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




 

Chris Dahl a Nagging Art Director - From Complexity to Simplicity
Saturday, August 06, 2016


Skinny Puppy


In May 1986 I was under the influence, pushing and nagging of a magazine art director called Chris Dahl. Many photographers of this century might think that being able to do as you please without instruction is true freedom. The same may apply who think that editors are meddlers who interfere and stifle personal creativity.

I must disagree with anybody who thinks that the above is right. For me the jury is still out on museum curators. At one time I would have stated that curators are failed artists. Now I am not so sure. But I will leave the subject of curators to a future blog.

Right now I am going to deal with the subject of the unpleasant fact that pushy art directors are the best thing that can happen to a photographer. At the very least I can write here how Chris Dahl made me the relatively good photographer that I am today.

Times have changed in this world of the diminishing influence of print journalism and good print magazines. At one time (my time in the 80s and 90s) there was money in magazines so these publications competed to have the best writers and the best images that they could afford. And afford they could.

Dahl knew, that in the 80s, I had a big studio with a very large curved back wall called a cove and a high ceiling. It was white but if you had your subjects far from it the cove could go from white, to gray to black. In those pre-digital times photographs had to be taken with lights. In some cases we abused this and used many, anywhere from three to six. These shoots involved large booms with lights up there that could project stars on the studio floor or hair lights that could be pointed with precision to make the hair of three guys go blood red.


Deborah E.

I have picked these three images from an essay by Les Wiseman in which he picked 6 people to watch in our city who were going to go places. This subject was always a staple of magazines once a year. As far as I know the only person who hit pay dirt was dancer Moira Whalley (now known as Whalley-Beckett) who was a producer and writer in Breaking Bad. The rest in Wiseman’s profile have perhaps faded a tad with the years.

But the purpose of this blog is to show how our city magazines, and in particular Vancouver Magazine, under editor Malcolm Parry and of course the aforementioned nagging art director Chris Dahl pushed style to the limit. Dahl in this instructions before the shoot (he never attended them so I did get that relief) kept using two words that scared me to death. He said, “Alex, I want these pictures to be heroic and monumental. They have to look like they would appear in Vanity Fair."

Jamie King

Of the three I remember that the most complex one was of swimmer Jamie King as I had to make the picture look like it was taken in a swimming pool while being able to control my lighting by shooting in the studio. From a pool manufacturing company I borrowed the chrome pool entry bars. I shot it all with my Mamiya RB-67 Pro-S and Dahl ordered me to use colour negative so that the resulting C-prints (as colour prints were then called) could be air-brushed (remember this was pre Photoshop) if they needed to be.

As I look at these pictures I smile. I smile because the stress of the past is forgotten and I can now acknowledge that Chris Dahl forced me into versatility and did his best to remove my from my then comfortable cubby hole and the comfort of photographic business as usual mode.

And I also note that I have made a long transition from the very complex to the very simple. It has been fun. My little Kitsilano studio could never accommodate all those boom stands and lights. But it is nice to know that if I had to I could do it all over again.

Thank you Mr. Dahl for pushing.



Le tournesol, le tournesol
Friday, August 05, 2016




Helianthus annuus - August 5 2016


Le tourenesol, le teurnesol Nana Mouskouri


There is a recent tradition in our family by my eldest daughter Ale who lives in Lillooet. She brings Helianthus annuus (sunflowers) in pots in the spring for us to place in our garden. Until last year that meant the back lane of our Athlone house. This year they have found a new home on the back lane to our Kitsilano digs (today I had some carrot/ mango juice, so there! I may have been a hippie in my past around 1967/68).

They look glorious now that our three roses, Rosa ‘William Lobb’, Rosa ‘Souvenir du Docteur Jamain’ and Rosa ‘Chapeau de Napoléon’ are past their blooming season (except Docteur Jamain which will bloom sporadically until the fall).

In the social media sites all kinds of people are posting all sorts of photographs of sunflowers in their prime. I have done that a few times.

Ah! Sun-Flower Weary of Time 
John Dowland 
Cras! Cras! 
Flit, Buda, Vanitas & Helianthus annuum 
Ergi la mente al sole

But my interest in roses through the years has led me to appreciate blooms that are past their prime. They can be beautiful and they can helps some of us (who are getting older geometrically and no linearly) appreciate the beauty that can be had and seen in aging.

To me it is interesting to note that the only way to keep a remontant rose to bloom is to deadhead it. The word implies (incorrectly) that the bloom is dead. This is not the case. In roses that are species roses and some that are not those “deadheads” turn into lovely rose hips which are the source of very good vitamin-c besides being attractive to the eye in a fall garden. Many roses, in particular the once-blooming Gallicas go from red or crimson to metallic purples that are a sight to behold.
And of course flowers and plants past their prime headed towards fall and winter remind us of that very human path towards death.

Jorge Luís Borges wrote (in my opinion) the loveliest tear-jerker poem on the subject. You will find the Spanish version and a translation into English below. The poem describes (and you must be Argentine-born and particularly an inhabitant or former inhabitant of Buenos Aires to appreciate what he means by gates and his description of what may have been a house of his youth. I look at the fading (but certainly not dead) sunflowers on my scanner and that I will sometime today throw them into our green bin. I don’t grieve because I know that next spring Ale will bring her sunflower pots and they will be reborn on our lane again.



De estas calles que ahondan el poniente,
una habrá (no sé cuál) que he recorrido
ya por última vez, indiferente
y sin adivinarlo, sometido

a Quién prefija omnipotentes normas
y una secreta y rígida medida
a las sombras, los sueños y las formas
que destejen y tejen esta vida.

Si para todo hay término y hay tasa
y última vez y nunca más y olvido
¿quién nos dirá de quién, en esta casa,
sin saberlo, nos hemos despedido?

Tras el cristal ya gris la noche cesa
y del alto de libros que una trunca
sombra dilata por la vaga mesa,
alguno habrá que no leeremos nunca.

Hay en el Sur más de un portón gastado
con sus jarrones de mampostería
y tunas, que a mi paso está vedado
como si fuera una litografía.

Para siempre cerraste alguna puerta
y hay un espejo que te aguarda en vano;
la encrucijada te parece abierta
y la vigila, cuadrifronte, Jano.

Hay, entre todas tus memorias, una
que se ha perdido irreparablemente;
no te verán bajar a aquella fuente
ni el blanco sol ni la amarilla luna.

No volverá tu voz a lo que el persa
dijo en su lengua de aves y de rosas,
cuando al ocaso, ante la luz dispersa,
quieras decir inolvidables cosas.

¿Y el incesante Ródano y el lago,
todo ese ayer sobre el cual hoy me inclino?
Tan perdido estará como Cartago
que con fuego y con sal borró el latino.

Creo en el alba oír un atareado
rumor de multitudes que se alejan;
son lo que me ha querido y olvidado;
espacio y tiempo y Borges ya me dejan
.

En Borges, J.L. (1964) El otro, el mismo, en Jorges Luis Borges (1974) Obras Completas, Buenos Aires: Emecé.

 Limits
Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
Sets up a secret and unwavering scale
For all the shadows, dreams, and forms
Woven into the texture of this life.
If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
Who will tell us to whom in this house
We without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
And among the stacked books which throw
Irregular shadows on the dim table,
There must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
With its cement urns and planted cactus,
Which is already forbidden to my entry,
Inaccessible, as in a lithograph.

There is a door you have closed forever
And some mirror is expecting you in vain;
To you the crossroads seem wide open,
Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
Which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain
Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
Said in his language woven with birds and roses,
When, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
You wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake,
All that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
Murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.






Where have the Penns, Avedons, Sterns, Halsmans, & Newtons Gone?
Thursday, August 04, 2016


Annie Leibovitz - October 1991


This may promise to be a rambling type of blog. I want to write about photographic style and how it seems to have disappeared (to my eye) in this 21st century. I wonder who replaced the Irving Penns, the Richard Avedons, the Bert Sterns, the George Hurrells and one of my favourites Philippe Halsman. And in particular I will write about another idol of mine, Helmut Newton. His style is long gone.

How images have affected me.

Susan Sontag - Photograph Irvin Penn
Around 1984 I was working for Vancouver Magazine, a biggish city magazine in a small pond. The art directors, I dealt with, first Rick Staehling and then Chris Dahl looked at a lot of American and European magazines for inspiration. More often than not their inspiration had to be toned down for conservative Vancouver palates.

By February 1982 when Chris Dahl was in charge of design (he had come from the expertise gained in working as a designer for the weekly MacLean’s) he had the idea of having two different covers in one month. The magazine would be distributed with the alternate covers in contrasting areas of the city. One cover was to be a portrait of my cat yawning and the other of a Vancouver stripper. Writer Les Wiseman and I had hoodwinked the editor, Mac Parry into running a story about strippers based on the money the industry earned. In the end that second cover did not run as it was rejected by the publisher.

But in these heady times of making the magazine resemble the leading American magazines with Esquire type two page spread profiles everything was game. Dahl came to me and said, “Alex I want you to do an Irving Penn type cover like the ones he shoots for Vanity Fair.” I did and he was shocked at my imitation and told me, “This looks too much like Irving Penn. Can you tone it down?”

By October 1991 I had ripped of Penn’s style to my satisfaction and made it my own and because of the general ignorance of many people in our small pond nobody noticed any resemblance to any American photographer. And by then Penn was gone from Vanity Fair.

When Annie Leibovitz faced my camera in October 1991 I was on assignment for the Georgia Straight, a Vancouver arts weekly that had yet to make the transition to colour or to use it on their covers. I could shoot my b+w photographs with glee.

Leibovitz faced a Mamiya RB-67 Pro-S, a very sharp 140mm macro lens and Kodak Plus-X Panchromatic b+w film. I used a soft box and a hair light. The flash system was a Dynalite and my tripod a Manfrotto. I am pointing out the equipment because Leibovitz told me, “This is most strange. I have that same equipment and it almost seems like I am taking my own portrait.”

The portrait was inspired by Penn and by Chris Dahl’s insistence that I imitate the master. But I was comfortable thinking that I had a adapted the style and made it my own.

Part of my own style has been to never work with an assistant so that I can be one on one with my subject. I may take only a few pictures of my subject but what is important is to connect verbally first. That’s my style no matter what kind of camera or kind of lights I might use. Be it a film camera or a digital camera.

I will stop this blog right here and will continue on the subject of Helmut Newton on another.



Mel Hurtig - 24 June 1932 – 3 August 2016
Wednesday, August 03, 2016




I photographed Mel Hurtig in January of 1993 for the Georgia Straight. Charles Campbell, the then editor of the weekly chose the top left photograph because he thought it was zany (a word often then in Campbell’s vocabulary). Mr. Hurtig charmed me and I found him intelligent and most willing to listen (as opposed to most other politicians). We had a long chat and I have forgotten the thread. But for at least one year after, I received political propaganda from the man.

Some years ago while teaching at a downtown photography school one of my students, an English young man whose last name was a most poetic Strand asked me in the presence of other students, “Alex can you show us photographs of people in magazines that still exist?” My rapid answer tinged with that inevitable sadness as Strand had indeed struck his mark was, “Most of my subjects from existing magazines are all dead.”



The Smell of Paint in a Studio
Tuesday, August 02, 2016




As a commercial photographer in Vancouver  since 1977 until the recent zombie apocalypse that brain-deaded the industry that at one time paid for work I did more than just my signature magazine photography. I traveled across the country and the US for annual reports collecting daily and hefty day rates and whhen I drove (can you imagine?) I was paid for gasoline consumed.

The folks at Emily Carr when it was known as ECCAD (Emily Carr College of Art and Design) gainfully employed me even though I had no relevant master’s degree in Art Appreciation. I worked for a program called Emily Car College of Art Outreach Program ( It was Nini Baird's baby and I was with it for close to 12 years). I (and other artist teachers, as we were called were sent to communities in the interior on weekends to give instructive seminars. I went to places like Atlin and to a town (twice) that no longer exists called Cassiar.

To fourth year graphics students I taught something called Photographics in which I had to impart to my students what it was like to work in the outside world. I remember, fondly that I brought Art Bergmann as a real rock artist to pose for photographs and my students had to design record covers for Bergmann. To make it more realistic Bergmann gave his opinion on the work presented to him. I remember going to accounting with my expenses which included the purchase of two single malt scotches. I was paid quickly and all I had to do was mention that it was a fee by the artist for services rendered.

The third job I performed (at least twice) for the college was to shoot the pictures for a school brochure.

The man in charge at the time (he wore green boat shoes) had attempted to use photography students to shoot the brochures with disastrous results. Let me explain.

One of the smells that will lure anybody into ecstasy is the smell of paints, oil paints, acrylics, linseed oil, wooden floors and paper of a studio. The activity of many students in that studio is also fascinating. The problem is that little if anything happens if you wait. You must create those decisive moments in advance and put them on paper as a shot list.

Unless you do that the head of the college found out the smells of paint did not transfer to the photographs.



It was at Emily Carr where I first heard the term undraped. They used undraped models in the life drawing classes. When I showed up to shoot these I remember that the models became understandably paranoid. I told then I would only photograph them from the rear.

As I look at these pictures I can remember most fondly the smell of the paint, the rustling of the paper, the scribbling with charcoal and I wonder how brochures are being shot at the University in this 21st century. 





The Found Card & the Process of Remembering
Monday, August 01, 2016





Today is a British Columbia holiday. It is a lazy BC Day. It is sunny, the afternoon is almost hot and my Rosemary is asleep with her cat Casi-Casi.

I am attempting to file stuff that I hurriedly threw into plastic bins when we moved from our old Athlone house five months ago to our new Kitsilano digs. A flood in the basement 10 days before our move made my throwing a hurried one.

Attempting to file it is taking longer because I find stuff that I have almost forgotten.
Seen here is a card (it folds and I would write in the inside) that might have been a Christmas card from 1973 0r 1974 before we left Mexico City for Vancouver in 1975.

I look at the card and I think of Jorge Luís Borges’s wheel of time. The spokes of that wheel have turned (inexorably) in a forward (clockwise, is time clockwise?) manner. And yet when I look at the card I can smell the air of Arboledas, Estado de México, and remember that both Rosemary and I were wearing short white leather ankle boots that had a three-inch foam-like sole.  I note that Rosemary’s eyebrows are very marked (I was the one who plucked them for her) and I know exactly where it was that I seldom got my haircuts.

Moving that wheel forward again to today, as my Rosemary sleeps, I am in a happy wonder that all four of us are here in BC (Ale, the oldest in Lillooet, and Hilary now in her new house in Burnaby).
Burnaby BC is where we first lived when we came to Vancouver. The pessimist, my Rosemary is unhappy that Hilary, Bruce, Lauren and Rebecca (soon) are all back where we began. Hilary the optimist is happy that she is back to where it all began for her.

One way or the other, with Rosemary and Casi-Casi in bed, I can consider myself a lucky man and the wheel can keep turning. I look forward as to where it might be in a few hours, days, weeks and months. And like Borges said, I remember only that which I have not forgotten from my past.

The found card is part of the process of remembering.



I'm Done
Sunday, July 31, 2016





Rosemary and I returned from a three day trip to our older daughter’s home in Lillooet BC.  The air was pure and very hot (over 40) and the people very friendly. I cooked so the food was relatively good. We slept well. Waking up in the morning and going outside in our daughter’s almost one acre property was a liberating kind of activity particularly when we stared at the mountains on either side. Her house is smack in the middle and parallel to the Fraser Canyon. The silence was palpable except when large trucks and 4x4s with their diesels roared by.

We went to an activity called We Love Lillooet and I met Margaret Lampman the mayor (a most pleasant woman) and Wendy Fraserthe editor of the local Lillooet News (another most pleasant woman). It occurred to me that one day I might want to live in Lillooet except for one important vacuum that for me exists in most small towns of our province.

I was born in a large city, Buenos Aires and lived for many years in another, Mexico City. I am used to traffic rumble, smog and other negative amenities of the big city. But I am also attracted to big city culture – the arts. I like theatre, dance visual arts, large and very good libraries.

I was aware that Lillooet had lots of arts and crafts with a major on the second part of that – the crafts. But would I ever be able to see a Picasso exhibition or witness a Bach Mass with all the trimmings of period instruments? Would I be able to go to concerts of new music and music of the avant garde?

In Lillooet I would miss my Arts Umbrella Dance Company performances and all the other dance activities of Vancouver. I would miss some of the theatre (perhaps not all of those musicals). I would miss the culinary variety of an ethnically proliferated restaurant culture.
Netflix, and communicating with my friends with facebook would not be to my liking without something more.

And yet I have a troubling confession to make that has been made almost acceptable by the statement of my friend, Vancouver composer, John Oliver.

I told him at a recent concert by the divine cellist Marina Hasselberg (a solo cello recital) that I could not abide with one more performance of Bach’s Concerto for 2 Violins in D minor, BWV 1043. With a smile he said to me, “You are done with it.” That is true I thought. I further told him that if it weren’t for the fact that I would drive Rosemary crazy I would play all my very many Piazzolla CDs all day and nothing else. His comment (one I would concur with) was, “I don’t understand why so many attempt to interpret Piazzolla. He is and was an original.”

Last night I listened to a fine Lester Young record and one with Gerry Mulligan, Stan Getz and Paul Desmond (all together!). It struck me that I want to go less to concerts, and theatre and dance, an art exhibits and very definitely any photography ones. What could be wrong?
I feel stressed out if I know I have to go somewhere on a particular day of the week or some near evening. I want to get into bed to read and enjoy the morning papers with Rosemary over a Spartan breakfast-in-bed.

Former Vancouver Magazine art director Rick Staehling may have been ahead of my time (and his) when in the 80s my rock columnist friend Les Wiseman and I would go to the Commodore (with all kinds of comp tickets) for really good punk concerts and to see bands from all over the world. Staehling would tell us , “I prefer to buy the CD.” I am beginning to understand.

Does Lillooet beckon? 




     

Previous Posts
David Macgillivray Meets My Sword Excalibur

Leonard George Did Not Make It To Spring

Jonas - Good Joby!

The Vivaldi Gloria, Alice Cooper, Igor Stravinsky ...

No vuelven nunca más.

Despised & Rejected Superbly

Olena & My iPhone3G

Style Observed

Sandrine Cassini - Dancer - Woman

The Good & the Not So Good



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8/2/09 - 8/9/09

8/9/09 - 8/16/09

8/16/09 - 8/23/09

8/23/09 - 8/30/09

8/30/09 - 9/6/09

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9/20/09 - 9/27/09

9/27/09 - 10/4/09

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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

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1/24/10 - 1/31/10

1/31/10 - 2/7/10

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5/23/10 - 5/30/10

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10/24/10 - 10/31/10

10/31/10 - 11/7/10

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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

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7/24/11 - 7/31/11

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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

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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

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6/17/12 - 6/24/12

6/24/12 - 7/1/12

7/1/12 - 7/8/12

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9/23/12 - 9/30/12

9/30/12 - 10/7/12

10/7/12 - 10/14/12

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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

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2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

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3/24/13 - 3/31/13

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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

6/2/13 - 6/9/13

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6/23/13 - 6/30/13

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7/21/13 - 7/28/13

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8/4/13 - 8/11/13

8/11/13 - 8/18/13

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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

2/16/14 - 2/23/14

2/23/14 - 3/2/14

3/2/14 - 3/9/14

3/9/14 - 3/16/14

3/16/14 - 3/23/14

3/23/14 - 3/30/14

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4/20/14 - 4/27/14

4/27/14 - 5/4/14

5/4/14 - 5/11/14

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5/25/14 - 6/1/14

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6/22/14 - 6/29/14

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10/26/14 - 11/2/14

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11/9/14 - 11/16/14

11/16/14 - 11/23/14

11/23/14 - 11/30/14

11/30/14 - 12/7/14

12/7/14 - 12/14/14

12/14/14 - 12/21/14

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

2/15/15 - 2/22/15

2/22/15 - 3/1/15

3/1/15 - 3/8/15

3/8/15 - 3/15/15

3/15/15 - 3/22/15

3/22/15 - 3/29/15

3/29/15 - 4/5/15

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4/19/15 - 4/26/15

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11/8/15 - 11/15/15

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11/22/15 - 11/29/15

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12/13/15 - 12/20/15

12/20/15 - 12/27/15

12/27/15 - 1/3/16

1/3/16 - 1/10/16

1/10/16 - 1/17/16

1/31/16 - 2/7/16

2/7/16 - 2/14/16

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2/21/16 - 2/28/16

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3/13/16 - 3/20/16

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4/24/16 - 5/1/16

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12/4/16 - 12/11/16

12/11/16 - 12/18/16

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12/25/16 - 1/1/17

1/1/17 - 1/8/17

1/8/17 - 1/15/17

1/15/17 - 1/22/17

1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

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3/19/17 - 3/26/17

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10/29/17 - 11/5/17

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11/12/17 - 11/19/17

11/19/17 - 11/26/17

11/26/17 - 12/3/17

12/3/17 - 12/10/17

12/10/17 - 12/17/17