cap on.

The above are three complications (and there were many more) that might have prevented a photographer from taking pictures in the last century.

In this century the chief culprit of such an event is that scary, “My card was corrupted.” In banking terms something like, “Our computers are down so we cannot help you,” would be an equivalent dénouement.

Yesterday Saturday as I got ready to photograph three men, Art Bergmann, Zippy Pinhead and Randy Rampage wearing, one at a time, my mother’s red shawl I turned on my camera. My camera lit up to advise me, “No card.” I panicked. I then remembered that for the scenario of a corrupted card I had packed an extra one and an extra battery (you never know) in my camera bag. I relaxed and took my photographs.

In that last century I often told young photographers that competition for jobs in magazine and commercial photography was such that if you made a mistake you would never be hired again. I advised them to pack two of everything.

I may have been wrong because on the way to the end of that last century I met up with Horst Wenzel who kept repairing my equipment. Those two extra Mamiyas, that second 140mm lens, that extra Minolta Flashmeter, those three Nikon FM-2 and that Nikon F-3 have been in good shape thank to Wenzel. What does one do with three Mamiyas in this century? They are worthless and mine even more so because they look like they have been used. And they have.

All that, brings me to consider my Pentacon-F with its Zeiss Tessar 50mm f-2.8 lens. I bought it in 1957. I used it lots and well. I now have it on a shelf in my den with a Pentax S-3, a Pentax S-II and a Canon rangefinder camera from the mid 50s. All work well except the Pentacon. It has a sticky shutter.

I asked Wenzel if I should have it repaired knowing I will never use it. He told me, “As soon as you die your relatives will put it in a box or simply throw it away. It would be silly to spend a couple of hundred Dollars to repair it.”

My wife simply said, “We don’t have the money for that.” She simply echoed Wenzel who further added, “Now if you win the lottery you might want to fix that Pentacon.”

I have no idea why it is that something inside me says I should have a camera, that served me well in my early career, repaired and that not to repair it is tantamount to abandoning a faithful companion. Even though it is a metallic object (with a faulty cloth focal plane shutter) with lovely German glass, I should treat it with respect.

Must guilt follow even if my Pentacon-F is an inanimate object?   



When Dreams Are Broken
Tuesday, September 09, 2014


Lathyrus odoratus September 6, 2014

Afterglow
Jorge Luís Borges 1923

Siempre es conmovedor el ocaso

por indigente o charro que sea,

pero más conmovedor todavía

es aquel brillo desesperado y final

que herrumbra la llanura

cuando el sol último se ha hundido.

Nos duele sostener esa luz tirante y distinta,

esa alucinación que impone al espacio

el unánime miedo de la sombra

y que cesa de golpe

cuando notamos su falsía,

como cesan los sueños

cuando sabemos que soñamos.


Afterglow

Sunset is always disturbing

Whether theatrical or muted,

But still more disturbing

is that last desperate glow

that turns the plain to rust

when on the horizon nothing is left

of the pomp and clamor of the setting sun.

How hard holding on to that light, so tautly drawn and different,

That hallucination which the human fear of the dark

Imposes on space

And which ceases at once

The moment we realize its falsity,

The way a dream is broken

The moment the sleeper knows he is dreaming.

It is patently obvious that poets have a knack of telling us things that should be self evident. They are not. In the last few months I have been in turmoil thinking about that line (look it up in the English version above) so beautiful in Spanish:

como cesan los sueños

cuando sabemos que soñamos.

Dreams and dreaming have been especially with me in the last couple of years when old age finds ways of often interrupting my sleep. Going back to bed before that (after an occasional visit to the bathroom) I would think, “Death cannot be like sleep. The pleasure in sleeping is waking up or waking up in the middle of the night and knowing that I will sleep again, to wake again.” Death cannot thus be like sleep. It is terminal.

Consider Phillip K. Dick’s short story Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? One step further from that is, “Do we dream when we are dead?”

As an aside before I continue here is one of my fave sentences from Dick’s story:

“I like her; I could watch her the rest of my life. She has breasts that smile.”

That reminds me of my friend John Lekich once saying about Anne McAuley who worked at the Dianne Farris Gallery, “She is the only woman I know whose breasts blush.” We often visited the gallery but not to see the art on the wall.

My dreams are now more visceral. I remember more of them because I wake up more often. When I turn off the light at night I feel like I am in a film theatre. The lights fade, the curtain opens and who knows what will be projected?

I have nagging suspicions (not confirmed by research in the internet) that my dreams indicate an encroaching Alzheimer’s.

I sometimes wonder if looking back at memories, imagining the smell of sweet peas, or reading a book read more than once is not some variation of a dream.

As a little boy I lusted over Susan Stone. I was 9 so I had no idea what lusting was or meant. I would go to sleep and attempted to put myself in dreams where Susan was ever pleasant to me. These attempts never went anywhere because I invariably fell asleep. I learned then that dreams were random even though some of them happened after events of note and replicated them in some way. 




I could tell you that last night I dreamt that I was listening to Schmelzer’s Trio Sonatas as played by the London Baroque Orchestra while scanning Rosemary’s sweet peas. I could tell you that before that, when I knew I was going to scan the sweet peas that I went to my William Carlos Williams – Selected Poems to look for this one:

Smell!

Oh strong-ridged and deeply hollowed

nose of mine! what will you not be smelling?

What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose,

always indiscriminate, always unashamed,

and now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggled

poplars: a festering pulp on the wet earth

beneath them. With what deep thirst

we quicken our desires

to that rank odor of a passing springtime!

Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardors

for something less unlovely? What girl will care

for us, do you think, if we continue in these ways?

Must you taste everything? Must you know everything?

Must you have a part in everything?

But no. I would be lying. To dream all of the above would be a dream that upon waking would vanish as only Borges knew, and so now, do I.

But all that does not prevent me from daydreaming about the smell of a sweet pea and why it is that although it does not have the complexity of a rose or a Southern Magnolia, they (the sweet peas) trump them all in reality and in that memory of my nose that Williams Carlos Williams so well defines.





Happy Birthday Zippy!
Monday, September 08, 2014



 
Sitting:  Zippy Pinhead, Kathy Larkin, Susanne Tabata, Randy Rampage, Sherri Decembrini, Art Bergmann, Standing:  yours truly and John Tanner

Drummer/musician Zippy Pinhead knows something about friendship. Talking about Randy Rampage, he told me, “These guys are like my brothers. I have known and worked with them for many years.” As he said this to me he beamed at me with his trademark Zippy smile. Perhaps his wife Kathy Larkin is the only human being on earth (besides his old musician-working-friends) who might have seen the man scowl and not smile. Perhaps it was the fact that tomorrow Monday (I am writing this Sunday night) is his birthday so that he was extra happy and extra funny. His imitation of songs being played (his singing along with his deep baritone) would guarantee this man a stand up gig anywhere if there were a God.

In fact my proof for the non-existence of a deity is that his friend Art Bergmann is not rich and extremely famous. The same might be said of another buddy, Randy Rampage who plays the meanest electric bass anywhere.

Where were these three men? They were in the home of filmmaker Susanne Tabata who lives dangerously close, but not quite, to Burnaby. Her friend John Tanner, former broadcaster and expert in astronomy (he works at the Vancouver Planetarium) was the fourth man there. Tanner who may be six foot four has a fetish for getting into and driving very small cars.

The chef at the barbecue (mean ribs they were) was Randy Rampage. Skewered fruit was served with other goodies.

For reasons that escape me I was the interloper and yet I felt at home, especially when Zippy told me, “We're still alive so that should count.”

Many years ago my Rosemary wanted us to build a deck by the kitchen. We never could afford it. So we never had a deck party. Two of the best deck parties I have been fortunate enough to be invited to were at Tabata’s. Today's was that second one.

One of my secret pleasures is that I am lucky enough to know Art Bergmann when he is not performing. When you talk to him in the light of day you can understand where his brilliant lyrics come from. This is a man who observes, reads and digests. And he does all that silently.

Before he left he kissed his Sherri (I was told not to call her his wife) and I asked, “Is she staying behind?” Sherri answered, “No we just kiss all the time.” 




All of who know Art Bergmann know he has a heart.

I would like to point out here that if you look carefully at the two snaps you might note two salient details. One is Sherri’s dog Charlie and the other is the rubber bulb that Zippy is holding in his left hand, with his left in the other picture. By the rules of photography when he pressed on that bulb he tripped the shutter of the camera. So with some pride I can boast that the photographs were taken by Zippy Pinhead. There is something else you might observe in the white edge of one of them. It is brown. Bergmann has his funny moments so he decided to slip the Fuji Instant print (Fujiroid, I call it) into Zippy's chocolate birthday cake. When I sort of scolded Bergmann he licked most of the icing off.

Should you ever run into Zippy on the street be sure to ask him, “Why was your fuck band (a Vancouver institution in the late 70s) called Sgt. Nick Penis? Did it have anything to do with the fact your father was a cop (RCMP)?



Navigation - Origin Unknown
Sunday, September 07, 2014



Lauren Stewart in front of Robert Studer's sculpture, September 3, 2014



Last Wednesday I was told to take care of my younger granddaughter Lauren, 12, for the afternoon.

I remember as a boy being taken by train to the cavernous Retiro train station with my father and hopping on a subte (the Buenos Aires underground) to take us to Plaza Lavalle where all the movie theatres were. There was something special in traveling with my father (who as a journalist for the Buenos Aires Herald was hip on our city’s activities and machinations) to the downtown core.  These trips laced with the smell of my father’s jacket of tobacco and Old Smuggler Whiskey and the smell of rusted brake linings and urine in the underground have left an indelible wave of nostalgia in a corner of my soul.

In a way I attempted to do something like that with my Lauren. 

 
Robert Studer & Page 1993

We drove to town and because of my municipal license plate I parked in back alley between what used to be the main branch of the Vancouver Public Library and Duthie’s main store. This back alley is between Burrard and Hornby (I often confuse this street with the other Hs, Homer and Howe). From that back alley if you look up you can see the Hotel Vancouver with architect Henry Hawthorne’s swimming pool addition. In the opposite direction, years ago, there was a Murchie’s where I would begin to read my Duthie Books purchases. 


Back cover of American edition of Neuromancer featuring Robert Studer's sculpture presently in my dining room

With so much of that downtown core that was important to me I knew that I could find relevant stuff to show Lauren. We walked past the hotel and crossed West Georgia to where The Georgia Medical Dental Building used to be. We entered the building’s lobby and I plunked Lauren facing the wall. She immediately told me, “That looks very much like the sculpture you have in the dining room.”  She was right and I told her a bit about Robert Studer and how he had this marvelous project of inventing and building sculptures with glass and found metal. He made what looked like long lost apparatus of a long lost civilization. The sculpture (which interacts with bystanders) is called Navigation - Origin Unknown.

Lauren & Alan Storey's pendulum

We crossed Hornby and entered the Hong Kong Bank. I showed her the pendulum which somehow she had never seen. I asked her, “Do I have a pendulum in my house?” She answered, “There is a pendulum in your mantle clock in the den.”

We talked to the security guard who told us that the pendulum was powered by an electric motor and that in quiet moments of the day one might hear a whoosh as the pendulum swings. 


Alan Storey

We talked about the fountain across the street in front of the Vancouver Art Gallery. I informed the guard and Lauren that in mentioning this fountain to architect Arthur Erickson he would invariably lose his cool and say, “Fu..” Lauren agreed that the fountain was uncommonly ugly.

We then took a picture by Douglas Coupland’s chewing gum head. Some day when Lauren is older I will tell her how Coupland once assisted me in a photo shoot as a stylist.


We entered the gallery and Lauren told me that she had been in the Gallery Café only once before. I mentioned that her sister Rebecca used to love going to it as, “They have better music here than at Starbucks.” As they were playing the inevitable Vivaldi Lauren said, “Rebecca is right you would never hear violins at Starbucks.”

After our cinnamon buns we walked down Robson. Lauren remembered that my studio had been on the second floor of the Farmer’s Building (now gone) on the corner of Granville and Robson. 

Arthur Erickson at 1983 opening of Vancouver Art Gallery

I had lied to Lauren (who had believed me) that we were going to Jap-A-Dog to eat a hot dog with sea weed. We both hate them. As we walked past Lauren indicated that we had walked past. It was then that I told her that the Vancouver Public Library was our real destination. Lauren loves that library as much as I do.

In something that is beginning to worry me Lauren only picked movie DVDs and no books. I am going to have to find some way of breaking this habit. 


We left the library and at the door I asked the Russian security man (we have talked often) if Roy was well.


Roy was a scruffy old man (he looked old 25 or more years ago when I first met him at the Railway Club). Roy was an obsessively avid reader of esoteric books. We often exchanged our book picks from across the table. In later years (the last 7 or so) he was a regular patron of one of the tables in front of the Blenz inside the atrium of the Vancouver Public Library. He would have a pile of books and a copy of the Globe & Mail. I would ask him what he was reading and we had longish chats. I introduced him to both my granddaughters. At a later stage Roy began to look like a homeless man. The last time I talked to him four months ago he told me he had survived a cancer scare and he was doing well.

The Russian told me that Roy had passed away a month ago. He was only 65.

Perhaps some day Lauren will  feel an indelible wave of nostalgia in a corner of her soul when she passes by these places in the city where she was born..






     

Previous Posts
Lee Lytton III & Friendly & Warm Ghosts

San Valentín

From Simple To Complex

Leaning Towards Irrelevancy

Nevertheless She Persisted - For Allan Morgan - My...

El Reloj de Arena - The Hour Glass - Jorge Luís Bo...

An Officer and a Gentleman & An Anniversary

el ayelmado tripolio que ademenos es de satén rosa...

For Susanne Tabata's Media Class At the Art Instit...

Linda Melsted - The Music in the Violin does not e...



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2/18/07 - 2/25/07

2/25/07 - 3/4/07

3/4/07 - 3/11/07

3/11/07 - 3/18/07

3/18/07 - 3/25/07

3/25/07 - 4/1/07

4/1/07 - 4/8/07

4/8/07 - 4/15/07

4/15/07 - 4/22/07

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11/11/07 - 11/18/07

11/18/07 - 11/25/07

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12/9/07 - 12/16/07

12/16/07 - 12/23/07

12/23/07 - 12/30/07

12/30/07 - 1/6/08

1/6/08 - 1/13/08

1/13/08 - 1/20/08

1/20/08 - 1/27/08

1/27/08 - 2/3/08

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2/10/08 - 2/17/08

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2/24/08 - 3/2/08

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5/18/08 - 5/25/08

5/25/08 - 6/1/08

6/1/08 - 6/8/08

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6/22/08 - 6/29/08

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7/20/08 - 7/27/08

7/27/08 - 8/3/08

8/3/08 - 8/10/08

8/10/08 - 8/17/08

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8/24/08 - 8/31/08

8/31/08 - 9/7/08

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9/21/08 - 9/28/08

9/28/08 - 10/5/08

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10/12/08 - 10/19/08

10/19/08 - 10/26/08

10/26/08 - 11/2/08

11/2/08 - 11/9/08

11/9/08 - 11/16/08

11/16/08 - 11/23/08

11/23/08 - 11/30/08

11/30/08 - 12/7/08

12/7/08 - 12/14/08

12/14/08 - 12/21/08

12/21/08 - 12/28/08

12/28/08 - 1/4/09

1/4/09 - 1/11/09

1/11/09 - 1/18/09

1/18/09 - 1/25/09

1/25/09 - 2/1/09

2/1/09 - 2/8/09

2/8/09 - 2/15/09

2/15/09 - 2/22/09

2/22/09 - 3/1/09

3/1/09 - 3/8/09

3/8/09 - 3/15/09

3/15/09 - 3/22/09

3/22/09 - 3/29/09

3/29/09 - 4/5/09

4/5/09 - 4/12/09

4/12/09 - 4/19/09

4/19/09 - 4/26/09

4/26/09 - 5/3/09

5/3/09 - 5/10/09

5/10/09 - 5/17/09

5/17/09 - 5/24/09

5/24/09 - 5/31/09

5/31/09 - 6/7/09

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6/21/09 - 6/28/09

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8/9/09 - 8/16/09

8/16/09 - 8/23/09

8/23/09 - 8/30/09

8/30/09 - 9/6/09

9/6/09 - 9/13/09

9/13/09 - 9/20/09

9/20/09 - 9/27/09

9/27/09 - 10/4/09

10/4/09 - 10/11/09

10/11/09 - 10/18/09

10/18/09 - 10/25/09

10/25/09 - 11/1/09

11/1/09 - 11/8/09

11/8/09 - 11/15/09

11/15/09 - 11/22/09

11/22/09 - 11/29/09

11/29/09 - 12/6/09

12/6/09 - 12/13/09

12/13/09 - 12/20/09

12/20/09 - 12/27/09

12/27/09 - 1/3/10

1/3/10 - 1/10/10

1/10/10 - 1/17/10

1/17/10 - 1/24/10

1/24/10 - 1/31/10

1/31/10 - 2/7/10

2/7/10 - 2/14/10

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2/21/10 - 2/28/10

2/28/10 - 3/7/10

3/7/10 - 3/14/10

3/14/10 - 3/21/10

3/21/10 - 3/28/10

3/28/10 - 4/4/10

4/4/10 - 4/11/10

4/11/10 - 4/18/10

4/18/10 - 4/25/10

4/25/10 - 5/2/10

5/2/10 - 5/9/10

5/9/10 - 5/16/10

5/16/10 - 5/23/10

5/23/10 - 5/30/10

5/30/10 - 6/6/10

6/6/10 - 6/13/10

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6/20/10 - 6/27/10

6/27/10 - 7/4/10

7/4/10 - 7/11/10

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7/25/10 - 8/1/10

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8/22/10 - 8/29/10

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9/19/10 - 9/26/10

9/26/10 - 10/3/10

10/3/10 - 10/10/10

10/10/10 - 10/17/10

10/17/10 - 10/24/10

10/24/10 - 10/31/10

10/31/10 - 11/7/10

11/7/10 - 11/14/10

11/14/10 - 11/21/10

11/21/10 - 11/28/10

11/28/10 - 12/5/10

12/5/10 - 12/12/10

12/12/10 - 12/19/10

12/19/10 - 12/26/10

12/26/10 - 1/2/11

1/2/11 - 1/9/11

1/9/11 - 1/16/11

1/16/11 - 1/23/11

1/23/11 - 1/30/11

1/30/11 - 2/6/11

2/6/11 - 2/13/11

2/13/11 - 2/20/11

2/20/11 - 2/27/11

2/27/11 - 3/6/11

3/6/11 - 3/13/11

3/13/11 - 3/20/11

3/20/11 - 3/27/11

3/27/11 - 4/3/11

4/3/11 - 4/10/11

4/10/11 - 4/17/11

4/17/11 - 4/24/11

4/24/11 - 5/1/11

5/1/11 - 5/8/11

5/8/11 - 5/15/11

5/15/11 - 5/22/11

5/22/11 - 5/29/11

5/29/11 - 6/5/11

6/5/11 - 6/12/11

6/12/11 - 6/19/11

6/19/11 - 6/26/11

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7/3/11 - 7/10/11

7/10/11 - 7/17/11

7/17/11 - 7/24/11

7/24/11 - 7/31/11

7/31/11 - 8/7/11

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8/21/11 - 8/28/11

8/28/11 - 9/4/11

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9/11/11 - 9/18/11

9/18/11 - 9/25/11

9/25/11 - 10/2/11

10/2/11 - 10/9/11

10/9/11 - 10/16/11

10/16/11 - 10/23/11

10/23/11 - 10/30/11

10/30/11 - 11/6/11

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11/13/11 - 11/20/11

11/20/11 - 11/27/11

11/27/11 - 12/4/11

12/4/11 - 12/11/11

12/11/11 - 12/18/11

12/18/11 - 12/25/11

12/25/11 - 1/1/12

1/1/12 - 1/8/12

1/8/12 - 1/15/12

1/15/12 - 1/22/12

1/22/12 - 1/29/12

1/29/12 - 2/5/12

2/5/12 - 2/12/12

2/12/12 - 2/19/12

2/19/12 - 2/26/12

2/26/12 - 3/4/12

3/4/12 - 3/11/12

3/11/12 - 3/18/12

3/18/12 - 3/25/12

3/25/12 - 4/1/12

4/1/12 - 4/8/12

4/8/12 - 4/15/12

4/15/12 - 4/22/12

4/22/12 - 4/29/12

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5/13/12 - 5/20/12

5/20/12 - 5/27/12

5/27/12 - 6/3/12

6/3/12 - 6/10/12

6/10/12 - 6/17/12

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6/24/12 - 7/1/12

7/1/12 - 7/8/12

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7/15/12 - 7/22/12

7/22/12 - 7/29/12

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8/26/12 - 9/2/12

9/2/12 - 9/9/12

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9/23/12 - 9/30/12

9/30/12 - 10/7/12

10/7/12 - 10/14/12

10/14/12 - 10/21/12

10/21/12 - 10/28/12

10/28/12 - 11/4/12

11/4/12 - 11/11/12

11/11/12 - 11/18/12

11/18/12 - 11/25/12

11/25/12 - 12/2/12

12/2/12 - 12/9/12

12/9/12 - 12/16/12

12/16/12 - 12/23/12

12/23/12 - 12/30/12

12/30/12 - 1/6/13

1/6/13 - 1/13/13

1/13/13 - 1/20/13

1/20/13 - 1/27/13

1/27/13 - 2/3/13

2/3/13 - 2/10/13

2/10/13 - 2/17/13

2/17/13 - 2/24/13

2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

3/17/13 - 3/24/13

3/24/13 - 3/31/13

3/31/13 - 4/7/13

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4/21/13 - 4/28/13

4/28/13 - 5/5/13

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5/12/13 - 5/19/13

5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

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7/21/13 - 7/28/13

7/28/13 - 8/4/13

8/4/13 - 8/11/13

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8/18/13 - 8/25/13

8/25/13 - 9/1/13

9/1/13 - 9/8/13

9/8/13 - 9/15/13

9/15/13 - 9/22/13

9/22/13 - 9/29/13

9/29/13 - 10/6/13

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10/20/13 - 10/27/13

10/27/13 - 11/3/13

11/3/13 - 11/10/13

11/10/13 - 11/17/13

11/17/13 - 11/24/13

11/24/13 - 12/1/13

12/1/13 - 12/8/13

12/8/13 - 12/15/13

12/15/13 - 12/22/13

12/22/13 - 12/29/13

12/29/13 - 1/5/14

1/5/14 - 1/12/14

1/12/14 - 1/19/14

1/19/14 - 1/26/14

1/26/14 - 2/2/14

2/2/14 - 2/9/14

2/9/14 - 2/16/14

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2/23/14 - 3/2/14

3/2/14 - 3/9/14

3/9/14 - 3/16/14

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3/23/14 - 3/30/14

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4/20/14 - 4/27/14

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12/21/14 - 12/28/14

12/28/14 - 1/4/15

1/4/15 - 1/11/15

1/11/15 - 1/18/15

1/18/15 - 1/25/15

1/25/15 - 2/1/15

2/1/15 - 2/8/15

2/8/15 - 2/15/15

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2/22/15 - 3/1/15

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11/22/15 - 11/29/15

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12/27/15 - 1/3/16

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1/31/16 - 2/7/16

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1/15/17 - 1/22/17

1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

2/5/17 - 2/12/17

2/12/17 - 2/19/17