A story Jeff and I collaborated on was posted on dane101.com today through our content sharing partnership with the site.
Check it out: City moving forward with building use policy draft
12.28.2011
Epic Points of Light
Who wouldn't love to work in a place like Epic? My fiance has worked there four-ish years and through my comings and goings picking him up from work or seeing a new office he's moved into or giving unofficial tours to relatives, I've seen quite a bit of the campus. But it changes constantly; every time I pick him up from work I feel like I'm taking a different road, even if I'm going to the same place.
We always offer visiting relatives a tour of John's office, which makes it sound banal when you put it like that. I think the visiting relatives think the same and initially agree just to be polite. And then they see the place and know what we're talking about. I try to take my camera every time we go on an extensive tour as there's so much of the fantastic incorporated into the buildings. A fifties diner in the cafeteria, a waterfall, an Indiana Jones-themed hallway, a treehouse, a replica of the NYC subway, a Dungeons and Dragons-themed building (John's old office), just to name a few. It is a severe understatement to say that someone put a lot of thought into the campus. Literally no stone was left unturned in crafting this environment in the middle of a Verona cornfield; it is a sight to behold and difficult to describe unless you've been there. The campus resembles a theme park more than a medical software company and I hope the employees never stop appreciating the thought and wonder instilled into design of their workplace.
Anyway, I never go without my camera but I find it's difficult to take fantastic pictures of something that's already fantastic, you know? How do you find a good angle, something that's not already obvious? On Flickr, giantmike does an amazing job of capturing even seemingly mundane aspects of the campus and making them beautiful.
I snapped the above photo on a quick jaunt to see John's new office in Pluto. Yes, Pluto. They moved him in as soon as the office space was available, so there wasn't too much decor yet in the labyrinth of hallways leading to his office. I noticed the light fixture as we were leaving Pluto through the hallway that leads to the training center (I think). What could otherwise be a plain but perfectly acceptable hallway had four or five of these lights about midway up the wall on either side. The walls themselves were painted in what can only be described as a light-speed-ahead-triangle-pattern, complimenting the lights perfectly so that when one stopped to look full on at the fixtures, you were left with the image I took above.
It's just another example of how everything at Epic is thought about, every detail considered. Ordinary light fixtures and ordinary paint jobs probably have a cheaper, ordinary price. But I'm sure whoever is in charge over there also recognizes the incredible value in small moments of joy in discovering what I did above, all those perfect points of light.
We always offer visiting relatives a tour of John's office, which makes it sound banal when you put it like that. I think the visiting relatives think the same and initially agree just to be polite. And then they see the place and know what we're talking about. I try to take my camera every time we go on an extensive tour as there's so much of the fantastic incorporated into the buildings. A fifties diner in the cafeteria, a waterfall, an Indiana Jones-themed hallway, a treehouse, a replica of the NYC subway, a Dungeons and Dragons-themed building (John's old office), just to name a few. It is a severe understatement to say that someone put a lot of thought into the campus. Literally no stone was left unturned in crafting this environment in the middle of a Verona cornfield; it is a sight to behold and difficult to describe unless you've been there. The campus resembles a theme park more than a medical software company and I hope the employees never stop appreciating the thought and wonder instilled into design of their workplace.
Anyway, I never go without my camera but I find it's difficult to take fantastic pictures of something that's already fantastic, you know? How do you find a good angle, something that's not already obvious? On Flickr, giantmike does an amazing job of capturing even seemingly mundane aspects of the campus and making them beautiful.
I snapped the above photo on a quick jaunt to see John's new office in Pluto. Yes, Pluto. They moved him in as soon as the office space was available, so there wasn't too much decor yet in the labyrinth of hallways leading to his office. I noticed the light fixture as we were leaving Pluto through the hallway that leads to the training center (I think). What could otherwise be a plain but perfectly acceptable hallway had four or five of these lights about midway up the wall on either side. The walls themselves were painted in what can only be described as a light-speed-ahead-triangle-pattern, complimenting the lights perfectly so that when one stopped to look full on at the fixtures, you were left with the image I took above.
It's just another example of how everything at Epic is thought about, every detail considered. Ordinary light fixtures and ordinary paint jobs probably have a cheaper, ordinary price. But I'm sure whoever is in charge over there also recognizes the incredible value in small moments of joy in discovering what I did above, all those perfect points of light.
12.05.2011
Thoughts on Christmas Cards
My minor obsession with miniatures and making my own holiday cards continued again this year with the next installment of my Christmas Card Photo Shoot.
I received a lot of positive feedback from last year's attempt, mostly about my photos of Oscar el Gato (one of which even won a contest). But more than that, I get a lot of joy throughout the whole endeavor for a couple reasons.
I strongly believe that sending and receiving mail is a lost art, and it's easily buried under the process of addressing and sending holiday cards the way we modern folk do it. As a kid, I used to help my mom send Christmas cards. I remember feeling an enormous pressure to get all those cards out, plopping down with a bargain pack of 50 cards most likely bought during sales following Christmas the previous year and going through everyone in the address book. Every card had a pre-written message so it was easy enough; "Dear Aunt Somebody and Uncle So-and-So, Merry Christmas, Love, the Porter family." Sometimes I wrote out our names. And sometimes the cards already said, "Merry Christmas," so I didn't always have to write that. But I was an efficient little assembly line of card messaging and addressing, a task that catered perfectly to my love of my own handwriting and my obsessive need to complete lists.
As an adult, undertaking the societal rite of passage in sending my own Christmas cards for the first time, I remember standing in the aisle at Target in early November, unable to settle on the right holiday greetings or even sufficient holiday greetings. For some reason it felt like a big deal; I was frozen in indecision; I couldn't just grab a box and be happy with whatever I got. I can make cards better than this, I thought, nay, I will make cards better than this.
Which leads me to the point I quickly realized as I set about my task: handmade cards don't come with pre-printed messages. When you forgo the 50 pack of bargain cards, it forces you to handwrite the names of your recipients, handwrite a message, and handwrite a closing. It forces you to think, to really think about all the names, all the individuals in your address book, or at least I do while I'm writing. It forces you to actually communicate, to make a connection beyond the act of checking this person's name off a list once per year. I'm not trying sound holier-than-thou. There is nothing wrong with the assembly-line method of messaging and addressing Christmas cards, if that's the way you prefer to go about it each holiday season. But having tried the alternative, our new modern tradition just isn't for me.
In addition, let it not be taken lightly that there is something immeasurably satisfying in taking one large, seemingly insurmountable project and breaking it down into a series of tiny tasks. Plopped down in the middle of my living room, affixing photos with double-sided sticky tape to cardstock folded in half, buffing off fingerprints with a soft cloth, writing messages on the inside, over and over again, one at a time until each is done.
And so, finally, we arrive at what this blog is truly about: the photography. There's something calming about photographing miniatures. I tend to lose myself faster in the work than just about any other project I do, in the process of constructing a set, positioning lights, breathing shallowly as I try to stay as still as possible. Hours pass. I am impatient in almost every single other area of my life but this one, shifting figures fractions of inches, watching where the light falls. Click.
Last year I remember trying to go for a vintage-y Christmas look with the ornaments and didn't concentrate so much on the miniatures. But the miniatures were my favorite photos from last year, so that's what I focused on this year. I didn't try to go for any certain "look," but in reviewing the series it feels like the photos are darker. I managed to make a snowman look sinister. There were some photos that look like they were barely lit. I can't say that I was going for a certain feeling or other during the photography process. But looking at the pictures now, I feel like I captured the holidays' essential moments: picking out a Christmas tree, building a snowman, caroling, kissing under the mistletoe. Simple and classic.
Another point to consider: every image in this year's series was in color. I have been trying to figure that one out, as I did so many black and whites last year. What changed? I didn't convert any of my images to black and white in the editing process; I don't remember feeling a need to, though I don't doubt that some of them would look good in black and white, maybe even better than in color.
Overall I'm happy with the result. And so, hopefully, will be the people on my Christmas card list.
I received a lot of positive feedback from last year's attempt, mostly about my photos of Oscar el Gato (one of which even won a contest). But more than that, I get a lot of joy throughout the whole endeavor for a couple reasons.
I strongly believe that sending and receiving mail is a lost art, and it's easily buried under the process of addressing and sending holiday cards the way we modern folk do it. As a kid, I used to help my mom send Christmas cards. I remember feeling an enormous pressure to get all those cards out, plopping down with a bargain pack of 50 cards most likely bought during sales following Christmas the previous year and going through everyone in the address book. Every card had a pre-written message so it was easy enough; "Dear Aunt Somebody and Uncle So-and-So, Merry Christmas, Love, the Porter family." Sometimes I wrote out our names. And sometimes the cards already said, "Merry Christmas," so I didn't always have to write that. But I was an efficient little assembly line of card messaging and addressing, a task that catered perfectly to my love of my own handwriting and my obsessive need to complete lists.
As an adult, undertaking the societal rite of passage in sending my own Christmas cards for the first time, I remember standing in the aisle at Target in early November, unable to settle on the right holiday greetings or even sufficient holiday greetings. For some reason it felt like a big deal; I was frozen in indecision; I couldn't just grab a box and be happy with whatever I got. I can make cards better than this, I thought, nay, I will make cards better than this.
Which leads me to the point I quickly realized as I set about my task: handmade cards don't come with pre-printed messages. When you forgo the 50 pack of bargain cards, it forces you to handwrite the names of your recipients, handwrite a message, and handwrite a closing. It forces you to think, to really think about all the names, all the individuals in your address book, or at least I do while I'm writing. It forces you to actually communicate, to make a connection beyond the act of checking this person's name off a list once per year. I'm not trying sound holier-than-thou. There is nothing wrong with the assembly-line method of messaging and addressing Christmas cards, if that's the way you prefer to go about it each holiday season. But having tried the alternative, our new modern tradition just isn't for me.
In addition, let it not be taken lightly that there is something immeasurably satisfying in taking one large, seemingly insurmountable project and breaking it down into a series of tiny tasks. Plopped down in the middle of my living room, affixing photos with double-sided sticky tape to cardstock folded in half, buffing off fingerprints with a soft cloth, writing messages on the inside, over and over again, one at a time until each is done.
And so, finally, we arrive at what this blog is truly about: the photography. There's something calming about photographing miniatures. I tend to lose myself faster in the work than just about any other project I do, in the process of constructing a set, positioning lights, breathing shallowly as I try to stay as still as possible. Hours pass. I am impatient in almost every single other area of my life but this one, shifting figures fractions of inches, watching where the light falls. Click.
Last year I remember trying to go for a vintage-y Christmas look with the ornaments and didn't concentrate so much on the miniatures. But the miniatures were my favorite photos from last year, so that's what I focused on this year. I didn't try to go for any certain "look," but in reviewing the series it feels like the photos are darker. I managed to make a snowman look sinister. There were some photos that look like they were barely lit. I can't say that I was going for a certain feeling or other during the photography process. But looking at the pictures now, I feel like I captured the holidays' essential moments: picking out a Christmas tree, building a snowman, caroling, kissing under the mistletoe. Simple and classic.
Another point to consider: every image in this year's series was in color. I have been trying to figure that one out, as I did so many black and whites last year. What changed? I didn't convert any of my images to black and white in the editing process; I don't remember feeling a need to, though I don't doubt that some of them would look good in black and white, maybe even better than in color.
Overall I'm happy with the result. And so, hopefully, will be the people on my Christmas card list.
11.30.2011
Recall petitioners allowed to stay in Reedsburg Rec Center - for now
Another story I did for the Indy this week was posted to dane101.com through our content-sharing partnership.
Check it out: Recall petitioners allowed to stay in Reedsburg Rec Center - for now
Check it out: Recall petitioners allowed to stay in Reedsburg Rec Center - for now
11.23.2011
City of Reedsburg allows Recall Walker petitioners to use Rec Center
This isn't specifically photog-related, but an article I wrote for this week's Reedsburg Independent has been shared with dane101.com through our new content sharing partnership.
Check it out: City of Reedsburg allows Recall Walker petitioners to use Rec Center.
Pretty cool.
Check it out: City of Reedsburg allows Recall Walker petitioners to use Rec Center.
Pretty cool.
11.02.2011
Rules of the Gallery
Taken just outside the Wisconsin Assembly Gallery, September 2011.
Sign reads: Rules of the Assembly Gallery, In accordance with Assembly Rule 26 the following are Not Allowed in the Gallery: eating, drinking, smoking, loud talking, mobile phones, laptops, video cameras, photography, newspapers, wearing of hats, signs, posters, placards, leaning over the railings, sitting in aisles or on the floors, standing in aisles, outbursts (cheering, jeering stomping). Contact the Assembly Sergeant at Arms concerning Gallery policies.
I'm a sucker for photos of signs. So when we visited the Wisconsin State Capitol in September, I spent some time trying to get a photo of the sign above with the background in the mix. I thought the sign was funny as it forbid the "Wearing of Hats" - not so much the rule itself but how it was worded. With the light streaming in from the stained glass ceiling in the Assembly itself, it was pretty difficult to set up and capture the shot the way I was envisioning. But I managed to get my settings right and stand still enough to capture the above shot.
There was a big hubbaloo on Twitter last night about something going on in the Assembly. I'm a little ashamed to admit that despite being a reporter, living less than a mile from the Capitol, and being currently betrothed to someone very interested in state politics, I am usually pretty ignorant as to what goes on up there. I catch snippets from Twitter and one in particular from dane101 last night stuck in my head: "Staskunas talking about signs with Assembly rules, Speaker says, "Actually a number of them have been stolen."
No matter how you feel about the current situation in the State of Wisconsin, stealing is just not nice. Even if you disagree with them, taking the sign isn't going to make the rules go away. But I'm sure it's a case of the actions of only a few reflecting on the many.
Sign reads: Rules of the Assembly Gallery, In accordance with Assembly Rule 26 the following are Not Allowed in the Gallery: eating, drinking, smoking, loud talking, mobile phones, laptops, video cameras, photography, newspapers, wearing of hats, signs, posters, placards, leaning over the railings, sitting in aisles or on the floors, standing in aisles, outbursts (cheering, jeering stomping). Contact the Assembly Sergeant at Arms concerning Gallery policies.
I'm a sucker for photos of signs. So when we visited the Wisconsin State Capitol in September, I spent some time trying to get a photo of the sign above with the background in the mix. I thought the sign was funny as it forbid the "Wearing of Hats" - not so much the rule itself but how it was worded. With the light streaming in from the stained glass ceiling in the Assembly itself, it was pretty difficult to set up and capture the shot the way I was envisioning. But I managed to get my settings right and stand still enough to capture the above shot.
There was a big hubbaloo on Twitter last night about something going on in the Assembly. I'm a little ashamed to admit that despite being a reporter, living less than a mile from the Capitol, and being currently betrothed to someone very interested in state politics, I am usually pretty ignorant as to what goes on up there. I catch snippets from Twitter and one in particular from dane101 last night stuck in my head: "Staskunas talking about signs with Assembly rules, Speaker says, "Actually a number of them have been stolen."
No matter how you feel about the current situation in the State of Wisconsin, stealing is just not nice. Even if you disagree with them, taking the sign isn't going to make the rules go away. But I'm sure it's a case of the actions of only a few reflecting on the many.
10.14.2011
I Do Two
I recently undertook round two of our Wedding Invite Photo Shoot. Although round one was pretty successful, trying again has been on my to-do list for awhile. I'm still not sure exactly how these images will work into the final product of our save-the-dates and wedding invites, but they're nice to have around just in case. I'm definitely excited about the possibilities.
It took me so long to get around to round two because I was so happy with what I conceived for round one that I was unsure if I could come up with any new ideas. The process of round two seemed to go better than the first. The first time I relied heavily on my iPhone and Hipstamatic app to produce cool images. This time around it was all me. I set the camera to manual focus and took a lot of time getting things positioned to exactly where I wanted them to be. Those are the good things that happened.
I thought the shoot was a success until I uploaded the photos and saw what I came up with on the big screen. The lighting seemed wrong. I didn't diffuse any of the lights pointed at the set because, to my eye, it looked soft. But the hard copy proved otherwise. The light was harsh and all of the wood tones in the props had orangey glow. Maybe I should have reduced the number of lights. Maybe I should have turned off all the overhead lights in the room to control the ambient light bouncing off surfaces. Maybe I should have diffused the light. I don't know. Additionally, John's ring was so shiny that it was difficult to find photos without my reflection, something I hadn't contemplated when shooting. I also could have used a tripod, something I don't currently own. Trial and error.
I'm happy with the images that I eventually got but - a lot of the originals were unusable. And the ones that survived required more editing than I'm comfortable with. Live and learn, I guess. I'll have to do more research, keep trying to figure out that dang lighting.
View the full set on my Flickr. Additional photos from the shoot after the jump.
It took me so long to get around to round two because I was so happy with what I conceived for round one that I was unsure if I could come up with any new ideas. The process of round two seemed to go better than the first. The first time I relied heavily on my iPhone and Hipstamatic app to produce cool images. This time around it was all me. I set the camera to manual focus and took a lot of time getting things positioned to exactly where I wanted them to be. Those are the good things that happened.
I thought the shoot was a success until I uploaded the photos and saw what I came up with on the big screen. The lighting seemed wrong. I didn't diffuse any of the lights pointed at the set because, to my eye, it looked soft. But the hard copy proved otherwise. The light was harsh and all of the wood tones in the props had orangey glow. Maybe I should have reduced the number of lights. Maybe I should have turned off all the overhead lights in the room to control the ambient light bouncing off surfaces. Maybe I should have diffused the light. I don't know. Additionally, John's ring was so shiny that it was difficult to find photos without my reflection, something I hadn't contemplated when shooting. I also could have used a tripod, something I don't currently own. Trial and error.
I'm happy with the images that I eventually got but - a lot of the originals were unusable. And the ones that survived required more editing than I'm comfortable with. Live and learn, I guess. I'll have to do more research, keep trying to figure out that dang lighting.
View the full set on my Flickr. Additional photos from the shoot after the jump.
9.15.2011
View of the Forevertron
And now for something completely different.
John's parents visited for a few days recently. Mary said to treat the both of them like tourists, as they hadn't spent any significant amount of time in the area since the 1970s. I appreciated the opportunity to share our home with them, our geographies, and the off-the-beaten-path Wisconsin that I love so much.
I'm not sure what Richard and Mary were expecting as we trekked from Madison to the Forevertron, just outside Sauk City. I had shown them Tom Every's biography and website, explained the Forevertron as the world's largest scrap metal sculpture, but how do you really adequately describe something so vast and intricate, beautiful and strange?
I can't remember how old I was the first time my family and I visited the Art Park, trespassing our way onto the property through the junkyard behind Delaney's Surplus. I was young enough that Delaney's seemed to stretch on forever, junk piled upon junk. We reached the back of the lot where a well-traveled footpath was cut through the brush, Secret Garden-esque. On the other side of the tall weeds loomed the Forevertron, unexpected but expected, like all of Delaney's junk had gotten sick of laying around and assembled itself in a way that sort of made sense. Despite being several stories tall, the Forevertron was completely hidden from the highway; we must have gone past it a hundred times and never knew it was there. We didn't know anything about "art" or "sculpture." But even as a child I had visions of a madman starting in one corner of his property and working his way toward the other, physically manifesting the heroes and monsters and creatures in his mind until they all were quiet. Isn't that what art is, anyway?
Thankfully the park was open the Friday we visited, as the man himself was there, Tom Every and his wife Eleanor. I was too intimidated to talk to him; having wondered about him for most of my life, I was paralyzed by inadequacy. But John's dad Richard had a long conversation with Every, who was pleased that he wasn't an engineer or social worker from Madison.
I ambled around purposelessly with my camera, not intending to take pictures of anything but knowing that I would kick myself if I saw something and didn't have any equipment. I took pictures at the Art Park last year, and The Camera Company Photographers group has been there at least once. I was skeptical that there was anything in the park that I hadn't seen or that I could see in a new way. But if there's anything I'm learning lately it's that photography is counterintuitive to my whole nature in that planning only gets you so far. There's a point where my conscious mind turns off, loses interest, stops trying. But that's when my subconscious mind takes over, quietly taking notes and making lists and once in awhile making me stop when it sees something particularly interesting. I've learned that it's better to have my camera around when that happens. Click.
The rusted out car was parked in overgrown weeds in the northeast corner of the park, seemingly forgotten. I crouched down next to it to get a better look at the inside and realized that I had a perfectly framed view of the Forevertron through the dingy driver's side window. The perspective reminded me of another photo I saw a few months ago (that I can't find despite all my Googling) in which the photographer was crouched behind a car, taking photos through the window of soldiers passing by. It had the same foreground in which one could see the interior of the car and the steering wheel, and the sense of the photographer's cowering position created so much tension that I couldn't take my eyes away from it. I tried to recreate that pose in the photo above. I'm not sure if I succeeded in this particular photo - I would have done better if not for the noon light shadowing the inside of the car and blowing out the background. But the car's state of neglect and the outline of the Forevertron through the window give the photo an apocalyptic feel. I'm pleased with the result, and maybe I'll try the same shot again sometime in better lighting.
More photos from Dr. Evermor's are on my Flickr.
John's parents visited for a few days recently. Mary said to treat the both of them like tourists, as they hadn't spent any significant amount of time in the area since the 1970s. I appreciated the opportunity to share our home with them, our geographies, and the off-the-beaten-path Wisconsin that I love so much.
I'm not sure what Richard and Mary were expecting as we trekked from Madison to the Forevertron, just outside Sauk City. I had shown them Tom Every's biography and website, explained the Forevertron as the world's largest scrap metal sculpture, but how do you really adequately describe something so vast and intricate, beautiful and strange?
I can't remember how old I was the first time my family and I visited the Art Park, trespassing our way onto the property through the junkyard behind Delaney's Surplus. I was young enough that Delaney's seemed to stretch on forever, junk piled upon junk. We reached the back of the lot where a well-traveled footpath was cut through the brush, Secret Garden-esque. On the other side of the tall weeds loomed the Forevertron, unexpected but expected, like all of Delaney's junk had gotten sick of laying around and assembled itself in a way that sort of made sense. Despite being several stories tall, the Forevertron was completely hidden from the highway; we must have gone past it a hundred times and never knew it was there. We didn't know anything about "art" or "sculpture." But even as a child I had visions of a madman starting in one corner of his property and working his way toward the other, physically manifesting the heroes and monsters and creatures in his mind until they all were quiet. Isn't that what art is, anyway?
Thankfully the park was open the Friday we visited, as the man himself was there, Tom Every and his wife Eleanor. I was too intimidated to talk to him; having wondered about him for most of my life, I was paralyzed by inadequacy. But John's dad Richard had a long conversation with Every, who was pleased that he wasn't an engineer or social worker from Madison.
I ambled around purposelessly with my camera, not intending to take pictures of anything but knowing that I would kick myself if I saw something and didn't have any equipment. I took pictures at the Art Park last year, and The Camera Company Photographers group has been there at least once. I was skeptical that there was anything in the park that I hadn't seen or that I could see in a new way. But if there's anything I'm learning lately it's that photography is counterintuitive to my whole nature in that planning only gets you so far. There's a point where my conscious mind turns off, loses interest, stops trying. But that's when my subconscious mind takes over, quietly taking notes and making lists and once in awhile making me stop when it sees something particularly interesting. I've learned that it's better to have my camera around when that happens. Click.
The rusted out car was parked in overgrown weeds in the northeast corner of the park, seemingly forgotten. I crouched down next to it to get a better look at the inside and realized that I had a perfectly framed view of the Forevertron through the dingy driver's side window. The perspective reminded me of another photo I saw a few months ago (that I can't find despite all my Googling) in which the photographer was crouched behind a car, taking photos through the window of soldiers passing by. It had the same foreground in which one could see the interior of the car and the steering wheel, and the sense of the photographer's cowering position created so much tension that I couldn't take my eyes away from it. I tried to recreate that pose in the photo above. I'm not sure if I succeeded in this particular photo - I would have done better if not for the noon light shadowing the inside of the car and blowing out the background. But the car's state of neglect and the outline of the Forevertron through the window give the photo an apocalyptic feel. I'm pleased with the result, and maybe I'll try the same shot again sometime in better lighting.
More photos from Dr. Evermor's are on my Flickr.
8.10.2011
Thoughts from a Plane Crash
At the scene of an accident, it's not a good sign when the frenetic pace slows, firefighters begin lifting off their helmets, paramedics draw farther away. The plane, bent in wrong directions like a broken bone, was laying where it had crumpled and came to rest against the side of a storage shed.
I was standing in tall grass between Jeff and a rusted out washing machine when a fireman approached us. "It just dropped out of the sky," he said with a combination of astonishment and exhaustion.
His voice dropped off. "They've passed," he said.
We don't respond to accident calls often. I don't know how to succinctly explain it - other papers like to publish accident photos from time to time, and it always gives me a bad taste in my mouth. It's just not nice.
The plane crash was different. There was no debating whether or not we were going to respond, no looking up addresses while questioning if it was worth our time to drive out there. A plane crash. I sprang up, haphazardly predicting what I needed to bring to the scene like gathering possessions to rescue from my burning home. Jeff was already out the door. Nate the intern trailed behind.
We drove like maniacs across town, and it seemed like everyone with a police scanner was headed in the same direction. I called my dad. "They're trapped," he said, relaying what he heard on the scanner. "They've started CPR."
We parked behind the VFW Hall and a man in a station wagon was telling a guy with a baby stroller that he had seen the whole thing. "Go talk to him!" I yelled to Nate, struggling to keep up with Jeff.
I felt blindly pulled like a magnet toward the accident scene, ignoring fences and driveways. Jeff led us the long way along the road, scolding me for trespassing. "That's private property," he yelled behind him.
As we approached the scene, a sheriff with a white handlebar mustache and brown uniform was pulling police tape across our path. My stomach dropped.
The sheriff looked up and saw us. "Did you get a good picture yet, Jeff?" he asked, lifting the police tape so we could go under. "I know you won't get in the way."
As we approached the scene, the reporter part of my brain started to take over, filing away facts and details, making lists. The red barn and red fire truck standing stark against that clear blue summer sky, calm and still. The plane, looking fake like a movie prop, wrong in the scene before us. Firemen swarming everywhere. The jaws of life.
Jeff, with a surprising knowledge of airplanes, relayed technical details to me as we stood several yards away. "That's an ultralight," he said of the plane in front of us. "You're more secure in a Ferris Wheel." We stood back, trying to decipher what was going on in the scene before us, trying to make sense of all the people and objects that had converged in this ordinary trucking yard. The only thing that was obvious, the thing that later played through my head over and over, was the moment when all of the emergency people gave up, slowed down, and stepped back.
Back at the office, my adrenaline still pumping, I flew into reporter overdrive. I got on the phone and called every person I could think of who would have information, an ultimately useless task as the tragedy was still new. No one knew anything, least of all me, and I had no idea what to do next.
I didn't go to journalism school, but I don't think there's standard procedure for handling a tragedy. I put off writing the front page article until a few days later, forcing myself to talk to those involved, forcing myself to go over the events one more time. As a reporter, I have always felt that my responsibility has been to make things make sense, and more than my grief over the event itself, more than my disbelief, more than the images playing over and over in my head, I think what bothers me more than anything right now is an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. I can't make this make sense. I can give you the facts. I can describe what happened at the scene. I can provide photos. I can find things out. But I can't make them make sense. I just can't.
Additional photos from the scene are linked from my Flickr earlier in this blog. A full write-up of the story will be available in this week's Reedsburg Independent, on newsstands Wednesday and in subscriber mailboxes on Thursday.
I was standing in tall grass between Jeff and a rusted out washing machine when a fireman approached us. "It just dropped out of the sky," he said with a combination of astonishment and exhaustion.
His voice dropped off. "They've passed," he said.
We don't respond to accident calls often. I don't know how to succinctly explain it - other papers like to publish accident photos from time to time, and it always gives me a bad taste in my mouth. It's just not nice.
The plane crash was different. There was no debating whether or not we were going to respond, no looking up addresses while questioning if it was worth our time to drive out there. A plane crash. I sprang up, haphazardly predicting what I needed to bring to the scene like gathering possessions to rescue from my burning home. Jeff was already out the door. Nate the intern trailed behind.
We drove like maniacs across town, and it seemed like everyone with a police scanner was headed in the same direction. I called my dad. "They're trapped," he said, relaying what he heard on the scanner. "They've started CPR."
We parked behind the VFW Hall and a man in a station wagon was telling a guy with a baby stroller that he had seen the whole thing. "Go talk to him!" I yelled to Nate, struggling to keep up with Jeff.
I felt blindly pulled like a magnet toward the accident scene, ignoring fences and driveways. Jeff led us the long way along the road, scolding me for trespassing. "That's private property," he yelled behind him.
As we approached the scene, a sheriff with a white handlebar mustache and brown uniform was pulling police tape across our path. My stomach dropped.
The sheriff looked up and saw us. "Did you get a good picture yet, Jeff?" he asked, lifting the police tape so we could go under. "I know you won't get in the way."
As we approached the scene, the reporter part of my brain started to take over, filing away facts and details, making lists. The red barn and red fire truck standing stark against that clear blue summer sky, calm and still. The plane, looking fake like a movie prop, wrong in the scene before us. Firemen swarming everywhere. The jaws of life.
Jeff, with a surprising knowledge of airplanes, relayed technical details to me as we stood several yards away. "That's an ultralight," he said of the plane in front of us. "You're more secure in a Ferris Wheel." We stood back, trying to decipher what was going on in the scene before us, trying to make sense of all the people and objects that had converged in this ordinary trucking yard. The only thing that was obvious, the thing that later played through my head over and over, was the moment when all of the emergency people gave up, slowed down, and stepped back.
Back at the office, my adrenaline still pumping, I flew into reporter overdrive. I got on the phone and called every person I could think of who would have information, an ultimately useless task as the tragedy was still new. No one knew anything, least of all me, and I had no idea what to do next.
I didn't go to journalism school, but I don't think there's standard procedure for handling a tragedy. I put off writing the front page article until a few days later, forcing myself to talk to those involved, forcing myself to go over the events one more time. As a reporter, I have always felt that my responsibility has been to make things make sense, and more than my grief over the event itself, more than my disbelief, more than the images playing over and over in my head, I think what bothers me more than anything right now is an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. I can't make this make sense. I can give you the facts. I can describe what happened at the scene. I can provide photos. I can find things out. But I can't make them make sense. I just can't.
Additional photos from the scene are linked from my Flickr earlier in this blog. A full write-up of the story will be available in this week's Reedsburg Independent, on newsstands Wednesday and in subscriber mailboxes on Thursday.
7.22.2011
Caz
Sunday was the start of an extreme heat wave here in Wisconsin, and John and I ventured from Madison to Cazenovia to catch the annual Caz Celebration parade. It was about an hour and a half drive north that took us through Reedsburg; as John commented, "There's no road that goes straight there." We followed 12 then 33 then 58 from LaValle to Caz, which has to be one of the prettiest roads around, through the bluffs of the driftless area in central Wisconsin.
Caz is a very small town with a very big spirit. Despite the heat, Sunday's parade was no different. With temperatures stretching into the 90s, I was afraid that the parade would be cancelled, but the people of Caz, and John and I, soldiered on. But I've never seen so much candy thrown in a parade and so few kids willing to run for it.
We parked in a field by the American Legion, trooped up to the main street running through town, past the gorgeous Lee Lake (picturesque doesn't even begin to cover it). We met some nice older ladies willing to share a shady bench with us ("As long as you understand that any M&Ms thrown this way are mine," one sternly told us) and the parade commenced.
Working for the paper, my role now is more documenting the parade than chasing after candy, and you never know what kind of images you're going to wind up with. It's impossible to set up something you know will look good. You can anticipate what you think might be in the parade, and there are a few default shots you know you can count on just in case something goes wrong. I generally have no game plan, and that's both exhilarating and terrifying. What if I don't get a good shot? What if I've spent all this time and I wind up with nothing? I guess you could have those anxieties about any photo you take, but I feel like with parades (and similar events) the stakes are higher - it takes nearly the whole day and there are no do-overs. And with my job, I know a photo from the day will go into the paper that week. Better make it a good one.
Pretty much the only variable you can control is where you stand, and I typically run up and down the street the whole time. I get anxious and have trouble staying in one place, but most of all I want to make sure that I'm not in anyone's way. On Sunday, I lost myself and forgot about everything except taking photos, which was nice to be immersed and focused, but not so nice if you are running back and forth in the middle of an intersection in 90+ degree heat with your back to the sun. The parade lasted about a half hour or 45 minutes, and at the end, I was beat.
At one point, I did snap out of it long enough to realize that someone had thrown a bag of M&Ms at my feet. I promptly delivered it to John's benchmate, who was tickled pink. "Life is good!" she exclaimed, and I agreed.
Wisconsin parades are pretty much the only parades I've ever known, except for the ones I've seen on TV, and I still get excited for them. How many parades feature all of the fire trucks and tractors in town? The Caz parade wasn't as long as the Butterfest parade, but they are still the same kind of deal - floats, people walking, tractors and vehicles, candy and Super Soakers. It's an amazing thing that from a city as big as Reedsburg to a village as small as Caz, the parade serves as a showcase to the many groups and businesses that call that town home and the community coming together to recognize them. It was a celebration in the true sense of the word.
In the photo above, I was trying to get a creative photo of the Caz firetrucks; we typically don't put the parade firetrucks in the paper because it's hard to get something other than an angle shot of the whole truck. And while I knew I took a close-up photo of the driver, I didn't realize how perfectly the shot was set up until later. The photo above captures that day exactly - you've got the fire truck at the right with the gold "Cazenovia Fire Department" lettering, driver with a handlebar mustache and pink fuzzy dice in the window. Behind him you can see an Old Style sign from one of the many bars that line the main street of Caz. As your eye travels to the left, I love the bright flags popping out against that hot blue sky, the tractors continuing the parade into the distance. Far off in the distance you can see one of the gorgeous bluffs I was talking about earlier. I would love to take credit for this image, but I think in this case, it was just pure luck.
Caz is a very small town with a very big spirit. Despite the heat, Sunday's parade was no different. With temperatures stretching into the 90s, I was afraid that the parade would be cancelled, but the people of Caz, and John and I, soldiered on. But I've never seen so much candy thrown in a parade and so few kids willing to run for it.
We parked in a field by the American Legion, trooped up to the main street running through town, past the gorgeous Lee Lake (picturesque doesn't even begin to cover it). We met some nice older ladies willing to share a shady bench with us ("As long as you understand that any M&Ms thrown this way are mine," one sternly told us) and the parade commenced.
Working for the paper, my role now is more documenting the parade than chasing after candy, and you never know what kind of images you're going to wind up with. It's impossible to set up something you know will look good. You can anticipate what you think might be in the parade, and there are a few default shots you know you can count on just in case something goes wrong. I generally have no game plan, and that's both exhilarating and terrifying. What if I don't get a good shot? What if I've spent all this time and I wind up with nothing? I guess you could have those anxieties about any photo you take, but I feel like with parades (and similar events) the stakes are higher - it takes nearly the whole day and there are no do-overs. And with my job, I know a photo from the day will go into the paper that week. Better make it a good one.
Pretty much the only variable you can control is where you stand, and I typically run up and down the street the whole time. I get anxious and have trouble staying in one place, but most of all I want to make sure that I'm not in anyone's way. On Sunday, I lost myself and forgot about everything except taking photos, which was nice to be immersed and focused, but not so nice if you are running back and forth in the middle of an intersection in 90+ degree heat with your back to the sun. The parade lasted about a half hour or 45 minutes, and at the end, I was beat.
At one point, I did snap out of it long enough to realize that someone had thrown a bag of M&Ms at my feet. I promptly delivered it to John's benchmate, who was tickled pink. "Life is good!" she exclaimed, and I agreed.
Wisconsin parades are pretty much the only parades I've ever known, except for the ones I've seen on TV, and I still get excited for them. How many parades feature all of the fire trucks and tractors in town? The Caz parade wasn't as long as the Butterfest parade, but they are still the same kind of deal - floats, people walking, tractors and vehicles, candy and Super Soakers. It's an amazing thing that from a city as big as Reedsburg to a village as small as Caz, the parade serves as a showcase to the many groups and businesses that call that town home and the community coming together to recognize them. It was a celebration in the true sense of the word.
In the photo above, I was trying to get a creative photo of the Caz firetrucks; we typically don't put the parade firetrucks in the paper because it's hard to get something other than an angle shot of the whole truck. And while I knew I took a close-up photo of the driver, I didn't realize how perfectly the shot was set up until later. The photo above captures that day exactly - you've got the fire truck at the right with the gold "Cazenovia Fire Department" lettering, driver with a handlebar mustache and pink fuzzy dice in the window. Behind him you can see an Old Style sign from one of the many bars that line the main street of Caz. As your eye travels to the left, I love the bright flags popping out against that hot blue sky, the tractors continuing the parade into the distance. Far off in the distance you can see one of the gorgeous bluffs I was talking about earlier. I would love to take credit for this image, but I think in this case, it was just pure luck.
7.07.2011
Reflected
Maybe I'm getting a little sentimental in my old age, but I'll admit to tearing up a bit last Monday at the dedication of the new Veterans Memorial in Reedsburg.
It really seems like not so long ago that Jeff and I went to the groundbreaking. It was one of only a handful of events we've ever covered together, and I was only an intern at the time. The speakers then focused on a grand vision for that tiny corner of Nishan Park, and I had a hard time picturing it. As they stood there with their ceremonial shovels, posing for photos, the completion seemed so far off in the future, still a someday, still a dream. Three years later on July 4, the Memorial was finished.
I've visited my future in-laws in Washington D.C. a few times now and have hit up most of the touristy monument stops in the area. But I have never been moved the way I was last Monday, viewing the Reedsburg Memorial in its finished state for the first time. The glossy black granite panels display scenes from the US's past and current conflicts and fittingly, they also reflect the viewer. I went back early on Tuesday morning to get some shots of just the Memorial, including the photo above that I put on the front page later that day. Sitting on the warm cement in the exact center of the site, the environment was calm, quiet, meditative, the Memorial and flagpoles looming above me, stretching into the sky.
I grew up in Reedsburg, and I constantly marvel at how working for the Indy gives me a totally different perspective on my humble hometown. In the last three years, we've covered every fundraising effort for this Memorial, every Vet Fest, every raffle, every donation, and the Packer Tailgate that came to town last year just to name a few (of many) off the top of my head. Had I been just a citizen, I might have been too wrapped up in my own life to notice what was going on in that corner of Nishan Park, and how the citizens of Reedsburg were tirelessly working to make that dream a reality.
I've had very few profound moments in life, where everything seems to move slowly, where time stops, as though the world is in a vacuum and centers on that one moment. The last time was the June 2008 flood, walking away from Pineview Elementary, clutching my flood clean-up kit. This time the experience was positive. On Monday, a few hundred people came together to welcome this Memorial into the community, listening to speakers, exploring the grounds, celebrating the hard work and dedication of so many people. On Tuesday, I was fortunate to be able to spend some time with the Memorial, taking it in, observing and photographing and experiencing the stillness of the place. It was a privilege to cover this story over the past three years and to see the Memorial come to fruition.
More photos on my Flickr.
It really seems like not so long ago that Jeff and I went to the groundbreaking. It was one of only a handful of events we've ever covered together, and I was only an intern at the time. The speakers then focused on a grand vision for that tiny corner of Nishan Park, and I had a hard time picturing it. As they stood there with their ceremonial shovels, posing for photos, the completion seemed so far off in the future, still a someday, still a dream. Three years later on July 4, the Memorial was finished.
I've visited my future in-laws in Washington D.C. a few times now and have hit up most of the touristy monument stops in the area. But I have never been moved the way I was last Monday, viewing the Reedsburg Memorial in its finished state for the first time. The glossy black granite panels display scenes from the US's past and current conflicts and fittingly, they also reflect the viewer. I went back early on Tuesday morning to get some shots of just the Memorial, including the photo above that I put on the front page later that day. Sitting on the warm cement in the exact center of the site, the environment was calm, quiet, meditative, the Memorial and flagpoles looming above me, stretching into the sky.
I grew up in Reedsburg, and I constantly marvel at how working for the Indy gives me a totally different perspective on my humble hometown. In the last three years, we've covered every fundraising effort for this Memorial, every Vet Fest, every raffle, every donation, and the Packer Tailgate that came to town last year just to name a few (of many) off the top of my head. Had I been just a citizen, I might have been too wrapped up in my own life to notice what was going on in that corner of Nishan Park, and how the citizens of Reedsburg were tirelessly working to make that dream a reality.
I've had very few profound moments in life, where everything seems to move slowly, where time stops, as though the world is in a vacuum and centers on that one moment. The last time was the June 2008 flood, walking away from Pineview Elementary, clutching my flood clean-up kit. This time the experience was positive. On Monday, a few hundred people came together to welcome this Memorial into the community, listening to speakers, exploring the grounds, celebrating the hard work and dedication of so many people. On Tuesday, I was fortunate to be able to spend some time with the Memorial, taking it in, observing and photographing and experiencing the stillness of the place. It was a privilege to cover this story over the past three years and to see the Memorial come to fruition.
More photos on my Flickr.
6.30.2011
Disbelief
When the news of what happened to the geese hit me tonight, I didn’t feel it at first. This was the end, the conclusion to a long-expected outcome. Like the bereaved planning a funeral, I methodically set about taking the next steps: writing a statement and passing it along to the people who needed to know, our supporters and the media. I had a focus, at least for a little while.
I have always been the kind of person who does not dwell on what is happening now but rather is always asking what is next. This fight has been no different. We’re at point A -- what’s point B? Where do we go from here? What is the next step? What do we do now? I have always been a person of action, which I think is why this stillness feels so strange to me; now that everyone has been notified, the information is starting to percolate out, I am sitting alone in my empty apartment thinking, how could this have happened?
As children, we’re taught that we can do anything, at least I was. I was told that I could achieve anything I set my mind to, and for the most part, I have with few exceptions. Bit by bit, things unravel, and those “truths” of childhood resonate in my mind: You can do anything you set your mind to. Right will always win. Your representatives will listen to you. Adulthood complicates things that shouldn’t be complicated, clouds things that should be clear. Can I, really? Will they, really?
There were many times in this fight that I threw my hands up and said, I don’t have time for this. I don’t want to deal with this. Why is this happening again? I don’t want to do this. A friend of mine finally asked me, “Then why are you doing it?”
I have to. And if not now, when? This isn’t something that can be added to a to-do list. No one wakes up in the morning and thinks to themselves, maybe now I’ll work on that goose problem. It is never going to be convenient to stand up for what’s right. And if I don’t, who will?
The city of Madison has fufilled its end of the promise to use “any means necessary -- including killing” to curb its goose problem. Two days ago, hundreds of geese were rounded up and executed. Sitting here tonight in stunned silence, I may not know what the next step will be. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that this is far from over.
The photo above was taken last year at Warner Park with one of the Indy cameras, which is why the shot came out so grainy. It was the end of April, and at the time we were all talking about the Warner Park flock's proximity to the airport. I used a telephoto to snap a few photos of the birds just as the sun was setting.
I have always been the kind of person who does not dwell on what is happening now but rather is always asking what is next. This fight has been no different. We’re at point A -- what’s point B? Where do we go from here? What is the next step? What do we do now? I have always been a person of action, which I think is why this stillness feels so strange to me; now that everyone has been notified, the information is starting to percolate out, I am sitting alone in my empty apartment thinking, how could this have happened?
As children, we’re taught that we can do anything, at least I was. I was told that I could achieve anything I set my mind to, and for the most part, I have with few exceptions. Bit by bit, things unravel, and those “truths” of childhood resonate in my mind: You can do anything you set your mind to. Right will always win. Your representatives will listen to you. Adulthood complicates things that shouldn’t be complicated, clouds things that should be clear. Can I, really? Will they, really?
There were many times in this fight that I threw my hands up and said, I don’t have time for this. I don’t want to deal with this. Why is this happening again? I don’t want to do this. A friend of mine finally asked me, “Then why are you doing it?”
I have to. And if not now, when? This isn’t something that can be added to a to-do list. No one wakes up in the morning and thinks to themselves, maybe now I’ll work on that goose problem. It is never going to be convenient to stand up for what’s right. And if I don’t, who will?
The city of Madison has fufilled its end of the promise to use “any means necessary -- including killing” to curb its goose problem. Two days ago, hundreds of geese were rounded up and executed. Sitting here tonight in stunned silence, I may not know what the next step will be. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that this is far from over.
The photo above was taken last year at Warner Park with one of the Indy cameras, which is why the shot came out so grainy. It was the end of April, and at the time we were all talking about the Warner Park flock's proximity to the airport. I used a telephoto to snap a few photos of the birds just as the sun was setting.
6.23.2011
Beneath a Hayfield
I know I love my job but once in awhile, I have the opportunity to cover a story that reminds me exactly why. Last week was one of those opportunities. The photo above isn't me, by the way. It's a candid of the Reedsburg Independent's intern, Nate, who had the distinction of being the last person to stand in this hole before it and the equipment inside were sealed for two years. But more on that later.
Leon's enthusiasm was infectious the first time he called to tell me about the EarthScope project, an ambitious endeavor to bury seismometers every 60 kilometers across the United States in order to create a 3-D model of the Earth's mantle. They had just poured concrete beneath his hayfield outside Loganville, Wisconsin, and they were set to bury the equipment in four weeks or so. Leon called again last week and said, weather permitting, they were all set to finish the project.
I could go on and on about the project itself, but I did that at length in my article for the Indy this week. What I aim to document on this blog is the experience of takin' pictures, what I did, how it felt, what I learned and what I can do better. The behind-the-scenes kind of stuff, which is why I chose the photo above. In it, Nate looks how I felt that day - absorbed in a project, on the scene and in the moment.
The weather was gorgeous that afternoon on the Statz's farm, a bit overcast, the bluffs sprawling as far as the eye could see. Everything was green and growing, reaching toward a blue sky and early summer sunlight. The EarthScope equipment was alien in the middle of that hayfield, a deep hole with tools strewn within arms reach of the man standing inside. Adjacent to that was a solar panel, metal and glass but like the scenery around it, also stretching toward the sky.
We absorbed the scene, all of us - friends, family, and neighbors of the Statzs, my intern and I. Nate and I circled around, taking pictures, taking notes. We were there about two hours and on the way back, we agreed that there was no way it could have been that long. Four kids were running around, peering into the hole, asking dozens of questions. I envied them; I have always been intimidated talking to expert-y people, afraid I'm going to annoy them with my ordinary, non-genius person questions. But those kids held nothing back, making my job infinitely easier.
It is rare and exciting to meet people so engaged in their work. The two field engineers who showed up that day spend two months on the road, almost every day in a different place, two weeks at home or what counts for home, then back on the road. Bob told us that he had maintained that routine for most of his life. But you could tell that, standing in a hole in the middle of a hayfield in Wisconsin, there was nowhere else he'd rather be. I felt the same way.
It's been over a week since we were on site. I finished my article and edited photos that same day, accidently losing track of time and staying late to get it done. It was easy then to report back on the story, but I am still finding it difficult to put into words what I felt that day. Maybe no words suffice, but it was one of my favorite experiences I've had as a reporter, and I feel privileged to have been asked to cover it.
Head to my Flickr for more photos from this story.
Leon's enthusiasm was infectious the first time he called to tell me about the EarthScope project, an ambitious endeavor to bury seismometers every 60 kilometers across the United States in order to create a 3-D model of the Earth's mantle. They had just poured concrete beneath his hayfield outside Loganville, Wisconsin, and they were set to bury the equipment in four weeks or so. Leon called again last week and said, weather permitting, they were all set to finish the project.
I could go on and on about the project itself, but I did that at length in my article for the Indy this week. What I aim to document on this blog is the experience of takin' pictures, what I did, how it felt, what I learned and what I can do better. The behind-the-scenes kind of stuff, which is why I chose the photo above. In it, Nate looks how I felt that day - absorbed in a project, on the scene and in the moment.
Despite having done a few hours research, looking at charts and mission statements, I had no idea what to expect that day when we headed out there. I had little clue how to prepare myself or my intern for it; as we drove out to the farm on hilly and windy country roads, all I was able to tell him was, "This is going to be so cool. No, really, this is so cool."
We absorbed the scene, all of us - friends, family, and neighbors of the Statzs, my intern and I. Nate and I circled around, taking pictures, taking notes. We were there about two hours and on the way back, we agreed that there was no way it could have been that long. Four kids were running around, peering into the hole, asking dozens of questions. I envied them; I have always been intimidated talking to expert-y people, afraid I'm going to annoy them with my ordinary, non-genius person questions. But those kids held nothing back, making my job infinitely easier.
It is rare and exciting to meet people so engaged in their work. The two field engineers who showed up that day spend two months on the road, almost every day in a different place, two weeks at home or what counts for home, then back on the road. Bob told us that he had maintained that routine for most of his life. But you could tell that, standing in a hole in the middle of a hayfield in Wisconsin, there was nowhere else he'd rather be. I felt the same way.
It's been over a week since we were on site. I finished my article and edited photos that same day, accidently losing track of time and staying late to get it done. It was easy then to report back on the story, but I am still finding it difficult to put into words what I felt that day. Maybe no words suffice, but it was one of my favorite experiences I've had as a reporter, and I feel privileged to have been asked to cover it.
Head to my Flickr for more photos from this story.
6.15.2011
I Do
Wedding Stationary Photoshoot, attempt number one.
I'm bound and determined to make my own wedding stationary for our upcoming nuptials. It's not because I'm cheap, although that part is pretty persuasive ($800 for 100 invites? I don't think so). I'm embarking on this project for two reasons: first, it will give me a chance to experiment with new techniques and figuring out how to do lighting and secondly, I honestly don't think that anyone can carryout my vision as well as I can.
Let's start with the latter. After spending the last six or seven months receiving wedding magazines, wedding junk mail, wedding spam, and other litter courtesy of the wedding industrial complex, I really feel like, more than anything else, mass produced invites are impersonal. Sure, you can get super fancy ones but they also have a super fancy price. I would rather personally carry out my vision than try to communicate it to someone else and run the risk of being disappointed. This way, the only person I can be upset with is myself if something doesn't go as planned. And not to brag, but I'm typically a genius at making things work.
My Christmas Card Photo Shoot was a dry run for what I wanted our invites to look like. Simple, meaningful, gorgeous lighting. John and I met because of our mutual love of Scrabble, so I knew that our wedding stationary had to incorporate that in some way. I've uploaded three other decent photos to Flickr that may or may not be used in save the dates, invites, wedding programs, etc.
As far as the former goal with this project (learning new techniques and lighting), I have to say that I failed miserably on my first attempt. I did the shoot in about an hour (actually while John and I were waiting for Obama to tell us why he was interrupting Celebrity Apprentice) with similar lighting to the set up I used for my Engagement Ring Photo Shoot. I was basically just dinking around, to be perfectly honest. I have no formal training; I read half an article on the Internet about lighting, thought it sounded like it would work, and set to it. I used a few lamps I had laying around the apartment and some tracing paper, again, not interested in investing any money into making this work. I also used the ambient light in our apartment, which comes from hanging track lighting bouncing off brick walls, giving it an orangey color. With little idea as to what I was doing, I pretty much stood there for an hour rearranging lights, watching how light hit what I was trying to capture, swatting away the occasional cat, rinse and repeat.
I say that I failed in my first goal because the only photos I ended up liking were taken with the Hipstamatic app on my iPhone. This accomplishes goal number two in that it achieves the look I want, but it fails at goal number one as I feel like the Hipstamatic is doing all the work in this situation, not me. Anyone can use a cool app or do a cool effect in Photoshop. How do I achieve the look I want in the field with my dSLR? That's what I need to be working toward and hopefully in accomplishing that goal, I can further refine the look that I want.
More to come. For now, check out the rest of the set.
I'm bound and determined to make my own wedding stationary for our upcoming nuptials. It's not because I'm cheap, although that part is pretty persuasive ($800 for 100 invites? I don't think so). I'm embarking on this project for two reasons: first, it will give me a chance to experiment with new techniques and figuring out how to do lighting and secondly, I honestly don't think that anyone can carryout my vision as well as I can.
Let's start with the latter. After spending the last six or seven months receiving wedding magazines, wedding junk mail, wedding spam, and other litter courtesy of the wedding industrial complex, I really feel like, more than anything else, mass produced invites are impersonal. Sure, you can get super fancy ones but they also have a super fancy price. I would rather personally carry out my vision than try to communicate it to someone else and run the risk of being disappointed. This way, the only person I can be upset with is myself if something doesn't go as planned. And not to brag, but I'm typically a genius at making things work.
My Christmas Card Photo Shoot was a dry run for what I wanted our invites to look like. Simple, meaningful, gorgeous lighting. John and I met because of our mutual love of Scrabble, so I knew that our wedding stationary had to incorporate that in some way. I've uploaded three other decent photos to Flickr that may or may not be used in save the dates, invites, wedding programs, etc.
As far as the former goal with this project (learning new techniques and lighting), I have to say that I failed miserably on my first attempt. I did the shoot in about an hour (actually while John and I were waiting for Obama to tell us why he was interrupting Celebrity Apprentice) with similar lighting to the set up I used for my Engagement Ring Photo Shoot. I was basically just dinking around, to be perfectly honest. I have no formal training; I read half an article on the Internet about lighting, thought it sounded like it would work, and set to it. I used a few lamps I had laying around the apartment and some tracing paper, again, not interested in investing any money into making this work. I also used the ambient light in our apartment, which comes from hanging track lighting bouncing off brick walls, giving it an orangey color. With little idea as to what I was doing, I pretty much stood there for an hour rearranging lights, watching how light hit what I was trying to capture, swatting away the occasional cat, rinse and repeat.
I say that I failed in my first goal because the only photos I ended up liking were taken with the Hipstamatic app on my iPhone. This accomplishes goal number two in that it achieves the look I want, but it fails at goal number one as I feel like the Hipstamatic is doing all the work in this situation, not me. Anyone can use a cool app or do a cool effect in Photoshop. How do I achieve the look I want in the field with my dSLR? That's what I need to be working toward and hopefully in accomplishing that goal, I can further refine the look that I want.
More to come. For now, check out the rest of the set.
6.09.2011
Talking it Over
These ducks were seriously hesitant about whether or not to jump in Monona Bay. John and I walked through Brittingham Park this evening on our way to dinner on Park Street. Even though we've lived in this neighborhood for nearly a year, we hadn't yet visited the beautiful park only a block from our house. It was cool and breezy, more April weather than June, a far cry from the over 90 degrees it was yesterday. We walked along the bike path and came across this rickety dock holding its own against the choppy waves. I think there were six ducks relaxing on it when we walked up; two jumped in right away and four seriously thought it over before plunging into the cold water.
I love the photo above because it looks like the duck all the way on the left is trying to convince the other three, "Hey guys, come on. It's not going to be that bad." And the Hipstamatic makes everything look epic.
I love the photo above because it looks like the duck all the way on the left is trying to convince the other three, "Hey guys, come on. It's not going to be that bad." And the Hipstamatic makes everything look epic.
6.07.2011
Waiting for Dinner
Near dusk last night at my parents' house, the pizza delivery guy pointed out this treefrog perched on their house number under their front door light, waiting for the bugs to come. He didn't act particularly thrilled to have a camera shoved in his face, but he put up with it. It was probably a long climb up the siding on those tiny pads in hungry anticipation of the dinner soon to flock to him.
When I was a kid, we used to catch dozens of these things. Tiny fingernail-sized toads and slimy bullfrogs were common, but treefrogs were the money. The pet shop that used to be on Main Street paid two dollars each for them, no lie. My neighbors and I scoured the backyard, the swamp and woods . If we were lucky enough to spot them, the challenge then was in catching them; they were fast, just in sheer velocity and jumping power. We mere human children scrambled after them, disappointed every time one disappeared into the tall brush.
After so many months of cold, it's finally summer in Wisconsin. :)
When I was a kid, we used to catch dozens of these things. Tiny fingernail-sized toads and slimy bullfrogs were common, but treefrogs were the money. The pet shop that used to be on Main Street paid two dollars each for them, no lie. My neighbors and I scoured the backyard, the swamp and woods . If we were lucky enough to spot them, the challenge then was in catching them; they were fast, just in sheer velocity and jumping power. We mere human children scrambled after them, disappointed every time one disappeared into the tall brush.
After so many months of cold, it's finally summer in Wisconsin. :)
6.05.2011
Capitol Bokeh
My editor has been to the Capitol a few times in the last few months to visit legislators, but I haven't been inside since last February, on my epic photo excursion with Reedsburg teachers and other protestors. Jeff was taken aback at the addition of metal detectors to only two open entrances to the building, tables where you place your belongings to be searched by several guards. I shrugged it off at first, having visited Washington DC several times where that kind of security is the norm, expected. My visit Sunday was the first time I encountered it in my own backyard, in the city I call home, in the building in which I will get married next year.
The entrance to each wing of the Capitol building has always been in darkness; coming in from the bright sunlight outside bouncing off that white stone, it takes awhile for eyes to adjust to those dim lanterns bleakly illuminating tunnels cased in orange marble. It's part of the experience - the hallway opens up into that spectacular rotunda, an explosion of space and light. I am sure that the architect who designed it never imagined those hulking metal detectors, crammed and menacing in that small space.
In DC, heavy security is expected. People line up, open their bags, walk through those metal skeletons - a formality as routine as putting your shoes on before you leave the house. I've never thought twice about it, but Sunday in Madison was vastly different. My fiance and I decided on a whim to visit the nearly empty building, excited to show our five friends the space where we plan to get married next year. We were searched and wanded by three or four officers, who were nice enough and jovial, but I walked away from the experience shaken and upset.
It should not be taken lightly that John and I chose that building to host our ceremony. I grew up thinking of it as a beacon, that all roads in Madison led to it. It's the first piece of Madison I spot near the end of my regular commutes home, shining on the horizon like Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz. And it is, after all, where he proposed. The Capitol building is familiar, it's Madison, it feels so mine.
And I think that's where the metal detectors and searches finally got personal for me. It was a trespass, not only on my person, my belongings and my friends, but on my city. My building. My home. It was a "Halt! Who goes there?" by strangers in a building that used to be so familiar, so inviting, so much a part of myself and my history, my past and my future. I can't shake that feeling.
No matter what your politics, I don't think anyone likes to see young school children and white-haired grandmas lined up like cattle and funneled through metal detectors, searched and wanded by officers in uniform.
The entrance to each wing of the Capitol building has always been in darkness; coming in from the bright sunlight outside bouncing off that white stone, it takes awhile for eyes to adjust to those dim lanterns bleakly illuminating tunnels cased in orange marble. It's part of the experience - the hallway opens up into that spectacular rotunda, an explosion of space and light. I am sure that the architect who designed it never imagined those hulking metal detectors, crammed and menacing in that small space.
In DC, heavy security is expected. People line up, open their bags, walk through those metal skeletons - a formality as routine as putting your shoes on before you leave the house. I've never thought twice about it, but Sunday in Madison was vastly different. My fiance and I decided on a whim to visit the nearly empty building, excited to show our five friends the space where we plan to get married next year. We were searched and wanded by three or four officers, who were nice enough and jovial, but I walked away from the experience shaken and upset.
It should not be taken lightly that John and I chose that building to host our ceremony. I grew up thinking of it as a beacon, that all roads in Madison led to it. It's the first piece of Madison I spot near the end of my regular commutes home, shining on the horizon like Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz. And it is, after all, where he proposed. The Capitol building is familiar, it's Madison, it feels so mine.
And I think that's where the metal detectors and searches finally got personal for me. It was a trespass, not only on my person, my belongings and my friends, but on my city. My building. My home. It was a "Halt! Who goes there?" by strangers in a building that used to be so familiar, so inviting, so much a part of myself and my history, my past and my future. I can't shake that feeling.
No matter what your politics, I don't think anyone likes to see young school children and white-haired grandmas lined up like cattle and funneled through metal detectors, searched and wanded by officers in uniform.
5.28.2011
Storybook Burn
Taken at Storybook Gardens, Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin, May 2011.
This may be one of the last photos ever taken of this place. I read last week that it was not going to reopen this summer after nearly 60 years in business. I read today that the owners actually plan to burn it down as part of a practice exercise for the Delton Fire Department.
I visited last Monday after a short meeting. I figured I had about 20 minutes or so between getting gas, driving to the Dells, and sunset. I consider myself lucky to have gotten one good shot in that short time of this doomed place, boat boarded up, grass overgrown. There were several of these signs in front of the former entrance, warning rubberneckers to "keep out." The parking lot was deserted when I pulled up, not a soul in sight.
In the article I linked to above, Jason Fields explains that kids don't know about the storybook characters anymore, and I can understand that point of view. Storybook Gardens is part of the old Dells, the rollercoasterless Dells absent of waterparks and upside-down White Houses. I know we visited Storybook Gardens when I was little, although I only have vague memories of the place. I was more saddened to hear that Riverview Park was being torn down to make way for the Timbavati wildlife park. The phrase "aging waterpark" reminds me of the "litter of our times" Steinbeck was talking about, all that cheap and forgotten plastic.
However, when I read that the owners and the DFD planned to burn down the ship at Storybook Gardens, something didn't sit right with me. The mental image of flames licking the blue sky from that faded fake boat, boarded up and overgrown, making way for more cheap and plastic "zorbing," whatever that is. The comments in the article above rue the demise of the place, but they must know that in the whole history of the Dells, nothing has been sacred there for over 150 years. Attractions are burned down, people are shipped in and out, and the city sprawls and sprawls, those strange and artificial landscapes leeching into newer territories.
This may be one of the last photos ever taken of this place. I read last week that it was not going to reopen this summer after nearly 60 years in business. I read today that the owners actually plan to burn it down as part of a practice exercise for the Delton Fire Department.
I visited last Monday after a short meeting. I figured I had about 20 minutes or so between getting gas, driving to the Dells, and sunset. I consider myself lucky to have gotten one good shot in that short time of this doomed place, boat boarded up, grass overgrown. There were several of these signs in front of the former entrance, warning rubberneckers to "keep out." The parking lot was deserted when I pulled up, not a soul in sight.
In the article I linked to above, Jason Fields explains that kids don't know about the storybook characters anymore, and I can understand that point of view. Storybook Gardens is part of the old Dells, the rollercoasterless Dells absent of waterparks and upside-down White Houses. I know we visited Storybook Gardens when I was little, although I only have vague memories of the place. I was more saddened to hear that Riverview Park was being torn down to make way for the Timbavati wildlife park. The phrase "aging waterpark" reminds me of the "litter of our times" Steinbeck was talking about, all that cheap and forgotten plastic.
However, when I read that the owners and the DFD planned to burn down the ship at Storybook Gardens, something didn't sit right with me. The mental image of flames licking the blue sky from that faded fake boat, boarded up and overgrown, making way for more cheap and plastic "zorbing," whatever that is. The comments in the article above rue the demise of the place, but they must know that in the whole history of the Dells, nothing has been sacred there for over 150 years. Attractions are burned down, people are shipped in and out, and the city sprawls and sprawls, those strange and artificial landscapes leeching into newer territories.
5.18.2011
Ladders
I set out on Monday to get a photo of this construction site on Main Street in Reedsburg. Jeff suggested standing against the dry cleaners with my back to the sun, as it was mid-morning by that time. Good tip.
I am five feet tall exactly, and I've been considering more and more lately getting a small step stool and keeping it in my car, just in case. It would only need to give me another foot or so in height, but there's been at least three times in the last few months where I could have used one. On one of those occasions I actually pulled my car into the spot I wanted and stood on the hood to get the shot. I would have done the same in this situation had I not been on Main Street in a skirt and heels in the middle of a weekday. One more foot or so and I would have been able to shoot over this fence instead of through it.
I've shot through a fence before and it hasn't been a big deal. But in this situation, the straight fence shot gave me too much shadow from the building next to me, and the diagonally-placed fence piece gave me the shot I wanted - except I kept catching the fence through it. I climbed a small cement stoop and was able to shoot over the fence... but through a spindly little tree. I was so frustrated; it was a simple assignment, to take a photo of a construction site, and I was having more trouble than necessary in making it work.
I took the above photo as a joke. My assignment was to, "Get a picture of all the equipment in that big hole" (Jeff). As I looked over the construction site, considering my shot, I noticed the ladders perched against the cement walls of the underground parking garage. It reminded me of movies set in the Middle Ages when people stormed castles and got shot at by burning arrows. I imagined someone storming the construction site, giggled and took my shot.
I took a few other photos once I figured out what I was doing. This turned out to be the one Jeff liked the most but not for the same reasons - he pointed out that there was a nice color contrast between the two red pieces of equipment in the photo, and he pointed out that it wasn't something people can see just driving past. I agreed, and we printed it in this week's Indy as an inside color photo.
My new telephoto lens is scheduled to be delivered today, and I am ridiculously excited. I have a new case sitting on my dining room table just waiting for it. I bought it because there were three or four times in the last couple months or so that I needed one, and looking forward to this summer, I don't want to take Butterfest and Demo Derby photos without one. I also look forward to using it for my personal project. I always swore I would never buy new equipment (editing software included) until I felt like it was holding me back, and the telephoto started to be that way. Maybe a stepladder will be my next purchase. :)
I am five feet tall exactly, and I've been considering more and more lately getting a small step stool and keeping it in my car, just in case. It would only need to give me another foot or so in height, but there's been at least three times in the last few months where I could have used one. On one of those occasions I actually pulled my car into the spot I wanted and stood on the hood to get the shot. I would have done the same in this situation had I not been on Main Street in a skirt and heels in the middle of a weekday. One more foot or so and I would have been able to shoot over this fence instead of through it.
I've shot through a fence before and it hasn't been a big deal. But in this situation, the straight fence shot gave me too much shadow from the building next to me, and the diagonally-placed fence piece gave me the shot I wanted - except I kept catching the fence through it. I climbed a small cement stoop and was able to shoot over the fence... but through a spindly little tree. I was so frustrated; it was a simple assignment, to take a photo of a construction site, and I was having more trouble than necessary in making it work.
I took the above photo as a joke. My assignment was to, "Get a picture of all the equipment in that big hole" (Jeff). As I looked over the construction site, considering my shot, I noticed the ladders perched against the cement walls of the underground parking garage. It reminded me of movies set in the Middle Ages when people stormed castles and got shot at by burning arrows. I imagined someone storming the construction site, giggled and took my shot.
I took a few other photos once I figured out what I was doing. This turned out to be the one Jeff liked the most but not for the same reasons - he pointed out that there was a nice color contrast between the two red pieces of equipment in the photo, and he pointed out that it wasn't something people can see just driving past. I agreed, and we printed it in this week's Indy as an inside color photo.
My new telephoto lens is scheduled to be delivered today, and I am ridiculously excited. I have a new case sitting on my dining room table just waiting for it. I bought it because there were three or four times in the last couple months or so that I needed one, and looking forward to this summer, I don't want to take Butterfest and Demo Derby photos without one. I also look forward to using it for my personal project. I always swore I would never buy new equipment (editing software included) until I felt like it was holding me back, and the telephoto started to be that way. Maybe a stepladder will be my next purchase. :)
5.16.2011
Marks the Spot
Taken at the Kastenmeier US District Courthouse in Madison, Wisconsin, May 2011.
I am apparently among the lucky few who haven't gotten hassled while taking a photo of this odd building in downtown Madison. I figure it has something to do with me being female, and at the time the photo was taken, tipsy and laying on the ground that made Big Brother shrug and go back to his crossword puzzle.
John and I have passed by this building hundreds of times on our way to and from the grocery store, State Street, etc. I have always thought it was a hideous purple monstrosity, something a five year old limited to purple Legos might build. The neon light fixture clashes with the deep purple of the building itself, neon suited more for bars and beer signs than courthouses.
I have only been hassled a handful of times when taking photos, as recently as last week. There was only one time where I felt like I was in actual danger, and I didn't feel that until much later, until the shock of what had happened wore off. Fortunately for me I happened to be in a lobby of a police station and the Lieutenant stepped in before anything could escalate. "She's in a public place," he yelled at the guy who had gotten in my face, stepping between us as I stood frozen, too dumbfounded to even spit out one syllable. "This is public record. She can take all the pictures she wants."
I know my rights. That one incident was reason enough for me to educate myself on what they are. I'm polite enough to stop if someone asks me to stop. I didn't see a soul while taking this particular photo. I'm not sure how I would have responded if I had. But just because I didn't see them doesn't mean they didn't see me. :)
I am apparently among the lucky few who haven't gotten hassled while taking a photo of this odd building in downtown Madison. I figure it has something to do with me being female, and at the time the photo was taken, tipsy and laying on the ground that made Big Brother shrug and go back to his crossword puzzle.
John and I have passed by this building hundreds of times on our way to and from the grocery store, State Street, etc. I have always thought it was a hideous purple monstrosity, something a five year old limited to purple Legos might build. The neon light fixture clashes with the deep purple of the building itself, neon suited more for bars and beer signs than courthouses.
I have only been hassled a handful of times when taking photos, as recently as last week. There was only one time where I felt like I was in actual danger, and I didn't feel that until much later, until the shock of what had happened wore off. Fortunately for me I happened to be in a lobby of a police station and the Lieutenant stepped in before anything could escalate. "She's in a public place," he yelled at the guy who had gotten in my face, stepping between us as I stood frozen, too dumbfounded to even spit out one syllable. "This is public record. She can take all the pictures she wants."
I know my rights. That one incident was reason enough for me to educate myself on what they are. I'm polite enough to stop if someone asks me to stop. I didn't see a soul while taking this particular photo. I'm not sure how I would have responded if I had. But just because I didn't see them doesn't mean they didn't see me. :)
5.11.2011
Curve
Taken on Hwy K in Reedsburg, Wisconsin, May 2011.
I went out a few weeks ago to take pictures of the ongoing construction work on the North Side sewer in Reedsburg. They never made it in the Indy, but I liked the results.
I parked on the corner of 19th Street and K in Reedsburg and walked down K. I realized later that I could have parked much closer and spared myself much of that painful high-heeled walked up and down the highway, but I would have missed some fantastic shots. I loved seeing all of those huge sewer pieces up close, particularly the manhole covers. I felt like a little kid, fascinated by the big machines displacing so, so much earth.
I have never been keen on getting to close to anything while taking pictures for the Indy. I try to reassure myself, saying that my photos come out more from the perspective of a casual observer than an insider, but mostly, I'm just scared. As I took pictures of the worksite from across the street, I thought about getting closer. Images of my untimely death flashed across my brain, "Search called off for reporter who fell into center of Earth." I decided I was just fine across the street, thank you.
Despite my reluctance to get too close, I have always appreciated the access my job gives me. I can only name a handful of times in the last three years that I've been hassled while taking pictures, and usually no one questions me. I had that same feeling on my excursion this day, sauntering through barricades that said, "Roads Closed" thinking, yes, I am supposed to be here.
I went out a few weeks ago to take pictures of the ongoing construction work on the North Side sewer in Reedsburg. They never made it in the Indy, but I liked the results.
I parked on the corner of 19th Street and K in Reedsburg and walked down K. I realized later that I could have parked much closer and spared myself much of that painful high-heeled walked up and down the highway, but I would have missed some fantastic shots. I loved seeing all of those huge sewer pieces up close, particularly the manhole covers. I felt like a little kid, fascinated by the big machines displacing so, so much earth.
I have never been keen on getting to close to anything while taking pictures for the Indy. I try to reassure myself, saying that my photos come out more from the perspective of a casual observer than an insider, but mostly, I'm just scared. As I took pictures of the worksite from across the street, I thought about getting closer. Images of my untimely death flashed across my brain, "Search called off for reporter who fell into center of Earth." I decided I was just fine across the street, thank you.
Despite my reluctance to get too close, I have always appreciated the access my job gives me. I can only name a handful of times in the last three years that I've been hassled while taking pictures, and usually no one questions me. I had that same feeling on my excursion this day, sauntering through barricades that said, "Roads Closed" thinking, yes, I am supposed to be here.
5.09.2011
Grede
Scene from Grede Foundry, Reedsburg, Wisconsin. Taken today, May 9, 2011.
How do you explain something you've done a million times? I found myself struggling for words today trying to explain how to use a dSLR - something I once had to learn as well but has, in the last three years, become second nature to me. I ended up taking crappy photos of crappy scenes that I immediately knew I wasn't happy with. It was that kind of day - tired, rainy.
I was aimlessly driving around town later when I stumbled on the scene above. I've always been fascinated by Grede Foundry; it stood out on the backdrop of my childhood, smoke stacks rising in the distance. There is a yard next to it that must be some kind of metal yard; through the fence you can catch glimpses of metal mountains glinting in the sun. And I've always wondered, why blue?
My uncle was at work at Grede that day in 2003 when a boiler exploded at Foremost Farms nextdoor, sending tremors through the whole area. He later said when the Foremost boiler exploded, Grede shook, and he looked up and watched the dust come unsettled and waft down like ashen snow. When I remember the chaos of that December morning, picturing that scene calms me. I'm not sure why.
I was driving by earlier for no reason, that dull blue metal blending in with the steely, dull blue sky, when those boxes caught my eye. I pulled over and thought for awhile about what to do; I wanted a photo of those boxes, but I didn't want to get too close to them. I planned the shot in my head, left the keys in the ignition, ran up, took four photos, and ran back. The photo above was the first one I took.
I need to learn to trust myself. Maybe I know more than I think I know.
How do you explain something you've done a million times? I found myself struggling for words today trying to explain how to use a dSLR - something I once had to learn as well but has, in the last three years, become second nature to me. I ended up taking crappy photos of crappy scenes that I immediately knew I wasn't happy with. It was that kind of day - tired, rainy.
I was aimlessly driving around town later when I stumbled on the scene above. I've always been fascinated by Grede Foundry; it stood out on the backdrop of my childhood, smoke stacks rising in the distance. There is a yard next to it that must be some kind of metal yard; through the fence you can catch glimpses of metal mountains glinting in the sun. And I've always wondered, why blue?
My uncle was at work at Grede that day in 2003 when a boiler exploded at Foremost Farms nextdoor, sending tremors through the whole area. He later said when the Foremost boiler exploded, Grede shook, and he looked up and watched the dust come unsettled and waft down like ashen snow. When I remember the chaos of that December morning, picturing that scene calms me. I'm not sure why.
I was driving by earlier for no reason, that dull blue metal blending in with the steely, dull blue sky, when those boxes caught my eye. I pulled over and thought for awhile about what to do; I wanted a photo of those boxes, but I didn't want to get too close to them. I planned the shot in my head, left the keys in the ignition, ran up, took four photos, and ran back. The photo above was the first one I took.
I need to learn to trust myself. Maybe I know more than I think I know.
5.06.2011
Playland
Taken at Riverview Park and Waterworld, Wisconsin Dells, May 2011. Part of my Strange Landscapes series.
Excerpt from my thesis:
"The Dells in the winter is much less exciting. There is no longer a buzz about the heavy coats, scarves and gloves. Wisconsin winter set in early this October, making the Dells that much less inviting. The sky is that dirty snowy grey and all the leaves are almost gone. The city has absurdly tied dead corn stalks to all the lightposts and, in a gesture of efficiency, decorated all the spindly sidewalked trees in blue Christmas lights. There is no holiday here, only two seasons – tourist and the off-season. Most businesses are dark, most doors are closed. I’m spending my time off from school sitting at Ripley’s for hours. I’ve memorized every well-placed crack and erosion on the faux ancient wall next to me. The Dells itself is packed because of the indoor waterparks. Everything else on the strip is closed but us. People come into Ripley’s complaining, inquiring. Pissed off that they’ve planned a ski vacation and there’s no snow. Made a week’s reservation at the Wilderness only to tire of their five indoor waterparks by day two. What’s open? they demand, blaming me. I can only shrug. Hey, we don’t know what you’re doing here either."
Excerpt from my thesis:
"The Dells in the winter is much less exciting. There is no longer a buzz about the heavy coats, scarves and gloves. Wisconsin winter set in early this October, making the Dells that much less inviting. The sky is that dirty snowy grey and all the leaves are almost gone. The city has absurdly tied dead corn stalks to all the lightposts and, in a gesture of efficiency, decorated all the spindly sidewalked trees in blue Christmas lights. There is no holiday here, only two seasons – tourist and the off-season. Most businesses are dark, most doors are closed. I’m spending my time off from school sitting at Ripley’s for hours. I’ve memorized every well-placed crack and erosion on the faux ancient wall next to me. The Dells itself is packed because of the indoor waterparks. Everything else on the strip is closed but us. People come into Ripley’s complaining, inquiring. Pissed off that they’ve planned a ski vacation and there’s no snow. Made a week’s reservation at the Wilderness only to tire of their five indoor waterparks by day two. What’s open? they demand, blaming me. I can only shrug. Hey, we don’t know what you’re doing here either."
5.05.2011
View the Boats
Taken at the Dells Boat Docks, Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin, May 2011. Part of my Strange Landscapes series.
Excerpt from my thesis:
"I can’t get over the fact that every time I return to this life, it’s exactly the same. Exactly. I anticipate a difference and I am always disappointed. I walk out of his back door above the candy shop on the strip to see roller coasters looming out of that cold Sunday morning. Driving home hungover amid the early Masses, I am surprised by the number of people awake when I haven’t yet slept. I’m still trying to figure out exactly how I’m going to tell this story later when I’m startled by the colors on the trees. With a long-time preference for staying up until the early morning and sleeping until mid-afternoon, I have a hard time differentiating between seasons – it’s always cold at night and pretty much everything looks the same in the moonlight. It’s fall, and finally, it’s cold. Roller coasters have stopped running, water ceases from the slides and wavepools, and the ferris wheel on the parkway stands with its cars removed. Every Tuesday after Labor Day weekend, the Dells becomes a ghost town. It is now possible to get: a parking spot, a table in a restaurant, a seat at the movies, and anywhere on time. It’s depressing, in a way, but we need this – we need this so that in seven more months, we can welcome tourists, invite them again with open arms. This city is not a machine that hums and buzzes because it too has a culling song that softly lulls us all into a cold and eventual sleep."
Excerpt from my thesis:
"I can’t get over the fact that every time I return to this life, it’s exactly the same. Exactly. I anticipate a difference and I am always disappointed. I walk out of his back door above the candy shop on the strip to see roller coasters looming out of that cold Sunday morning. Driving home hungover amid the early Masses, I am surprised by the number of people awake when I haven’t yet slept. I’m still trying to figure out exactly how I’m going to tell this story later when I’m startled by the colors on the trees. With a long-time preference for staying up until the early morning and sleeping until mid-afternoon, I have a hard time differentiating between seasons – it’s always cold at night and pretty much everything looks the same in the moonlight. It’s fall, and finally, it’s cold. Roller coasters have stopped running, water ceases from the slides and wavepools, and the ferris wheel on the parkway stands with its cars removed. Every Tuesday after Labor Day weekend, the Dells becomes a ghost town. It is now possible to get: a parking spot, a table in a restaurant, a seat at the movies, and anywhere on time. It’s depressing, in a way, but we need this – we need this so that in seven more months, we can welcome tourists, invite them again with open arms. This city is not a machine that hums and buzzes because it too has a culling song that softly lulls us all into a cold and eventual sleep."
5.04.2011
Scenic Dells
The photo above was taken from the Wisconsin River bridge in Wisconsin Dells, May 2011. Part of my Strange Landscapes series.
I went on the first shoot for my personal project on Monday. I had a bad day at work and really didn't feel like going, but I'd been planning it for about a week. I'm a sucker for excuses - it was cold, I was tired and I only had an hour or so to take photos. But I bribed myself with Starbucks and a reality check - if I was going to attempt to capture the Dells in the off-season, I only have a few weeks to get started before the tourists flood in on Memorial Day. I forced myself to go through with it, and I'm glad I did. Once I got started it was hard to put the camera down and pull myself away. I had a fantastic first day and it gives me a ton of motivation to continue the project. I wound up with a dozen or so photos that I'm very proud of, with more to come on my Flickr in the next few days.
I used to pass the sign above every single day in the two years that I worked on the strip in the Wisconsin Dells. I always thought it was interesting but I had never gotten out of the car to take a real look at it. I parked in the public lot and for the first time realized how inaccessible the Dells is by foot - the strip is fine but sequestered from the rest of the city, which consists of spread out and sprawling water parks and tourist traps. You really have to drive from one place to another, which is pretty ridiculous. Getting to this spot I felt like a little kid on monkey bars, jaunting from one spot to another.
Anyway, it wasn't until I got in front of the sign that I realized what was behind it - a huge electrical complex thing situated between the river, dam, and railroad tracks. I had passed that sign a million times before, driven on that road twice a day for two years, and had never seen what I was seeing from the sidewalk. I guffawed and got to work.
The rest of my short time there was exactly the same way. Maybe it sounds cliched, but it wasn't until I really stopped and looked at the Dells that I started to see things, to really see them. I expect this project to operate in much of the same way, not only a process of technical discovery with my camera but hopefully a process of personal discovery, teaching myself to look at things and really see them.
I'll leave you with a quote I used in my thesis:
"I had heard of the Wisconsin Dells but was not prepared for the weird country sculptured by the Ice Age, a strange, gleaming country of water and carved rock, black and green. To awaken here might make one believe it a dream of some other planet, for it has a non-earthly quality, or else the engraved record of a time when the world was much younger and much different. Clinging to the sides of the dreamlike waterways was the litter of our times, the motels, the hot-dog stands, the merchants of the cheap and mediocre and tawdry so loved by summer tourist, but these incrustations were closed and boarded against the winter and, even open, I doubt they could dispel the enchantment of the Wisconsin Dells." - John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley in Search of America, 1962
I went on the first shoot for my personal project on Monday. I had a bad day at work and really didn't feel like going, but I'd been planning it for about a week. I'm a sucker for excuses - it was cold, I was tired and I only had an hour or so to take photos. But I bribed myself with Starbucks and a reality check - if I was going to attempt to capture the Dells in the off-season, I only have a few weeks to get started before the tourists flood in on Memorial Day. I forced myself to go through with it, and I'm glad I did. Once I got started it was hard to put the camera down and pull myself away. I had a fantastic first day and it gives me a ton of motivation to continue the project. I wound up with a dozen or so photos that I'm very proud of, with more to come on my Flickr in the next few days.
I used to pass the sign above every single day in the two years that I worked on the strip in the Wisconsin Dells. I always thought it was interesting but I had never gotten out of the car to take a real look at it. I parked in the public lot and for the first time realized how inaccessible the Dells is by foot - the strip is fine but sequestered from the rest of the city, which consists of spread out and sprawling water parks and tourist traps. You really have to drive from one place to another, which is pretty ridiculous. Getting to this spot I felt like a little kid on monkey bars, jaunting from one spot to another.
Anyway, it wasn't until I got in front of the sign that I realized what was behind it - a huge electrical complex thing situated between the river, dam, and railroad tracks. I had passed that sign a million times before, driven on that road twice a day for two years, and had never seen what I was seeing from the sidewalk. I guffawed and got to work.
The rest of my short time there was exactly the same way. Maybe it sounds cliched, but it wasn't until I really stopped and looked at the Dells that I started to see things, to really see them. I expect this project to operate in much of the same way, not only a process of technical discovery with my camera but hopefully a process of personal discovery, teaching myself to look at things and really see them.
I'll leave you with a quote I used in my thesis:
"I had heard of the Wisconsin Dells but was not prepared for the weird country sculptured by the Ice Age, a strange, gleaming country of water and carved rock, black and green. To awaken here might make one believe it a dream of some other planet, for it has a non-earthly quality, or else the engraved record of a time when the world was much younger and much different. Clinging to the sides of the dreamlike waterways was the litter of our times, the motels, the hot-dog stands, the merchants of the cheap and mediocre and tawdry so loved by summer tourist, but these incrustations were closed and boarded against the winter and, even open, I doubt they could dispel the enchantment of the Wisconsin Dells." - John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley in Search of America, 1962
5.03.2011
Strange Landscapes
The photo above is part of a long-term project to capture the Wisconsin Dells in the off-season. I started planning last week and went out on my first shoot on Monday.
The Dells for most people exists between the months of June and August. The Waterpark Capital of the World attracts hundreds of thousands of people in those few months. I'm fascinated by what goes on the other nine months of the year, when the colorful and slightly run-down rides stand out stark against grey Wisconsin skies and landscapes. The Dells doesn't disappear when the tourists go home. It stays. My project is going to be to capture what that looks like.
I was totally inspired by Ted Forbes and Wade Griffith's podcast, The Photography Show, which I listen to on long drives to and from Reedsburg. Their conversations typically run the gamut from banter to inspiration to hardcore information, and I appreciate that. Teaching isn't all about straight-up learning, and we all learn in different ways. I have no interest in "going pro," just taking cool images that make me happy and sometimes sharing that with people, and I feel like that podcast speaks to a multitude of photography audiences. I enjoy it. Anyway, they were talking the other day about having a long-term personal project to work on that might take a year, ten years, whatever it takes - just something on the back burner that you do just because you enjoy it. They said to think of what you like to shoot and go shoot it - if it's portraits, go take portraits, if it's band photos, go shoot band photos. That got me thinking - what do I really like to take pictures of? Which of my photos do I really like looking at? What subject matter makes me happiest?
Besides my cats (lol), only one photo really came to mind. I took this photo at Butterfest last year, and along with this one and this one, they are among some of my favorite images I've ever captured. I've taken photos at Butterfest for the Reedsburg Independent for the past couple years, and from the parade to the demo derby, it's one of my favorite times of year. The colors, the looks on people's faces, the scenes, the rides, everything. And they are photos I love to revisit again and again. But Butterfest only comes once per year.
John suggested that this summer, we follow carnivals around the state and take photos, and while I kind of like the idea of being nomadic carnie-stalkers, those images could get old really fast. Why not go somewhere the carnival never leaves? The Dells.
I grew up in Reedsburg, 15 minutes from the Dells, and I wrote my senior thesis on how that affected my psyche, and the minds and imaginations of my friends and neighbors. We spent three months of the year working in the cartoonishness that is the summer-Dells and another nine months of the year working in an empty city, waterslides devoid of water. What is a tourist attraction like when the tourists are gone?
I did a decent job of writing about it in the year and a half I spent on my senior thesis. I've decided to revisit the subject matter with a new tool - my camera. We'll see what happens. Expect more rambling on my childhood, tourism theory, and hopefully a few decent images.
The Dells for most people exists between the months of June and August. The Waterpark Capital of the World attracts hundreds of thousands of people in those few months. I'm fascinated by what goes on the other nine months of the year, when the colorful and slightly run-down rides stand out stark against grey Wisconsin skies and landscapes. The Dells doesn't disappear when the tourists go home. It stays. My project is going to be to capture what that looks like.
I was totally inspired by Ted Forbes and Wade Griffith's podcast, The Photography Show, which I listen to on long drives to and from Reedsburg. Their conversations typically run the gamut from banter to inspiration to hardcore information, and I appreciate that. Teaching isn't all about straight-up learning, and we all learn in different ways. I have no interest in "going pro," just taking cool images that make me happy and sometimes sharing that with people, and I feel like that podcast speaks to a multitude of photography audiences. I enjoy it. Anyway, they were talking the other day about having a long-term personal project to work on that might take a year, ten years, whatever it takes - just something on the back burner that you do just because you enjoy it. They said to think of what you like to shoot and go shoot it - if it's portraits, go take portraits, if it's band photos, go shoot band photos. That got me thinking - what do I really like to take pictures of? Which of my photos do I really like looking at? What subject matter makes me happiest?
Besides my cats (lol), only one photo really came to mind. I took this photo at Butterfest last year, and along with this one and this one, they are among some of my favorite images I've ever captured. I've taken photos at Butterfest for the Reedsburg Independent for the past couple years, and from the parade to the demo derby, it's one of my favorite times of year. The colors, the looks on people's faces, the scenes, the rides, everything. And they are photos I love to revisit again and again. But Butterfest only comes once per year.
John suggested that this summer, we follow carnivals around the state and take photos, and while I kind of like the idea of being nomadic carnie-stalkers, those images could get old really fast. Why not go somewhere the carnival never leaves? The Dells.
I grew up in Reedsburg, 15 minutes from the Dells, and I wrote my senior thesis on how that affected my psyche, and the minds and imaginations of my friends and neighbors. We spent three months of the year working in the cartoonishness that is the summer-Dells and another nine months of the year working in an empty city, waterslides devoid of water. What is a tourist attraction like when the tourists are gone?
I did a decent job of writing about it in the year and a half I spent on my senior thesis. I've decided to revisit the subject matter with a new tool - my camera. We'll see what happens. Expect more rambling on my childhood, tourism theory, and hopefully a few decent images.
4.24.2011
Work in Progress.
I love coloring Easter eggs. So many possibilities with edible results. Well, most of the time. Last year I didn't boil the eggs long enough and while we had fun coloring them, we didn't wind up with any we could actually eat.
This year the whole family got together and colored eggs just like old times. I colored eggs and took photos at the same time and wound up with at least 30 photos of my family members, their brows furrowed in concentration as they wrote messages on eggs and dropped them into the dyes. The egg above is just waiting for the magic to happen.
This year the whole family got together and colored eggs just like old times. I colored eggs and took photos at the same time and wound up with at least 30 photos of my family members, their brows furrowed in concentration as they wrote messages on eggs and dropped them into the dyes. The egg above is just waiting for the magic to happen.
4.16.2011
Self Portrait Ornament
In honor of the middle-of-April snowfall we had today in Madison, I was inspired to post some Christmasy and winter photos I recently found on my computer. Additional photos can be seen here and here.
I love Christmas tree ornaments, especially the old school glass ones that break so easily. Photographing them can prove difficult, as I found out in my Christmas Card Photo Shoot. In the photo above, I played on that and shot my own reflection for a festive self-portrait.
I love Christmas tree ornaments, especially the old school glass ones that break so easily. Photographing them can prove difficult, as I found out in my Christmas Card Photo Shoot. In the photo above, I played on that and shot my own reflection for a festive self-portrait.
4.01.2011
Life's a Beach
Taken in Reedsburg, Wisconsin. View of the City Shop off South Webb Avenue. Taken March 2011.
I love the desolation in this photo, the perfect capture of Wisconsin winter. The sky is a dull light blue, trees black, snow piles a mix of grey and cold white. Even the weeds and beach ball are dull colors.
I'm always attracted to power lines for some reason. Maybe its' the song "Engine Driver" by the Decemberists - "I'm a county lineman/on the high line, on the high line/So will be my grandson/There are power lines in our blood lines." I like the straight lines, extending up into the sky and off into the distance, as far as you can see. I like the idea of length and connectivity, I like how they stand out in flat lands when it seems like the road is the only civilization for miles. Somewhere, somebody is going to be connected to someone else, and to someone else, and to the power source.
The water in the photo is overflow from the Baraboo River, flooding the low spots with the rain and melting of spring, It's a spot that floods regularly.
The ball? Not sure where that came from.
I love the desolation in this photo, the perfect capture of Wisconsin winter. The sky is a dull light blue, trees black, snow piles a mix of grey and cold white. Even the weeds and beach ball are dull colors.
I'm always attracted to power lines for some reason. Maybe its' the song "Engine Driver" by the Decemberists - "I'm a county lineman/on the high line, on the high line/So will be my grandson/There are power lines in our blood lines." I like the straight lines, extending up into the sky and off into the distance, as far as you can see. I like the idea of length and connectivity, I like how they stand out in flat lands when it seems like the road is the only civilization for miles. Somewhere, somebody is going to be connected to someone else, and to someone else, and to the power source.
The water in the photo is overflow from the Baraboo River, flooding the low spots with the rain and melting of spring, It's a spot that floods regularly.
The ball? Not sure where that came from.
3.30.2011
No Fishing Today
Taken at South Park in Reedsburg, Wisconsin, March 2011.
Having grown up in Reedsburg, I know that South Park can always be counted on for a good flood picture. It was the first place I headed following that epic storm in June 2008, when the Baraboo River jumped its banks and flooded a few neighborhoods in Reedsburg. Back then, two blue herons were basking on the other side of the road, which had just washed out. At the time I remember thinking that was the coolest shot I was going to get. Boy was I wrong.
Anyway, the access road into South Park was covered in a few inches of ice when I headed over there last week, making for a nail-biting and perilous drive into the park. The river was already butting up next to the road and my brain kept saying, "Just one slip. That's all it would take is just one slip." If I was smart, I would have parked by the Ballwegs' and just walked into the park, but another part of my brain kept saying, "I'm only going to be here a minute. I'll make it quick." Like nature cares.
I also don't think I've been back to South Park in at least a year, since I was smart enough to drive on the unplowed access road and got so stuck that my parents had to pull me out. Fantastic.
Anyway, there were no catastrophes on this trip in. I drove as far as I could on that ice slicked road just up to the point where it had washed out, which I was actually surprised to see. I have no idea how deep the water was but I wasn't about to find out. If I had rain boots on, maybe, but I was unprepared. The water had flowed across the road and into the pond across the street, which had also overflowed.
I took a few shots, focusing on the part I found most interesting, which was the water over the fishing pier. Normally there's at least a few feet between the pier and the river level. The road extends from the bottom right corner of the photo and out toward the center of the photo, where it is washed out. The pond was to the left and behind me, and some of the shallower water had frozen over. The water overflowing from the river was pushing against it, which is what created this neat effect.
When I was a kid, we never played here much as it's almost a mile from my parents' house. But whenever we found a critter in the road or backyard (mostly giant turtles), they were always released into the Baraboo River at this point. I'm not sure what originally designated this as our release point, but that's the way I'll always think of it - driving down the access road late one night, lights glowing on the Waste Water Treatment Plant over the hill, backseat filled with some giant turtle we rescued from the middle of the road. The last time this happened, I begged my brother to let him go instead of selling him, and we did. Jimmy had placed him gently on the muddy banks of the Baraboo River just to the side of the pier in the photo, half in and half out of the water. The turtle paused a moment as if to ask if the coast was clear, then propelled himself at a straight diagonal into the brown water, and disappeared.
Having grown up in Reedsburg, I know that South Park can always be counted on for a good flood picture. It was the first place I headed following that epic storm in June 2008, when the Baraboo River jumped its banks and flooded a few neighborhoods in Reedsburg. Back then, two blue herons were basking on the other side of the road, which had just washed out. At the time I remember thinking that was the coolest shot I was going to get. Boy was I wrong.
Anyway, the access road into South Park was covered in a few inches of ice when I headed over there last week, making for a nail-biting and perilous drive into the park. The river was already butting up next to the road and my brain kept saying, "Just one slip. That's all it would take is just one slip." If I was smart, I would have parked by the Ballwegs' and just walked into the park, but another part of my brain kept saying, "I'm only going to be here a minute. I'll make it quick." Like nature cares.
I also don't think I've been back to South Park in at least a year, since I was smart enough to drive on the unplowed access road and got so stuck that my parents had to pull me out. Fantastic.
Anyway, there were no catastrophes on this trip in. I drove as far as I could on that ice slicked road just up to the point where it had washed out, which I was actually surprised to see. I have no idea how deep the water was but I wasn't about to find out. If I had rain boots on, maybe, but I was unprepared. The water had flowed across the road and into the pond across the street, which had also overflowed.
I took a few shots, focusing on the part I found most interesting, which was the water over the fishing pier. Normally there's at least a few feet between the pier and the river level. The road extends from the bottom right corner of the photo and out toward the center of the photo, where it is washed out. The pond was to the left and behind me, and some of the shallower water had frozen over. The water overflowing from the river was pushing against it, which is what created this neat effect.
When I was a kid, we never played here much as it's almost a mile from my parents' house. But whenever we found a critter in the road or backyard (mostly giant turtles), they were always released into the Baraboo River at this point. I'm not sure what originally designated this as our release point, but that's the way I'll always think of it - driving down the access road late one night, lights glowing on the Waste Water Treatment Plant over the hill, backseat filled with some giant turtle we rescued from the middle of the road. The last time this happened, I begged my brother to let him go instead of selling him, and we did. Jimmy had placed him gently on the muddy banks of the Baraboo River just to the side of the pier in the photo, half in and half out of the water. The turtle paused a moment as if to ask if the coast was clear, then propelled himself at a straight diagonal into the brown water, and disappeared.
3.29.2011
Baraboo River Busts Out
With a few dry days, the water levels have since gone down, much to everyone's relief. The TV news was making it sound like we had another catastrophe on our hands, with all the snow we got over the winter and the rain now, and everything melting. Maybe in a couple of years everyone will be used to it and resume ignoring them again.
I was looking for a way to take an interesting high water photo when I happened to catch this scene out of the corner of my eye. I'm not a fan of photos of trees poking out of flood water; it's very difficult to make something like that interesting. My editor took a nice one of trees poking out of water that had frozen over, but the one I liked more wouldn't have reproduced well and we didn't have room in this week's paper anyway. My photo above made it in though.
Anyway, there was a high water scene I liked better but as I don't yet trust myself with night shots, I just didn't go for it, scared of the disappointment. I got home late after a school board meeting last night and the streetlights from Main Street and Lakeside Foods were reflecting off the water surrounding the trees and marsh in my parents' backyard, not something you normally see. It was a nice, eerie, golden-toned photo, but I knew I wasn't going to be able to reproduce what I saw, so I chickened out.
The scene above was something I saw a couple days later, driving down South Webb. I stopped anyway even though I knew we weren't going to have any room for the photo in the paper. There's no good spot to park on that street, so I left my car on the access road that goes around the city shop, in front of a sign that said something like "No Access" or "No Trespassing" or "Not a Through Road," something like that. The road was washed out a few feet in front of my car, so I didn't think anyone would mind. I hiked back to this spot and stood on the guard rail that goes across the bridge to get this shot. It was a little perilous but I was fine. It's due to situations like that, though, that I've started to consider keeping a ladder in my car. I'm only five feet tall, and I've been in several situations the last few weeks where that was just too short and I needed another foot or two to get the angle I wanted. Maybe if I can find a small one... anyway, the guard rail sufficed in this situation.
I like the photo above because I managed to get the "Baraboo River" sign (right), the "Got Cheese?" sign (yellow, behind the Baraboo River sign), and the Reedsburg water tower (center, slightly left) all in one shot. You might have to enlarge the photo to see the water tower but I thought it was neat they all kind of lined up like that.
We had to lighten the photo quite a bit for the paper (printed on yellowish paper instead of white), but the photo above is the original before it was edited for print.
3.26.2011
Downtown Dells
Taken in Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin, 2010.
I have always been fascinated with the view from the lookout point on the Wisconsin River, just off the strip in the Wisconsin Dells. It's a Riverwalk the city obviously spent a lot of money to build. It runs between the Wisconsin River and a public parking lot.
I think that few people appreciate the significance of the view from that point. From one single point, you see so many facets of the Dells' past, present and future. You see the river itself, the foundation of the entire Dells itself, the natural area and what made it so appealing to early settlers. Then you see the railroad bridge and beyond that, the dam, the modern technologies of the 1800s that allowed the Dells to grow and flourish. They brought industry, people, electricity to the Dells. To the lower left you can see the Dells' boat docks where scenery tour ships launch to bring people closer to the natural beauty of the Wisconsin Dells. Then from the same point you can see rollercoasters jutting out over the treeline, the symbol of the Dells in the last 30 years and the prosperity that has come from them. If you turn slightly to the left, you can see the downtown strip lined with tacky souvenir shops and tourist traps, what John Steinbeck called "the litter of our times."
And the future? Who knows.
The above photo was shot directly into the setting sun to maximize the silhouette of the "Riverwalk" sign.
I have always been fascinated with the view from the lookout point on the Wisconsin River, just off the strip in the Wisconsin Dells. It's a Riverwalk the city obviously spent a lot of money to build. It runs between the Wisconsin River and a public parking lot.
I think that few people appreciate the significance of the view from that point. From one single point, you see so many facets of the Dells' past, present and future. You see the river itself, the foundation of the entire Dells itself, the natural area and what made it so appealing to early settlers. Then you see the railroad bridge and beyond that, the dam, the modern technologies of the 1800s that allowed the Dells to grow and flourish. They brought industry, people, electricity to the Dells. To the lower left you can see the Dells' boat docks where scenery tour ships launch to bring people closer to the natural beauty of the Wisconsin Dells. Then from the same point you can see rollercoasters jutting out over the treeline, the symbol of the Dells in the last 30 years and the prosperity that has come from them. If you turn slightly to the left, you can see the downtown strip lined with tacky souvenir shops and tourist traps, what John Steinbeck called "the litter of our times."
And the future? Who knows.
The above photo was shot directly into the setting sun to maximize the silhouette of the "Riverwalk" sign.
3.12.2011
Looking Down on You
Fiona has become very protective of the slim and fleeting ray of early spring sunlight streaming in from our skylight in the mid-morning. She follows it around the room, perching wherever it may land. In this particular photo, she had (obviously) grown tired of my excitement over the dramatic lighting on her white fur and pink ears and was giving me that classic "if you know what's good for you" cat look.
She's been without that ray of sunlight since last fall. I don't blame her one bit.
3.05.2011
Take Me To Your Leader
Monona Terrace, October 2010.
I love the wacky architecture and unexpectedness of Monona Terrace in Madison. I've taken photos there before, striving to be different than the stereotypical touristy looking photos. The photo above captures that, I think.
It was taken after a particularly gluttonous trip to the Great Dane for dinner when John and I attempted to consume a turtle sundae for dessert. Big mistake. It was huge! I joked that we were going to have to be rolled down the hill toward home. Instead we waddled over to Monona Terrace, trying to walk off all that ice cream.
I barely remember taking this photo but I'm quite proud of it, as I haven't quite figured out how to take effective night shots. I have also been struggling to find a way to make those light fixtures look interesting; it has been difficult for me to capture the angles I can clearly see in person but have been unable to recreate on camera. The photo above does both nicely.
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