Schneller and Son Brewery

In many ways I am a lazy bum. Matt, I'm sure, knows this - particularly because I tend to ride on his coattails when it comes to finding nice old buildings to photograph. My excuse is that I am not only relatively incompetent when it comes to that sort of research, but I am not feverishly driven to do it like... *cough* many people are.

I should talk about the Schneller Brewery. After all we spent a small amount of time there and I had many thoughts running through my head in the quiet. It's a nice little place, quite historic as breweries tend to be, and I should find it a little odd that of all the buildings I have seen over the years, breweries tend to be a category in and of themselves. The place is trashed, plain and simple. And it is so well-trashed that I couldn't even begin to guess how old the damage is. The business has been abandoned for over 4 decades so I hear, so there's a lot of room for speculation. The basement level was not quite as bad as the chop-shop we strolled into in Philadelphia last summer, thank god, but I wasn't left with a feeling of warmth and good cheer. It was dark (duh), filled with refuse, and stank like some sort of resin-derived product that reminded me of bow rosin. How odd: the spine-tingling hyper-awareness resulting from the guys pushing me to go in first co-mingling with thick memories of violin lessons in music school. Fear of being jumped makes an interesting sauce to stuffy soundproofed practice rooms, though the sweaty palms blurred the lines between past and present!


Traffic is quite loud in the brewery because there are very few windows left. On the outside it is lovely old red brick capped with green copper roof. Inside it is ruined and brown. The park across the street turns out to be a hot gathering place for some noisy locals and it's annoying to have to find alternate routes from the basement to the first floor because of them. We don't really want them seeing us and coming over because it certainly would not be in that "Hey whatcha guys doing and can we join ya?" kind of way.

The highlight of the evening was, to me, not the brewery but the place we visited afterwards. And even though none of my shots from that lovely second place turned out even half usable, I'm a year overdue for spilling those memories into a tangible medium....






... but that's not going to be happening right now, either.

A Sort of Homecoming

Stretching weary muscles I groan and tumble out of bed. 4:00 AM never gets easier no matter how many times I complain about it. I hate the nauseated, slightly hung-over feeling that lies in the pit of my stomach until the sun rises, the grittiness of my eyes and the inability to find the light switch in the dark. At this hour it's difficult for me to remember for whom and why I promised this torture.

My puppy doesn't even twitch his ears as I get dressed and pull my boots on. I try turning on every light in the house in a desperate attempt to convince my body that it's time to be upright. The ploy fails.

This morning was a long one, but it was also long in coming. So much has happened in the two months that I have been out of exploring commission, and I don't regret the choices that I made. I do miss my old friends, my casual companions of similar insanity levels and vastly different backgrounds. I miss having my entire season's schedule so full of plans that I neglect my family, my other friends, my housework and my home life. But now it feels like years since I have been able to work in this medium and pair it with writing, and this hiatus has deleterious effects on my mood. When I cannot be creative on a regular basis my psyche takes a severe blow; I get mean, bitter and volatile. While life is spinning too fast to tell heads or tails I had to promise myself (and those who have to deal with me!) that I will take half a day to step back, purge and mentally refocus.


I told Vandemar Electric that I would return, but it was 3 months before I could see him again. While in some ways nothing had changed, there many ways in which they had. And, as usual, it saddened me. First, however, was the thrill of charging into a sleeping, breathing building and feeling high from the cold and slightly damp scent of mildew on concrete. These buildings do breathe, albeit slowly, and it is the breath of both life and death. Although the day was sunny, still and warm you can feel the whisper of cool air brushing against the door frames and whooshing up the stairs like ghosts of children. Like I wanted to, had I not been 20 years too old loaded down with gear and decorum.

As expected, the creative block slammed down upon entering the building. It never matters if it is new territory or old. Every day is different, every hour the sun moves across the broken ceilings and through jagged windows like a huge sundial. Knowing this and realizing that every moment is unique and changing only adds to that panic. I try to talk myself out of it, to breathe and relax and approach each line of the grid independently of the next moment but... ah, you know how it goes.

My first visit here last July was an exploration of a Steampunk Wonderland. That much had not changed: the turbines sit chilly and silent, chunks of concrete from the ceiling cluttered every surface like post-apocalyptic coral. But I did not want to speak to the giant sea creatures today because I had other intents in mind. In the silence I let my companions wander in their own directions. I was feeling timid but not afraid, at least not of corporeal harm. We had a different battle to fight, my muse and I, and it promised to be a long and very private one.



For the first 5 hours I considered, examined, climbed, crouched, stared, twisted, composed, and deleted. Nothing worked and nothing truly spoke to me. For 5 hours I was unconcerned, perhaps thinking that I just hadn't Found It Yet, when there is probably some truth in that. Maybe the light that morning wasn't so good, either? It's always very hard to tell in an abandonment. I managed to get out of the turbine hall and into the newer buildings as well as some of the less-industrial offices. I climbed up rusty catwalks and sought new perspectives and new physical challenges. (This did nothing except prove just how much I need to work on my upper body strength) After 5 hours my friends had left me again, and I found Zen in solitude.

A chair posed at a makeshift wooden table, the top littered with yellowed newspapers. Jugs of drinking water still stacked and unopened. The infirmary, cleared of furniture but haunted with shadows of the injured. A rainbow of hues exposed in the layers of flaking paint. A fuse box hidden in a corner still marked with tags describing services performed in 1949. All these things and more are what make buildings like this alive to me while on the surface it seems cold and dead. Is this really a new revelation? Of course not, but I think that each and every one of us forgets the most obvious things when they can't see the trees for the forest.


Industry and rust are my first loves, but there will be a time when I may have to hang up my laurels and give up the art of regularly photographing these buildings. Part of me is tired but the majority is feeling my responsibilities and the stress of fulfilling other obligations. While my enthusiasm and energy will determine if/when that happens, I hope that my friends will forgive me -- or at least not forget all the moments we endured and shared.

I will always want to capture, learn and create. I am convinced now that this is my purpose in life. Hopefully the people who surround me will not change as quickly as my subjects.

Please, and thank you.

Enjoy the Fall

There are no abandonments in this entry, but it has been so long since I have had an opportunity to write for pleasure that I'm doing this exercise so my muse doesn't divorce me.

Autumn is here. Sort of. Where I live it's great weather for late August/early September, but for crissakes it's more than halfway through October already! To enjoy true autumn we have inadvertently started a tradition of going up to visit my parents, who live in a picturesque, mountainous region in the northeast. Having been raised in a house only surrounded by other houses, I am enjoying this tradition quite a bit - particularly because it is still within easy reach of a major metropolitan center.

A bit of a travelogue, if you will:

Friday night at the Metropolitan Opera House. We saw a beautiful performance of Madama Butterfly, which many people have already heard me gush about. Although cameras are technically not permitted inside, plenty of people were taking photos. How can you not when you're dressed in your finery? It is arguable that the performing arts and the appreciation thereof are not to this standard down in Baltimore. But I won't argue. I saw beautiful ladies, dapper men, and more pointy-toed high heels than I have seen outside of a shoe store.



After the performance my father got a bit camera-happy, as he is wont to do. I tried to capture motion on the plaza, but of course a point and shoot can only do so much in low light conditions. Trav is walking down the center (quite dapper himself) and some dude/tte is passing through as a shadowy blob on the left.



You have never properly enjoyed Korean food if you haven't had it after 1 AM. Down in Baltimore, all-night Korean places are the norm but I have no idea if this is just a local practice or not. My mother finds this incredibly amusing, and I found it a bit surreal (but no less fun!) to be enjoying 20 dishes and hot barley tea with my parents until 2 AM. While I take photos of everything (including the uniquely Korean paper-wrapped oversized spoons), Trav imitates my dislike of being photographed.



The next day the weather was cool and bright. We packed our (real) cameras in preparation for a nature hike. Zachary has always had a strange affinity for open car trunks. He sees one, he jumps in. PETA has no reason to come after me, as I have never closed him in one.



The hike through the Audubon Nature Preserve was as tame as I could have imagined a hike to be. The last placed we had hiked was in Montana where things were a bit different. I kept looking for something interesting and falling a little short. But I was prepared, damnit!! I had every piece of equipment primed and ready to roll. Including Smuggy.



Trav was slightly more enthusiastic about the forest than I was. In fact, he seemed to see quite a few opportunities. I wondered if maybe I needed my eyes checked. However he wore his cap with staunch pride and I am embarrassed to admit that seeing a tall guy in a red hat circulating near me with camera gear had a rather Pavlovian calming effect.



We followed the river for a while, trying this and that. Nothing I did seemed to work but I wasn't too pressed. The day was about the journey, not the reward. While the morning had been bright and sunny, the afternoon was turning overcast. But there were lots of little brown frogs hopping between the rocks. With some gentle coaxing we got this little one to sit on a slightly more presentable surface.



I think we were both a little scared of what the other would do, but I think the froggy won that day because he was brave enough to look me right in the eye. They say size doesn't matter, but try telling that to all the tiny creatures of the universe when giants stick cameras in their faces.

After the hike it was time for some tea. A lovely little bookstore/cafe in Bernardsville hit the right spot. I love an afternoon of lugging equipment, then unwinding with hot yerba mate whilst chimping.



On the way back to the house I had an idea, inspired by a friend who just seems to turn the very idea of normalcy inside-out. Of course I wasn't going to risk using my real camera for this trick! (yet)



This was just practice for some TBD time in the future when we're in a more interesting car with more interesting weather and more interesting scenery winding through on a more interesting road. It's absolutely amazing how slippery the shutter button gets when your palms are sweating in fear.

That night our friend Ryan invited us to his place since we were in his neck of the woods. No half-sunk ships this time: just pure unadulterated smoked ham with apples and sweet honey mustard glaze. There were a lot of people stuffed into his beautiful backyard, so much that I gave up and hid in the corner. I fail! The running joke is that I have a year to get a scrip for Xanax, when I will have to face 70-odd strangers at once...



The grand finale of the weekend: pumpkin shooting. We seemed to have started doing this each year, and why should I mind? Fresh cakey doughnuts rich and yeasty on the tongue, tangy hot apple cider, the scent and growl of the trucks pulling hayrides, and shouts of people both young and old as they push the giant slingshots to their utmost limits!



Last year we had fun, but no luck. This year Trav was determined to do better.



This one isn't mine of course, but pumpkin slingshots are almost more fun as a spectator sport because you don't have to train your grip.



Floop! Can you spot the flying orange squash?



Apparently if your softball-sized pumpkin hits the edge of the target, explodes in a stringy mess and deposits most of the seeds inside the cone, it still counts! The pulp was flying with enough force to swirl the other winning pumpkins inside like a whirlwind.

Thankfully Trav did not pick the top-shelf, prize-winning enormo-pumpkin. This one was big enough. While the camera usually adds 10 pounds, it looks as though pumpkins might actually subtract 20.



And that is autumn for me.

*uncramps fingers*

Tick, tick, tick...

I've finally put up my images from Montana here. I really didn't have the time to do this, but I did. More on that later, maybe, if my proposal for a 30 hour day is granted.



Moving on, I didn't realize how ridiculous this statement was until it left my mouth:

It's Japan. I don't need a long lens, right?

With that, the clock is reset and the countdown begins anew. It is one month before I get an exclusive peek into a world and a culture I never thought I would be able to experience myself. Tokyo, Kyoto, here we come!

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So, you might think you feel stupid after your take a bunch of shots and see that your ISO is left at 3200. I just discovered that while in Montana, after switching my file mode to jpg to take a series of speed panos, I forgot to change it back to raw.

We saw the most beautiful snowstorm down in the valley through the filter of burned evergreen trunks high up on the mountain. God beams, snowflakes, swirling clouds, blue sky, a snaking river of light... it was nature at it's most majestic.

Now gone, existing only in my memory.

I shot at least 50 frames, underexposing with the full intent of bringing out all of these details in post. And they all look like this: a dark, soupy, noisy mess.



My photographer's license should be revoked.

Chasing my light

This week while leaving the bookstore I passed a table and a cover caught my eye. It was Jim Brandenburg's Looking for the Summer, a photo essay of nature and landscape photos. I am not really a nature or a landscape photographer, nor am I particularly outdoorsy. However, Jim and I go way back, way into my Dark Ages before I knew who I was, what I was doing, or even considered picking up a camera. I do not mean that I know him in any way, shape or form but he was a name introduced to me by someone who was (is) very important to me who coveted his wolf photographs. In those days I looked through his first book, running my fingers over the thick, glossy pages that were windows into a land I never thought I would ever see for myself. The images of the northern wilderness were so beautiful and touching they took my breath away. Coming from a bland suburb of a suburb and living in a dorm in college, I never was exposed to such peace and perfection. While life was chaos and a storm of confused and negative emotions for me, the visions of grey wolf pelts half-hidden in the heavy snowfall, misunderstood and uncaring, always stayed with me.

Even more so was that one photo of a freshly killed doe in the snow, her endless deep black eyes starting to frost over with a delicate tracery of ice.

After a decade I finally saw Jim's work again. And I thought to myself "Kismet happens." It's astonishing, actually. I bought the book without a second thought and only opened it after I got home. Have you ever read that short story about the woman who searches and searches for a beautiful blue bracelet she had as a child, only to find it and realize it was just a piece of plastic? I hate to admit I sort of felt like that. Not that Jim's work isn't a landmark in its genre and that he produces stunning images, but most of the magic I used to feel was gone. Perhaps it was the advent of digital technology, the fact that I am no longer lost, or the recent passing of knowledge from one great (touchable) landscape photographer to myself... but I was a little bit let down. I understand that this is part of life - you live, you learn, you create your own art. And when you educate yourself the romanticism of much is ripped away.

Ignorance is bliss!

I will continue to chase great photographs because they are the diversion that keeps me sane. And perhaps when I get the chance I'll look up that deer photo that moved me so much the day I first saw it.

Then again, maybe it's just better to keep it a memory.

We landed with a thump

I is back, in the flesh. It only took 32 hours to get here from Kalispell, MT. I am not amused by Northwest airlines or the air traffic control system in Minneapolis. Not amused at all. However, the last 6 days have more than made up for it. In order to prevent waxing poetic, let me break it down into a short list:

Baldies: Three - Gus, Trav, and the eagle near Many Glacier

Greatest accomplishment: Getting an Aussie to say "Subaru Outback"

Addictions started: Coffee, because tea is hard to get at 6 am

Number of moose spotted: One (Teresa's chocolate mousse dessert)

Wildlife seen by non-wildlife photographers: Mountain goats, snakes, golden eagles, grizzly bears, black bears, one urinating coyote and 3 grey deer

Coolest new invention: The devbobo Speed Pano

Place where Montanans wish they lived: Compton, Los Angeles

Given the hell that was traveling there and back, I have come to the realization that Maryland isn't all that bad. I may hate the weather, the traffic jams, the inability of the drivers to handle rainfall or (god forbid) snowfall, and it might be the least aesthetic place in the universe. But I know what to expect, I know the subtle nuances of daily life here so well that I do have the right to bitch about it. In a way it is beautiful, and yesterday I was never happier to see the grey, sprawling, pre-fab corporate mess that was Columbia and Linthicum when our plane finally touched down at BWI.

Home sweet home.

In my absence I managed to finagle one little accomplishment. I suppose the secret to success is to do things on the fly before you leave for a week and not have time to get uptight about it. ;)

I am so grateful for being able to have a chance to meet some new acquaintances and to better know faces I've met before. I really do keep thinking I am going to see them come around the corner because I've grown used to having these folks around. Already it's been at least 48 hours since I've heard Andy yell, "SCHMOOOO-tography!" and I don't know when I'm finally going to break down into detoxifying chills and sweats.