Thanks for Inviting Me

It was your wedding day.

I always thought you and I would be a couple. Buy us a brownstone on 116th in Harlem. Sell it for a million dollars and move to Echo Park. Get a convertible and drive PCH whenever we wanted. Write that screenplay together in our bathing suits and drink lattes all day. Stay up late watching French films in that midcentury-modern we talked about, remember, the one with the fireplace and the view of downtown? Your art would brighten our walls and my best sellers would lively up the shelves. And we would get stoned and listen to Harry Belafonte on the Hi-Fi. Naked in the hot tub, candle drips and patchouli sunsets, ecstasy and laughter. Oh the laughter, but alas, not from the bellies of our children. You wanted to raise a family and I wanted to be Charles Bukowski.

We almost had everything.

I picked these blossoms for you. Aren’t they dreamy? I still have the self portrait you painted for me. It's in storage right now. Things haven't been going exactly the way I expected. I'm renting an apartment in Burbank with a friend from college. I sold the Volkswagen, but I can still take a bus to Santa Anita. When I get my book deal, I'm going to buy that place we always wanted, you know, with the swimming pool and the herb garden?

You look happy.

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The Ponies

A few years ago I wrote about nostalgia, and in particular, my fond memories of going to Santa Anita in the late 1970s to bet on the ponies with my family on Christmas day. As far as I was concerned, this was living large, second to none, except for waking up and seeing a bunch of gifts under the Xmas tree. Shower me with riches, bitches! Yeah, I had me an attitude back in the day. I had dreams of being a macho man even though I was a super featherweight. But nah, I wasn't a fighter. I remember getting shoved to the ground while playing basketball in junior high. My head hit the asphalt so hard I was literally paralyzed for what felt like forever. But I kept pushing my skinny attitude on others which abruptly stopped after getting punched in the face by my kinda-but-not-really friend in high school. I'm glad he did that. I had it coming. So yeah, I dropped the tough guy act that sunny day in Los Angeles. But somehow I was still angry inside, always on the defensive. I had a short fuse because I was bullied from an early age. Kids made fun of my nose, which made me hate being around people. My dad felt so helpless the only thing he could think of was to get me one of them new fangled noses. Fix me up, change the way I looked. This all helped in the short term but over the years I suffered the consequences. But this is life; a lot of things have changed since then.

Now I live in the Woodberry neighborhood of Baltimore which is an hour's walk to Pimlico, famous for being the second leg of the Triple Crown—The Preakness. Horses have big noses too. Maybe that's why I love them so much. My nose is a mess these days; it's all kinds of misshapen and full of spider veins, the likely result of premature surgery, booze, genetics and way too much sun damage from my surfing days. I often wonder what I would look like if my appearance was never altered. I imagine I would have a nose similar to Adrian Brody or Owen Wilson, who are both beautiful. But I am beautiful too because I've come to realize that my soul is what matters most.

Why the long face? Sure, it's the butt of a corny ha-ha, but horses have the long face for a reason; it helps them graze the grassy fields while keeping alert for predators. I can relate. I still feel anxiety when I am around people, but this cautiousness has shaped my pictorial aesthetic—which rarely features another human being (or horse).

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A Day at the Races | Santa Anita, CA | 1990

In order to walk to Pimlico from Woodberry I had to cut through the neighborhood of Park Heights, which I recently documented here. When I explore a new area of Baltimore I typically take dozens upon dozens of photos. But Park Heights was different. I spent more time contemplating and less time composing. Park Heights was—once upon a time—a thriving community. But today, the neighborhood is largely impoverished and deteriorating, which are not my favorite conditions to photograph. So instead of taking pictures, I walked cautiously and thought about my relationship to horse racing, which like the community of Park Heights, has significantly changed throughout the years.

The last time I went to a racetrack was in 2011 when I took the A train to Aqueduct. But I didn't go there to bet on the ponies; I schlepped to Queens to make a short ambient video. A few years before Aqueduct, I visited Belmont Park. And before my decades of living in Manhattan, I frequented several tracks in California: Santa Anita, Los Alamitos, Fairplex and Del Mar. My handicapping consisted of buying a Racing Form and channeling Charles Bukowski. Sometimes I would hang around the paddock just to stare a horse in the eye before placing my favorite bet: $2 exacta box, three horses, $12 wager. But like most gamblers, I pretty much lost money on a consistent basis, which is one of the reasons I stopped going. If someone were to invite me to the Preakness, which is coming up on May 20th, I would respectfully decline the invitation, but I would delight in the memories of—back in the day. But the real reason I would stay home is my love for animals. I don't eat the cow and I think horse racing is just another form of abuse. Horses love to run; I'm cool with that. And many are treated with grace and dignity. But I also know that some horses are exploited and oppressed, which reminds me of the neighborhood of Park Heights—downtrodden just beyond the grandstand.

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Red Bows and BBQ

I grew up smelling BBQ, mostly on the weekends, always with friends. The laughter was honest and the games were competitive. This was family life.

Weekends. I love them. The streets are quiet and empty. So I throw on my backpack and jump on a train. Just me and the camera and some sleepy—on the verge. This was a Saturday afternoon and I was headed to the Maryland Art Place (MAP) on West Saratoga Street in downtown Baltimore. The night before was the opening of a holiday inspired exhibition that I wrote about here. I had taken some casual photos of the merriment on Friday, but I wanted to capture the space when it was deserted and calm, which is my aesthetic-du-jour.

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Maryland Art Place | Baltimore, MD | 2022

Red bows indicate a sale. I had three photographs displayed on the wall behind the stage; two of them sold. I got me a bow, yo. When I first moved to Baltimore I visited an art gallery in Hampden. While walking around the space the owner inquired if I was looking for something in particular. I asked if they had any photography. No, photos don't sell, was the answer. I was like, dang. Most of the art exhibited at the MAP holiday sale was also—not photography. Out of the 70+ artists represented, I think there were two photographers. I was lucky to be included in the exhibition and super grateful that my work appealed to someone else. But who was that mysterious someone? I wish I knew who purchased my work. Where did they live? Was it for them, or was it a gift? Yes, I could have done a better job while I was at the party paying attention to the elves, who were the festive folks assigned to manage the sale between patron and artwork. I could have lurked behind a pillar and spied on any activity buzzing around my photos; but I didn't. I was looking at the other work and awkwardly speaking with artists and basically snooping around MAP since I hadn't been there before, especially in such a privileged capacity.

Living in retrospect.

After taking a few pictures of the gallery and silently reminiscing, I left MAP and headed uptown via Tyson Street, which is basically a back alley. My plan was to walk home and take a bunch of photos along the way (I ended up taking 160 pics over the course of 4 miles). But I needed to eat first. I was in the mood for a falafel, something I could hold in my hand and tear up. I was getting weak. Then I smelled it: BBQ.

Trevor was grilling chicken and ribs in the parking lot at the Downtown Cultural Arts Center. I told him I was a vegetarian and asked if he could make me something good. He said he could make me one of them Beyond Burgers. I said, ok, and started rubbing my hands together, excited as I watched him expertly tend to the meats, smoke all in my face, remembering the swimming pool on Kittridge Street in Canoga Park, CA where something was always sizzling on the grill. Trevor said he could put cheese on it: lettuce, tomato, onion. I said, yes sir.

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View From the Curb on Tyson Street | Baltimore, MD | 2022

So there I was, sitting on the curb, eating my cheeseburger. Trevor gave me a water on the house which I used to clean my hands after devouring the drippy deliciousness. I took a nice, long chug and looked up; nothing but blue skies and puffy clouds.

The perfect day for taking a picture.

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