Touch me I'm late.

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?

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.

(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.

Storied.

 

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. 

Flying the freak flag.

Texas, hippie, via iPhone. © Ryan Schierling

Out with the old.

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.

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.

© Ryan Schierling

Above it.

© Ryan Schierling

Flight vs. float.

Two bridges, looking down. © Ryan Schierling

Different types of stillness.

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.

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. 

The art of controversy.

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

TGICFS.

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

Over easy like Sunday morning.

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

Forgotten holes, abandoned goals.

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

(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.

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

On the road - Marietta, Oklahoma.

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.

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.

(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.