Made for Each Other

She waited. For years, Trixy waited patiently never fully knowing for whom or what. From beneath an old, ragged tarp the days, weeks, and months passed by and none without reflection of her glory days. Almost two hundred thousand miles and thirty six years separated her from her prime, that fateful day she rolled off the lot as a brand new machine. Now, her faded red paint no longer glimmered youthfully and her dented frame showed the cost of her experience. A mighty eight-cylinder engine, once a testament to American engineering, served little function more than housing wildlife. Regardless of her faults and despite her age, time failed to make her forget what she was. More than roadworthy; she was road-deserving. She was a Cadillac. Throughout her exile from the world of pavement and parking lots, Trixy’s stance never waivered. For as long as there was life left in her, she’d present herself with all of the regal elegance befitting her Eldorado title. As such, she refused to become just another used car. So it seemed fate’s cruel joke that she be sold as one for a mere fraction of her original sticker price. Trixy could forgive the price tag, but she greatly resented the lack of a test drive. Being bought unseen drained her of all but the last of her hope. Though she once dreamed a change of ownership would reintroduce her to the highway, her feelings way beneath a horrible truth. She’d been purchased to be parted out. Having just returned from Wal-Mart, Coop took a moment to look around. He thought back over the last seven years and the four different states he’d called home. He’d seen a lot of things, but this… An RV park in Montana hardly felt like a fitting place for a Cadillac. He’d hoped that his legendary smooth ride would give his owner an appreciation for the finer things in life. Perhaps it had. Nate was a caring owner, but never a man of means. Lately Nate always gave a half-smile when passersby complimented Coop. Every time he started to grin, his gaze drifted toward the excessive rust on the sides, the steadily spreading source of his lament. He felt helpless at the sight of it, but it wasn’t just the flaws that he could see. Coop tended to remind other people of another, simpler time. To Nate, Coop stood as a friend, as family and he wanted to repay the goodness given him. From the time they’d first met, Nate made promises to fix up Coop, not empty promises, just overly optimistic ones. So it thrilled Nate to no end when another friend told him about a cheap, running Cadillac of the same year as Coop. He put a check in the mail and, as soon as he could, himself on a plane. He tried to imagine all of the parts he’d be able to swap out. Then he saw her. When he looked at Trixy, he saw the beauty. Tracing his hand along the subtle lines of Detroit steel, there were no parts, only the whole. Ignorance or blindness shielded him from the defective wiring or the heavily worn leather seats. He saw her as she was so long ago and moreover as what she could yet be. Nate jumped behind the wheel to take her home. From the moment his duct-taped sneaker touched the gas pedal, in the instant his hand slid across the dusty dashboard, he found much more than her lost hope; there was love. By the time he’d reached Montana, she’d whispered her name to him over the worn asphalt of the freeway miles. Just before he reached his temporary homestead, he whispered back, “Trixy, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

The Times They Are a'Changing

http://www.edelmangallery.com/davidsonshow4.htm

Time is an expression of change. Change is the vehicle by which the world turns. Whether it can be seen or not, whether it is admitted or not, almost everything is in a constant state of change. Bruce Davidson set out to capture one of the most dynamic turning points of a shifting American society. Thirteen photographs are incapable of seizing all of the tensions and feelings that were rampant though the five year period in which they were taken. Of all the change to be had, Davidson chose to concern himself with the fluctuation of the racial divide. He knew that when those drastic times ended the world would be a very different place.

The arrangement of images isn’t presented instead in chronological order. Instead it’s given to interpretation as a story of varying recognition, organization, force, tolerance, and acceptance. The pattern lends itself to more skilled narrators, but more important than the sequence is the theme. Davidson is displaying the distancing and distain of an entire race. It’s more obvious in the pictures that show unfair or cruel treatment. Still in others, displaying the large gatherings of black people fighting for rights, any reasonable person could be left to question why that might be necessary.

One of the most important aspects of this series is the perspective from which the photos were taken. It is as the title says, on the street. Most of these images by themselves do not represent a single event of historical importance. These are the sights of real, everyday life. These are the uninterrupted views of the common man. Among these are photographs of marches and a demonstration at the Lincoln Memorial. Why? Those were not easily avoided events. To make this sampling of the times accurate, Davidson included the immense occurrences that filled the streets which were otherwise occupied by turmoil.

In a somber list of things that happened, Davidson seems to maintain his indifference as much as a person can standing on the other side of the timeline. He saved one of his most thought-provoking photographs for last. It’s a young black girl sitting peacefully on a porch with a white doll. It’s also presented as having been taken early during Davidson’s “Time of Change.” Is it to be understood to be a catalyst? How does it represent change? Is it intended to show the inhumanity of the times to come?

Regardless of his exact intention, it’s clear that Davidson had the foresight to know that there was a change on the horizon. He could see a change from the streets that would impact every aspect of an entire country and now we can see a little of it too.

Just Another Flag

     

       The iconic World War Two image brings several ideas to mind. Firstly, the content of the image is a classic scene of victory. The act of soldiers planting the American flag on foreign soil is a tale of triumph that the photographer set out to capture. The stars and stripes waving freely in the wind stirs the patriot in all of us.

            The angle of this photo is crucial. It gives the location as a high place by showing the hills lower in the distance. Even more importantly it takes the other elements out of the picture. By filling a majority of the scene with a clouded, smoky sky, it brings the focus downward and makes the centered flag ‘pop.’ Yet the angle still allows the bottom of the photograph to display both rugged terrain and wreckage to insinuate the previous uphill battle. It also gives the photo a floor as a point of reference.

            Given the age of the photograph, there wasn’t much option to take a color photograph. The photographer also used a vantage point that put the men in front of a primarily light colored background, again forcing them to stand out. The immensity of the differences in shades makes them almost silhouette-like at first glance. Their faces are not shown as if their individual identities didn’t matter. They were soldiers.

            The picture can only be assumed to have been taken in the act of raising the flag based on the man to the far left. His hands are outstretched toward the flagpole, but not touching. Rather than assume his aid came through telekinesis, it’s easier to imagine that he lifted it as far as he could and had only just let go. He also serves to complete the rough geometric shape that the soldiers’ bodies form. They make a triangle, which in so many subliminal ways makes an arrow. It points upward, bringing the focus back to Old Glory.

            The man to the furthest right brings attention to himself because of the variance in his stance and being physically apart from the others. Were it not for the gap between him and the other men, the shot would seem all too one-sided. His oddness brings an evenness from left to right.

            In my mind the greatest dynamic of this photograph is its content, but soldiers and flags have been photographed for as long as we’ve had the capabilities. So I have to believe that through some use of technique this one stands out amongst all the others for a good reason.

Dorothea Lange Photo

Admittedly I have no idea what makes a great photograph. I understand how lighting can be good or bad. I recognize a photographer’s intent in what they include in a picture and that there is reason in every angle taken, but for the life of me, I can’t separate art from the images a four year takes while trying to burn up the last couple of shots from a disposable camera. The realist inside of me is adamant that not every still shot has deeper meaning. Yet if there is anything inside of me that resembles an artist, he can see more in this photograph. The first thing I see is pride.

The plantation owner stands in front of his field hands by no mere accident. It is an elevating position in that it brings the most immediate attention and makes him appear larger. His foot is equally deliberate in its placement on the rear of a car. From their first introduction into society, fine automobiles have proven potent status symbols. While not much of the car can be seen, in 1936 having one at all meant something. His foot isn’t alone in determining his body language. His hands are not humbly tucked into his pockets or holding themselves defensively. His body language serves to imply ownership of the car, the men behind him, and his status.

The field hands aren’t shown in an entirely similar manner. One is standing. They have different styles of hats. They have different colors of clothing. The differences speak in a small way to the individuals being individuals. On the other hand, the similarities cannot go unnoticed. They’re not shown working in the field, but lounging in a moment of rest. From their positioning, they all seem to share the same feeling towards where they are. They look more obligated than overjoyed. One of the most obvious facts of the photograph is that the field hands are all black.

The blatancy of their skin color is largely made by the complete opposition to the plantation owner’s skin color, but also comes from the background. To me the background raises more questions than it answers. It looks to me to be a store. I can imagine how the plantation owner would bring his field hands in with him to pick up supplies and stop outside for a quick conversation and photo. What I wonder is why the photographer would have chosen the building as the entirety of the background. I can’t help but to wonder if it’s because the building does inspire me to create that scenario and, if that is the case, if that is what makes a photograph a work of art.

Why I Write

I write because I can't sing. I write because I can't trip over the letters of the written word while trying to articulate a point. Moreover I write because I have a story tell. There is no other method of storytelling which can hope to delve into the imagination with as much or as little detail as the originator desired to convey. The written word remains unchanged as it passes from person to person, maintaining its message, humor, or meaning through time. A movie could never hope to describe feelings or thoughts as deeply. I write so as to hold my meaning, to let others interpret only what I leave up to interpretation, and to entertain. After all, who doesn’t love a well-written piece?