iPhone 6 - Not
Wednesday, January 06, 2016
There is a paradox related to how we perceive perfection in these times. I would assert that my Sony clock radio sounds a lot better than what people listen to with their tiny bud earphones. While some to this day insist that records had a true presence and the CDs do not I must admit that I like to listen to my CDs in my JBL Studio Monitors. Sound indeed (to me) was better then (and now in my living room) than now. But as most have never had the chance to listen to music with proper speakers that do not enhance and distort the bass sound they do not know what they are missing.
For years I resisted eating yoghurt thinking that like buttermilk this was some sort of rotten milk product. I was offered peach yoghurt when I was 21 and I have been a fan since.
With my photography I have gone through all kinds of stages. I have shot extremely sharp pictures. I have used contrast. I have printed my b+w negatives dark or light. I have looked for lighting perfection without a spill of a highlight in the shadow areas. I have blurred my dance pictures with very slow shutter speeds. In short I have shot the gamut (for me) of what photography can offer.
Of late I have seen the iPhone 6 bus shelter adds in Vancouver – Shot With an iPhone 6. The photographs mostly show a pristine perfection that to me lacks the humanity (and thus unpredictability) of imperfection. Those who know will understand that the pictures are taken to adjust to the iPhone’s capabilities to excel only in low contrast situations.
To me this sort of photography is tired and I seek excitement in taking pictures with the flaws of whatever process will enhance them.
And if I see one more glorious sunset on Facebook I will scream in the privacy of my new oficina
(formerly a garage and detached from our new little home). Nobody will hear me but I will glory at the satisfaction
A House is Not a Home Until...
Tuesday, January 05, 2016
|Christmas Eve - 1994 - Athlone Street|
My mother used to say that a house was not a home until
you put at least one framed picture on the wall.
This romantic idea of hers I have kept all these years
but of late I have been thinking about the reverse of it. What happens when you
start removing pictures from walls (and if you are frugal as I am you take out
the hanging nails to be re-used)? Does the home suddenly become a house or does
it simply embark on a slow death?
I am not sure but I do note my Rosemary’s grim expression
as she enters this room or that one and sees the bare walls.
Today the carpet cleaning man (a pleasant Iranian)
delivered five cleaned rugs to the new house. They had been removed from our
present house/home. The bare floors in the living room and the dining room were
grim reminders of days to come.
But on the positive side I placed those five carpets on
the floors of the new house which already has some pictures up. Is this new
house becoming a home?
In situations like these in which increments are part of
the process I always think of the co-founders of the calculus, Sir Isaac Newton
and Gotffried Leibniz. I believe that in some way just the re-using of my
hanging nails will bring bits of the old home into the new. We do know that if
you pour a bottle of Scotch in the Pacific Ocean, one can calculate with the
study of ocean currents and with Newton’s and Leibniz’s help the time it will
take for infinitesimal quantities of the liquor to show up on the Pacific.
I also think of the infinitesimal when I consider the
slow death of a home. In my neighbourhood which I call Slow Dresden, the noise
of houses being torn down by excavators, of late, has been reduced simply
because there are few old houses standing. The noise is a cacophony of pain to
my senses and I often wonder if the ghosts and spirits that inhabit all homes
at that point will leave for better haunts.
The days when my Rosemary would confront developers who
were about to cut down trees have ended. There are few trees to cut down but
our present home will give these people ample opportunity to sever them once
they get the permits for their four or five car garages.
I do know that on that final day (the day after the
moving vans?) I will drive my Malibu away and I will never return. I will not
hear the noise when our home, by then a house will cease to be either. I will
imagine it, perhaps. But by then I will be taking my mother’s advice and I will
be hanging pictures in what will be our new home. In my heart I know it will be
Death comes to Athlone
Sullenly & Silently Over The Fragments Of The House