Partially Based on a True Story

Fact:

Two photos from my series of minimalist Baltimore exteriors will be making their public debut at the inaugural group art exhibition hosted by Maryland Art Place entitled, IMPACT: Baltimore Showcase @ Zeke's. The show opens on Thursday, September 29th and runs through January 11, 2023.  

Fiction: (partially based on a true story)

I am fastidious when it comes to daily living, which also applies to art making and more recently, picture framing. I trust Metropolitan Picture Framing in Minneapolis when it comes to crafting the frames for my photography. Their work is exact, consistent and high quality. But the job doesn't stop there. Once I receive Metro's frame I put everything together, which basically relies on two very specific things: 1) Ensuring that the glazing (museum glass) is spotless, which for anyone who has worked with museum glass knows—is not easy, considering both sides of the glass have an anti-reflective coating and one side is also coated with UV protection; the glass is gorgeous, but it's high maintenance; cotton, lint free gloves are a must, and 2) Making sure there are no foreign particles (boogers, hair, flakes of skin, dust) under the glass or on the photograph; a soft, anti-static brush is perfect for this task.

Once I've ensured the above two things, I am ready to screw in the strainers, attach the strap hangers and seal the frame, which I've done before and then turned the frame over only to see some debris under the glass. Fuuuuuck. I hate it when that happens; which is why I am so careful. 

When I delivered the two frames to Maryland Art Place I had a silent moment to myself, invoking both Grace and Hope Walk Into a Bar and The Ghosts of Detention with a safe and happy journey to Zeke's, which is a coffee shop located in the neighborhood of Lauraville in northeast Baltimore. I thought about the photographs being hung. Would anybody be wearing white cotton gloves? Oh goodness, my heart started to tremble. I felt like I was sending my kids off to first grade. Nerves. I took a deep breath and whispered my last goodbye, “See y’all on opening night, daddy loves you.”

Dee and I have nightly dance parties.

So far our new neighbors haven't complained. But we are civil, keeping those phat bass lines to a reasonable bump. Our sets last around 10 songs so even if we were a bit ecstatic, it's just a temporary nuisance. Ain't nobody getting hurt. When we are feeling it (you know, butts out, the usual) we often have intimate conversations about our day. On this particular DP we got to talking about the opening reception at Zeke's. How wonderful everything turned out and how lucky we were to have our first Baltimore show go off without a hitch. The show was fabulously curated, full of diversity, and oh how happy we were with the placement of our photos, in an area with nice light, but perhaps a tad bit close to the bathroom. But hey, it's a coffee shop, the vibe is youthful, artsy, caffeinated and intellectual; our kind of people.

After the dance we made a delicious celebratory dinner and then crawled into bed for a quickie crossword puzzle, relaxing in the glow of it all; no worries, it is written, our kids survived their first day of class. My phone rang. I picked it up because it said Maryland Art Place. "Hey, what's up?" 

"Hi Michael, sorry to bother you."

I recognized the voice; it was the curator from MAP. "No worries," I said. "Is everything ok?"

"Um, well, yes, everything is fine."

I glanced over at Dee while the curator took a breath. Dee looked back at me with grave concern. I continued listening.

"You see, after the reception was over, the party kind of continued at Zeke's. Everyone was super amped. Really great show. But, you know, um, a couple was making out near the bathroom and it got a bit heavy, in a good way, I mean, kids just having fun and one thing led to another and—boom—The Ghosts of Detention flew off the wall and crashed onto the floor, glass everywhere."

"Oh no,” I said and looked directly into Dee's wide eyes.

"So I just wanted to say I sincerely apologize for this accident and if you'd like to replace The Ghosts with another photo we would love to make that happen—ASAP."

I looked at Dee and didn't take my eyes off her as I deliberately spoke into the phone, "So the photo fell off the wall (pausing to look at Dee), and crashed onto the floor (pausing once again), and it's in pieces?" I held my eyes on Dee.

"That's correct."

I kept looking at Dee. I wasn't smiling. I was expressionless. Like a Sergio Leone western, Dee looked at me, then I looked at her—and then—Dee spontaneously burst into laughter! I started laughing too. It was so joyful. Tears filled our eyes. "I'm sorry, we're just enjoying this moment. What a blessing.”

The curator patiently waited out our catharsis.

I steadied myself while looking directly into Dee's eyes and spoke softly into the phone, "You know, no need to replace that photo, everything is just the way it's supposed to be. This is a city on the verge—after all."

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Breezy Meditations on Urban Still Life: Part II

My work is about style and style begets something else. But before I get to the begetting, I'd like to talk about what I mean by style.

I consider my style as breezy meditations on urban still life. I use the word breezy as a way of saying laid-back or mellow. And meditations refer to simple images that you can sit with and contemplate. My compositions are urban because I live in the city of Baltimore and I take pictures while walking around the streets. And I use the words still life because my work generally focuses on a single object of interest without the distraction of people. So in general my work is informed by style, but how did this style come about? Let's get to it.

My style is the result of character, and in particular, my social personality, since all of my photography happens in a social environment; an urban city with lots of diversity. But let's break down the personality word-by-word. 

Breezy. Yes, I am a mellow dude. And when I go on a big urban walkabout I'm typically under the influence of L-O-V-E. This laid-back attitude begets my meditative state.

Meditations. I walk slowly because I’m always looking. I’m also not in any kind of hurry because I dedicate a good three to four hours on the process. I learned to meditate back when I lived in Los Angeles in the late 80s. We (Elle and I) have five meditation cushions and four yoga mats so I’m always down for a good, slow asana. Elle even wears a silver turtle on her bracelet, the charm being a little momento I bought in Tijuana back in the 70s. So yeah, we embrace slowness, and meditation is all about slowing things down. When I see something on my walk that looks cool, I contemplate all the possibilities: the subject, the framing, the light, the surroundings. No rush. This contemplation begets a mindful sense of my urban environment. 

Urban. Obviously I live in Baltimore, and the city is still fairly new to me. It’s been exactly two years. But another 40 years of my life was spent in LA and NYC. I know the streets. I also know that all my photos these days are part of my ongoing series of Baltimore exteriors so there are certain things about each picture that generally fit the theme, such as: no people, no cars and minimally banal. And there must be a sense of a fairly robust and diverse city as the urban environment is where I am most comfortable and being spatially contented begets my meditative stillness. 

Still life. I have social melancholy so I avoid crowds and noisy places which bodes well for some of the thematic elements of my series. My innate uncomfortableness guides me to the narrow alleys and the lonesome side streets. This is my natural element, the places where I can meditate on the minutia.

Breezy meditations on urban still life: a style that begets my peace and happiness.

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Breezy Meditations on Urban Still Life

So what do I mean by that? 

BMOUSL. No, it's not the most coherent acronym, and it wasn't ever supposed to be, in fact, you will probably never see me, or anyone else, use that acronym again. You saw it here first—and last.

As artists we torture ourselves, either in the act of creating or in the despair of expectations. So we keep doing, and every once in a while we have to get out of the studio and talk to somebody, someone who might ask the question: what is your work about?

This is a good thing, to be social, especially if you struggle with the pacing and awkwardness of it all; the smiling, the need to appear certain. And at the end of every question the answer is the same, “you know, it’s hard to say.” 

But we put our pants on, we mingle—because we’ve toiled. We know what our work is about. We know whose shoulders we’re standing on. And we’ve created a note on our iPhone just in case we forget! (Class, what did I tell ya?) The note reads:

My work is about style.

I know; I wish I could be more academic (not really), but that’s what it is—at the start anyway. Style begets something else, and hopefully I’ll remember what that is.

(to be continued)

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