Ryan Schierling

Touch me I'm late.

2011-11-15T23:14:00.003-06:00

Mudhoney @ Emo's. © Ryan Schierling

I never really had the opportunity to shoot Mudhoney when we lived in Seattle. I was ten years late on the grunge-fest, O.G. Charles Peterson-era, grainy, gritty Sub Pop love-in that spawned so many amazing photographs. I was shooting burgeoning indie-rock and figuratively, I figured I'd rather just let old dogs lie. Anyway, Charles already did those photos far more beautifully than anyone else could, fifty times over.

But it was always buried in the back of my brain.

My first experience with Mudhoney was in 1990 as a teen in Emporia, Kansas. My friend Gary had the self-titled Mudhoney cassette, and "Flat Out Fucked" ruptured the speakers in his beat-to-shit black Subaru on our way to school in the mornings. More than 20 years later, he'd never seen them either.

Last year, Gary was willing to fly all of us from Austin to Seattle to see Mudhoney play at The Crocodile, but it just didn't work out. So when I saw tour dates for late 2011 in Austin, I let him know, and I bought tickets.

The prominent "No Professional Photography without a Photo Pass" signs and big bouncers had me a little flummoxed at first (because I didn't even think to arrange for a photo pass), but a few beers and the realization that no one makes a professional living at live music photography anymore bolstered my spirits. I mean, I did this for a long, long time in Seattle, and if you want to throw me out for pointing a big camera at Mudhoney, then go right ahead – the Tacos El Rey truck is out there, so it's like tossing Brer Rabbit into the briar patch.

Mark Arm and Mudhoney put on an amazing show, and all I can say is... better late than never.

What's The Doppelganger?

2011-11-09T17:14:00.002-06:00

Andrew Hetherington doppelganger. © Ryan Schierling

It's said that imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. I don't shoot square format or rock the Q-Flash, but for Halloween this year I went as swashbuckling editorial photographer Andrew Hetherington. Don't worry if you're not quite sure who that is. I was convinced that only friends William Anthony and Jonathan Saunders would "get it," and that's pretty much how it came off. But, it's my party and I can be who I want to. Hopefully I did Mr. Hetherington proud.

Go check out his blog What's The Jackanory?

Schierling as Hetherington. © Ryan Schierling

Idle hands.

2011-08-15T22:07:00.000-05:00

(L) Bre. (R) Mike. © Ryan Schierling

You will learn half of what you need to know of a person by watching what they give and take with their hands. The other half, you may never truly know.

Walls of goddamned noise and sound.

2011-06-27T21:28:00.013-05:00

I-35 N. © Ryan Schierling

I looked at the black rubber marks on the Jersey barriers. I looked at them for miles, and wondered how many drivers' days had been ruined by a drift off, a drift over, a hard jolt and the high-pitched squeal of horizontally-moving rubber and metal grinding across stationary-vertical concrete, and then you're on your side with your eyes wide and drifting, searching. It's the over-correction that gets you every time.

You take off, on the road, on your own. There's always a reason for flight.

Flyovers. © Ryan Schierling

I stopped in West, Texas for a couple kolaches and a Dr. Pepper, and took a vanity photo of my MPG reading on the display. 259,173 miles on the odometer, and the old Saab still gets nearly 40 miles-per-gallon on the highway. It's the only proud moment I've had in a while, and why I scrub my fingernails at the end of most days. Most people don't own cars anymore. Banks own cars, and the people that drive them only know how to put fuel in them and curse at them when they're not doing what they're supposed to do. I believe in taking care of the things that take care of you, and my dad still has that old blue Pontiac Ventura, so I imagine I got a little of that from him.

259,173 miles. 37.9 mpg. © Ryan Schierling

It was 100-degrees when I left. After West, the temperature dropped 20 degrees in 20 miles, and I knew there was some shit blowing in.

I was driving north to visit my parents, to visit my father who was diagnosed with aggressive lymphoma and undergoing radiation therapy and chemotherapy, in the year after he had retired.

You're not supposed to go through this, after working your entire life and doing the right things, making the right decisions.

It's a three hour drive, and I have time to think about all the different kinds of cancer. The random, abnormal cells our body kills off every day without incident or circumstance, and the ones that just happen to stick somewhere, take up residence and open storefronts. I'm going 100 mph.

Incoming. © Ryan Schierling

It's getting dark. There is lightening on three sides of me, and the rain is beating down on the windshield. I slow the car, and I turn up the stereo to drown everything out.

Everyone has those times when the night’s so long /

The dead-end life just drags you down /
You lean back under the microphone /
and turn your demons into walls of goddamned noise and sound

JV.

2011-05-26T12:45:00.003-05:00

Take a deep breath, close your eyes. © Ryan Schierling

Turn around, relax. © Ryan Schierling

John Vanderslice.

2011-05-25T12:33:00.009-05:00

JV @ Mohawk - Austin, Texas. © Ryan Schierling

Storied.

2011-03-24T21:08:00.011-05:00

Photographer Jonathan Saunders, w/ ice cream sandwich outside One Bridgepoint. Austin, Texas. © Ryan Schierling

I'll agree there could have possibly been ice cream sandwiches before or during Saunders photographing Bernie Madoff. I cannot comment on the after. I just don't know.

As for the Saunders story of a Madoff-commissioned portrait, made by Yousuf Karsh in 1988, penultimately hung over the bed of Madoff's secretary "so he could keep an eye on her," ultimately hung in the collection of a plastic surgeon specializing in the aquisition of scandalous portraiture and willing to barter for said secretary's elective surgeries to the tune of six figures... you'll have to ask elsewhere. I have no knowledge of the subject other than hearsay.

At One Bridgepoint, though, the ice cream sandwiches were delicious.

Here's to your health.

2011-03-14T21:22:00.009-05:00

Many thanks to Anne, Michele and HCB Health for such a fabulous time Sunday night at their SXSW Interactive fête. © Ryan Schierling

Flying the freak flag.

2011-02-20T19:41:00.001-06:00

Texas, hippie, via iPhone. © Ryan Schierling

Franklin Barbecue.

2011-01-11T21:04:00.000-06:00

Aaron Franklin of Franklin Barbecue. © Ryan Schierling

I went for the fast-becoming legendary barbecue. I came back for portraits. Thank you Aaron, Stacy, John and John for everything.

(L-R) John, John, Stacy and Aaron. © Ryan Schierling

Out with the old.

2010-12-31T20:24:00.001-06:00

Film. © Ryan Schierling

Are we still supposed to be chasing the American Dream? What is the American Dream? I think it used to be a solid job that afforded you a house in the suburbs with a chest freezer full of food in the garage, a station wagon with wood panels on the sides, a loving wife and kids to fill all the seats and a golden retriever in the back. It's a worn-out frame, here, shot 365 days ago on black-and-white 127-format film made in Croatia for a Japanese twin-lens camera that was rolled out in 1958 and obsolete by '62. I was walking on the outskirts of our neighborhood looking over fences and peering into windows to see who had better stuff than me. Isn't that the American Dream? To have better stuff than everyone else?

I don't care about that stuff anymore, so I guess I better start looking for a new dream.

2011, I'm starting with you.

Inca.

2010-12-14T21:42:00.002-06:00

Burial. © Ryan Schierling

We watched this one die.

I heard a 'thud' on the back deck's glass door and the cats woke up, perked up. I lowered and shook my head – goddamnit, not again. It lay on its side with an eye up, wide open, searching. The feathers on the back of this Inca dove, near the base of the tail began to lift in a slow convulsion. The eye was still open, taking in the last of things, and we both knew it. It hurt me to watch, so I quickly turned around and went out the front door, looking up at the trees and the blue sky and then finally down at the hard December dirt, knowing I'd be digging another hole in the yard soon.

Finding the inbetweens is the most difficult thing.

2010-12-05T17:18:00.001-06:00

Above it.

2010-12-01T17:35:00.000-06:00

Flight vs. float.

2010-10-20T21:00:00.000-05:00

Two bridges, looking down. © Ryan Schierling

Different types of stillness.

2010-10-12T21:08:00.005-05:00

Bird strike on the kitchen window. © Ryan Schierling

Dead white-winged dove on the back porch. © Ryan Schierling

A bird hit our kitchen window weeks ago. It left an imprint of what I can only assume to be avian body oils, as moisture would have evaporated leaving little trace of the impact. There was no carcass, just a faint aura left of a sudden flailing in-flight moment for this anonymous bird. I have not cleaned this window, this image made weeks before I photographed it.

Tonight, I came home to find a white-winged dove, quiet and still on the back deck, a few feet from the sliding glass door.

I buried it under the old avocado tree.

Breathing dirt and pine and fresh mountain air.

2010-09-28T20:29:00.013-05:00

Doctor office for hand/forearm contusion, via iPhone. © Ryan Schierling

Failure. © Ryan Schierling

I woke up early this morning to the sound of our neighbors pulling into their driveway. Our bedroom windows were open because the weather had cooled off so gloriously, with no humidity and temperatures in the low 60s. (Should we talk about the weather?) I rolled over and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was 2:30 a.m. I heard two car doors slam, and a single sentence spoken in a male voice:

"Just put the weed in the center of my desk so the dogs don't get it."

I fell asleep again, and dreamed in restless fits. I felt as though someone had a remote control for the stories going on in my head, and they were changing channels every five seconds to look for something more interesting. (Boring, boring... BORING (In Rik Mayall's voice). There's nothing on. There's got to be something on.)

Stop.

There was a bus with no available seats departing a mountain top, en route a carnivale macabre mid-mountain. I opted to run, parkour style (l'art du déplacement) down the mass to get to the show. I was jumping and falling and soaring and grasping and swinging, in a body that felt 20 years younger. I was breathing dirt and pine and fresh mountain air and my dream-state self almost convinced my real self that I could do this when I was awake, but my real self knows better.

I arrived to an amphitheater built into the mountainside. The bus had unloaded and its occupants had seated themselves for this mad circus. I walked through the hundreds of freaks gathering on the dirt floor of the amphitheater and made my way up the sloped seating to the middle, where there was a doorway-sized hole flat in the ground with black flowers and blood-red silk draperies framing it. No one was looking at the amphitheater floor – not the patrons, not the performers – they were looking at this hole, this portal to something that seemed to be more important than the carnival itself. I was there, but do not remember sitting or standing. I just remember watching.

A woman with black hair and pale skin began to rise out of the hole. She had no clothes that I could see, but I only noticed her upper body coming up out of the dark hollow. She was lying back, nearly parallel with the horizontal hole. There was a rift in the center of her chest, and as she rose, a hand and forearm began to push its way up through that rift. The crowd gasped. She opened her mouth as if to cry out and the hand and forearm began to shrink back into her chest, ultimately returning again through her silent, wide open lips as she reached her peak. Children and mothers were sobbing. Men cringed and turned away. She slowly descended back into the pit.

I remember blackness, and then sitting alone on the bus.

Nobody move, or the mandolin gets it.

2010-09-19T23:08:00.004-05:00

Mick Chegwidden, the most talented stringed-instrument player I've ever known. © Ryan Schierling

The art of controversy.

2010-09-15T20:44:00.002-05:00

The controversy of art. Junk shop on South Congress. © Ryan Schierling

TGICFS.

2010-09-05T11:20:00.001-05:00

All of my favorite food groups are brown and white. Trudy's - Austin, Texas. © Ryan Schierling

Over easy like Sunday morning.

2010-08-15T15:27:00.002-05:00

All of my favorite food groups are brown and white. Jim's Restaurant - Austin, Texas. © Ryan Schierling

21 years and 627 miles.

2010-08-10T16:34:00.001-05:00

(L) Gary, 1989. Emporia, Kansas. (R) Gary, 2010. Austin, Texas. © Ryan Schierling

Forgotten holes, abandoned goals.

2010-08-01T20:18:00.002-05:00

I squeezed in a quick 18 before lunch today. Putt Putt, Burnet Rd. (Click for larger image.) © Ryan Schierling

(Click for larger image.) © Ryan Schierling

"Thank you for your interest in becoming a Putt-Putt franchisee. As you probably know, children and adults have been playing Putt-Putt miniature golf for over 50 years and the Putt-Putt brand has some of the highest name recognition of any family entertainment business in the world.

If you think you want to open a franchise, we strongly encourage you to read all of the information that we have provided to help you understand the commitment and requirements that are necessary to be successful. Once you have read the information provided, click on the Application Process tab and follow the steps outlined.

Financial requirements for an Individual Franchisee or Franchise Group:

1. For a 36-hole golf only franchise, net worth of at least $1,000,000 with $200,000 cash to invest in the business.

2. For a golf and game room franchise (requires building of at least 3,500 square feet), net worth of at least $2,000,000 with $300,000 cash to invest in the business.

3. For a multi-attraction family entertainment center with golf, games, party areas and at least two other attractions, net worth of at least $3,000,000 with $500,000 to invest in the business."

On the road - New Braunfels, Texas.

2010-07-25T14:43:00.003-05:00

All of my favorite food groups are brown and white. Union Street Station. © Ryan Schierling

On the road - Marietta, Oklahoma.

2010-07-23T16:05:00.003-05:00

All of my favorite food groups are brown and white.

McGehee's Catfish Restaurant and Airport (FAA Identifier: T40). © Ryan Schierling

Five miles of country roads off the beaten path of I-35, in southern Oklahoma, there is a small restaurant overlooking the Red River. While McGehee's Catfish Restaurant (and Airport) is open all day on weekends, they are only open for a few hours each weekday evening, and we were lucky enough to make that window on our drive from Emporia, Kansas back to Austin.

We sat down at a table that had a view of the river valley, and the waitress approached our table.

"What can I get you to drink?"

"Iced tea, please," we both replied.

Long pause.

"...And catfish?" she asked.

J and I slowly looked at each other and said "Uhm...yes, please?"

We were offered no menus, didn't know if there were menus, didn't even know what this catfish would set us back or what it came with. We were at the mercy of McGehee's to be kind and generous with their seemingly singular expertise – we were ordering Oklahoma omakase.

We were given iced tea 30 seconds later. Not a minute passed after the drinks had arrived, when cole slaw, bread-and-butter-pickled green tomatoes and the most transcendent hush puppies I've ever eaten came to the table. Two minutes after that, a platter piled high with cornmeal-crusted catfish and fresh-cut french fries was placed in front of us.

It was the most glorious divinity that bottom-feeding fresh farm-raised fish could ever hope to attain.

38 years, 2 months, 10 days.

2010-07-22T23:59:00.002-05:00

Jennifer Lynn Schierling. May 10, 1972 - May 11, 1972. Emporia, Kansas. 07/20/10. © Ryan Schierling

We were born way too early. One of us made it, one of us didn't. I still don't know how to process that, but I'm working on it.

All I can say is, I wish you were around.

Harry Schierling, 1916-2010.

2010-07-21T13:04:00.010-05:00

(L) Harry Schierling, 1940. (R) Harry Schierling's Argus Model M camera (circa 1939-1940) with original box and paperwork, given to me by my father.

I remember my grandfather most as a farmer. His 160 acres in Wellington, Kansas was a modest endeavor, with a double-wide trailer and wheat fields as far as the eye could see. My childhood recollections are of exploring the requisite barn and grain silo, pulling my younger sister in a Radio Flyer wagon attached to the riding lawnmower, and that there was always bread and butter on the table with supper.

We would take sandwiches out to the fields when it was harvest season, for my grandfather and father to eat while driving the combine and grain truck. I can remember the smell of sweat and hot wheat dust when they were done for the day, the stubble of my father's unshaved face.

I am so very lucky to have memories of my grandparents, as most of my same-aged friends, peers and colleagues never really knew their parents' parents. And as I have grown older, I have realized that funerals for these grandparents is not as sad for me as a loss, but sad for me as a loss of knowledge of simpler times. They cannot tell me those stories any more, when things were grown and not just appropriated.

We do not endure the same way, we do not appreciate the same things, now. I miss the physical, but these are the emotional losses that I mourn.

These are the absences that I will miss most.

Packing for a funeral.

2010-07-17T18:55:00.002-05:00

For the graveside service, for driving 24 hours, for the skatepark that is 20 years overdue. © Ryan Schierling

B.C. (before coffee).

2010-07-16T08:52:00.000-05:00

via iPhone, from the app that shall remain nameless. © Ryan Schierling

On the road - Manor, Texas.

2010-07-11T14:49:00.004-05:00

All of my favorite food groups are brown and white. © Ryan Schierling

We are known by the flags we fly highest.

2010-06-27T22:25:00.004-05:00

Old and faded glory, abandoned car lot on N. Burnet. © Ryan Schierling

The Lone Star flag, state capitol, great Republic of Texas. © Ryan Schierling

1700 S. Congress.

2010-06-22T19:35:00.002-05:00

Dawn & Julie. © Ryan Schierling

A photograph I cannot make, but dearly wish I could.

2010-06-14T19:44:00.010-05:00

The lightning was pink tonight. © Ryan Schierling

I was in a small room. I had my camera with a wide-angle zoom and on-camera flash. There was a sofa bed, with the bed pulled out. The sheets and blankets were a mess. There were no pillows. I stood in the one-foot space between the sofa bed and the wall, pointing my camera at the opposite wall. There was a dark couch pushed up against the opposite wall, with a large window behind it. There were curtains on either side of the window. There was a one-foot space between the sofa bed and the couch. There was a bright red sleeping bag unrolled on the couch. There was no apparent light source in the room, but I recall it being dim. Desaturated, all but the bright red sleeping bag.

I stood with my back to the wall, pointing my camera at the window. I wanted the flash to fire, I wanted a hot spot and reflection of me in the window glass, with the mess of the foreground.

I shot one frame, I looked at the back of my digital camera display. The flash must not have fired, or there wasn't enough light output. I adjusted it from its manual setting of 1/32 to 1/16. I shot one frame, I looked at the back of my digital display. Again, it looked like the flash had not fired at all.

I adjusted from 1/16 to 1/2 power. I shot one frame, I looked down at the back of my digital display. Standing in the one foot space between the edge of the sofa bed and the dark couch with the bright red sleeping bag, with her hand on the window and looking back at me over her shoulder, was a woman exactly my age. Tall and thin, dark hair, barely shoulder length, wearing a black dress with buttons all the way up the front. I looked up from the camera, startled and stunned, scared. There was no one there.

I woke immediately with a chill that went from my head to my toes, a chill that did not leave me for a good five seconds. I still get that chill every time I tell this story.

I don't remember you, or know what we shared. We haven't been together for 38 years. But I am remembering you, somehow.

( oz. vs. th. )

2010-06-10T21:32:00.010-05:00

Happy birthday, my love. © Ryan Schierling

Redux.

2010-06-08T20:11:00.005-05:00

Boy with a gun, 2010. © Ryan Schierling

Boy with a gun, 1990.

On the road - Comfort, Texas.

2010-05-29T20:09:00.005-05:00

Comfort, TX. Polaroid. © Ryan Schierling

There are days in life when you will vehemently search for truth and meaning in your personal landscape, and you will find yourself disappointed. Sometimes, you will settle for facsimile, and discover it still can bring a smile to your face.

On the road - Dripping Springs, Texas.

2010-05-26T21:49:00.004-05:00

American Way. © Ryan Schierling

The light through the trees.

2010-05-23T22:52:00.005-05:00

1. The sudden light through the trees. 2. The light through the trees.

3. The light through the sudden trees. © Ryan Schierling

7:47 AM.

2010-05-10T07:47:00.003-05:00

She was born now, 38 years ago, the second of two. © Ryan Schierling

I was born now, 38 years ago, the first of two. © Ryan Schierling

As I grow older, these birthdays are either a celebration of the year to come, or a funeral for the previous year. There are times I don't know what to do with myself. I wander the house, from room to room, flipping light switches on and off again. I wonder how different things might be if she were here.

Whatever this day brings, she, and all of the paths that never had a chance to begin, are at the forefront of my thoughts.

There are still analog signals out there, and they're looking for you.

2010-04-26T18:08:00.000-05:00

(L) Defunct analog television tower atop Mt. Larson - Austin, Texas. (R) One working rabbit ear antenna, extended, 5" black-and-white television. (Click for larger image) © Ryan Schierling

As of June 11, 2009, the Federal Communications Commission put an end to all high-power analog terrestrial television transmissions in the United States. Television sets in some two million households went blank that date, as they were unprepared for the transition, despite Congress rolling back the shutdown by four months. The switch from analog to digital was designed to free up frequencies for public safety communications, and allow television stations to provide improved picture and sound quality, and more broadcast options for consumers.

In the middle of a warm summer night in 1978, I woke up downstairs in our giant brown upholstered chair. The house was dark and silent, and the 20" black-and-white television was on – visual static flickering across the walls and ceiling, soft aural static rousing me from a restless somnambulant state. It was 3 a.m., transmitters were shut off, there was nothing on TV but dead air. I turned off the set and went back upstairs to bed. I was six years old.

There is never anything on television. 23 hours of analog static and one Indian Head Test Pattern, photographed on a 5" black-and-white television. (Click for larger image) © Ryan Schierling

Most television stations are on 24-hour schedules now, with paid programming and infomercials filling the late-night and early-morning slots. There are no more formal sign-offs, no national anthems played or test patterns aired. On the majority of digital televisions, a silent, solid blue screen has replaced random, hissing analog static if a broadcast station or input cannot be located.

People are only nostalgic about things that they remember being better than they are now. Were the good old days really that good, or do we just whitewash the difficult returns home with fresh paint on worn and splintered wood? I tend to forget the bad, try to romanticize the good. There was a five-inch black-and-white television in the trash at work last week. I took it out, plugged it in, extended the single antenna and turned through the channels looking for something, anything out there. I needed an analog signal in a digital world, a reassuring hand on my shoulder from the past.

I got MTVtr3s. Sometimes you just can't go home again.

There are still viable analog signals out there – and they're always looking for us – but we're not paying attention. We are no longer of the past or even the present, but of the future. There isn't a need to look back.

There is always something on television. 24 hours of over-the-air analog broadcasting on Mexican UHF/VHF stations, photographed on a 5" black-and-white television. (Click for larger image) © Ryan Schierling

Threesome.

2010-03-30T21:36:00.001-05:00

Tuesday evening triptych via iPhone. © Ryan Schierling

In hindsight, suede loafers in the pit was a bad idea.

2010-03-28T21:01:00.000-05:00

Kataklysm @ Emo's. © Ryan Schierling

In my defense, however, I was there to shoot a local rockabilly-roots-punk band on the indoor stage. Afterward, J and I curiously wandered over to the much louder outdoor stage, where Canadian death metal band Kataklysm and German thrash metal band Kreator were rupturing eardrums.

I spent the rest of the evening in the mosh pit, finding life, trying to stay alive.

From the soil to the sky and back to the soil.

2010-03-23T10:59:00.000-05:00

Treaty Oak. © Ryan Schierling

I am the lone survivor, the last of 14 elders. I have seen 500 summers and 500 winters pass. I am the senescent body and the blood of Comanche and Tonkawa, embracing, pushing away, giving and taking life. You cannot kill me, with one bullet or 100. Cut away the extremities, knock my crown to the poisoned grass and I will live on still, pushing from the soil to the sky and back to the soil.

There are cliches for this – trite, tried and true, emblazoned on motivational posters, emboldening those stuck in ruts and well-worn paths. What doesn't kill me may make me stronger, but it does not facilitate change if I keep going back to the same fight.

Un-plug, plug-in, un-plug.

2010-03-14T19:48:00.000-05:00

82nd Annual Zilker Park Kite Festival. © Ryan Schierling

We started our Sunday waiting for one cable technician, waiting for a two-hour window to open and close, waiting to end our three-day drought with no internet. Technology is occasionally a frustrating child, unwilling to cooperate, throwing a tantrum of ones and zeroes and disobeying the simplest of commands (pleas). The lights on the cable modem just kept blinking, and blinking, and blinking – no send, no recieve, no in, no out – just power and a tired, blinking cable light.

The tech showed, went through the un-plug, plug-in, un-plug, plug-in routine, and finally had to scale a fence into our neighbor's yard to suss out the problem at the cable junction box. Long story short, internet restored. Faith restored. Hope restored. Connectivity, resumed.

Happy just to know it was there, we abandoned the emails and the internets for Hippie Church and tacos at Maria's Taco Xpress, and to go fly kites at Zilker Park.

On the road - Lorena, Texas.

2010-03-10T19:39:00.000-06:00

City boys not allowed. © Ryan Schierling

On the road - Driftwood, Texas.

2010-02-28T15:04:00.002-06:00

All of my favorite food groups are brown and white. © Ryan Schierling

The boy with the green balloon.

2010-02-23T20:01:00.000-06:00

Sometimes all it takes is the simplest of things to make us happy. © Ryan Schierling

Jezebel.

2010-01-26T11:15:00.000-06:00

Jezebel © Spanish For 100

Promoting their new album Jezebel, Spanish For 100 played a great live set on KEXP recently, and there was a nice mention of Go Away, Come Home. A humble, heartfelt thank you and much love to Aaron, Chris, Corey and Ross, and DJ Cheryl Waters. Click on "full performance" for the rock.

Spike Jonze, Huck Magazine 2010.

2010-01-04T19:09:00.000-06:00

Plane ticket carbon Rorschach test, September 22, 1987. Courtesy of Spike Jonze.

In certain circles, Spike Jonze is crazy famous.

And for good reason – look at the attention Where The Wild Things Are has received. As a director, he's an Academy Award nominee, and he's won a fat fistful of national and international awards for Adaptation and Being John Malkovich. He has directed some of the coolest music videos and commercials you've ever seen. Go back a little further and you'll get to Dirt Magazine (brother publication of Sassy Magazine, masterminded by the Master Cluster of Andy Jenkins, Mark Lewman and Jonze), Blind's Video Days (arguably one of the best skateboarding videos ever made) and Freestylin' Magazine.

Imagine it's 1987. You're a high school kid in a small midwestern town who rides a skateboard religiously and dabbles in a little BMX freestyle on the side. There is no southern California skate/freestyle culture where you live, there is only farmland, football and frustration. Transworld Skateboarding and Freestylin' Magazine are your only lifelines to the outside world, and you pore over them like they're sacred texts promising a better life if only you believe.

I believed.

When Jonze joined the Wizard Publications staff in the late 80s, shooting photos and writing the odd (odd) story here and there, I noticed... enough to write a few letters, call long-distance and bug him in the darkroom from time to time, and see if he was going to be at the AFA Masters Finals in Wichita, Kansas in the fall of 1988. When E. Heins and I found out he and writer Mark Lewman were going to be covering the event, we made plans to be there. Thankfully, our parents were receptive enough to our fervent teenaged pleas to agree to book a couple of hotel rooms across from the venue and chaperone us that weekend.

The highlight of the two days (and probably the highlight of my year) was skating downtown Wichita late that first night with Spike and Lew. Everything else was just a buzz and a blur.

Huck Magazine pages 54 & 55 (click for larger image). Bottom left photo © Ryan Schierling

One of my photos of Jonze from the AFA Masters Finals in November of '88 just ran in the UK skate/surf/snowboarding lifestyle magazine HUCK, along with three photos by Lew. It's good company to be in, and I am honored.

Merry Christmas and a happy New Year from our family to yours.

2009-12-23T02:00:00.000-06:00

(L-R) Joon, Ryan, Benjamin, Miss Winifred, Julie, Waldo. © Ryan Schierling

Much love from Austin,

Ryan and Julie.

Kane Hodder is Fucking Dead*

2009-12-16T18:26:00.000-06:00

Kane Hodder @ Hell's Kitchen, Tacoma, WA. © Ryan Schierling

*from Kane Hodder

The first time I saw the band Kane Hodder was in 2004 at Graceland (now El Corazon) in Seattle. I was on assignment for The Stranger, and it was a weird, Wednesday night early show. The venue was empty. I'd never heard any of their music, and had no idea what to expect, but at least I had an uninterrupted run of the entire front of the stage to shoot from.

When lead singer Andrew Moore launched into "Aboard The Leper Colony" with the scraping staccato "I'm gonna give it to ya, I'm gonna give it to ya, I'm gonna give it to ya bang bang bang bang..." I lowered my camera and stood there front and centerstage, dumbfounded. Why hadn't I heard of these guys before? The next 30 minutes were – sonically – a three-way fistfight between a pretentious boys' school choir soprano channeling Queen, a melodic pop-punk boy band built for straight-up hit-radio and a baker's dozen metal guitarists (+1 furious pigeon-toed post-hardcore vocalist spewing napalm) driving a burning steamroller over everything you hold dear.

(Take a deep breath).

Visually, Kane Hodder were equally stunning.

That night, Moore, and everyone else in the band, played like the room was packed, lubricated and writhing. At subsequent shows, when the house really was jammed to the rafters with spastic, sweating, gyrating fans, they'd give that much more. It was utterly exhausting watching them, but always a pleasure to shoot over the years.

Sadly, after seven years together, Kane Hodder is calling it a day. Moore, Eric Christianson, Charley Potter, Jerome Sauer and Aaron Yost (along with KH1.0 members Jeremy White and Nick Cates) will play a final performance at El Corazon this Saturday night. Joining them are friends Schoolyard Heroes, who are also playing their last show. These Arms Are Snakes and Sirens Sister round out the bill.

If you're in Seattle, and can still get tickets, I can't recommend this show enough.

Kane Hodder. (L-R) Jerome Sauer, Charley Potter, Andrew Moore, Aaron Yost, Eric Christianson. © Ryan Schierling

On the road - Lockhart, Texas.

2009-12-14T18:16:00.001-06:00

Post oak, Smitty's Market. Lockhart, Texas. © Ryan Schierling

Now, I really don't want to get into the habit of posting photographs of what I ate for lunch, because for the most part, it's only visually interesting to me. And, I tend not to do food photography in the 'proper' sense, because it seems to be just overly fussy and styled within an inch of its life.

I'm not sure there really is a pretty way to shoot barbecue. And if there is, I don't think I'd want to do it anyway. It's usually a glorious mess.

Ribs, brisket and hot guts. © Ryan Schierling

Since we're in Austin now, it was only a matter of time before I made the inaugural pilgrimage to The Barbecue Capitol of Texas. It is a proper and sanctioned place (which is why I capitalized the "T," the "B" and the "C") only a half-hour's drive south from here. The Texas Legislature, both House and Senate, have passed a resolution that decrees the town of Lockhart to be The Barbecue Capital of Texas, and there was no way I was going to miss out on something that officially tasty, not when it comes to brisket and pork ribs.

I mean, c'mon. It's like, not voting or something.

Jim Thomsen.

2009-12-01T19:38:00.000-06:00

Jim Thomsen. © Ryan Schierling

I first met Jim when I was the staff photographer for The Bainbridge Island Review, oh, so long ago.

It was a small, twice-weekly paper with a tiny staff, a storied past, and a boatload of Washington Newspaper Publisher Awards. A great number of those awards were taken home by Jim for news and business stories, but the majority were for his elegant, eloquent sports writing.

One thing that's been stuck in my head for the past 10 years, is that Jim once used the word-pair "somnambulant wave" in the description of a shot on goal in a men's water polo game. Yes, yes. Bainbridge High had a men's water polo team. Pretentious? Perhaps. And could writing about a men's water polo match in such a manner be just a little bit pretentious as well? You betcha. I guarantee 98-percent of that wealthy, erudite Seattle-bedroom-community island went for their dictionaries that day, and I guarantee Jim had a broad grin (with just a hint of a smirk) when he picked up his WNPA award for "best sportswriting" that year.

Another thing I liked most about working with Jim was that he never, ever sat up in the press box at football games, even if it was 40-degrees and pissing rain sideways, which it usually was. He'd be pacing the sidelines, watching and listening with a bent ear, scribbling notes, squinting, occasionally throwing up his arms at a call he just couldn't believe. You never got a rote, play-by-play account of the game from Jim. You always got a well-tempered story.

I am also truly thankful he also never uttered the dreadfully possessive and supremely insulting words for a photojournalist, "my photographer."

When Jim got in touch with me to shoot some promotional portraits for his first nonfiction crime book, all I needed to know was when and where. These are a few of my favorites.

I had Jim write a quick bio for this:

"Jim Thomsen is a newspaper editor in Bremerton, Wash., who is hoping to transition to becoming an author of nonfiction crime books. Photos from this shoot will adorn his still-under-construction Web site (jimthomsen.com when it's ready) and the back cover of his still-under-construction first book, "Everybody Here Gets Out Alive."

Suburban forest.

2009-11-29T20:49:00.000-06:00

Christmas trees, H-E-B grocer. © Ryan Schierling, via iPhone.

We're exploring, as new settlers do. Finding the great grocery stores, the great hardware stores, the great cat food stores, the great garden stores. Austin is vast and full of promise.

Home - Austin, Texas.

2009-11-05T21:55:00.001-06:00

(L) Home is where the heart is. (R) Gnome is where the heart is. © Ryan Schierling

Before this journey began, Julie and I made a list of places we could potentially live. We knew we didn't want any more wet, cold, dark winters. We knew we wanted more than 60 days of summer a year. (Q: You know what I forgot about when I was living in Seattle? A: ISO 100) The Pacific Northwest's climate was finally taking its toll on us, and as much as we loved the Emerald City, it was time to try something else out – a new town, a new region. A new start.

I flew to Austin for a week last April. Julie came to visit in June. We made a trip together at the end of September and decided that South Austin was where we wanted to be for a while.

And here we are.

The house is small and adorable. The deck and backyard are large and especially well-suited for entertaining and a proper garden. The previous owners left a barrel smoker behind, which was a definite bonus for me. The wee wooden gnome (a Ghetto Melrose icon/legend) made the trip with us and is excited that he won't have to be weather-sealed every fall. The cats are settling in and learning how to meow with a slight drawl.

It's going to be really, really good.

On the road - Vega, Texas.

2009-11-01T23:45:00.000-06:00

My chariot (w/ corn dog air freshener). Vega, Texas. © Ryan Schierling

We had to pull over for a quick pick-me-up cup of coffee in Vega, Texas. But, somehow, I always end up with the same thing at every convenience store when we're traveling... beef jerky and strawberry milk.

On the road - Moab, Utah.

2009-10-31T20:50:00.000-05:00

Exploring America's wide open (parking) spaces. Arches National Park, Utah. © Ryan Schierling

I'm sure Arches National Park has been in National Geographic a bit. Maybe you've seen postcards of it. Certainly you've seen images of the incredible red sandstone cliffs and towering arches (probably with a mountain biker in silhouette) on an office wall motivational poster pushing you toward what must be inevitable success.

It is an incredible, beautiful, nearly alien landscape.

No mid-afternoon photograph I could take after nearly three days on the road can do it justice. All I want is a hot shower, a cold beer, and to never drive all of our belongings (with my car attached to them) halfway across the country ever again.

Austin is still two days away.

On the road - Rock Springs, Wyoming.

2009-10-31T01:15:00.000-05:00

Outlaw Inn (attached to drive-in liquor store). Rock Springs, Wyoming. © Ryan Schierling

Our intended route was to drive across Wyoming, drop down into Colorado through Cheyenne, skirt Denver and head east through Kansas.

Four feet of snow in eastern Wyoming changed that pretty quickly. We learned when we stopped for gas at Point of Rock, that I-80 had been shut down from Rawlins to Cheyenne – roughly 150 miles of highway – with no detour routes available. We thought about waiting out the storm until a stranded trucker told us about the thousands of semi trucks lining the highway, 20+ miles deep, patiently queued up for the interstate to reopen. To make matters worse, the highway from the Wyoming border to Denver was closed, and so was I-70 heading west from the Kansas border into Colorado. Forward progress was impossible.

We turned around and stopped for the night in Rock Springs.

On the road - Twin Falls, Idaho.

2009-10-29T20:58:00.000-05:00

Motel, night one/day two. Twin Falls, Idaho. © Ryan Schierling

There's nothing like sneaking four yowling, wary, road-weary, freaked-out cats into a motel room after driving for a kazillion hours. I've got to hand it to J for establishing protocol early in the trip and keeping the kids on the down low.

98109 > 78745

2009-10-28T10:00:00.000-05:00

So long, Seattle. Thanks for the memories. © Ryan Schierling, via iPhone.

It's enough to make a man blush (or, the power of positive press).

2009-10-23T20:42:00.000-05:00

Corey Passons and Aaron Starkey of Spanish For 100. Wichita, KS. © Ryan Schierling

"Local band Spanish for 100 is celebrating the release of their third record, Jezebel, tonight at the High Dive. Don't be fooled by the Merle Haggard, Fugazi and Uriah Heap references peppering their MySpace page; this is celestial-minded, agit-pop with an Americana undercurrent...not that this is a bad thing (though if anyone could sound like Fugazi, Uriah Heap and Haggard all at the same time, I'd be hella impressed). Reliably rambunctious classic rockers Shim are also on the bill, and cover charge will set you back a mere $7.

Strangely enough, the primary reason this show is on my radar is because of my current obsession with photographer Ryan Schierling's visual documentation of the band's 2007 and 2008 summer tours. Go Away, Come Home is quite possibly the most uniquely moving collection of photographs I've ever seen of a band on the road. Schierling's eye is extraordinary in its affection for seemingly mundane details (how he makes a pickle on a truck stop diner plate utterly compelling is far beyond the grasp of my corpus callosum). The images, like the one above of Spanish For 100 guitarist Aaron Starkey and vocalist Corey Passons sitting outside a Wichita, Kansas laundry mat, are terribly romantic without feeling contrived. Sadly, Schierling is leaving Seattle for the sunnier pastures of Austin, Texas, but he's making Spanish For 100's record release his final Seattle rock show before he ditches us. Come down and tell him how awesome he is – or at least pick up your own copy of Go Away over here."

– by Hannah Levin, from Seattle Weekly, October 23, 2009

Find what is important to you. Cultivate it.

2009-10-05T20:26:00.000-05:00

Sunflower seed from the Ghetto Melrose garden. © Ryan Schierling

We've had the tiniest garden in downtown Seattle for a few years now. A four-foot by eight-foot patch of dirt has provided us with little tomatoes, little peppers, little cucumbers and little herbs. Surrounding the wee plot have been gargantuan sunflowers, originally seeds planted from D. Landreth Seed Company and followed up in subsequent years by volunteers and intentionally-sown next-gen seeds from the dinner-plate-sized heads of the 10-foot-tall beasts that pushed themselves out of the ground, imitating the Space Needle a few blocks over.

Our growing season is historically short. Plants that have survived have done so because they had to, there was no other choice. There have been disappointments, withered runts, plants twisted and dying in the limited two months of summer heat that Seattle offers. But the sunflowers have always thrived, from April to September, which never fails to surprise me.

(L) Sunflower head, 16" across. (R) Harvesting seeds to plant next year in Austin. © Ryan Schierling

In less than a month, we move across the country to Austin, Texas. In my pocket are keys to a little house with a big yard, big enough for a proper garden and a tall row of sunflowers along the fenceline. The long, sere summers are hotter and certainly less forgiving.

But I have no doubt these seeds from Seattle – from the Ghetto Melrose garden – will thrive, thrusting out of the ground with their leaves, and eventually, their giant faces toward the bright light and summer heat, producing seeds and propagating for years to come.

The Terror of Trollhättan.

2009-09-26T23:40:00.000-05:00

A few of you have noticed that I've been away for a few weeks.

To tell the truth, I've been way too preoccupied with getting all up in the fiddly bits of a 19-year-old Swedish model.

(Ahem.)

1) LF wheel w/ air hose 2) Transmission bell housing w/ slave cylinder 3) Clutch disc w/ misc. ©Ryan Schierling

Which is to say, I dropped the transmission on the Saab, replaced the clutch disc and pressure plate, slave cylinder and throwout bearing, and subsequently had the tranny rebuilt. Many, many thanks to Rob at ScanWest (and his passion for the fiddly bits of Swedish models), and many thanks to Julie for tolerating my general greasiness and automobile philandering.

Go away, come home.

2009-09-04T03:35:00.001-05:00

Spanish For 100 @ Nectar, 9.03.09. Seattle, WA © Ryan Schierling

I stopped shooting live music in Seattle, for all intents and purposes, in 2005.

There was no money in it. My lungs had suffered innumerable cigarettes, my liver endured endless drink tickets, my tender tympanic membranes had been terminally torched by tinnitus. I loved the music, but showing up hours before a set and battling crowds was becoming more and more exhausting. I found myself having to justify access to bands, or labels, or explaining myself to door security when I showed up with a fat black bag of camera gear, even though I had photo passes.

And so, after five years – as much as I loved and had ties to burgeoning Seattle indie rock – I took one giant step away from the scene.

In 2007, I was contacted by local band Spanish For 100 to shoot some promotional photos. I'd never met them, didn't know what they sounded like, and had no idea what they were looking to get out of their promo shots. We met, talked about it, and a few months later, scheduled two shoots.

After the photos, as we were leaving, Aaron Starkey laughed and said "Hey, you know what, you should come on tour with us and shoot photos." I couldn't tell if he was joking, and everyone else had chuckled, so I didn't think too much more about it.

A few weeks later, I gave Aaron a call. I mentioned that I had some down time right around their summer tour schedule, and if they wanted me to come along and document the whole "tour experience," I could.

Three years and two summer tours later, I've spent more than six weeks on the road with Spanish For 100. They have become my favorite local band, and they've also become great friends.

They kicked off their west coast tour with an incredible show at Nectar in Seattle last night, and pointed their tour bus Horchata south today. Unfortunately, I'm not able to be with them this time out.

I will miss shooting on the road, the strangers met at hole-in-the-wall bars on nights off, and the odd things that tend to happen when you're out of your hometown comfort zone (and by the end of tour, most likely half out of your mind). I will miss the familiar truck stops and unfamiliar diners, and I'll even miss the red fold-out bench seat in Horchata that became my home away from home.

I will miss Aaron, Corey, Ross and Chris, and I will miss hearing one of my favorite bands – period – play live nearly every night of the week.

If you're able to make it to a show, do it. You might just find you've got a new favorite band.

9.03.09 ~ Nectar - Seattle, WA

9.04.09 ~ The Woods - Portland, OR

9.09.09 ~ Hotel Utah - San Franciso, CA

9.10.09 ~ Audie's Olympic - Fresno, CA

9.11.09 ~ Mr. T's Bowl - Los Angeles, CA

9.12.09 ~ Divebar - Las Vegas, NV

9.13.09 ~ Mojo Underground - Saint George, UT

9.14.09 ~ 5 Monkeys - Salt Lake City, UT

9.15.09 ~ Visual Arts Collective - Garden City, ID (Boise)

There is no one left to talk to...

2009-08-09T12:55:00.000-05:00

"After the war started, and we lost the internet, we stopped writing on our blogs, and went back to writing in our notebooks.

But we didn’t change what we wrote, or how we wrote, we only changed where we wrote it.

We still wrote about what our days were like, and what we’d had to eat, and why it had been so long since we last wrote.

We weren’t sure who we were writing to, or why, or whether anyone would ever read what we had written.

We realized we were praying."

A deeper shade of Blue.

2009-08-06T12:24:00.000-05:00

I got a nice email from Philadelphia artist Adam Garcia last week, after he was commissioned to do an illustration of local hip hop group Blue Scholars. He chose to base the image on a photograph I took of Geo and Sabzi in 2005, and wanted to make sure I knew about it, and if I'd like to be credited for the source material. I was a little shocked, and completely delighted, because I've had images appropriated and altered in the past with no contact or permissions given. Needless to say, I gave him two big thumbs up, and the art turned out fantastic.

They gave us the Statue of Liberty. We gave them Chef Boyardee.

2009-08-05T23:02:00.000-05:00

I never really did like the word capture.

2009-08-02T21:25:00.000-05:00

I was cleaning out my desk and found this section cut from the contributor pages of Seattle Metropolitan magazine last year. The gaff tape mustache shot was when I was assisting WmA on an Alaska Airlines shoot, the text (at least the portion in quotations) comes from reading too many serious contributor columns with too many serious photographers who are far too serious about pushing the button.

The 2008 article chronicled the history of Sub Pop Records. The below photographs of Jimmy and Ben were unpublished outtakes from the aforementioned 2005 SubPop shoot when they picked up their gold album for Give Up.

Robert.

2009-07-25T23:37:00.000-05:00

(Remembering his first bakery job as a young lad in New York City. Transcribed w/ Brooklyn accent).

"He broke the brand new gold-framed glasses my grandmother gave me. You ever get hit with bagel dough? That stuff's hard as a rock. Any kind of dough you boil has to be hard as a fucking rock."

"I pushed a 30-foot stack of crates over on him, but the motherfucker took off running. He didn't come back to the bakery for two days. Finally, his mother called and asked to talk to the manager. She said 'You tell them not to kill my son.'"

"So the manager tells me that I can't kill him, and I say 'Oh NO? That motherfucker's dead.'"

(Insert neighborhood name here) welcomes our new condo overlords.

2009-07-23T21:00:00.000-05:00

Jezebel.

2009-07-20T20:54:00.000-05:00

Jezebel, the terrible angel rose in my brain / She's followin' me down / And I rest upon it, the darker luggage / O, it's fallin' like rain / She's followin' me down

Remnants of the past.

2009-07-15T16:38:00.000-05:00

"Some days, it seemed like an entire lifetime ago — as though he should be in an off-season tourist-town coffee shop on a beach boardwalk, wrinkled and weathered in the twilight of the day, in the twilight of his life, habitually clutching an ancient rangefinder camera and a thick cup of bitter coffee — remembering her freckles, her laughter, her youth, and that someone loved him like that, like no other..."

Jone.

2009-07-10T08:37:00.000-05:00

Old Glory.

2009-07-04T17:57:00.000-05:00

To live.

2009-05-29T02:15:00.000-05:00

Your car secretly wants to be a clown fish.

2009-05-28T20:50:00.000-05:00

Dichotomy.

2009-05-27T01:15:00.000-05:00

Robes (7)

2009-05-25T13:42:00.000-05:00

Waiting for the bacon pandemic.

2009-05-04T13:13:00.000-05:00

Backyard.

2009-04-23T22:05:00.000-05:00

The Colorado River.

2009-04-21T21:36:00.000-05:00

13 Seconds Under Water.

2009-04-20T01:24:00.000-05:00

My favorite food groups are brown and white.

2009-04-19T00:06:00.001-05:00

(L) Brisket, sausage, slaw and potato salad at Uncle Billy's barbecue. (R) ATM outside Stubb's barbecue. Austin, Texas. © Ryan Schierling

et Al.

2009-04-11T16:05:00.000-05:00

Al, formerly bearded, is the keeper of the mailbox, builder of aviation models and Wisconsin bringer-backer of the aristocrat of candy bars - Oaks Melty Bars.

Influences: William Anthony

2009-04-05T18:15:00.000-05:00

I came across his music photography when he was donating time to local radio station KEXP, and we sent a few emails to and fro before meeting for stiff drinks at Moon Temple back in 2004. Since then, we've collaborated (along with Bradley Hanson) on "3 Punks," a project documenting one night in the all-ages punk scene at The Vera Project, which was followed by a commission from Bumbershoot organizer One Reel to shoot the festival's 35th anniversary in the same style. The result was "End of Summer," a gallery show with more than 8,000 viewers over three days of Bumbershoot the following year.

Bill's honest portraiture and subtle lighting have certainly been an influence, pushing me from an old-school photojournalist's detached observational style to one more personal and refined. Too many portrait photographers rely primarily on location and equipment to make images, forgetting that the most important part of the equation is their connection to the subject. And if they can't, or won't, give enough of themselves to make that connection, it's not a portrait. It's just one more technically accurate, sterile representation of what that person looked like at that given point in time. Bill makes connections, and his photographs are testament.

Check out his newest project, 90021, which is a fresh look at his new neighborhood in L.A.

I am glad to have crossed his path, proud to call him a friend and I am truly honored to be the best man in his upcoming wedding to Finnish supermodel and professional tennis player Pamela "Bjorn" Sunnarborg.

Influences: Spike Jonze

2009-03-25T14:21:00.000-05:00

Everyone's going nuts about the movie trailer that was released today for the Spike Jonze-directed Warner Bros. movie "Where The Wild Things Are," and I can't blame them. I'm a little excited myself.

First of all, the book was a dog-eared favorite when I was a kid. Secondly, it's no secret I'm a fan of Spike Jonze. He was one of the reasons I picked up a camera in the first place, and that goes back to his work with Freestylin' Magazine in the late 1980's. It seems like a lifetime ago.

Letter, 1988.

Since K got over me.

2009-03-10T22:23:00.000-05:00

According to Wikipedia, the letter G was introduced in the Old Latin period as a variant of C to distinguish Latin voiced velar /g/ from voiceless /k/ around 230 BC. At this time, K had fallen out of favor, and C, which had formerly expressed both /g/ and /k/ before open vowels, had come to express /k/ in all environments.

Suburbia.

2009-02-26T08:16:00.000-06:00

From the upcoming "We Don't Live There Anymore (but we sometimes visit)," a collaboration with E. Heins. © Ryan Schierling

3600 Kelvin, Neopan 1600.

2009-02-20T00:35:00.000-06:00

Tiptoe through the tulips.

2009-02-16T11:20:00.000-06:00

Happy Valentine's Day.

2009-02-13T19:45:00.000-06:00

Lazy brown dog not pictured.

2009-02-07T23:30:00.000-06:00

The fountain of youth.

2009-01-25T14:08:00.001-06:00

Kevin J. Miyazaki - 100 Very Small Observations.

2009-01-23T15:15:00.000-06:00

There are a quite a few photographer blogs I visit from time to time, but one that I frequent regularly is Kevin J. Miyazaki's. The clean and beautiful travel and food photography of his website was what made me bookmark the blog, and the personal work he featured was what kept me coming back.

His Fast Food series, a group of spare recollections of closed and abandoned fast food restaurants and the "visual imprint they have made on our cultural landscape", is one of my favorites. The black and white images are akin to death photos of the 1800s, albeit with a more wandering eye for narrative detail, and are the perfect antithesis to the hyper-saturated colors of "living" fast food restaurants today. The Camp Home series is as personal as personal work can get, exploring the reuse of the Tule Lake camp buildings in California where his parents were interned during World War II.

A few weeks ago, Kevin offered 100 readers a little piece of his work for nothing more than a postage stamp. 4"x5" images from the Milwaukee Institute of Art and Design show 100 Very Small Observations would be randomly sent to the first 100 to respond.

I got my print today, a tired, withered and rotting tomato likely forgotten in the back of the refrigerator crisper drawer, that took me a few moments to figure out exactly what it was – a perfect example of anything labeled "bad housekeeping" on his blog. Included under a piece of tape were the two t-pins used to hang the print for the exhibition.

It's now on my wall.

Thanks, Kevin.

Flexible Flyer, grounded.

2009-01-18T20:00:00.000-06:00

I know it's only the middle of January, but is it terribly unrealistic to be wishing for no more snow days?

Space Needle (13)

2009-01-14T22:05:00.000-06:00

Mullet, bb gun, and The Road.

2009-01-09T02:00:00.002-06:00

Bend Question #8.

2009-01-07T02:00:00.000-06:00

Andy Jenkins over at bendpress.com was kind enough to include me in his latest volley of "Bend Questions," along with Mark Whiteley, Ed Templeton, Mike Carroll, Daniel Field and Chris Sprouls. The question this time around was "How important is music to you and how does it inform your life?"

Stacks and sacks.

2009-01-05T02:00:00.001-06:00

[ Ugly Food is a photo series looking at processed and packaged food that anyone can purchase for one dollar or less. ]

Happy New Year.

2009-01-01T02:00:00.000-06:00