Misdirection

So many stories about this place. So many beautiful things it once held.

So sad that I missed the boat.

What’s left of the beautiful, historic, romantic, holy Divine Lorraine Hotel is a mere shadow of herself. Depending on your point of view, this is either a good thing or a bad thing. If I had never seen photos of the inside of it from less than a year ago I would not have this empty feeling inside of me now. But I have, and I waited, and while I am not ungrateful for the eventual opportunity to see her, I feel like all of my enthusiasm has been scraped out of me like those iron bathtubs and still-made beds.

The historic relics from inside have been auctioned off over the last year, though many of these artifacts are still being sold today. For example, just down the street from the hotel lies a salvage shop that sells pieces of the building to the public (if you know where to look) as well as antiques from other estates around the area. The shop is fascinating: more than just a junk shop or a thrift store, one can find old iron pillars and entire mahogany information desks, iron fireplace grilles and toilets and pedestal sinks and plaster chips and signage… even dishware and lamps that were pulled from historic buildings undergoing renovation. For anyone who enjoys flavors of the past and old architecture, it is heaven. I was so caught up dreaming about the layers and layers of time and the people who had touched and lived around these objects, I didn’t even hear the artsy young proprietor hitting on me until I heard Trav say “I don’t care, dude – that’s a compliment to me.” How sweet! But time was ticking and my fingers were itching to hit a shutter button.



We had precisely 1 hour to get in and get out. Ouch. 10 flights of stairs didn’t bother me, but the 10 stories of explorable photographic potential did. Fortunately, the renovation process minimized any need to stop and photograph anything below the 10th floor. The auditorium and the church at the top were, to me, an embarrassing mess. I had seen photos of the rows of chairs, before any of the furniture was stripped and moved and before the yellow-caged work lights went up in plastic hooks along the walls. I was looking forward so much to finally seeing this place, and now I felt empty and uncomfortable. A violator.

The walk down the stairs was largely silent.

I fully appreciate what the Divine Lorraine will one day be: an amazing living space for a new generation of people looking to be just outside the heart of downtown. Imagine the stories that will forever live in her walls! I especially am grateful to those who allowed us to peek in, artists of different backgrounds who really have no earthly right to be there. I came seeking something, perhaps the spiritual or creative enlightenment that Father Divine sought to provide to his guests, but I feel that the very essence of his manifesto was lost amongst the relics of the junk shop. However, the poetry of the afternoon cannot be missed, that all of us - musician, art student, developer, parent, playboy, hobbyist, or tech geek – were brought together as equals because of our desire to see Lorraine.

Perhaps this is the true spirit of Father Divine… and all that really matters.

A Day in the Mind

No buildings this weekend. That is, no buildings that did not have air conditioning and cold beverages this weekend. I don't care, do I? Sure I don't. Yes I do. No, I don't.

(Please, no rain…)

I don't work with people much. Working with people scares the bejeezus out of me – I cannot predict their personalities, if we will get along, and I question their expectations of me. Anyway, we've had this shoot scheduled for 4 months and I had lots of prep time to think about this.

Time to think – not time to have everything planned out. The eternal question: Sketch every idea in advance or let the situation dictate itself in the moment? I had taken the latter approach before and floundered in the uncertainty. This time it was an opportunity to practice the former.



(Please, no rain…)

But I know I obsess. I have a saying that every two seconds there is a woman somewhere in the world who is cursing herself for caring too much. OK, maybe I said that in reference to something else, but it still fits. Even though the genre of pinup modeling is virtual pioneering, I let their personalities speak out. I wanted: Great smiles. Punchy colors. Brazen expressions. And for Nicole: mystique and expressive eyes. What is she thinking? Try to make Alphonse Mucha want to paint her after several shots of absinthe and a weird movie.

(OK, it's hot enough to want just a little rain)



Bingo? I don't know; I am not qualified to be objective about that. But they are pleased with the results, and I had an amazing time. Oh yeah, the learning experience was peachy keen, too.

Oh, peaches! Maybe I should have bought peaches?

If all models are this wonderful to work with, I could totally get used to shooting people. And having such beautiful friends makes me wonder if I will ever grow up and be able to wear pretty makeup and high heels and dresses without looking like a tomboy…

(Yay it didn't rain!)

Everywhere the glint of gold

For such a beautiful old building I am awfully disenchanted with the photos.

We'd left the house before dawn to hit the road that morning and it was only time for people to be waking up when we rolled into town. And it was not a good part of town. The benefit of being up so early was that we were quite slap-happy while lost in the ghetto, right down to rolling on the floor in tears when I spotted a rough-looking pit bull puppy going for a walk carrying a 2x4 (I kid you not) in his jaws, happy as a clam!

Things got a little more sober when we first laid eyes on the inside of this church. All was silent, the sunlight was pouring in the broken windows, our footsteps echoed in the beautiful arch of the dome. Everywhere was the patchy irregularity of water damage, crunchy bits of broken plaster and the glint of gold in the mosaics. The carvings on the walls and ceilings were meticulously shaped and painted and were obviously once very important to a large congregation of people. We had stepped back in time when craftsmen cared about their work and when faith was still enough to inspire love for art.

A smaller, Baptist-looking church was downstairs but was decidedly uninteresting compared to the sanctuary above. Additionally, climbing up into the bell tower (via a series of interestingly-placed rusty ladders) was underwhelming.

One of my favorite things about churches is the architecture - more specifically the architecture in relation to acoustics. Standing directly under the dome, I could not hear the person talking right next to me, but someone standing on the other end of the church fiddling with his camera was deafening in my ears. There was more than one time when I was alone there and spooked at the sound of my own footsteps. Interesting, that.



I did write a lot of notes about this place, but it's amazing how a page or two handwritten turns into very tiny typed text. This remarkably un-embarrassing photo of me was taken by Trav.

As far as my photos go, they're up because it's a beautiful building and I think keeping such loveliness shut away is a shame. Not because I am pleased with them. While it's true that I probably shouldn't share sub-par photos publically, perhaps someone could give me a pat on the head and (1) say how proper white balance is difficult to work with in a building that is already sandstone-yellow, especially when the sunlight is turning lead into gold, and (2) explain how to get around this with some method other than by throwing everything into black/white. In fact, processing them was such an irritating experience that even now I think I am going to go off and kick things. Later.

Steampunk wonderland

I had the great honor last weekend to visit a building that I have had targeted for a very, very long time. It was built in 1919 to serve the growing city in a grand, new age of electricity. Once one of the leading power plants of its time, it now has been sitting for 22 years, forgotten and a danger to anyone who enters.

Signs posted inside warn that falling debris is a huge risk, and not without good reason. The concrete that once spanned the majestic steel arches is slowly coming back to the earth, but at high velocity. The holes, however, are excellent for practicing sunstar patterns when the weather is right. Inside, the main turbine hall is a breathtaking architectural exercise in light and space, the size of the room undermining the size of the structures that lay nested in the middle. Even the turbines themselves look like something out of a Victorian fantasy: industrial sea creatures, all of rivets and intricate tubing and decorative bands of rusted metal. The catwalk around the perimeter of the hall even had wood railings. The service car for the crane sprouted wiring not unlike mechanistic vasculature, heralded by a cheerful silver horn. Nothing was without industrial embellishment. It was my fantasy made into a reality.


High above the floor, a bay window from the control room boasted a huge rusted clock, paused at 2:27. Gazing up at the orange face you can almost imagine the foreman standing behind the glass, overseeing the sweating toils of his minions below. My heart ached to see ten digits on the face rather than twelve.

In the lower level is the turbine that was used as the prison for Bruce Willis in 12 Monkeys. Many people have since climbed into the hole (still lined with copper sheeting and neon lights), but it is easy to see the allure of this unique setting from a filmmaker's perspective.

Six hours were all that I spent in this wonderful place, but I could put in no more that day. There are many wings of this massive building that I was not even able to see, which is disappointing but a reality of life. My photos do not do the building justice, but I hope to be able to return again and get to know the place a bit better.

Here's my brief take on it. More to come from a most prolific weekend in the East.

Dust, rust and spill

While out west I was more enamored than I should have been about the old uranium mines in the hills. Something about a deep dark hole in the middle of the dusty, red, untrackable land is both frightening and enticing, particularly when it is a direct pathway down to something that can potentially make the world go boom. For something that dates back to the late 1800s, there is more than just a shroud of mystery about them.

At the same time, there are mines much closer to home that I don't even think about twice. Or if I've been pointed to think about them, no more than two thought seconds go to the matter. Is it really that different: uranium or coal? Do miners have it any easier one way or the other? Doubtful.

James is sometimes fortunate that he has no sense of smell. It certainly worked to his advantage after our inadvertent dumpster-dive that morning, but I think maybe I got the full Sens-o-Matic experience at the giant coal breaker later that day. It was a hot one, warm and humid with a huge swollen sun and lovely god beams at dawn. Inside the main building of the breakers, however, it was very dark and very silent. Most of the windows are broken and the roof is intact, but some side walls are completely missing. Consequentially, there is a lot of water damage in this place; in a building such as this, that translates to severe rust and structural instability.

Construction of the building dates to around 1931, but when it closed exactly is left to speculation; Some say early 1960s, although scattered paperwork in an office dated into the 1970s. Obviously the business here was taking raw anthracite coal and breaking them into more manageable pieces. Dusty, loud work.

The staircase we climbed to get onto the first floor was a fine example of... uh, negative space. Not a real problem when you're just dancing around by yourself but with a backpack full of gear and a tripod/camera in one hand, it's a little tricker. Fortunately none of us died on the ascent… and that was just a warm-up. Upstairs, all the catwalks and staircases are made of the same metal grid work that rusts nicely into metallic crunchiness. Metal isn't supposed to be crunchy, but I'm sure this stuff would stay strong even in milk. Some panels were missing entirely, forcing the feet along 5-inch wide support beams to traverse the gaps. Or needing us to toss our equipment somewhere safe so we could use both hands to clutch-n-slide along wobbly railings.

Honestly, I thought I was gonna snuff it. But therein lies the fun! Gray dust coating everything, 4-stories of air visible underneath my feet, deceptive stability of beams and boards bridging holes... the very essence of this place screamed "Casualty!" Additionally, I could not hear James in the murk even though he was probably no more than a few hundred feet in any given direction, completely lost in the jungle of machinery. We were each in our own little photographer's zones, compounded (on my end) with the high-tension survival factor that comes with measuring. every. conscious. movement.



The size of this place was absolutely astonishing. (Schmoo shown for scale) I am not sure if it is bigger or smaller than West Harbor power plant because the architecture is so dramatically different.To get to the top of the Big Daddy coal chute we must have climbed at least 8 flights of stairs. Every floor was its own maze of passageways and obscure coal-processing equipment. When anthracite was actually being brought through here, the noise must have been deafening. There was even an abandoned woodworking shop, even though I couldn't imagine what use it would have in a coal breaker. In the cabinet of the shop an old flannel jacket and hat were slung over the door, perfectly preserved under a layer of dust. It was like the last craftsman had just put his tools away, hung up his shop coat and never returned. Having had a brief tour of the surrounding township, this is likely. While there are many different flavors of depressing neighborhoods in this country, even more depressing than drug-induced slums are the remnants of a once-thriving coal industry.

That said, this place was too expansive to capture in a few dehydrated hours. When you know that there is no hope in conquering something this big, part of you goes into panic mode with a machine gun shutter. Maybe the next time will be better.

For now, it's all here.

So dull, no one will hear you scream

Wow, that was boring.

Acting on a tip, James and I stopped in to a small complex of abandoned buildings in the middle of coal country early this morning. The weather was great. We had an hour before we needed to be anywhere. We were confident that we could conquer anything.

At first we scouted, tried to make heads from tails from one corner to the next, got a feel for the geography. When we opened the door, my first thought was that maybe something died in there. A cloud of gnats flew at my face, although I could smell nothing but mildew and old cardboard. Hmm.

Hiking through the greenery in high summer blows. It really does, because all kind of flora and fauna are present. The ones that bother me the most are the ones with more than 4 legs, and even though you can’t really see gnat legs without a microscope, they’re still there. I’ve always wondered if gnats were different from fruit flies. I sometimes miss working with fruit fly genetics, because I thought it was pretty neat putting them to sleep with FlyNap. As if the little buggers are really that happy tucked into bed!


Hmmm? Oh, oops, got sidetracked. So yeah, anyway we opened the door and were met with a veritable blast of gnats. Yuck. I really didn’t want to go in but I’m not letting James down, especially when it’s just the two of us and I can’t be girlish about what I’ve agreed to do. I’ve waited for this chance, dammit! I wanted to be free to risk my own neck and have a new opportunity to prove myself… like a lone wolf.

Argh. OK, back on track to the building I was talking about. Um, we didn’t know what we’d find inside because it was very generic from the outside. One story, low, built probably in the 1980s, shipping docks, nothing interesting. With the help of flashlights it made very obvious that this is some kind of holding facility for recycled goods. Pallets and pallets and pallets of crushed plastic soda bottles bound into cubes were stacked as far as the eye could see. The stench was horrible. Standing water on the floors. Dark. Flies were almost a single solid mass in the air, and I had no idea how I wasn’t breathing them in. James brought up an image of coughing them out later… unnnghh, I feel sick.

That reminded me distinctly of that episode of Itchy & Scratchy when Itchy (or Scratchy?) chopped up Scratchy (or Itchy?) into tiny microscopic bits until he thought he won, until he inhaled the pieces of him and died.

D’oh! Uh, where was I? Right. The air was a solid mass of swarming insects and it smelled like we were in the middle of a trash bin. We did walk around a bit and squeeze between pallets to find some room with a couple of boilers and a pool of old sticky tar, did some light painting but I don’t even think I’m going to bother processing those shots. I’d been up since 4:30 and wasn’t physically tired yet, but in the room that was mercifully free of gnats I was almost ready for my first nap.






…..

What? Oh! Sorry again. Dozed off for a second. To finish my story, that was the world’s most boring infiltration, and I can now boast that I’ve explored coal country’s biggest festering dumpster.

Short interlude from dirt

Someone once said to me "You can't explore if you don't eat." That's true, although when I actually get off my duff to be culinary it's not something I'd think you'd necessarily eat in survival mode. That said, I love baking - so much that I very nearly dropped everything to go and formally learn how to be a pastry chef. Fortunately that leap of faith was never quite made. "Fortunate" because the saying is "Never trust a skinny chef" and I have no illusions about my waistline if I was cooking all the time. It sure is nice to have really good local friends (sometimes friends who are not local) to consume my experiments.

These are great cupcakes. I only tasted one because the batter only made about 15 and I have some hungry partygoers to feed later tonight. IMO, however, you can't go wrong when you smoosh almonds and mix it all up with sugar and ricotta cheese. Best of all, the fresh raspberries in the batter practically fell apart in the oven, not only adding moisture to the cake but making the eating process even more messy. And it's not fun if your dessert isn't messy!

OK, I'm very nearly done getting in touch with my Susie Homemaker side. Tomorrow the apron goes away and I break out the boots again. With some luck they might even be dry from my dunking last weekend. ;)

The Ghost Ship

They say facing your fears is the best way to get over them. I say that it is just a really good way to lose sleep.

I'm afraid of deep water and this is absolutely no secret. Anyone who knows me has probably laughed at some point at how scared I am to even walk on a beach, although eventually I'll get close enough to the waves to tread on wet sand. I can swim just fine – pretty well, actually – but my fear lies in the idea of the water, a huge an uncontrollable force ruled by astronomical forces that can smoosh you and drown you in the blink of an eye. Not to mention all of the things that lie in wait under the water: creatures, dead bodies, debris, refuse.

When I joined the Canton Kayak Club last spring, I'm not sure what I was thinking. Getting into a flimsy plastic shell and paddling defenselessly into the Inner Harbor… that is the exact opposite of anything I would voluntarily do. Maybe I was trying to throw off the scent of an identity thief, or I had tricep envy? Either way, I paid my club dues, did 2 hours of introductory training and was given a pat on the back and a membership card.

Fast forward to July. I haven't been on the water ever since training day in April. We'd been talking about making plans with a couple of other friends and acquaintances who also have memberships, but nothing ever gelled. Sunday, though, that was our day. I was just along for the ride, not really thinking it would happen. Famous last words!

It was around 98 degrees that afternoon and as humid as a sponge. We drove down to one of the docks south of the city and hauled out three kayaks, two blue and one orange. Naturally, I got the orange one. I am known for having balance issues on flat, steady ground, so getting in and out of a kayak bobbing in the harbor was what I thought would be my biggest challenge. Let's just say that I'm grateful Matt bends bolts for fun.

Now we start paddling. I'm trying to get the hang of it again, and I'm trying not to run into pylons that are sticking out of the water in plain view. After 15 minutes I'm already tired, but we haven't even gotten out of the little cove where the marina sits so there's no option but to push on. Also, Matt is pretty much out of sight already, he paddles so fast. Gotta catch up...

I'll cut the details because our trip out the harbor/river/bay was mostly me grumping and whining and being a pain the arse to the poor DH behind me. My hands were starting to get blistered. My sunglasses were doing no good. Every stroke found my hands bonking painfully against the lip of the kayak. I was getting dripped on. The water stank. We were really far from shore and the swells were making me extremely nervous (No, I never had the nerve to see A Perfect Storm). I kept listing to the left. Worst of all, it didn't even feel like we were moving.

I think it took us the better part of an hour (or two) to get out and around to our theoretical destination. Honestly, I know that the abandoned Ghost Ship was the whole point that Matt (and probably Trav) had joined the kayak club but I never really thought we'd be going all the way out there. It's really far! And I'm really wimpy! I have no idea how I made it there because my arms were already falling out of my shoulder sockets and I couldn't feel my triceps. But somehow…. We rounded one last dangerous rock pile by a peninsula and there she was.

How does one get aboard a half-sunken ship from a kayak? Apparently it's easy. You paddle REALLY fast and aim for the mostly-submerged barge that it's tethered to, and then seal-crawl up the rest of the way in your kayak. I had it easy; by virtue of my gender I had two people pull me up, instead. Actually it was very fortunate that the barge was there because (I think) it is tipped underwater and the hinged doors are what made up our landing ramps.

Then you strap all of your camera equipment to your body in a makeshift manner, inch along the rim of the barge and JUMP! through a broken window in the ship. And hope that any people on passing boats don't have a mean streak and steal your kayaks while you're out of sight. Because… dude, there is no other way out of there.

About the Ghost Ship itself: I have never been in anything like it before, that's for sure, but there isn't much left in it. Back in the day it was one of those entertainment ferries, the kind like the Bay Lady that you can hire for a set number of hours with your party and dance, drink, have dinner, whatever. Now she's tethered to (technically) a portable marsh, bottom levels completely filled with water.

The steep tilt did make things more difficult than I would have expected. Getting my horizons straight was bad enough, but it was simple things like climbing stairs, not having your tripod fall over when you're looking through it, walking into rails, etc. I am such a land lubber. And what rhymes with "lubber?" That's right, "rubber." My arms felt like two very boneless pieces of rubber so I spend my first round leaving the camera on the ground and walking, just scouting. There are lots of abstract textures in the paint there, and interesting patterns of dancing light from the water. The holes in the floor seemed to have been circled with hot pink spray paint… years ago. Now they're faded into a misty carnation, making me wonder who did such work here and why.



Also, there were tons of barn swallows and red-winged blackbirds. While they were very cute, eventually their whirring/chinking/cheeping started to grate on my brain. To contrast the lightness of this, every few minutes I could hear a deep creaking groan of industrial metal. I only assume it was the ship settling under our weight or bumping against the barge on the other side. The noise sent shivers down my spine, not because I thought we were in any real danger but because it was so true to every bad movie I'd seen that involved a compromised ship.

Although it seemed kind of cheap to me, I don't think we stayed in the ship anywhere near as long as it took us to get there. We packed up, jumped out the window, stored our equipment back in the dry bags. Well, at least I did – the guys wanted exterior shots from the water, which was fine for them. I know my paddling skills better than that.

Good thing! Because on the way out I capsized my boat. Splash, for real. Here is the order of thoughts that went through my head:

1. Crap, these boots will NEVER dry out
2. The water tastes like runny mucus
3. My camera!!!!!
4. I hope I don't get trapped under the barge
5. What STD will I catch from this?
6. *censored*

I'm a little bit sad that concern for my camera only rated at #3, but I plead shock for shifting my priorities around.

And the guys had the flaming audacity to be jealous of me. Jealous! because theoretically I wasn't hot anymore. I'll take being hot/thirsty over being wet with three inches of water inside my waterproof boots, TYVM. I offered to shove them into the water next. They declined.

The trip back was uneventful, otherwise. We cut across the major boat route in an effort to make the trip shorter but the only thing I really noticed was that we had to paddle like crazy to get out of their way (all other boats have right of way over kayaks) and were left riding giant swells. I was NOT AMUSED. There is something to be said about having to make a wet exit, however: you care a lot less about getting splashed, but I was still unclear as to what to do if you capsize a mile from shore.

All in all it was a great trip. If I had bothered to check the map before we left I may not have gone because it was significantly farther than I think I could have handled (approx 6 miles). But I made it through there with only slight damage to my dignity and some decent photos – and maybe not knowing your physical limit is a good thing because I sure as heck wasn't going to spend the night sleeping on the water! Best of all, we all have a new story to tell.



My gallery is finally up here.

With this trip, I think that I am living my life to the fullest. Can't complain about that, even though it makes for very, very long blog entries afterwards.

Batting for both teams

I found out this morning that I've been published for the second time. My photo of the lovely miss Acacia Sears made (along with a most flattering blurb about her music) the July/August issue of Curve magazine. Congrats, Cacie! And I suppose that I can add this to my resume, too. Or something.

Light show at the Brewery

Last night we had a date with Matt and his girl to go camp out on a rooftop. Sounds good, right? No crowds, nice fireworks, cameras. What could possibly go wrong? It’s not like we’d never been to that roof before. Heck, even though it had rained like crazy that afternoon, the precipitation stopped and it was a balmy (though humid) 80 degrees. The clouds made for a dramatic sunset, very promising.

Matt is handy. He knows lots of stuff and has a really innocent face to go with it. He’s really good to keep around so anyone reading this, make sure you stock up on canned salmon and kidney beans. Once we were in (thanks, Matt!) we climbed pretty much right to the roof, picked a spot and lay our coats down. The bumpy asphalt-like material was a little wet, but nothing serious. I had more of a problem with the rocks poking me in the rear, but hey… I’m Asian!

We sat there shooting test shots as the light faded, taking in the smaller fireworks displays that people will inevitably drive to PA or WV for and launch from their back yards. The harbor fireworks weren’t scheduled to start until 9:30. We were really enjoying the breeze, the view, the company. The freedom. The only thing that would have made it better would have been Chipotle, but that’s neither here nor there.

Right when things started getting dark, thunderclouds started crawling in from the west. Headed right towards the city… and us! A few raindrops wouldn’t kill the camera and I was bound to get some good shots tonight. It was a while before I noticed my companions had grabbed their tripods and run for shelter. Determined, I just tossed my raincoat over the two of us (30D and me), just like in the old fashioned days to make a little slice of darkness. In this case it was dryness. Good shots don't come easily, right? Maybe...?



Right when the lightning bolts started to get good, the heavens opened and we were practically swimming. Jeebus! Being in the middle of a long exposure sure makes me stubborn, but even after a certain point it was obvious it was time to turn tail and run, too.

Time: 9:08 PM.

Note to my crew: next year if it storms, pick a location that does NOT have a roof completely occupied with steel towers and structures composed of corrugated metal.



I’m fairly new to the art of fishing for lightning, but I have definitely done worse than these in the past. Next time I try this I’m going to put in a request for some brighter bolts right over the skyline, and maybe slip in an extra $20 to make sure more of them coincide with the fireworks.

Fall Into the Sky

No abandonments this weekend, though creatively I have been a bit like an empty shell. However, the moon was bright and full and was promised to be a special one and I ended up wanting to take full advantage of it.

Saturday morning dawned grey and humid and just about the most typical Maryland summer morning you could imagine. By the time evening came, however, I was in a better mood because the skies actually cleared up. Miracle of miracles! With plans in the city I was on a tight schedule and already running late… but driving through West Baltimore I saw the huge orange moon hanging over the distant skyline like a fat harvest pumpkin. It was beautiful and it almost physically hurt to see that there were too many trees and buildings to properly photograph it over the spread of twinkling sodium lights.

Keep in mind that West Baltimore is not exactly a place you want to pull over after dark with several thousand dollars’ worth of photography equipment hanging off your body. Local explorers have a joke about certain types of neighborhoods: something about dangling a $1K crack rock around your neck. You get the idea.

The cemetery on the hill was promising, but I’m not outright insane. Turning off the main road to a side street was unthinkable, too. There are no tall public buildings in this part of town, nothing for which we could finagle a rooftop excursion. I’m getting more and more distressed about the moon rising, getting smaller and losing the rich orange color. Then… an idea: The train station! It’s not that tall but it’s outdoors and there are usually security patrols there, even though you can hear a pin drop (or gunfire) there anytime it’s not Mon-Fri rushour.

We pull in, throw on our backpacks and run full tilt up the stairs to the platform, still slinging tripods over shoulders. I’ll chase any light as long as long as there’s light to be had.

The view isn’t quite as lovely as I’d expect. For one, the ghetto is expectedly dark and boring and flat and there are very few working streetlights beyond the parking lot below. It’s a little bit disappointing because I was hoping to get orange moon/orange lights and I had, umm… a bloated washed-out orange thing on my LCD.

Suddenly I hear a semi-familiar pop-pop-pop! But instead of silence or screaming I see bright pink sparks shooting above the treeline right next to the moon. It was a magical moment, even though what they’re doing is illegal and the resulting photo still isn’t all that interesting or good. After I got off two shots they stopped. But the coincidence of the fireworks, set off as if waiting for us… that is all it took to distill my frustration into happiness. This is what I live for: a spontaneously private moment that turns into a little story, and having our cameras there was just icing on the cake.