Here are some some random images from walking around Johnstown. Not sure they fit in with anything except a general feeling of decay.

Shot with a Leica M2
Lens: Voigtlander 35mm
Film: Arista Premium 400
Developer: HC-110 Dilution B

I was running low on Arista Premium, but look what I just got:

Some street images from my recent trip to NYC.

Leica M2
Voigtlander 35mm f/1.4
Portra 800

On a milkgrey fall afternoon, I found myself wandering through the vast Prospect Hill Cemetery in Gloversville, New York. I meandered aimlessly amongst the dead and pondered superstitions of the living. Our civilization is adamant about marking the resting places of our loved ones, and just as adamant about neglecting those markers and letting the elements do the erosive forgetting for us.  I bore brief witness to names that passed away a hundred and fifty years ago. If there is anything to the idea of a resting place, I thought Prospect Hill seemed as pleasant as anywhere, noble trees holding up the rolling hillside.  But, I’m not a believer and the absence of any sort of spiritual presence weighed on me, a tactile emptiness…

As I angled down a shallow gully, a striking momunent caught my eye in the distance, an immediate impression of a powerful towering physique, athletic with a great sense of motion… except as I focused on it, I realized it was actually a tree. And, what a tree! Gnarled and black and crooked. I have no idea how it appeared to me as a human figure. I approached it with high curiosity and could not help but notice how out of place it looked, how sinister. Yikes! At the base of the tree sat two dislodged headstones, smoothed by age — or perhaps to protect interlopers like myself from some terrible knowledge. I wonder who would know the truth.

I dropped reverently to one knee: And, I framed a photograph, noting with perverse glee the dilapidated house in the background complete with rusted out recreation vehicle — how very Gloversville. And, on cue, a black crow added punctuation to the ridiculous scene with a hollow cry that was swallowed up by the endless grey sky.

Leica M2

Voigtlander 35mm

Arista Premium 400

HC-110 Dilution B

 

 

 

 

Walking around Gloversville, NY with some black and white film. (Arista Premium 400)

fun. – At Least I’m Not As Sad As I Used To Be
Music for reading comes from the new band simply called fun. off their album Aim and Ignite.

I headed south on the one-oh-one freeway towards downtown Los Angeles to seek out Walter. See, my trusty Canonet had failed to fire a few times when I was out this week — there are exciting photos to come when I get around to developing. This is the Canonet that came to me through the grace of a unique soul in Australia who gave me his when my last one was stolen. It has deep emotional value to me, as it represents the beginnings of my true photographic self.

The misfires were intermittent, the camera works. In fact, I couldn’t duplicate the problem when I got back from the field. Still, I didn’t like the nagging possibility that I’d miss something someday at a crucial moment. I thought I’d try to poke around inside on my own. Following the guidance of eminently reliable sources, I still managed to tear the leatherette covering badly in the process of removing it. This wasn’t a crisis; in fact it gave me an excuse to order a fancy new leather for the camera, something I’d always wanted to try. But when the camera was open, I could make no sense of it, and saw nothing I could tighten on my own. So while it was in it’s wounded state, I figured I’d take it to a pro. I should never open cameras. Ever.

Walter.

I’d never gone to Walter before, but he’d come recommended by anonymous internet sources. His Web site is pure kitsch, suggesting exactly the sort of man needed to overhaul a wounded camera from the early nineteen-seventies.

The scene in realtime: I park and try to find the shop. A hippie on a bike with a skateboard slung over his shoulder says a bright hello. We agree how beautiful the day is. It’s a beautiful pure moment in Los Angeles.

And there it is: The shop, open Saturdays, small and is on Cesar Chavez near downtown. One needs to be buzzed in. And, there he is. He is short and substantial, grizzled, dark and unkempt, in other words, Walter is a camera wizard level nine. I give him the Canonet and as I am describing what happened, he interrupts me to say “What happened to the leather?” I tell him that too. He is unconvinced. We both try to replicate the conditions by which the shutter does not cock. We cannot. I ask about the ever-so-slight wobble to the lens. Is that normal? “That is normal,” he says. He even takes out a roll of spent film, we load it and try again. With every successful shutter click, he seems more resigned. This was almost a replay of the first time I met Fleenor. Except this time, it ended with Walter saying, “Well that is no good. Now, I can’t take your money.”

“How much did you pay for this?” he wants to know. I think I know where he is going; get a new one rather than pay sixty bucks to fix it.

“What kind of work do you do?” And so it begins. We spend the next half hour talking about the economy, politics, algae-powered cars, what he Kurds are really up to. Walter is from Egypt. He’s been in Los Angeles for thirty years. He loves America and will spend the rest of his days in Los Angeles. He’s not happy with what is happening in this country, but he is adamant on how it will be fixed: Vote! No revolution! We must vote. On this we can agree. He implores me to see the movie Food, Inc. I say that I will.

Every ten minutes or so, someone comes into the shop with a claim check. Picking up their camera. Walter says the same thing to each of them about their camera: “Don’t leave it in the car. No water, no sand! And, don’t let anyone borrow it!” He takes a call looking for an estimate. He can’t give estimates over the phone because every problem is different. If Walter is sure my camera doesn’t need service, I will have faith for now. Perhaps the simple laying of of his hands shall keep it safe. I shake his hand and bid him farewell. He thanks me for the conversation. I wish I had more for him.

On my way home, I stopped at Freestyle. I needed chemicals, and maybe some film. The Nice Girl I see every other time is there hanging out at the front. She smiles and says hello. She must be a student somewhere. I head back to the film counter where they’re a little more gruff. I’ve asked about Aristacolor film there before. (See why I want some) They’ve already told me it’s gone. Gone for good. Not being made anymore. I know it, but I’m stubborn, and about to ask again. Out of nowhere, Nice Girl has followed me back there and she offers to help me.

There’s no Aristacolor left? I ask innocently. Nice girl looks quizzically at one of the other film counter grunts. “No way, loong gone,” says a gruff and harried voice. “Do you carry any other color films in one hundred foot cans?” She isn’t sure but she’ll check. After a few seconds she comes back. “I think we have one can left of the Arista,” she smiles. She goes back and finds it. Nice Girl is the best.

I leave Freestyle a little giddy, singing for the day. Only later do I make the connection. If I didn’t seek out Walter, if his shot had been closed, if I put it off until next week then the Last Can of Aristacolor On Earth would not have been there, Nice Girl would have been off that day. The two episodes were connected.

Photo by UnclescarMT

Gosh, I thought it was already dead. I have some expired rolls I’ve yet to shoot. I better get on that.

Kodak kills Kodachrome film after 74 years | Technology | Reuters.

The street was dark, I wasn’t sure if I had the right house as I rolled up and killed the lights. I got out and crept up the driveway. No lights on, or wait maybe a flicker of television behind the drapes. Was this this place? My sneakers crunching the gravel sounded louder than popcorn. Or gunshots.

A dog barked loudly from behind the gate ten feet in front of me. I froze. Sounded mean. Sounded like it didn’t like strangers. I decided to call.

“Hey I think I’m outside, not sure if it’s the right house.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll be right out.”

Some rustling inside the house. Someone coming up from a basement, maybe. The front door opened. The man came out and I went up to him. He had the merchandise wrapped in foil inside a Ziploc bag.

“All ten for twenty-five right?”

“Yes, you can count them.”

He passed over the packet. I counted them and they were all there. I handed over the cash.

“You know, if you need any other…” he started.

“I’ll get back to you,” I cut him off. “Have a good night, man.”

“You too.”

I crunched back down the driveway. If the dog barked again, I didn’t hear it. Must be the adrenalin. I tensed, certain floodlights were about to be flipped on. Pointing at me. Red and blue lights. Any second now.

But, nothing. Smooth as silk. I made it back to my car, tossed in the packet and vacated the area.

I can’t believe I just scored some Rollei 120 B&W film off Craigslist. Sweet!

The scene is Hollywood. I’m halfway to dropping film off at The Icon on Wilshire. I have my Leica in my hand and I’m waiting for the bus. I’m finishing off a roll that has been in the camera for a couple weeks. I take a picture and the counter slides past thirty-six. I take another and the counter goes to thirty-seven. I get nervous. I fire off another and go past thirty-eight. Panicking, I click, wind, click, wind, click.

Oh no, not again.

Flashback, the first: Discovering that a roll of film didn’t load properly is a rush of desperate frustration. It’s like a sinking feeling in fast-forward. It’s a rapid plummet as the heart searches for some escape where there is none. It’s terror and pain. I just went through this!

Oh no, not again, indeed.

Flashback the second: A couple weeks ago I’m chatting with Bill, and I’m loading my Leica. An idea strikes me: If I load my camera inside the lightproof change bag, I can get perhaps two or three extra frames from the roll of film that would normally be exposed to light. I’m very proud of myself and I brag about my idea. Bill accedes to the possible wisdom of this, but seems wisely hesitant to laud it as groundbreaking.

Now, back to our story.

I get nervous. I fire off another and go past thirty-eight. Panicking, I click, wind, click, wind, click, and clang. The film stops winding. It stops winding! The film had loaded properly. Turns out I had a good three extra frames – that I just burned with random clicks in my wild fit of desperation.

Nice work, genius.