Photography: '06-'07

these are selections from my portfolio last semester, the subject of these photographs being inspired by Diane Arbus' style of photography. the two images matted on black were entries in an art competition last year, but unfortunately neither photographs were selected to move on.

All of these photographs are self-processed T-Max film. (i processed both the film and the images).

please click the image captions to see them up close!! the quality of these are poor :[

NYC Firemen

Dog Lady of Ridgefield Park, NJ

shades

Shades2

Steel Drum Player

Bishop Allen- Empire City
New Buffalo- City and Sea (Lady Nameless)
Headlights- Pity City
The Answering Machine- Silent Hotels
Umbrellas- The City Lights

having a camera doesn't make you a photographer.

we live in the digital camera age:
everyone has a camera, and pictures are posted left and right on sites everywhere.

but just because you have a camera doesn't make you a photographer.

let me hammer down on one aspect in particular: "digital photography" and more specifically, "concert photography"

to me, taking pictures at a concert was just that. not an art, just a hobby, or a way of remembering a night out. but apparently, that's where i'm wrong.

story time:

sure i'm no professional photographer, but it's something i enjoy, and something i look at as a form of art.
i take mostly black and white (not c-41, mind you), and most of the time self-process both my film and prints, although i hate processing film. it takes a long time and the chemicals are smelly, and it's really easy to screw up your whole roll, which is one of the saddest things ever. by the way, i use a manual canon AE-1, if that means anything.

and i don't just take pictures of anything. i am quite picky. when i'm not snapping portraits of homeless people, i compose photographs anally, making sure my model is dressed how i see fit and the background and lighting is perfect. i am a perfectionist. and consequently a pain in the butt.

it all becomes worth it when i'm soaking my photo paper in the developer and seeing my image slowly creep onto the paper. that's what i live for. thats where i feel like i've truly created something.


now, i know i'm rambling a bit, but i have a point, i promise:

how can i classify my work (an that of other true photographers) as art
if kids snapping pictures at concerts on their digitals consider theirs art as well?

hmm. not so sure.
but i am sure that other photographers will second me on that.

now i dont mean that digital photography cannot be art. sure it can! people spend hours photoshopping images and adding effects to make something that film cannot even comprehend! i respect that.
even more so, it's the subject matter of the photographs, the composition, the angles, the lighting: digital certainly can be considered art. i have nothing against that.

its just when nothing of yourself is put into the photograph, no life, no personality, no meaning.
that's what i dont get.


LAME.



the bird and the bee- i hate camera
the faint-some incriminating photographs
braid-killing a camera
spoon-i turn my camera on

ATTACK OF THE MUMS

So, it's thursday.
what does that mean?
that tomorrow is friday.
what does that mean?
MUMS.



Being a traditional texan high school, we don't do small. we do big. and that applies to our homecoming mums as well.

sometimes, i doubt there's even a flower in there, behind all that



crap.




they're completely gaudy, and (like everything else in the world) they become some sort of a twisted, tack-fest competition.
who has the biggest mum (extra points for THREE silk mums stapled to a huge cardboard heart) followed by who has the most miscellaneous garbage hanging off of it (streamers, ribbons, plastic football helmets, mini stuffed animals)

and if the mums aren't disgusting enough, you have the garters, mini (if you can say that) versions of hodge-podge. do big football players really feel tough wearing them? just wondering.


so on friday everyone dresses up all nice and gets to wear their mums all day at school.

walking down the hall you see all these girls with their left breast sagging to their stomach because they have their 20 lb mum pinned to it, and the streamers are dragging on the floor so you step on one with your big fat high heels, thus pulling down the mum that is connected to your shirt. either you take the spill or partially flash the school. and then the mini teddy bear holding the football falls off and your day is ruined.

so i thought, why put myself though all these tribulations when i don't even like silk flowers and streamers in the first place?

i want a real mum.
with nothing on it.
no cowbells, no plastic footballs, no streamers that say "HOMECOMING". and definately no teddy bears.

unfortunately, the sad state of the world and homecoming festivities has rid florists throughout the metroplex of their real mums.

"no one asks for them anymore, so we stopped carrying them"

sad, so so sad.

so we called the one place that still uses mums:
a funeral home.

and sure enough, we got our mum!

kind of creepy, thinking that mine was probably plucked from some arrangement for the deceased.

but hey, if those girls can get all the plastic they want, i sure want what i want too.

so fellow highschool girls! abandon the plastic! forget the faux! go REAL! and bring the trend back!



well, i tried.

"Made in Guatamala" Means Sweatshop, You PoliSci Kids.

you've seen them around, ralling against the war in iraq, or maybe hugging a nearby tree, or shopping at urban outfitters, buying shirts that say "PEACE NOW" or something of the like. the average person might dismiss them as a hippie. that's understandable. but i know, i know who they really are. they are the




PSEUDOHIPPIES.


once a rare race, they are multiplying rapidly, overtaking our whole foods markets and resale stores. history lesson:

"the hippies" used to reference the liberals of the 60s-70s, who were in protest of the Vietnam War, and tended to trip a lot and went to woodstock and had unprotected sex.

now it's the 2000s, and new offspring of the hippie generation has reared its ugly head.

don't get me wrong, if you're a bona fide hippie, power to you. it's these pseudohippies that i just can't quite take.

let me give a quick description (this is pretty much for girls, because the majority i know are females):

• unruly hair, like maybe they haven't washed it when really, they tried really hard to get it to look that way.
• long dangling earrings, in the shape of leaves or peace signs or feathers. thirty dollars at urban outfitters.
• natural makeup that looks like they aren't wearing any- au naturale, man.
• shirts that have anti-war slogans or again, peace signs on them.
• flowing peasant skirts
• not a purse, but a satchel looking thing made in guatamala. but you've never been to guatamala, and besides, kids in a sweatshop probably made it.
• granola sandals. ugh gross.
• lots of mismatched bracelets and rings.

okay, have the look down? now you have to get the false beliefs.

• bob marley and jimi hendrix are absolute gods. although the only hendrix song you've ever heard is "purple haze"
• talk like you're stoned. say stupid things like "they should legalize marijuana"
• hate bush. hate kids who like bush.
• an inconvenient truth is your favorite movie, second to requim for a dream, only you haven't seen it.
• you're going to be a polisci major, whatever that means.
• government is your favorite class
• you go to starbucks because you're "totally down with their causes"
• paint pictures with newspaper headlines about the war and other depressing things pasted on next to pictures of starving african babies, surrounded by peace signs.
• lecture people who are eating animal products, and boast about being a vegan while getting french fries and potato chips.
• when other people start having a political argument with you, yell at them and keep telling them they are stupid to cover up the fact that you have no idea how to really hold an intelligent argument-- besides, they're right, anyways.
• support che. even though you really dont know what he stood for, anyways. might as well hang up some stalin and mao posters while you're at it.

now, are you reading those and going, whata biotch, she doesn't know what she's talking about! THIS WAR IS WRONG AND BUSH IS AN IDIOT! CLINTON OBAMA '08!!

if that's your response, you're mad because i'm right.

history repeats itself. it just gets less original each time.

to all those real hippies out there:

john lennon- give me some truth

the evolution of the school dance

this being the month of October, harboring the homecoming festivities of various schools, i thought i would reminisce a bit about school dances. in particular, the middle school dances.


DUN DUN DUN.

it's great really, all the elements of puberty rolled up and put to trashy music.

Girls

you know, giggling, doing eachother's make up at your best friend's house, after stressing the entire month about what you're going to wear to this epic night. on make up:
you know when your friend says, oh please! let me do your make up! you're going to look soooo cute! let me do it!" and in the back of your mind you are thinking, oh god get that waxy nasty lipstick away from my face no way in hell am i going to let you touch me--
but it comes out as "suuurree... work your magic!"
so you re-open your eyes* to see lipstick all over your chin and cheap blue eyeshadow all over your lids, not to mention the fact that you suddenly have rosacea from all the blush she applied.

So now that you look like a cross between a streetwalker and a rodeo clown, you have to go to the dance. bet you're excited now.

So you get to the dance (via mommy's soccer van) and spend the majority of the night running in and out of the bathroom checking your clown makeup, while everyone else just thinks you have a bowel issue. then all the other girls in the bathroom tells you that "OMG BOBBY TOTALLY WANTS TO SLOW DANCE WITH YOUUU!!"
the fact that this is 6th-hand information doesn't bother you. your self-esteem is through the roof! no clown makeup could ruin this moment!

so you dash out of the bathroom and pace around the dark gym, avoiding the boy who was going to ask you to dance in the first place. you wait, stake out with your friends until there are only ten minutes before the soccer mom comes to whisk you away. and then they start playing a slow backstreet boys tune that you sing in the shower.

he walks up, extends a sweaty palm and asks you to dance with him. this moment is the climax of your 13 year old life. this is it.

so you place your arms on his shoulders, fully extended, to make sure you two are as far away from eachother but still touching. you sway from your left foot to the right, all while looking the opposite direction from his glance. and then comes the awkward conversation:
"so. cool dance."
"yeah."
"i like your makeup"
"thanks. my friend did it"
"oh. she did a good job."
"thanks. i mean, i'll tell her that."

and then you rock back and forth for a bit like this, suspended in time like this is all that will ever matter in your life. the song ends and you run









to the bathroom.




*when someone says "close your eyes" that usually means something bad is going to happen to you.




kings of convenience- i'd rather dance with you
brandtson- nobody dances anymore

oh, starbucks!

yes, i have to admit

i frequent starbucks every wednesday morning before class and thursdays afterwards. and yes, i have to say i like the attention i command when i walk into school with my oversized shades on and venti soy hazelnut latte in hand. oh, so debutante!

although i have to say, i don't support starbucks politics, but that's a whole 'nother story for another day.


so do you know what really, really gets me?

people who "loooove starbucks!!"

but spend five dollars on a venti strawberries & cream "frappuccino".*

which is not coffee, but rather a fancy milkshake with the starbucks logo on the cup and a savvy green straw. oooh!


i almost hate those kind of people as much as the people who order:

"venti half-calf no-whip non-fat caramel drip with room, 200 degrees and double-cupped." **

it's like, " bet i can fit more pretentious drink options into my order than you can!"

and those poor baristas, who work their asses off trying to remember what the "H/C N/W N/F C D w/R @200 2C" scribbled in sharpie means at 6 am.



another favorite:

those who order waters at starbucks. not like the bottled kind, but a cup of water. with the green straw. its okay if it's for your dog. but if you are reading this, you're obviously not a dog.



so please, fellow starbucks customers, do those poor people a favor and just stick with the latte.
and go to micky d's for the milkshakes.



*can you say 890 total calories + 15 g of fat? that's only 10 calories & 3g of fat less than a large mcdonald's milkshake.
**please don't leave me hurtful comments correcting the fact that this is not a feasible order. its called an exaggeration.





on a lighter note:


augustana- coffee and cigarettes

why, hello there!

DAY ONE

so, i have to say i'm quite new to this whole blog thing, so let me present to you a little introduction:

i'm a ranter, but not a horribly brutal one.
i'm pretentious, but who isn't.
i'm a liar, just like you.
i'm dramatic, like any female.

but i bet i made a higher score in english than you did, fellow web-surfer.

so i'm going to use this blog to give out my two-bits, appreciated or not.
i just figured i have so much to say, i might as well find a place to put it all.


so depending on the course of my day, who knows what surprises i'll bring to my little blog. but hopefully someone out there finds it slightly amusing.



the end.


and for today, a little flashback:

tegan & sara- city girl