tinytinygroupshow, #4

For your tiny viewing pleasure, a new show of work from photographers focusing on themselves as subject - a view, sometimes physically and always introspectively, from Arm's Length.


[ tinytinygroupshow is a mini electroexhibit of photographs based around a basic theme. There are no gallery hours, price lists, commissions, lengthy wall texts or attractive gallery attendants. tinytinygroupshow is a place to have a brief look at some photography, by photographers known and unknown, in a manner that hopefully provokes a little thought. View past tinytinygroupshows here. ]

Note: you might need to click on your screen a second time to enlarge the show

nearly forever

The Fridge Door © kjm

We have a saying in our family: "Dad always thought things should last forever."

And he was mostly correct, I think, in the days when you wouldn't just toss in the garbage any distressed small appliance that didn't have an Extended Guaranteed Extra Special Warranty.

Dad would've been proud to know that the family refrigerator lasted from about 1970 until yesterday afternoon. In the end, it probably deserved a nickname to itself ("Old Frosty?") and was likely sucking enough energy to run a small village.

i love this photo, #13

© Dinu Li

I love this photo by the British Chinese photographer Dinu Li. The image is from a series documenting visits with his mother to places in her native China. Here's a description, from the photographer's website: "Uncompromising in my intensified depictions, my primary concern is to stimulate thoughts of our existence and the passing of time. This I reveal by looking at one's identity, memories and life journeys, be it physical or psychological. My work questions both what is revealed in the frame and what is not. "

In looking at the work, I can't help but think that Dinu Li and I share some of the same creative motivations, driven by memory and family. For this reason, finding the photos was a wonderful surprise - and one that was courtesy of the Asian Photography Blog by Ch'ng Yaohong. It's a wonderful site, always showing fresh and interesting work, and encompassing all that is good in the world of photography blogs.

as seen: lots of bouncy potential

© kjm

Super balls in a quarter machine, Chicago.

a1, below the fold

© James Rajotte for The New York Times

Standing in line for coffee this morning, I was struck by this photograph on the front page of the New York Times. It accompanied a story titled, Old Enough Now to Hear How Dad Died at War.

We've become accustomed to seeing a standard picture of grieving subjects - where the person is shown holding a framed photo of their departed loved one. I'm not saying that's not a valid photograph to make (I've done it myself), but there's a forced drama to that type of image. In a journalistic sense, I suppose that type of shot contains all the important elements - the photograph tells a story without much need for a caption.

But this image is so much more subtle than that - with a sense of mystery and underlying emotion. And though it's technically a portrait, I think there's a wonderful moment captured here, most notably in the look on the mother's face.

Kudos to The Times for hiring James Rojette - who I hadn't heard of before - for the assignment. From his website, it looks like he's fresh out of graduate school.

as seen: from home

Bathroom Window at 6:08 Tonight © kjm

Happily back home after a near month of travel - processing pictures like crazy and catching up on issues of business, mold, mail, and life.

elusive fleas

© kjm

I was hoping to find a good Sunday flea market while in Lisbon, but it turns out the best one, referred to as "The Thieves' Market" (watch for bargains + watch your wallet) is held on Tuesdays and Saturdays. I'm not sure why it's not held on Sundays, as that seems to be the universal day of choice.

I just wrapped up a long and fun week of shooting here, and after changing hotels yesterday, wandered around the neighborhood in search of a late day coffee. Luckily, I stumbled onto a tiny park with a small, stealth flea market under a shady row of trees.

a picture and some words, #3

Left: Window of a closed-down hair salon, Lisbon, Portugal. © kjm
Right: Lyric from I Ran, by A Flock Of Seagulls

between

Water, Cascais, Portugal © kjm

I was thinking recently about distance. Particularly about how much distance, physically, lies between us and others at any given time. This came to mind while standing in the woods in Oregon, not hearing any cars, not hearing any people, not hearing any planes. My friend Steve was up ahead somewhere on the trail, but I felt wonderfully isolated with the big trees and the wind.

Wouldn't it be interesting to determine the exact time in your life when you were physically the farthest away from another human being? For example, Neil Armstrong's taking a step on the moon wouldn't count, since Buzz Aldrin was just inside Apollo 11. A bit extreme, but you get what I mean... I've been to some fairly remote places, but always in the company of others. How often are we really, truly isolated?

One day, when Google gains complete World Dominance, maybe we'll be able to do a search on our own life's history...

new landscapes

© kjm

Marilu has a phrase she uses when discussing a possible travel destination: "I've never been there..." It can be applied to locales great and small, and here in print, important intonation is lost: think of an excited adventurer unrolling a set of antique maps, or perhaps a dog with the look, "Are you gonna eat that?" It's curious and hopeful and embodies the qualities of a great travel mantra. It also reminds me of how my Dad used to proudly say, "You were there," emphasizing destinations of our early family trips.

Above, October 7, morning in Lisbon, Portugal. I've never been here before...

subjects and subject matter

BB Guns In the Bunkhouse (top); Jar in Abandoned Hunting Lodge (bottom) © kjm

Two more pictures from this past week, and I promise I'll stop for a while. A reader posted a comment on the photo below, mentioning the bullets on the windowsill. So thought I should talk about my motivation in the picture making. Originally, I had the idea to photograph exteriors of the buildings - the iconic shape of the barracks is recognizable, and the changes and modifications over the years were fascinating. Then, just a week before I was to be at Tule Lake, I found out that another photographer, Andrew Freeman, had produced a book of similar work. The pictures were from the Manaznar Internment Camp, not Tule Lake, and there are some differences in how I was going to approach the pictures. Nonetheless, I was deflated.

But I realized after arriving, that I want the pictures to show human engagement with the buildings - evidence of lives lived and a space reused, after it's initial, unfortunate purpose. My choice of subject matter isn't intended to have an edge or commentary, but to try to show that human element. Cameras weren't allowed in the internment camps, so there's a void in the Japanese American family album. And though none of these things - baseball caps, jars on shelves - were things that belonged to my family, they still represent the lives once lived there.

mind if i come in?

Jess' Kitchen Sink © kjm

This new project has me treading on some new creative ground. My personal work has always been a very solitary affair, mostly me by myself, making pictures. Lately, the Early Places work is intentionally created while I'm alone, and the Fast Food pictures are usually made when I happen onto closed restaurant. In my magazine work, it's quite the opposite - people are expecting my visit, and they know that the photos I make will end up in a magazine.

Contrast that with the act of driving unfamiliar back roads, knocking on doors, and asking people if you can photograph their house...

So I was a bit nervous going in, but everyone I met was friendly and willing to help. And I came to realize that the uncertainty, the interaction, the sharing of stories about the land and about family - this is a crucial part of the project. This is, after all, about family history, and about a specific place. I talked for hours about farming and the land - things I knew little of. People responded to my questions and curiosity with a surprising openness.

The best example might be the Prosser siblings (John, Judy, and Frank) who, in the midst of harvesting potatoes, allowed me photograph in their late father's house, which was once an internment camp barracks. I had a bit of difficulty explaining why photographs of his kitchen sink meant something to me and my work, but they were gracious and open.

working title: camp home series

© kjm

I've been in California the past few days, beginning a new project. In May, I came to the site of the Tule Lake internment camp, where my dad's family lived for part of WWII. On that visit, I assumed I'd find a memorial, and hoped to at least visit where the camp once stood. But I learned that many buildings from the camp still stand - some, former military quarters, form a small subdivision on the camp grounds. And the barracks, used to house families like mine, were dispersed to returning veterans, as part of a homesteading program in the newly irrigated surrounding land.

I was only passing through that day, but decided to return to photograph the buildings in their current state. There were a few creative roadblocks in the past weeks (more on that soon), but I've been on the ground and making pictures for the past three days. I'm not completely sure of how to talk about the work in a concise manner, but it feels completely right to be here - driving small county roads, meeting nice people, and sharing stories about the past.

The buildings dot the landscape here - some have been remodeled and lived in as houses since the 40's, while others were used for storage or outbuildings. And while there are hundreds in the area, I can't escape the idea that one of them might have been my dad's home, if only for a short time.

seeing with your eyes

© kjm

I just finished a backpacking trip in the Northern Cascades of Oregon with my friend Steve. It was fun to catch up with Steve on our somewhat annual trip, and the location and weather were spectacular. On trips like this, I usually don't bring my camera with me - it's a nice little vacation from taking pictures. There's lots of picturesque things, as you can imagine, but sometimes it's frustrating not having ALL your gear, in order to make a picture correctly. Without the whole kit, I'd just assume do without.

My brother-in-law Mark has a phrase for my nephew Kale when he's in china shop-type situations: "Look with your eyes." (A particularly good phrase for Kale, as Marilu and I think he's a bit of a Mini Zen Master.) So, channeling Kale, here's what I saw, and will hopefully remember: A pin-dropping quiet forest of enormous Hemlocks; an insane variety of mushrooms - from enormous, Grateful Dead hat size, to sponge-like, to creepy and slimy; tiny red salamanders swimming in a shallow lake; a plate of Trader Joe's Indian food and garlic naan; a snow-capped Mt. Hood; strange, unopened pinecones that were gnawed on by some little creature, leaving a pile that looked exactly like pencil shavings; a glassy mountain lake at sunset.

In full disclosure, I did take a few pictures of Steve, with his point & shoot, that I'd like to submit to the NY Times' Why We Travel column. Vacations have to be paid for somehow...

room at the inns

© kjm

Marilu and I took a break from the Phoenix heat (still!) to spend last night in Flagstaff, AZ. It's a great place - with laid back and friendly folk, a mountain town fashion aesthetic, no Starbucks in the town proper, and regular trains that can clear your sinuses with the volume of their whistles. It's thanks to the history of those trains that Flagstaff has a bundle of historic hotels - and the fact that the town sits right on Route 66 probably didn't hurt. We chose the charming room no. 42 in the Weatherford Hotel, above left (tip: avoid no. 59, which sits practically in the hotel bar).

i love this photo, #12

The Empty Plate, New York, 1947 © Irving Penn

I came across this wonderful Irving Penn picture recently, and I don't remember having seen it before. Which is a bit odd, because his book, Passage, is one of my all time favorites. This photo, to me, falls somewhere between his carefully crafted still life work and the richness of his portrait work. It also pleasantly reminds me of the work of Laura Letinsky and of this photo by Kelly Shimoda.

early places: searching for semi gloss

Corner Of The House On The Napholz Side © kjm

The house could really use a paint job, but our low-bidding-and-laid-back house painter is being a bit too laid back. The days are getting colder and shorter, and he's gone MIA. I'm not sure if it'll get done before the end of Fall. I helped my brother paint the house one summer, and Bruce Springsteen's album, The River, had just been released. As we painted (he up high, and me safely on the ground), we played the album on Kurt's Dual turntable (sweet!), and propped his big teenage boy speakers out the window.

my so called collection, #8

Herman's bed, Kenner, Louisiana 2002 © alec soth

Amy Stein posted recently about finding affordable photographs online from places like Aperture, Blind Spot, and SF Cameraworks. She has a great picture from her Stranded series available right now over at Humble Arts Foundation.

In 2004, I was able to get this Alec Soth picture from the Museum of Contemporary for about the cost of two months of winter heating. At the time, I had the money, and that's not always the case. But even if I didn't, it'd certainly be worth wearing my winter coat in the house for a while...

within reach

© kjm

One of the things I love about having a blog (besides the lucrative product endorsements), is that it's a place for certain pictures to have a home. A danger of doing assignment work is that you can put yourself in sleep mode until the phone rings. It's possible to be aware of interesting images around you, but what would I do with the picture once taken? Even the work I consider personal is defined somewhat rigidly by project. Easily brushed aside in some professional sense, the danger is losing the curiosity and spark that started me off in the first place. I tell young photographers to take lots of pictures - why should that be any different for me?

I don't know him, but I'm a fan of Channing Johnson's blog. The pictures he posts are small and heartfelt, and it seems like his camera is always in his hands. In my case, I've started to shoot more of what I used to pass by, and some of those subjects are in the space I occupy. It probably helps that I let things sit untouched, but I swear that's not on purpose.

as seen: the world as flat

Nightstand, Ox-Bow © kjm

I'm in Michigan today, on an assignment to photograph at Ox-Bow, an art school and artists' residency. It's a wonderful place, and though it sounds like brochure-speak, I felt more relaxed the moment I arrived yesterday. I met a local artist named Stephen, who told me about having had a brain aneurysm two years ago, and how he was still working to reconnect and realign his thoughts. He told me how, after the aneurysm, he lost the ability to see in three dimensions. He had regained the ability, but it still was causing problems for him artistically. Isn't the act of photographing is a bit like the opposite - seeing things in three dimensions, and then capturing them in the best way in which they'll be seen in two...?

as seen: a man in uniform

©kjm

I had an assignment last week to photograph an 85-year-old WWII veteran named Keith. We had a lively conversation about his time in the war, about the manner in which he was shot by a German soldier (remember: never throw a third grenade from the same spot), and about my Japanese American relatives and family friends who had served bravely during the war. Truth be told, probably 75 of my 90 minutes with Keith were spent talking. As his lovely wife Carol put it, "He can talk all day about the war - and he does."

But this was one of those great assignments where you get a free pass into someone else's life and stories - and it made me miss newspapering, where these moments happened more often. Over the phone, I had asked Keith if he had any mementos from the war, which might look good in a photo. When I arrived, his old dress uniform was there, and when he put it on, it still fit him like a glove. Carol, who'd been married to him for 56 years, smiled and told me she'd never seen him in it.

tinytinygroupshow, #3

I had intended to open this show pre-Labor Day, considering the theme. But since it's still in the 80's here in Milwaukee, and I haven't yet put my white shoes and belts away, there's still time to Go Outside And Play.

Note: you might need to click on your screen once more to enlarge the show)

[ tinytinygroupshow is a mini electroexhibit of photographs based around a basic theme. There are no gallery hours, price lists, commissions, lengthy wall texts, or attractive gallery assistants. There will be no openings, so please don't ask for free wine and cheese. tinytinygroupshow is merely a place to have a brief look at some photography, by photographers known and unknown, in a manner that hopefully provokes thought. ]

lights on, nobody home

N. Milwaukee Avenue Location © kjm

Thanks to photographer Michelle Nolan, who pointed me toward a closed-down Burger King in Chicago recently. This one was pretty fascinating, in that there was serious graffiti on the outside of the building, and from the sidewalk, it seemed like it had been closed for a while. But inside, there were random lights on, the floors were mopped, and everything was orderly...

happy labor day

©kjm

now playing: the lures!

I found this illustration in an old book titled, Esquire's Book Of Fishing. It was a cheap antique store find, and I figured it'd be a nice addition to a friend's cottage. Aside from the fun illustrations (don't you just want to hug Deep Runner #2?), it struck me that all the lure names would make great band names. I'd totally pay $10 to hear Subsurface open for Darter...

as seen: something new

© kjm

At an early newspaper internship, I worked with a photographer who'd occasionally let me ride with him as he looked for feature art. On a slow news day, a photo of a someone painting a picket fence, or kids playing in a sprinkler could make the front page. Whenever he saw someone doing something - anything, really - he'd turn the car around and say, "What the Hell was that guy doing?," in this excited, amazed tone. The funny part was, it was usually some very small visual happening, but he was both surprised and excited at the possibility.

Yesterday morning, while sitting at my desk in the usual Adobe-inspired haze, I saw this photo, above, and said, "What the Hell is that?" It's also a very small visual happening - shadows on my office wall, but for as many days as I've sat at my desk, shadows have never appeared that way. It's a combination of a sun through trees, a window shade, old plastic window insulation (the lines), and who knows what else. Anyway, very long story short, I love how much depth there is in the image, and it reminds me of some kind of Japanese print.

Mostly, I'm happy at the thought of being unexpectedly surprised.

my so called collection, #7

Another flea market postcard, but isn't it gorgeous? It's so graphic and textural, and I love the broad ink strokes, which covers up some mysterious handwriting beneath.

it's not just a stick, uncle kevin

Zenya's Slingshot ©kjm

I had a great visit with my brother Kurt, his partner Ruth, + my SuperNephew Zenya in Yellow Springs this weekend. Here's a picture, inspired by Timothy Archibald's recent pictures of his son's world, posted on his blog. I've always been a fan of Archibald's editorial work, and his blog seems like a fun diversion to more personal work.

as seen: wall, indianapolis

©kjm

more early places

The Light In Mrs. Johnson's Room ©kjm

I've been photographing my childhood home for years now, in an attempt to capture places that remain unchanged from my youth. At some point, I began calling the series, Early Places, because I knew that there were other pictures to be made, outside of the house.

Last week, I spent a quiet afternoon inside my former grade school, wandering and looking, and feeling like everything had become smaller. The school is two connected buildings - one from the early 1900's, with terrazzo floors and dark, varnished wooden doors - and the other is from the early 1960's, which now seems very mid-century modern cool. Both buildings have been lovingly cared for, and I was surprised to see how little had changed in all this time.

While in the school, I felt the way I do when I'm making pictures in the house: lucky - to have this chance to closely examine something, some place, from many years past.