shadow study

The word "shadow" exists on a grand scale of usages. As a noun, a shadow is light veiled. The truth of the matter is that there needs to be visible light for the shadow to exist. One would not call the room that was all dark a "shadowed room"; the room would simply have the lack of light, or, it would be dark. If suddenly a candle appeared, supported by the accuser- the one who called this room dark, he would now attempt to describe how this area was in the light and this area was in the shadow, or, I believe, "in the shadows". We've come to know this specific type of dark as the shadow.

For literary uses of the word (shadow is the word I'm referring to), it still can exist as a noun, but becomes even more as a (almost) tangible entity. The shadow suggests much more than the contrast of the presence of light juxtaposed against the lack of it. Usually in films and books, an ominous force exists inside of it. Now we have a situation where one can be inside the shadow, giving it more physical properties of volume, depth. It must occupy space in order for something to be inside it. What we are talking about here is the lack of light being a presence. The lack of light that only exists in presence of light in close proximity, or shadow, demands our attention. We must take notice of this. On the opposing side, the cave, almost completely in darkness has one stream of light coming through. Is there a word for this, as concrete as shadow? Not to my understanding of the English language. Perhaps the Russians have a word for it. This image invokes thoughts of God and religion. "God Rays" is what this is called while coming through a cloud. A very simple line can be drawn here. While God shoots us with light, things lurk in the shadows.

Do you see what I am saying?

Even the best scientists are not sure what light is. Light, according to them, exhibits characteristics of both waves and particles. Particles are the little tiny things that compose our universe and all tangible matter. Waves are comprised of energy, and no matter how many waves there are, one could never pick a mass of them up, for they have no mass. But do bare in mind, waves can affect objects with mass. Thousands of people died at Chernobyl, not because of explosions, but because of radioactive waves.

How can light be BOTH waves and particles. Sometimes we can touch it sometimes we can not? If I were to have a better scientific understanding of things, possibly I could explain this to you here, but this is a baffling idea. Taking this- this idea of not understanding what light even is, how could we say what the lack of light is; what the shadow is. Who are we to decide what to consider dark, what to consider a shadow and what to consider light when the best scientists of our time can't even describe to me concretely what this "thing" is that we are even talking about. The only shadow I know anything about is the figurative shadow. "Living in someone's shadow." This can be described very easily. The figurative idea of the shadow is more concrete than the literal and physical form of the word. And yet, we all know shadow when we see it.

An Account of the Highway

The hustle and bustle of the steel, we're fighting
a cold war with the sky. Metal cars move like the
dung beetle across a snow ridden
landscape, with the biggest load of
shit any of us have ever carried. And I myself
have carried some serious shit.

Inside the dung beetle there is a
soft light, a warm stereo. The
window rolls down. Silence only heard
in the deepest depths of a forest filled
library. A Peacefulness never before
experienced amongst the bellowing
exhaust of a 10,000 (ten-thousand)
polyurethane, Metal-alloy fused
rubber. Gasoline. Crude Oil. Red Lights. Red Lights.

Finals week. Still Life. Portraits. Papers. Exam #3 cram cram cram. Tell work that you're sick so you can sleep a little bit later because you were up until four describing a seven minute sequence of a film. Time to hand in your work.


A little comparison. The first drawing I posted here a few months back. I tried it again. (the second version.)

Past Participle

In my room I have a box filled with all this stuff I've collected the past three or so years, things from matchbooks to letters to coins- anything and everything. You know the sort right? The crap that is worth nothing but means something to you? One would expect that when you go through such a collection you would get real nostalgic and upset, and I was for a bit, don't get me wrong. But to be honest, the best part about it was enjoying all these items for what they are, and being happy that you are no longer in that place. Not that these were bad times, or times I want to forget, but that now I am in the place I am, and I've done all that; I've been through all that.

Getting drunk makes you warm and staying drunk keeps you warm. Nights where you don't expect to see your breath but you can't even feel your feet and your nose has froze but it's only October; what the hell is January going to be like?

Still trying to find that small bit of hope and reassurance in the bleak, never changing world. Fall fest is over and I have 700 pictures to sort though. Welcome Saturday.

The eye game never really gets you anywhere.

...and while I'm on the subject of coffee

I just found out Pura Vida still has soymilk: rejoice! But it's still nothing compared to this Tel Aviv coffee shop (and their delicious espresso).

speak softly.

Nobody knows the rage of the rampant
steel-metal cars that ravish the road;
stopping only to allow a family of ducklings to cross.

A cool fall morning of drizzle and college classes;
quick glances and glistening eyes play games-
grayed by a fog.

Early mornings; Late nights

Tuesday morning soccer practices at daybreak while the rest of the world sleeps sleeps sleeps and your out and back before they had a chance to open their morning eyes to the sounds of them putting in that goddam bike rack. 1am sessions at the library while you franticly read some obscure essay about that writer that died before you were even born; before you were even an idea. The rest of them floattttttttttttt while you steam straight ahead. No captain is ever going to yell "land ho!" but you continue to sail further further and further.

The last thing to remember before you shut your eyes at night: the world is round.

Good Morning; Baltimore

It's been a long time. I just finished a huge batch of uploads from film canisters that have been sitting on my desk for months, and here they are. I've almost altogether stopped shooting digital in a time where the chemicals to develop photo paper may become illegal, and where one of the most fantastic realms of photography, the Polaroid, isn't producing film anymore. The "photo" itself will no longer exist, along with the other forms of analog art. In essence, nothing really exists anymore. Arbitrary-ium. Well, we will go through these last artifacts of the "tangible age" slowly, beginning with a summer morning of hang-ups and hang-overs in the Baltimore heat. Something about that city makes you want to love and something about that city makes you want to die. It's either blistering cold or blistering hot, and you're always a little bit too unclean.

And why is it that a telephone on the otherside of the world can give you the most insightful messages: in English too! and you didn't even pick up the receiver. A friendly bartender relays the same message as the telephone, but this time it's personal. This is no fortune-cookie advice column. He is watching and observing and taking notes at all times; he is a bartender- he has met a person or two before. It takes him 50 Sheqels and one hour to tell you exactly what it is that you need to do. His services seem an invaluable commodity. But we will find a way to succeed either way; won't we?

montreal, in film

let me know what you think!

something different

(The first two should be viewed together)

Here are a few drawings i've been working on recently; maybe I should stick to photography.

get it?

nameless bus on a nameless street in a nameless city: the city.

on a hill, on an island- mount royal

you will know it when you feel it :: montreal, quebec

It's ten thirty-five- I'm late.

The morning breeze makes me feel

too prepared

with this sweater-y, wintery mindset that I never fell out off. Break

out the light clothes! It's so warm

today, it's springtime; and I still wear my winter coat:

as to not be caught off guard while

walking over to your apartment.

Up late- again riding out the night,

and why cant you just really act.

Sit. you, sit.

Stress pimples my face in

purple pain and the only thing I really know 

I will be with in the morning is

twenty ounces of

black gold as I fuel the empire with

gasoline- killing birds and killing us all.

perspective

Sleep is so easy to achieve when you are in that altered state of mind; you left the beers in your bag, they are warm in the morning. The skunked drink tastes like a cross between sweat and that leftover chinese food that has been in your fridge since last semester.

Sleep is so easy to achieve when your body is being dragged down; you have been in class for fifty days and the only other fifty days you had left were spent at work. Your legs are crying and there is something thick and viscous in your lungs. The frosty snow covered hill you climbed last night begs you to lay down and call it quits.

Sleep is so hard to achieve when your mind is tired with thought; you want it to stop running and it won't; you haven't the slightest control over it. Legs give out and the body surrenders but that mass of wrinkly grey matter at the top of it all will never. You need to sleep, it's three-o-clock it's four-o-clock and the running needs to stop. You want to suppress. You pick up the skunked beer and drift off.

sometimes im happy, too.

In the dining hall, at the soda fountain he stood there; his gaze focused on the doubled dixie cup he held in his left hand, watching the ice cold water slowly reach the brim of that flimsy waxed plastic drink container. His mind is completely engrossed in that cup; there is nothing more for him to think about at this particular moment than the containment of that water, and nothing more than the first sip to cool his red hot burning throat. As the water reaches the edge of the cup, his excitement grows; you can see his eyes widen and his posture straighten: how rigid and erect! There is some glowing essence about him now, the edge of the cup reaches his lips and he tilts, allowing the fluid to rush towards his lips- his mind commands this, his body commands this.
I call for Trevor to watch this captivating spectacle of love and desire, but when I reaffix my energy back toward the soda fountain, he is gone. Trevor, now you think I’m an idiot! Stupid!, you call me. What the hell are you talking about? you say. O Trevor how did you not see him, how did you not FEEL him; his moment so intense, his energy so commanding- he is gone now! YOU killed this moment Trevor and next time I WILL NOT invite you in. My meal beckons me and I returned to her when lo and behold, the boy was at it again- at the fountain again, his cup once more brimming with the cool liquid. Trevor, watch! He’s back! and, gone. His lips were so close to that water and I can’t help but be heartbroken. And yet where has he gone? O what a torturous fate has been bestowed upon this boy, or possibly on myself: a man simply cannot just disappear. And again it happens, and yet again. I ask myself who is the demon at work here, and who is the demon working on, this sad sad boy or my own sunburned brain? I pray this a dream, I prey to awake in my sheets with the hunger, so that I may see this place in its true light.

A lot of times when I take pictures, people seem to take great joy in the ones I hate. When I did some press shots for some band awhile ago, they chose a few of them to put up on their website and personally, I think they chose the wrong ones. Maybe I don't understand my own work correctly... wait let me rephrase that. Maybe I don't understand my own work "correctly", (becuase in art there is no correct, but actually there is) but this has been happening ever since I picked up a camera. There is one shot of them sitting at a bar, and they couldn't have chosen a WORSE picture to open their webpage with. I mean, my problems with it is that it's just not a good photo. The lighting is off, the faces are blurry, nothing's good. Go check out their webpage, tell me what you think, and then let me know if this would have been a better choice.

-At this point my blog has gotten enough attention that I can ask my reader(s?) of a favor.

      -And also, by all means, if I'm being rash, a dick or anything of the sort, feel free to let me             know.

http://www.myspace.com/wearesafeashouses

It left me; it's gone. The once a month plan is now in full effect and no, I'm not talking about my period. What is it that determines that I get terribly sick every month. It's this school, it's these people, it's all this stress...better drink more orange juice.

Well, can't say I didn't have fun; can't say I didn't fall in a puddle (or was it a hole) knee-deep filled with muddy shit water; can't say that I discovered some deep truth about myself while I was alone driving for five or six hours; can't say I can't afford a pack of cigarettes anymore: can't say I didn't leave my socks in Goshen, New York.

A payed job? Someone wants to pay me for my photographic skills? Pshht. It's weird. I don't think I have much talent as it is, so trying to sell myself is fucking hard. It's understandable that they want to make sure they're getting what they're paying for, but for me to attempt to push what I think sucks is even harder; maybe I should have some confidence but, ya know, I don't!