Day of the Century

Seabound is one of the very few artists that I am willing to go out and see. My comfort zone has shrunk massively over the last 5 years, and for the most part this is never a problem. However the lack of outside socialization makes me a hermit and it is difficult to hear and sample new things in life no matter how much time I spend on the internet.

Frank Spinath and Martin Vorbrodt, on the other hand, have managed to penetrate my little bubble several years ago. And I've held them hostage and never let them leave. Figuratively.



Perhaps the last thing I would ever rave about are bands. I stopped caring about musicians in a fan sort of way when I exited my teens, as many of us do. Even in college and doing all the silly things college people do I rarely attended a show of my own volition. I hate the noise, the smoke, the sticky scudge on the floor and the raspy residue that inevitably tickles its way out of your lungs the next morning. Most of all, I hated (hate) crowds.

Seabound, however, is unparalleled as far as I am concerned. Their music is smooth, flawless, electronic and symphonic but with a dark undercurrent of emotion. They appeal to me on many different levels and even though many of their tracks are upbeat club staples it's never just a simple joy ride. As enjoyable as it is kicking the noobs out of my personal space to "Poisonous Friend" on a Saturday night, my favorite pieces by them were the vivid, visual, lush melodies such as "October Song" and "Avalost." Talk to me, work with me, look at me... chances are that if you and I have ever been together and interacted, I have had "October Song" running through my head at least one of those times. Seabound (and Edge of Dawn) have been the soundtrack to my life recently, and I think they deserve every moment of their success. Intelligent, human and approachable, I would support no other kind of artist.



All the same, my satisfaction of seeing them finally was largely internal. As I moved about the room and eventually ended up front-and-center, I was close enough to grab naughty Seabound bits if I was That Fangirl but of course I would never do that. Both of them offered their hands to the crowd several times but some force of reason kept my own paws cemented to the camera.

Choosing to shoot at the show was a tough one. I have never done that before, actually, because I would generally rather enjoy the music than worry about settings and focus. In a way the people moving around me were satisfying in and of itself, but I was there to capture the moments in a more permanent way than in an excited flush or beads of sweat. In the very end, however, I gave in. Relinquishing my camera to Trav I had to dance to "The Promise." I may not remember every moment of their too-short set because I was focused on the photography, but I will never regret missing a few extra frames to dance with them.



Good times, good times. All the photos are up here.

Kimono in Winter

Confession: My whole life I have been greatly amused by all of the people in the world who love Japan, Japanese culture, want to be in Japan, be Japanese, eat Japanese food... all because of anime and manga. Now, I know that there's no reason why not; one reason is as good as any other to broaden your horizons and experience different cultures. I know this with the rational part of my mind but maybe it's just the stupid 8-year-old in me that needs something to point and snicker at just to balance out the tired old grownup part.


But, uh, I went to Japan and I loved it there. Actually, the longer I'm home the more I miss it. I still don't care about manga no matter what anyone says, but the culture and the people have captured my heart. If it were not so far away I would go back. If I had more time I would learn to speak the language.


For now I will just continue life in America and like all the other convention-goers, I will look at beautiful old photos and prints of geisha and maiko, marvel at the extreme juxtapositions of conservative and crazy in their society and try to flavor my own projects with their standards of art.


I am fortunate to have beautiful friends. Beautiful, patient, and with very good tolerance to cold and wind! I could get used to shooting lovely models. So many ideas in my head, not enough time...


Thank you, Nikki!

Drown, Drift, Float, Wake

Recently on a whim, I acted against my better judgment and took a couple of hours to visit a local clothing factory. Abandoned for almost 25 years, so much still remains, though it is a little local secret for students in the city. It had been almost a year since I'd last visited and seemingly just as long since I'd been on such an adventure. Certainly the motivation and excitement I used to feel has been long gone no matter what I have done to bring it back. We came, we saw, we conquered. But that something inside of me lay low in the cold, bogged down and stuck tightly as though in frozen molasses.



The "zone," the one that you have to actively strive to maintain even if you visit the mindset on a regular basis, has been long locked behind a door, the key nearly lost and the hole dusted over with cobwebs. On one hand I nonchalantly brushed it off because so many other life commitments have been vying for my attention lately. On the other hand was rising panic for a part of me that had suddenly disappeared. I would sooner rather wake up and find my right leg gone than miss the spark that drives me.

Perhaps my focus and ambition went the way of the clothing factory. Like the employees that picked up and suddenly left in 1985, perhaps everything inside my head that made life worth living simply decided to seek fortune elsewhere? I was the mannequin without a heart, the million voiceless woolen coats standing patiently for their return. Since then I have been here, bereft of words, waiting for strong arms to take me up and give me shape, warmth and movement once again.



Slipping off the backpack, assembling my kit and snapping my tripod into shape was the hardest thing I had to do this day. The fear of failure, of solid confirmation that yes it really is gone was the gaping vortex that threatened to tip me into the deepest internal abyss. For months I had given myself just one more reason to not find out, just one more extended deadline. No muscles are harder to work than the ones that have seen so much neglect. Excuses are easy. Work is not.

I do not know for sure if I will ever live up to any expectations made of me. Those I hold most dear understand that I will never feel that I fill my own shoes, but with this familiar jest comes a much more serious issue of understanding what truly is and what is not. Who am I? Who are we all? When will we be satisfied with our capabilities? When will we stop making so many excuses?



I will never look into my viewfinder and be confused again. I refuse to let go of all the work I have done and lose the map of roads I have traversed in the dark. Even if I have no formal guidance in what I do and what I create, I have a light within that will always burn brightly.

Full gallery for the Fischer Clothing Factory.

Static on the line

I am extremely regretful about the radio silence here. I have felt quite like this over the last several weeks, particularly at 4:00 and onwards:



Be back soon.