Seattle Photo-1924

Seattle climate: Pacific Marine. Around late September to early October, the switch flips and the High pressure ridge no longer holds. The sunny, temperate summer (July 4th–September 20th) is gone, Jack. A few bigger storms move in (more wind and relatively more rain). In come the clouds, and the drizzle, and because we’re at 48 degrees north latitude, the darkness.

As for snow, there’s plenty of moisture around, but getting the moisture AND the cold air together is tough. The cold air dams behind the Cascades and up high and in Eastern Washington. Sometimes it drains through the Fraser River valley and spills over Seattle. You might not get any snow for a winter or two, or you might get 1-2 weeks of below freezing temps, and 2-24 inches of snow on the ground before it melts with the next rain. Lots of variability.

Dress in layers with moisture protection. The difference between the rare sun on your skin and walking through a damp, chill fog could be 15-20 degrees. Expect low light, and sunrise as you go to work and sunset before you leave.

Join a club…and get some good exercise. Wait for late April or May to start seeing real sunny days again.

Repost-A Few Thoughts On Dave Jordano’s ‘Detroit Nocturne’

‘Detroit Nocturne‘ found here.  Via Mick Hartley.

I’m partial to ‘Joey’s Meatcutter Inn, Bar & Grill 2017‘:

Joey's Meatcutter's Inn, Eastside, Detroit 2017

—

Immediately, I think of Edward Hopper: The lonely cityscape at night or the familiar glow of gas station lights cast into the American wilderness.  The eye might want to linger among the colors, shapes and clouds even though the mind knows this is pretty much an empty street in a ‘post-industrial’ zone.

Perhaps it has do with another strand of expression:  The break into free verse from past forms.  The move from American Romanticism to Modernism which occurred this early past century.  William Carlos Williams produced many good poems from a process of earnest, scrapbook-style intensity in trying to discover, redefine, and order a new poetic form within a modern ‘urban landscape.’

The individual artist is quite alone in the task he’s set before himself, and like much of modernism, it’s a rather big task.

Pastoral

When I was younger
it was plain to me
I must make something of myself.
Older now
I walk back streets
admiring the houses
of the very poor:
roof out of line with sides
the yards cluttered
with old chicken wire, ashes,
furniture gone wrong;
the fences and outhouses
built of barrel staves
and parts of boxes, all,
if I am fortunate,
smeared a bluish green
that properly weathered
pleases me best of all colors.

No one
will believe this
of vast import to the nation

–William Carlos Williams

Do you believe any of that to be of vast import to the nation.  Are you no one?

Another one of Jordano’s photos which stuck out was: ‘Church Rectory With Lightning, Eastside, Detroit, 2016

https://chrisnavin.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/b784b-6a00d83451ebab69e201b8d2e873dc970c-pi.jpg

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Perhaps I’m not wrong in having called Halloween horror still and movie images to mind (it’s my mind, after all, so maybe I’m just thinking of Devil’s Night).Β  I really enjoy the light on the dumpster and the side-front rectory wall. There seems to be a little more mood here, more drama, so maybe Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘psychological intensity,’ surrealism, and terror are more appropriate for comparison.

Poe was a bit mad, after all, despite his fascinatingly untamed and powerful imagination.  He achieved a uniqueness and completeness of vision few artists do.  Maybe there’s a bit of the sullen, self-aggrandizing earnestness in him of the teenager (J.D. Salinger); the desire to shock, delight and terrify.

The mind is as though a chamber, the horror rising to fever pitch, the lush rhyme matching an increasingly desperate search for truth and beauty in the world (Poe had very much his own Romantically inspired metaphysics).

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others wereβ€”I have not seen
As others sawβ€”I could not bring
My passions from a common springβ€”
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrowβ€”I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same toneβ€”
And all I lov’dβ€”I lov’d aloneβ€”
Thenβ€”in my childhoodβ€”in the dawn
Of a most stormy lifeβ€”was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me stillβ€”
From the torrent, or the fountainβ€”
From the red cliff of the mountainβ€”
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of goldβ€”
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying byβ€”
From the thunder, and the stormβ€”
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my viewβ€”

Nice photos, Dave.  Thank you.

As previously posted:

Via Curbed Detroit. (via David Thompson)

70 photos of the abandoned, foreboding Temple.  Mysterious symbols and a certain sad grandeur that’s come to represent Detroit these days.

-Photographer Ben Marcin has a series called β€˜Last House Standing.’ Solitary row-homes…the only ones left on the block.

From Buzzfeed: β€˜Why I Bought A House in Detroit For $500:’

How did Detroit get here? Very comprehensive and easy to navigate.

More from Megan McArdle on the behavior that comes with pension bonuses.Charlie LeDuff, Detroit’s populist, citizen journalist’s youtube channel here.  At least he’s sticking around.

Are you looking at beautiful photos and feeling sorry for Detroit, and yourself?  See Time Magazine’s photo essay by Yves Marchand and Romain Meffre (less porn-like, more thoughtful).

Hipster hope, artists, collectivists and small business types can’t save it either:  A Short Culture Wars Essay-Two Links On Detroit & β€˜Ruin Porn’

GM is not a municipality, but good money got put in, probably after bad and it reeks of politics: From The Detroit News: β€˜How The Treasury, GM Stock Deal Got Done’

Modernism At The Movies

Seattle Photo & A Poem By Donald Justice

Men At Forty

Men at forty
Learn to close softly
The doors to rooms they will not be
Coming back to.

At rest on a stair landing,
They feel it moving
Beneath them now like the deck of a ship,
Though the swell is gentle.

And deep in mirrors
They rediscover
The face of the boy as he practices tying
His father’s tie there in secret

And the face of the father,
Still warm with the mystery of lather.
They are more fathers than sons themselves now.
Something is filling them, something

That is like the twilight sound
Of the crickets, immense,
Filling the woods at the foot of the slope
Behind their mortgaged houses.

–Donald Justice

Seattle Photo-For The Birds

I’m just aiming to increase the average photo I’m taking. Maybe during this process you get a sense of the place.

Thanks for stopping by.

***One day a few photos might be ‘wall-worthy.’ You’re in line at a restaurant (aspiring chain) bathroom and your eyes focus for 3-5 seconds on one of the photos framed in front of you.

Immortality!

Seattle Photo & A Poem By Elizabeth Bishop-For Commerce Or Contemplation

Large Bad Picture

Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or 
some northerly harbor of Labrador, 
before he became a schoolteacher 
a great-uncle painted a big picture.
 

Receding for miles on either side 
into a flushed, still sky 
are overhanging pale blue cliffs 
hundreds of feet high, 

their bases fretted by little arches, 
the entrances to caves 
running in along the level of a bay 
masked by perfect waves. 

On the middle of that quiet floor 
sits a fleet of small black ships, 
square-rigged, sails furled, motionless, 
their spars like burnt match-sticks. 

And high above them, over the tall cliffs’ 
semi-translucent ranks, 
are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds 
hanging in n’s in banks. 

One can hear their crying, crying, 
the only sound there is 
except for occasional sizhine 
as a large aquatic animal breathes. 

In the pink light 
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling, 
round and round and round at the same height 
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling, 

while the ships consider it. 
Apparently they have reached their destination. 
It would be hard to say what brought them there, 
commerce or contemplation.

–Elizabeth Bishop

Pulp Fiction & Photographic Visions-A Link To Bruce Davidson’s ‘Subway’

Beauty, ugliness, youth, strength, and decay: Via Mick Hartley Bruce Davidson at Magnum’s ‘Subway‘.

Many of the images in Subway are sensual, dangerous and raw, but then again, so was the NYC subway in about 1979 or 1980. Davidson plays with different exposures, techniques and settings, eventually deciding on using color to depict what he saw. He also reportedly toned-up physically, geared-up, and mentally prepared himself to get off and on those subway cars during the project. He had some undercover city cops with him a few times.

Imagine how conspicuous a new Nikon/Canon DSLR and a flash would make you in one of those cars at night (he, in fact, had one camera stolen).

Come for the raw, dangerous subject matter and the vicarious risk (oh yeah, it can happen again…just stay tuned). Stay for Davidson’s compositions, subtle use of light and color, and the genuine humanity he found within his larger vision.

Is a certain dangerous, glamorous adventure beneath you?

What about in your prime?

—

—

It’s not like these problems haven’t been with us for a while.  Without police protection, you’ll probably get worse outcomes and more retributive violence. A reader sends a link to The Confessions Of Bernhard Goetz, subway vigilante:

There’s a lot here: Genuine threat (thugs), fear, real victimization (previous muggings and a likely soon-to-be mugging), but also serious ignorance and over-reaction.

I imagine Goetz was a bit like a feral animal fleeing out of that subway car, up the station stairs and into the night.

From min 33:40:

The question to be litigated was whether the community would make a judgment about his (Goetz) own good faith belief….are we in a position to condemn him for over-reacting?

—

From The Warriors to Dirty Harry to Death Wish, a certain gritty, pulpy style was born. One of the main desires of men, especially, is to quash injustice and heroically protect that which falls under their honor. When the authorities can’t combat crime in public transport, or choose to enforce the law selectively, then the desire for vengeance, punishment and order finds outlets.

Seattle Photo-Garbage Man In The Market & A Poem By Seamus Heaney-You Get The Idea

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb   
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   
Bends low, comes up twenty years away   
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging
.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

–Seamus Heaney

Seattle Photo-Choose Your Own Adventure

Here’s my postmodern blurb (probably not preposterous enough):

‘The use of language and symbols is a potentially unique feature of human beings. Embedded within our perceptual apparatus are modes of engagement, in constant interface with the Natural World, informing our actions towards both knowable and unknowable (E)nds.’