A Dark Topography

revenge and gratitude

2012-02-01T22:38:00.000-05:00

Pull pin, sqeeze lever: Part II

2012-01-29T21:40:00.000-05:00

Part one was about the lessons learned in burning a Christmas tree. That was a year ago.

Yesterday was a long, rough trip, with lessons of its own: Heat rises. Courtesy is a veneer. Etiquette is for the timid. Long exposures drain batteries. There is never enough time. Shovels aren't long enough. Always check your six.

And it's a good idea, at the end of the day, to set something on fire. Makes a man feel accomplished.

Yancey Railroad, September, 1976

2012-01-25T23:30:00.000-05:00

In the fall of 1976 my parents traveled to Yancey County from Charleston, SC. They were on their honeymoon, and the South Toe river had just flooded in a little town called Micaville. Construction workers were replacing a bridge on the Yancey Railroad, and my dad, ever the railroad enthusiast, stopped to take pictures.

I had no idea these slides existed until after I graduated from college and began working on the Kona project, documenting the remains of the Yancey Railroad. My dad had a way of revealing such information just when you were starting to feel proud of yourself. "Oh, the Yancey Railroad? Yeah, I photographed that thirty years ago. You know, when it was still operating. But don't worry, yours will probably be better."

I remember standing in his office with these slides held up, blinking into a lamp. The railroad was amazing, of course, but what made my jaw drop was the shot of the church at Kona. If not for the mold on the AgfaColor slides, it could have been taken that afternoon. In fact, I had just photographed it that summer.

I was born five years after these photos were taken, and ten years after that, we moved to Yancey County. By then the railroad was gone. The big flood came in 1977, wiping out the work these men in the pictures had done a year earlier. During that flood my wife was born. The tracks are still there outside her mother's house. We were married on a rock, by the South Toe, less than a mile from the place where these photos were shot.

My dad performed the ceremony.

Bill Moree once told me that the only reason we do what we do as photographers is that we like to look at our pictures hanging on the wall. Well, today I shot about five hundred frames of the governor drinking beer at a press conference. A hundred photos for every one of these YRR slides. I doubt I'll ever hang any of them on the wall.

Bill was wrong; there is another reason we do it. I'm not sure what it is. But as I was driving back from the press conference I caught myself composing an email to my dad: "Drank beer with the governor today, here are the shots." Just one sentence. Because, whatever that other reason is, my dad understood it.

All photos by Rev. C D Cooper, III:

Get your Ektar while you can . . .

2012-01-04T23:03:00.001-05:00

HuffPo: Kodak preparing for bankruptcy.

happy new year

2012-01-01T12:42:00.004-05:00

At the start of each year I like to clear out my folder of web-ready images waiting to be posted. And though I sort of feel like year-in-review posts are redundant for this type of blog, especially with the chronological sidebar over there on the right, I have added a few images to represent the best/worst moments.

I was going to caption them all, and then I actually looked at them and decided that they can be summed up very simply: Here's to 2011--May we never see the likes of you again.

I've always been sad to see a year go. Not this time. So, for 2012, my usual refrain: Keep your head down, keep your eyes on the horizon, and keep your hands in the soil, clutching the roots.

A Dark Christmas

2011-12-25T23:55:00.004-05:00

One year ago tonight I shot this photo:

It started snowing Christmas morning, when we still had two families to visit. By nightfall it was clear we were not getting back to the city. We slid into my brother-in-law's farm just as it became full dark.

Around midnight, I went out to shoot this photo. My nine-year-old niece accompanied me, and I offered to pose with her in the shot. ("Why do you want to take a picture of the horse trailer?" "It's not the trailer, it's the culvert.")

So I have these two frames, one with us, one without. I've been trying to post them for a year, but I never could find the right context. It's a difficult Christmas. Isn't it always?

But, in context, placed next to each other, the photos say this: You can't always be warm, or understood, or appreciated. Sometimes, it is enough not to be alone.

Merry Christmas.

(i hid the whiskey bottles in the back.)

2011-12-22T14:13:00.003-05:00

My recyclables are on the cover of the Mountain Xpress this week. This makes three covers in a row!

my lens is bigger than yours.

2011-12-11T17:20:00.002-05:00

Just sayin.

So I was walking by a reflective shop window the other day, when suddenly I stopped and said, “Gosh, who's that ruggedly handsome man with that giant lens?” Then, after he left, I thought, “I better get a lens like that if I ever want to impress the ladies.”

We all know the type. He's an older professional, maybe a doctor or a lawyer, and he's getting back into photography after a long and stressful career. So the first thing he does is go out and buy an f2.8 super-zoom because he can afford it.

Well, I can't.

Furthermore, I never really wanted one. Lest we forget (and these days I sometimes feel like there's a real danger I will forget) the tenet of DarkTopo philosophy that was phrased so well by Robert Capa: If your photos aren't good enough, you're not close enough.

Of course, Capa died from stepping on a landmine. And he probably never had to shoot a poorly-lit Asheville city council meeting, either. So I decided it was time I joined the ranks of all the pros and retired rich guys out there and buy some giant over-compensating zoom. I got on the B&H website and sorted my search results by “most phallic” and weepin' creepin' wombats, do you know how much these things cost?

As an “emerging artist,” I stand on the shoulders of those who came before me. Also, I buy their old lenses. They're usually a lot happier about that than they are about those footprints on their shoulders.

In any event, I'm now the proud owner of the old-school Nikkor 80-200 f2.8 D zoom. I picked it up from KEH for a little over $400. It may not have the sex appeal of the new AF-S lenses, but at least I'm the only kid on my block who has a lens made from a decommissioned artillery shell.

Now, it has come to my attention that this lens is the subject of some controversy. The internet is abuzz with allegations of back-focusing. For those of you who are painters, back-focusing means the actual point of focus is behind the targeted point of focus.

The internet photo commandos have all chimed in on this subject. There are two camps. Some say that it is simply impossible for a Nikkor lens to perform poorly. Others say the lens ALWAYS backfocused, and it's only now in the pixel-peeping digital era that we actually notice it. Then they go on and on about studio tests vs. real world results and call each other's mother a whore.

The moral of this story is: Photographers are jerks. Take me for instance. This blog is pretty much all about how I take pictures of those around me to increase my own renown and fortune, and then complain when it doesn't work. But some of us are REAL jerks. Like the people that point out my faults in the comments section.

Anyway, I downloaded a focus test chart from the incredibly unjerkified Tim Jackson. Out of the kindness of his heart, Jackson came up with a focus test way back when the D70 was current and the internet commandos were yakking about whether or not it displayed backfocus errors. For his generosity, Jackson was of course vilified on the photo fora. See a pattern here?

I printed out the chart and ran the test. Because I know I will get comments about the illegitimacy of my procedures, here is a picture of my tripod (set to 45 degrees), my cable release, the flatness of the chart, and the viewfinder image.

I tested the lens at 200mm, f2.8 at the closest possible focusing distance (around 60 inches).

Here are some 100% crops, taken from the edge of the frame. I use the edge because there's pretty much nothing in the center. Before you leave a snarky comment about how my test isn't valid because I didn't show the center crops, you can get the uncropped, full resolution photos here.

Autofocus:

Manual focus:

The Results

Yes, this lens backfocuses like a mofo. Twenty millimeters is about 3/4 of an inch, which is greater than the depth of field this lens has at those settings.

Of course, the standard response by Nikon folk is that this test has no bearing on real world performance. Apparently, they assume I executed this test in Mordor from the back of a unicorn. Make no mistake: Relying on autofocus with this lens will give your subjects soft eyes and sharp ears.

But, for the detractors of this lens, I feel it my duty to point out the obvious: For the rare shot when you need to zoom all the way to 200mm at the minimum focal distance with a wide open aperture, why don't you just focus manually like a real man?

"Real world" examples:

Conclusion

While we're talking philosophy, there's another tenet of DarkTopoism that should be mentioned here: Cameras and lens are tools to be used, not artifacts to be adored. This idea has drawn fire before, specifically when I posted a picture of my shrapnel-wounded hand after a night in the holler and raised the question of how I would have felt if that hand had been holding a Leica M9.

This lens is fast, it's built like a tank, and it's one-sixth the price of the new AF-S 2.8 zoom. For a savings of $2000 USD, I think I can handle the inconvenience of manual focus at close ranges. After all, some of the finest cameras in the world are manual focus.

Plus, let's not forget what this is all about: Impressing ladies. That $2k I saved will buy some really awesome rims for the DarkTopomobile.

Stay tuned for more photos . . .

Humbug.

2011-12-06T22:35:00.004-05:00

Another Xpress cover this week, plus a fairly in-depth story about Asheville's (tenuous?) grasp on the local business movement. The cover was part of a really fun shoot with the Montford Park Players.

Christmas minus 18 days. Batten down the hatches, folks.

"Max Cooper's subjects are harbingers of things to come"

2011-11-23T09:57:00.002-05:00

Letter to the editor about my Argus cover story. Love that last line: "Lost to all but God."

Aren't we all?

On a related note, last week I met two WWII veterans within an hour. One was in the mall, while I was buying presents. The other was here. Two shockingly different situations, both of them humbling.

I'm out for Thanksgiving. Let's hope we all meet safely on the other side.

Civic Center renamed . . . or is it?

2011-11-23T09:17:00.005-05:00

The theme in council chambers last night was that two people, presented with the same facts, can come to vastly different conclusions. And this morning, there are two conflicting stories:

City Council delays Civic Center renaming vote

Asheville City Council passes Civic Center renaming deal with U.S. Cellular

So, as a media type, I'm fascinated by all the spin on this issue. Even after a public meeting with an on-the-record vote, we still can't figure out what's going on. All I can say is: great galloping wombats, what a long meeting.

smugmug test post

2011-11-13T22:09:00.004-05:00

I've run out of disk space. I'm taking the opportunity to begin hosting images from my Smugmug account, which means YOU can take the opportunity to buy prints of them. Here's a test post with a vertical and a horizontal. What do you think?

McWho?

2011-11-10T18:54:00.004-05:00

. . . and suddenly, we have a new congressman. My photos of Representative McHenry's visit to AVL spice up the Xpress coverage. Mag's is a good room that time of day.

Redistricting is a bizarre business. It's strange to think that the Taylor/Shuler/Mumpower/Miller conflicts of the past don't even apply to us anymore.

AVLArgus on the cover of the Mountain Xpress!

2011-11-09T16:57:00.001-05:00

Read the story here!

run faster, comrade.

2011-10-24T22:08:00.002-04:00

So I found myself downtown with Shovelin' Shane, the Bard, Captain Hook, and dozens of angry protesters. I won't show you too many shots of the protesters, because that would spoil the Asheville Argus piece, which is hot off the press. But they were angry. So angry, in fact, that they made signs.

Now I try to keep politics to a minimum here on DarkTopo, but I don't think it will surprise anyone when I say that if you want to arouse my sympathy, it's a bad idea to call me "Comrade."

However--and I know I'm going to regret saying this--it's a beautiful sentiment. Run faster. And with the crowd chanting, the light fading, the hula-hoop girls gyrating, and the regular Asheville nutjobs staggering around like milkweeds with legs, it was really surreal to see two of the most stable, familiar faces I know in the crowd. Oh, and Captain Hook.

The Old World is Still Behind You

It's been a Blitzkrieg of a year. I feel like I walk around with the Old World in my head all day, waiting to resurface in some useless, morose fashion. Shovelin' Shane knows what I'm talking about. I think, at 30, we all have a pretty good idea. And I'd like to say it was a Blitzkrieg of a night, but . . . well, we're 30, and we go to bed early.

Run faster, comrade. Was that how we felt, back when we thought we knew what darkness looked like?

Even if it was, that was then, and this is now.

Bokehlepathy

Now I'm going to tell you a deep dark secret about portraiture. It has to do with bokeh, that Japanese term for the area of the image that is out of focus. Bokeh is the topic of much discussion on the interwebs. Good bokeh, bad bokeh, smooth bokeh, nervous bokeh. Photographers spend unbelievable sums on lenses due to the character of their bokeh. This is especially important in portraiture, where shallow depth of field is all but requisite.

But all of that is a lie. You've been fooled by the politicians and Wall Street bankers into thinking bokeh is something you can buy like soap or gasoline. The truth, Comrades, is this: Those out-of-focus highlights in the background of your portraits are really the subject's thoughts.

And in the next picture, we can see that Captain Hook's thoughts are a bit . . . sparse:

Must be because of the hat.

Anyway, like a lot of things on the internet, once you see it you can never un-see it. It sticks in your consciousness. History is the same way. That's what we're studying here, right? Aren't all photographs history?

The Times

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast ...
The present now
Will later be past
The order is rapidly fadin’ ...
-Bob Dylan, The Times They Are A-Changin'

So we ate at Burgermeister's. What better place for a crew of malcontents to end up on a Saturday night after a protest? It's a strange world we live in. Downtown, dozens of people bemoan the decline of American prosperity. Across the bridge, we sit down and buy a 3000 calorie meal for $10. I pass the camera across the table:

If all photographs are history, doesn't that make photography a study of the Old World? I can go through old negatives and see my friends, clear as as a cold river, in a time when the World Trade Center was still standing, when we all weighed 30 pounds less, when my father was still alive, when none of us had heard of iPods or Facebook.

The price of all that history? You can't join the new world. From the moment you pick up the camera, you will always be on the outside, looking in.

Run faster. We are too old, too grounded, too established to be complimented by the beauty of that sentiment. Not only is the Old World is still behind us, it's catching up. Sometimes, when I put on my dad's cap or load a camera with film, it almost seems like we're waiting for it.

It's an old story, that wistful search for days gone by. But these times we live in don't allow for idle wandering. Like Dylan said, there's a battle outside and it's raging.

And I say running is for cowards. A real man stands his ground . . .

. . . but you should always--always--check your six.

AvlArgus: Collected Street Portraits

2011-10-16T10:53:00.001-04:00

Some wicked awesome street portraits in the Argus this week. Shot with my trusty and tedious Voigtländer Perkeo. Nothing says "dedication" like scale focusing!

New Work in SHOTS!

2011-10-09T11:46:00.002-04:00

The new issue of the super-prestigious SHOTS magazine includes a piece from yours truly . . . in fact, it's a self-portrait! All those years of art school finally paid off. Get the issue on the magazine rack at your local hipster book store and check it out.

The Other Moments

2011-10-07T21:55:00.004-04:00

Today is my anniversary, and let me tell you one thing, DarkTopo fans, I don't deserve her. I am daily humbled. As a photographer, all I can do is continue to document her one great lapse in judgement.

Over on the commercial blog I've made another post, in which I show some nice portraits that follow all the rules. But DarkTopo, like marriage, demands more than pretty pictures. It's not even about breaking the rules. It's that sometimes--and in my case, often--what you see through the viewfinder makes you forget the rules are there at all.

AvlArgus: The Day It All Started

2011-10-02T22:41:00.000-04:00

Argus coverage of the Occupy Asheville event. Already getting snarky comments!

Dr. Warner Anthony: The DarkTopo Interview

2011-09-28T10:33:00.007-04:00

Dr. Warner Anthony lives in the woods. I had not been to his house in fifteen years—not since he was the clerk of the session in the church my father served—and you forget, in that amount of time, how beautiful a place is. Anthony's house is more than beautiful, it's intentional. The walls are mostly glass, a vast deck wraps around the exterior, and the light shifts and changes as we sit in his living room, talking about the people he killed.

“Does it bother me?” My father's friend sits with his back to the open window. A breeze stirs the air through the screen, threatening to sound the giant windchimes that hang from the ceiling. “Obviously it does, because I bring it up. But that was the price I paid for the job I was hired to do.”

The job: US Army medic, 99th infantry division, 395th regiment, L company. For his service, he received the Bronze Star, a presidential citation, and two Purple Hearts.

“I'm not ashamed of anything that happened,” he says as soon as we sit down. Like other veterans I've interviewed, he has little patience for small talk. “You can ask me anything.”

I remember standing in church and hearing Anthony's voice over the rest of the congregation. Like everything else he does, he prayed with intent. No idle recitation; Anthony spoke with the surety that God was listening. No one else in the room prayed like that except my father, and it was his job.

With the same intent, Anthony tells the story I've asked to hear. He joined the European theater just in time for what Americans call the Battle of the Bulge. Germans call it the Ardennes Offensive, after the frozen landscape in which it took place. By any name, the five-week battle resulted in American casualties four times greater than those of the decade-long War on Terror.

My father could remember hearing Hitler on the radio. “In the 1939-41 period,” he wrote in his memoirs about radio broadcasting, “international shortwave broadcasting was coming into prominence. We could hear, first hand, the nightly news from BBC, and the ravings of the maniac from Berlin.”

The thought makes my skin crawl. I've watched the Triumph of the Will, and listened to Hitler speak on YouTube. But to hear it live? It's a peculiar American horror, facing the fact that the second World War was not always history.

Transcription excerpt. Interview questions in bold.

Warner Anthony: So we went down to this first pillbox and crawled up on top of it. Now, you know, these pillboxes were interlaced. One pillbox covered another pillbox which covered a third pillbox. So you were under machinegun fire and mortar fire, so we went in there at night and built what we called a beehive charge. They were shaped like the hay beehives, you know, the fiber beehives. What happens is when you ignite that, it implodes in it.

MC: Shapes the charge down.

WA: Yeah, it shoots down. There was probably two feet of soil on top of three feet of concrete on top of this pillbox. And so the beehive charge went off and . . . only two of us went in there to look, and one guy stuck his head in to look, and said “we've killed everybody in there.”

And I went in and looked, and to this day I'm still sorry that I looked. Because every exposed piece of skin had blood coming out of it. The face, the eyes, the mouth, the nose, the back of the hands, the palm of the hands, all the skin was just exuding blood from the concussion.

MC: What made you look? Were you confirming kills . . . ?

WA: No. Idle curiosity. I've not changed that attitude at all. I want to see. It's in my nature. It's not always good or bad, but I wanted to see.

I have two conflicting feelings about this interview: Awe and guilt. I have this story that I want you to hear, that I believe you need to hear. But who am I to tell it?

I reckon that I am better educated about history than 99% of Americans my age, and yet my chief relation to the war is through video games. My next most intimate experience with combat is this first ten minutes of Saving Private Ryan, which invariably reduces me to tears. Everything that Anthony says about the American populace, quoted below, is also true of me.

I have no way of understanding what Warner Anthony went through. He told me so himself: “In your wildest imagination, you cannot conceive what we went through.” Then he stopped and rephrased it: “If you weren't there, you may not know what we did.”

WA: We got there in early November. And from that day on, dusk was at four o'clock. Sunrise was at eight o'clock, and it was foggy all the time . . . We had five divisions online. The Germans had seventeen. They overwhelmed us . . . we had no buildup. We ran out of ammunition. We ran out of food. We ran out of everything . . . Our division covered a four and half mile front. A division in combat is supposed to cover a half-mile front. We were covering nine times what we should have been covering, because they said, “This is an inactive front.” But they were wrong. Hence, the Battle of the Bulge.

My father was a student of history. My much-discussed copy of Adolf Hitler was his. In addition to that, and his memoirs, he left this:

I wash my hands after I touch it. Why, then, do I keep it?

The romance of the second World War saturates the American subconscious. From thrillers to romantic comedies, Hollywood movies continue to use as a backdrop the familiar history of the war. We compare politicians we don't like to Hitler, and call any aggressive, regimented person a Nazi. We build stone memorials and inscribe them with noble sayings, and re-subtitle war movies with wry humor.

At the same time, there is a story I tell about my first day as a teacher: I told my class about Robert Capa's famous photos from D-Day, and they said, “Cool. What's D-Day?”

Genocide, my father once told me, “is the worst thing in the world.” And that thought has stayed with me, in this modern age when we believe that everything from public nudity to organic farming is a political act, throughout all the moral relativism of art school, surviving even my own existentialism. One thing I know is true: This helmet once protected a head in which Nazi thoughts danced like black lightning.

I keep it because there is great danger in reducing history to myth. The human condition is one of denial—look at Neville Chamberlin. We get so caught up in what we think, and what we suppose, and what we believe. And soon we'll tell ourselves that it never happened, and that, even if it did, it couldn't possibly happen again. But here, on my desk, is proof.

NPR reports that of the 16 million Americans who served in the second World War, less than two million are still alive.

At 86, Anthony is very much alive, though he wears a brace on his knee, and occasionally his hearing aides sing out with feedback. His small, good-natured dog barks at inopportune times as I record our conversation.

After the war Anthony became a chemist for Rohm and Haas, leading a varied career (including a brief stint as a photographer for National Geographic). In retirement, his life is full: He has many children and grandchildren that live all over the country. He has found a new companion after the death of his wife, and they travel together, alternating between the North Carolina mountains and Florida. He continues to serve the church, and continues to speak with his intent voice.

“We talked about forgiveness in the Bible class today,” he says, bringing up a touchy subject. I ask him if he's angry. But we're not talking about the Germans.

MC: How can you go through what you went through, and then look at the populace that we have to day, and not be angry?

WA: Oh, I'm angry. Oh, my God, I am really pissed off. Because I know that the responsibility rests with us. That's where the blame lies . . . and we Americans do not pick up that responsibility.

MC: Why not?

WA: It is a form of lazy indifference. And we are so busy knowing what the number one song is, we're so busy with Michael Jackson, we're so busy pouring money into a football game. Betty Ann and I have gotten interested in basketball. Every man on that court is making a million dollars. We have a whole disjointed society. What's the matter with us?

MC: I don't know. And as I said, I'm kind of a rogue journalist these days, and if I can answer that question, then I'll quit. And with politics, I don't even care about it anymore.

WA: But, you see, you cannot turn your back on it. You may not turn your back on it.

MC: I don't believe any of it makes a difference. Let me rephrase that: I don't think if I vote for Obama or Mitt Romney, it's going to be a dramatic difference either way.

WA: But you see, you were asking me earlier, did I feel like it was my responsibility to do what I did in the war. And I said to you, there was no one lower than me. I could not take the responsibility for that war, but I have the responsibility to speak out now, and say it's wrong. Maybe we can stop these wars because we can't afford the luxury of them anymore.

I transcribed much of our interview before deciding it wasn't enough. My recording was poor in quality, and much of it was interrupted by room noise, or personal conversation. But reading a transcript is nothing like hearing this story from that intent, purposeful voice.

So I added the audio to photos I took of Anthony that day, and below are the resulting videos. I've done my best to keep things unedited and truthful. I mark gaps in the conversation with transitions between the two photos.

As Anthony walked me out to my car, I tried to thank him for his service. He just shook his head; “Oh, come on.” I don't know what to make of that, or any of it. Half the men who served in L Company never came home. They are not here to be interviewed or thanked.

It's not my place to force gratitude on any of them. Why should they accept hollow honors from those of us who will never understand, just so we can assuage our guilt? The best we can do: Let the service of the dead stand on its own. Let the ones who came home speak for themselves.

Counting Kills: "I have no idea how many people I killed, but I was a very good shot, and I did a lot of shooting."

Medic Training: "That's one of yours."

Destroying Pillboxes: "To this day, I'm still sorry that I looked."

Joining Up: "It was the first time the Feds ever lied to me and fooled me. They continued to lie to me, but they never fooled me again."

Dec. 19, 1944: "We slaughtered 500 men."

Two Medics: "That's an American, kill him."

A Christmas Present: "I want to see where I fought."

Two Purple Hearts: "From then on, I carried a rifle."

New Argus Post!

2011-09-22T18:35:00.001-04:00

The Asheville Argus: Fog on the Top Deck

WARCO

2011-09-15T18:36:00.000-04:00

. . . looks like it's going to be the coolest game ever.

B-Sides: Marriage Amendment Vigil

2011-09-14T17:55:00.003-04:00

Mountain Xpress coverage, including a slideshow of my photos, is here. I was amazed that they didn't use the best photos of Gordon Smith, who got really fired up at the end:

I'm still not clear on the differences between a protest, rally and vigil. Whatever it was, it was well done, clearly professionally organized. But, like any protest, it wasn't all peace and love. And because "every photo necessarily hides more than it reveals," I wanted to post these:

Protests are tricky business, and ever since I read this essay about the SF Chronicle's protest coverage, I'm very careful to walk the line. Whether or not the lady on the right intends the red star to be a symbol of communism I don't know, but I'd be remiss in not showing the photo. I think the message on the left is pretty clear.

But the message from the organizers was entirely about peace and love. Smith's entire speech is quoted in the Xpress piece.

The Asheville Argus: Two Storms

2011-09-13T21:38:00.001-04:00

Read it here.

The Asheville Argus

2011-09-08T10:45:00.004-04:00

Read the AVLArgus: the blog itself / the twitter feed

What a crazy week.

I've been feeling a pull toward harder-edged, more engaging work. The Asheville Argus concept, explained in further detail at the link above, is an idea I've been playing with for a long time. So when the Xpress contacted me about becoming a guest blogger, the path was clear.

In an unusual turn of events, I haven't had time to over-think this project. In the future I'll probably update this post with motivations and methods that go into more detail than those in the Xpress, but what's important now is to tell you that the news feed is live and in your face. So read it, follow it, re-Tweet it.

DarkTopo has always been, at heart, photojournalism. I don't really know where this is going, but I know where it's coming from. More on that later. For now: F8 and be there.

Anti-Boobfest, the Law, and the Mumpower Interview

2011-08-28T20:29:00.010-04:00

WARNING: Post contains nudity, prayer, free speech, and other things that make life good.

Well, it's been a crazy week here in Asheville. Since arriving on the scene of last Sunday's GoTopless rally I've doubled the number of exposed breasts I've ever seen, I've been accused of child sex abuse for the first time, and of being a pervert (not the first), and I've learned lots of interesting new words like "prurient" and "turgid."

In the wake of the rally (termed "Boobfest" by those of us in the press), Dr. Carl Mumpower has filed a complaint with the local DSS and the NC Attorney General, claiming that the rally constituted child sex abuse. Mumpower is self-described "ultra-conservative," a former Asheville City Councilman and candidate for US Congress. In the interest of full disclosure, Mumpower and I have known each other since I was one of his campaign photographers in 2008.

To draw more attention to his cause, Mumpower organized the "Asheville Rally to Protect Our Children from Abuse," held today in Pack Square.

Those of us in the press have dubbed this rally "AntiBoobfest." For clarity's sake, I'll be referring to those who support toplessness as "Boobers," and those who oppose it as "AntiBoobers." All clear? Great. Now a little back story.

When I heard the news of Mumpower's complaint, I literally thought it was a joke. I sent Carl a sarcastic text message, ribbing him for taking the bait. But Mumpower was not laughing. His allegations included not just the topless women, but the entire city of Asheville and anyone who was present. In fact, when we argued on Facebook he personally called me out: "If you were there ... and took no follow-up action, then you should be ashamed."

I was at a loss. I read all the local news, followed all the threads on Facebook. Nothing made sense. The media had reported before the rally that topless women were perfectly legal. They quoted Asheville police officers affirming that fact. How could Mumpower make such accusations? And why?

Friday morning I contacted Mumpower and asked him for an interview. He declined, saying that he didn't believe I was sincerely interested in the truth. Instead, he directed me to a story in that beacon of balanced journalism, World Net Daily. Out of frustration, I actually read it. Would you believe that World Net freakin Daily, of all places, cited the NC General Statutes to which Mumpower refers? I looked them up.

And, son of a bitch, he's right.*

The Law

North Carolina General Statute § 14‑190.13: Definitions for certain offenses concerning minors.
"(1) Harmful to Minors. – That quality of any material or performance that depicts sexually explicit nudity or sexual activity . . .

(6) Sexually Explicit Nudity. – The showing of:
a. Uncovered, or less than opaquely covered, human genitals, pubic area, or buttocks, or the nipple or any portion of the areola of the human female breast, except as provided in G.S. 14‑190.9(b); or
b. Covered human male genitals in a discernibly turgid state. (1985, c. 703, s. 9; 1989 (Reg. Sess., 1990), c. 1022, s. 2; 1993, c. 301, s. 2; 2008‑218, s. 1.)"

North Carolina General Statute § 14‑190.15. Disseminating harmful material to minors; exhibiting harmful performances to minors.

"(b) Exhibiting Harmful Performance. – A person commits the offense of exhibiting a harmful performance to a minor if, with or without consideration and knowing the character or content of the performance, he allows a minor to view a live performance that is harmful to minors."

*I am not a lawyer, and I recognize that there are "weasel words" (a Mumpower phrase) present in the laws. You should read them yourself at the links provided. It is my belief that Mumpower is factually correct, that the GoTopless rally violated the spirit of the law, if not the letter. Perhaps someone with more expertise can correct me. Regardless, local media should have at least quoted the general statutes.**

**To be fair, the Asheville Citizen-Times did publish the entire text of Mumpower's DSS complaint, and I'm told Matt Mittan gave airtime to the legalities as well, though I didn't personally hear it.

Carl Mumpower: The DarkTopo Interview

When I communicated to Mumpower that I was willing to concede the legal part of his argument (and badgered him with repeated texts and phone calls), he very kindly agreed to an email interview.

MC: Clearly, you are legally correct on this issue. It took quite a bit of digging for me to find the actual statutes to which your complaints refer: After arguing with you on Facebook and reading all the press from the local media, it was World Net Daily of all places that actually cited the NC law. Why aren't local mainstream media reporting these specifics?

CM: Our local media outlets are more devoted to entertainment and comfort than news and truth. It is not surprising that they would not report facts that would illuminate themselves as pawns and co-conspirators in sexually violating children.

MC: Legalities aside, do you truly feel that harm was done to children? Is this worth the time and attention you and the rest of Asheville are giving it?

CM: Very much so. It is moral cowardice to remain passive in the face of the child sexual abuse that was supported by our community last Sunday.

If an 8 year old who kisses a classmate on the cheek is a sex offender, why are stripteasers on a city fountain in front of children OK? If receiving an unsolicited text photo of a 15 year old's breasts can result in a lifetime label as a sex offender, why is it OK to hold a celebration where 15 year olds are supported in exposing their breasts to a group of frat boys taking pictures and yelling words of encouragement?

MC: To be clear, in your ideal world, would a woman baring her breasts be punishable under the law? Why?

CM: Breasts are for nourishing children - not harming them. We're not talking about discreet breast feeding - we're talking about public, sexually charged, and celebratory behavior in front of and with children. We're talking about city and police administration, media outlets, event organizers, participants, and parents ignoring the law. This is not about breasts, it's about child abuse - and a community that should be very ashamed of its complicity, complacency, and corruption in the face of such.

"It is not surprising that [local media] would not report facts that would illuminate themselves as pawns and co-conspirators in sexually violating children."

Anti-Boobfest

One thing about a Mumpower rally: It starts on time. I crossed Broadway into Pack Square at 2 p.m. sharp, and already the space was filling up with AntiBoobers and Boobers. It was easy to tell them apart: The AntiBoobers were mostly wearing suits and appeared to have come to the rally straight from church. The Boobers looked like regular Asheville folk. By that I mean . . . well, you know what I mean.

As a photographer, the scene was disappointing. Whether it was through cosmic appeal to the alien overlords or just plain luck, the Boobers' rally scored much better lighting conditions than AntiBoobfest. Full, dead-on sun in Pack Square. And, to make matters worse, there were no boobs in sight.

Mumpower took the stage and began speaking. I tried to wrestle the poor light into some sort of imagery, mostly typical protest fare.

After Mumpower's speech there were several prayers from various clergy. This is always an awkward situation for photographers. Do you shoot during the prayer and risk being thought of as a heathen, or do you stay respectfully still and risk being thought of as a bad photographer? Hell, if I'd wanted to stand through prayers in the hot sun, I'd shoot weddings.

Luckily, the choice was taken out of my hands when one of the Boobers decided to up the ante.

Immediately the AntiBoobers went into boob-control mode. Those that were praying kept their heads down, while one of the men in a suit took off his jacket and began chasing the Boober around wildly. Those with children did what they could to obscure the view. As I moved through the crowd I heard one woman mutter, "wicked, wicked."

While all that was going on, another topless Boober had approached from behind the podium and was sitting quietly in the shade. Rather than chase the first Boober, all the media guys clamored around the one that was sitting still and talking rationally.

Very quickly, Boober #1 and some of the AntiBoobers realized that they were no longer the center of attention. Boober #1 came and sat with Boober #2, interrupting the conversation to introduce herself. Her name, she said, was Mollie. Meanwhile, a contingent of AntiBoober ladies hesitantly approached the impromptu press conference.

The AntiBoober ladies began arguing with Mollie. I began to move toward the group, expecting to hear some discussion of morality or law. Instead, the AntiBoober in charge was saying, "If I looked like that, I'd keep my clothes on." Mollie countered this with, "Bitch, look at you. Get on a treadmill!"

Oh yes, she did.

What happened next resulted in the day's only arrest. The AntiBoober, seemingly for lack of a better comeback, accused Mollie of being a pagan. Mollie advised the AntiBoober that pagans went around naked. Did the AntiBoober really want to call her a pagan? Falling back on debate skills she must have learned in the middle school cafeteria, the AntiBoober asserted that yes, indeed, she did.

Where are folks like this when it's cold out and you're daring people to stick their tongues to flagpoles?

The APD officers on scene swooped in and very politely arrested Mollie for indecent exposure. AntiBoober lady began recounting the events of five seconds ago while Mollie began yelling about her Miranda rights.

Boober #2, whose name I would have gotten if I were actually paid to do stuff like this, was still very calmly talking to the press. A Boober in a mock burqa quietly held a sign to the rear of the stage while the AntiBoobers kept praying.

It was interesting that both sides introduced religion into what had been a legal dispute. The pagan accusations and the BurqaBoober heightened the tension in a way that Mollie had not. And it should be noted that until the actual rally, Mumpower had not broached the subject of how God feels about boobs. My guess is that the theological ingredients were added by AntiBoobfest's co-organizer Chad Nesbitt.

Nesbitt is the former chairman of the Buncombe GOP and the man behind the activist group Carolina Stompers. I regret that I have little to report about Nesbitt's speech, because I was too busy taking pictures of naked women. Such is life.

After the prayers were finished, the AntiBoobers mounted up and marched to city hall. And without being unkind, I must say that it was quite a feat for some of the elderly AntiBoobers. In fact, most of the Boobers went home rather than take the two-hundred yard trek, and by the time we reached the business end of the park, there were only two of them left: Boober #2 and a male companion, also topless.

Can I Get a Witness?

On the steps of city hall the AntiBoobers restated their complaints, held some long and emotional prayers, and then the rally was brought to a close. The Boobers were still present, standing quietly with everyone else. Now that the rally was over, though, the AntiBoobers began to interact with them personally, and the argument shifted almost exclusively to religion.

Both Boobers were wearing the Raelian swastika/Star of David emblem on chains around their necks. I confirmed with the male (whose name I actually did ask for, but who declined to be identified) that they were indeed Raelians, and that they believe that Earth and human-kind is the result of a science experiment initiated by an alien race. They also believe in nudity and secular humanism.

"It's a pretty tall tale, I know," said the Boober. "But so is the story of Adam and Eve."

Now, if you think that perhaps I didn't take these rallies seriously enough, you'd be right. I will admit some significant personal indifference to the actual issues, and a lot of interest in the dynamics between an alien cult and Asheville's vocal far-right minority.

One by one, the churched-up AntiBoobers began witnessing to the female Boober, and there transpired several tense but polite conversations about the origin of man and what God expects from him. "Hot damn," I thought, "this is going to be good."

But, to my utter disappointment, nothing happened. I wanted to see hair-pulling, eye-gouging, boob-bruising altercations, and what I got was a bunch of bible thumpers and alien whackos that got together and acted like civilized people. Where's the fun in that?

The protesters talked with the topless girl, and not a single voice was raised in anger. One woman even exchanged "I Love You's" with the Boober before we all went home.

And this struck me: From Carl Mumpower walking around with a pocket full of pencils trying to get folks to sign his petition, to the Boober who loves all humans, to the elderly lady that is willing to stand in the hot sun and witness to those who she thinks need her help the most . . . all of these people mean what they say.

And so do I. Here at DarkTopo the truth is the prejudice. I recuse myself from any opinion on this issue except that the whole thing is ridiculous and dead serious at the same time. It doesn't matter what something looks like, or how we feel about it--the only thing that matters is what is. On that, local media failed us.

Everyone will cheer for their favorite team and get caught up in the moralities involved. And that's fine. But if the people we hold responsible for informing us of the actual underlying firmament of things won't do their jobs, where does that leave us? How long will our debates stay civil?

I heard a lot of scripture today. I'll leave you with the last two verses of the Book of Judges. People often use them to vilify anarchy. I've always thought they describe human nature:

"And the children of Israel departed thence at that time, every man to his tribe and to his family, and they went out from thence every man to his inheritance. In those days there was no king in Israel: every man did that which was right in his own eyes."

Hot Damn! A Counter-Protest!

2011-08-25T09:53:00.002-04:00

Scrutiny Hooligans is reporting that former Buncombe County GOP Chair Chad Nesbitt will stage at counter-protest against the Go Topless Day Rally. Nesbitt has joined my good friend Dr. Carl Mumpower in filing a complaint with the local DSS and the NC Attorney General, claiming that the original rally constituted child sex abuse. The Citizen-Times has the story.

The counter-protest will be August 28, at 2:00 p.m. in Pack Square. You know I'll be there.

If, unlike me, you don't consider it your civic duty to reward attention-seeking behavior, you can check here for the photos and write-up, sometime Sunday evening. This one might be even better than the first (though probably with fewer boobs).

National Go Topless Day (aka: Boobfest)

2011-08-21T16:26:00.004-04:00

WARNING: POST CONTAINS BOOBS.

[a link to the full gallery of photos is at the bottom of the post]

[Update: Mountain Xpress and BlogAsheville picked up the post. Since then my traffic has increased by an order of magnitude, some prominent figures have congratulated my work, and some others have told me I should be ashamed of myself. To the former, my humble thanks; to the later . . . you don't know the half of it.

To the rest of you, I've got some really awesome photos here. You should stick around for awhile.]

The Asheville Citizen-Times reported that local women would be observing National Go Topless Day (pronounced "boobfest") downtown this afternoon. Go Topless Day illuminates the grinding injustice that is the unequal privilege of men to bare their upper torsos in public. Except that it's actually completely legal for women to do so as well, at least in NC. But, as a journalist, my purpose is not to question motivations, but to always reward attention-seeking behavior.

What the ACT failed to report is that the protest was organized by the Raelians. Oh, yes. So, basically, the female members of an alien-worshiping cult protested gender inequality by baring their breasts today in Pack Square. Welcome to Asheville.

As you might imagine, the event drew a diverse, progressive crowd whose sole concern was gender equality.

Now let's get a few things straight. I have no problem with boobs, their public display, or the appreciation of them by other members of the public. Having said that, this was the most disturbing event I've ever attended in Asheville.

To begin with, the crowd was ornery. It was 70% male, and most of the females were obviously wives who'd been dragged along. Lots of tourists. I showed up and fought my way to the front of the crowd, where the attention of the hundreds of people gathered was centered on the only spectacle available:

That's right. Not a single pair of female breasts on display. Just this guy. Suddenly there's a tap on my shoulder, and I turn around to face a small, out-of-town guy in fancy clothes and wrap-around sunglasses with his wife in tow.

"Why'd you have to stand right in front of me?"

I turned back to the redneck in the bikini, then back to Mr. Short Tourist.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, you're blocking my view."

"It's a public space, man."

"Yeah, but why'd you have to stand in front of me?"

"Everybody is in front of somebody else, you can move around, too."

"You reporters think you're God."

Right. Exactly right. My press pass reads "As God, I shall be granted exclusive access at events . . . also, I shall always occlude your view of any member of the Sons of Confederate Drag Queens." So I turned around and started shooting. Suddenly there was a dyed-blond head in the way. Mrs. Short Tourist had been dispatched to block my shot. I leaned back and forth and watched as her thinning hair weaved in an out of the frame.

Now, I had had a long day already, and this was a lot of trouble to go through just for some boobs. On the other hand, if there's one thing DarkTopo lacks, it's boobs. The few instances of boobery that are present on the blog make the difference between "completely unknown" and "Max who?" So I was determined to stick this one out.

But everywhere I went, the men were jostling for space. I've been in a lot of intense crowds, but the spirit here was very different. Despite the preponderance of wedding rings, the fact that the internet is full of porn, and that women walk around Asheville wearing next to nothing most any day of the week, these dudes seemed to feel that the boobs about to be displayed were the only ones they'd ever see. They'd end up in the old folks home, saying "Creamed corn, creamed corn, almost saw a boob but the photographer got in the way, creamed corn."

Then a hush fell over the crowd when, out of nowhere, a real live female began untying her wrap. "OMG," I thought, "there might be boobs under there!" The wrap came off and there they were. Boobs. Two of em.

The crowd went nuts.

Now, before we go any further, I need to warn you again that there are boobs in this post. If you don't like boobs, this is not the post for you. If you think I'm kidding about there being actual, nipples-exposed boob shots, rest assured that I take boobs very seriously. So having said that, scroll on down for the goods.

This photo was just a warning. I'm really serious here. Keep scrolling, and the next thing you see will be boobs. Don't doubt me.

Awwwww, yeah.

Alright, enough fooling around. I think this is what you're here for:

One by one, women began exposing their breasts to good-natured applause from the crowd. It was an all-out, feel-good, feminist blowout. You know what I'm talking about. Dove commercials, self-esteem seminars, and every "women of all shapes and sizes" platitude you've ever heard could not prepare you for the wallowing we were doing in our own sacred femininity.

But then something happened. A girl took her shirt off like all the rest, except that this girl was actually drop-dead gorgeous.

The crowd dispensed with the "be proud of yourself no matter what" applause and went straight to a raucous "hell yeah." In that single moment, the entire character of the event changed. What had been a kind of silly, harmless protest became a very creepy affair.

Because no one could see, the women climbed up onto to the giant, circular fountain. Tattoo Girl immediately seemed to realize that she'd gotten more than she bargained for, clutching her shirt at her breasts and turning inward to the other women. The men in the crowd began pushing for a better view.

At the same time, the presence of this young lady seemed to bring out the full contingent of Asheville crazies. They got louder and closer to the fountain. The topless women on "stage" worked hard to maintain their grace as men began fumbling up onto the fountain as well.

Though I was lucky to be on Tattoo Girl's side of the fountain, the men around me were very disappointed that she had turned away from us. They began vocalizing that disappointment. The crazies got even weirder and louder. Someone yelled out that all the women should circle around the fountain so we "could see all the tits."

Now, men were encouraged to attend the protest, so long as they wore a bra or bikini top to show their solidarity with the oppressed women. Tattoo Girl's boyfriend jumped up with her, which seemed to ease her a bit, but then the fountain started getting crowded with men who clearly just wanted VIP access to the boobs.

It was a feeding frenzy. The prettier the girl, the more men yelled at her. Pleas to bring the boobs closer. Suggestions for what to do with the boobs. Leers and gestures.

It was the most unsettling mix of beauty, ugliness, ego, naïveté, and animal drive. This was why Mr. Short Tourist had been so rude. This was what some of the women were protesting for, and exactly what others were protesting against.

There were reports that a church group was going to stage a counter-protest. I only found one member, named Bart, who was peaceful and polite. We talked for awhile. "God doesn't want these people showing their bodies."

Bart seemed to think that this spectacle was an example of decaying culture. But what I felt in the crowd is not some new sickness--this was ancient human nature. It doesn't come across well in the photos, because everyone is smiling. Or maybe it wasn't there at all. Perhaps I'm too old fashioned.

But the next photo marks the moment I turned to leave.

A second later, that particular Asheville crazy looked up and caught my eye. I shook my head. He pretended not to notice. Long ago, I was advised not to take pictures of anyone that I couldn't love or respect. I didn't take any more pictures of that man.

I decided the moral of the story was this: If you allow yourself, for one moment, to celebrate your own vulnerability--whether as an object of beauty or one over whom that beauty has power--there will be people waiting to condemn you or exploit you. The illusion of civility keeps you from seeing that they are already circling you like wolves.

But as I made my way back out of the crowd, I heard someone say, "Oh my God, she's pregnant." A very pretty young woman climbed very carefully onto the fountain, and looked back down at us without a trace of the self-consciousness shared by everyone there. She did not circle. Among all those people protesting, she seemed to be the only one celebrating.

A full gallery of my photos from Go Topless day is here.

"here we mark the price of freedom"

2011-08-18T15:01:00.003-04:00

Damage, Inc. @ 900 px

2011-08-13T18:59:00.002-04:00

I've redesigned the blog so that I can post 900px images. I'm tired of tiny photos. For the new design's inaugural post, I thought I'd throw out some never-before-seen Damage, Inc. portraits. Then I'll go back into hiding. Stay subscribed, folks. More to come.

Pinhole Week: One to Grow On

2011-07-17T00:01:00.000-04:00

Pinhole Week: Rocking Chair Saturday

2011-07-16T00:01:00.000-04:00

Pinhole Week: Former Students Friday

2011-07-15T00:01:00.000-04:00

Pinhole Week: Culpepper Thursday

2011-07-14T00:01:00.000-04:00

Pinhole Week: Pin Cushion Wednesday

2011-07-13T00:01:00.000-04:00

Pinhole Week: Feed the Cats Tuesday

2011-07-12T00:01:00.000-04:00

Pinhole Week: Family Dinner Monday

2011-07-11T00:01:00.001-04:00

Thanksgiving, 2010.

Pinhole Week: Self Portrait Sunday

2011-07-10T00:01:00.002-04:00

I've got a bunch of random pinhole shots laying around. Welcome to a week of life at F250.

strangeness.

2011-07-08T21:50:00.001-04:00

At the Scottish Masonic Temple. Of course.

Painting Sucks.

2011-07-06T21:42:00.000-04:00

That is all.

Self Portrait in the Garage

2011-07-04T09:47:00.000-04:00

The American Dream. I lives it.

Happy Fourth.

Rosie the Terrible

2011-07-02T21:46:00.000-04:00

an empty portrait

2011-07-01T21:44:00.000-04:00

At Craggy Gardens, where this was shot.

Fantasy Redux

2011-06-29T20:38:00.000-04:00

Photos I've developed since I posted Operation Brightstar.

[Click for larger version]

Reckless, Part Two

2011-06-27T20:34:00.000-04:00

Reckless, Part One

my first word was "tractor."

2011-06-25T20:25:00.001-04:00

Downtown Portraits

2011-06-23T00:05:00.002-04:00

More here.

Destructo and Bard @ Salem Black River

2011-06-22T23:55:00.001-04:00

So the funeral was held just down the road from the Salem Black River Church. The Bard and Cpt. Destructo were kind enough to give up a day and a couple tanks of gas to make sure the service wasn't too classy.

Afterwards we rolled over to the Brick church boneyard, so I could show them all my other dead relatives. Leave it to the Bard to make light of any situation:

Seriously, though. It was surreal to see them in that place. Two paths I never thought would intersect. Thanks, boys.

On the Steps of Brick Church

2011-06-20T19:55:00.005-04:00

After the funeral, shot with the Leica. Before you laugh at my tie, it's the MacGregor tartan. My brother wore the Cooper tartan so that we would cover both sides of the lineage, and both look equally plaid.

My photo essay on Brick Church is here. It's strange to shoot photos at that place and not send them to my dad.

Jes looks good in black, and parallax is a bitch.

[Click for 900px version]

A Father's Day Post

2011-06-19T21:00:00.004-04:00

My hero Eugene Smith was a compulsive photographer. Not only was he an excellent craftsman, he was feverishly prolific, leaving thousands of rolls undeveloped at his death.

My dad was also an amazing photographer. I believe there is one roll undeveloped on his desk.

#

When they loaded him into the ambulance, my dad had no idea that he was leaving his home for the last time. As we went through the motions and he was transferred to Hospice, we all gradually realized that he would never again sit at the kitchen table, write an email from his computer, or look out the bedroom window.

I think it bothered me more than him. He mentioned that it was strange to be in a different environment, and that was about it. But I kept thinking, "What about your stuff?" The books, the cameras, the furniture. What if you want something? The answer soon became clear: You don't need anything to die.

Since then, I've wanted to divest myself of everything. There are a handful of possessions that mean something; the rest are just dross. I don't want to end up on my deathbed thinking about my stuff.

So the question that raises is this: If I want to rid myself of possessions, why do I keep making more images? Aren't they just stuff? Am I really going to lay there and say, "Yes, it was nice knowing you, and could you please hand me that copy of SHOTS with my photos in it?"

#

My dad was a wiser photographer than I'll ever be. Having said that, digital really confused him. And the older and crankier he got, the less patience he had for it. For example: JPG capture. I told him time and time again about the benefits of RAW, but for him it just wasn't worth it. It's too bad. JPG capture is for the birds.

[Photo by Drayton Cooper.]

It was immensely difficult to clear the memory cards on his Pentax. We used to argue about his K10d vs. my D200, and I went on and on about the "professional features." I was stupid. What would someone in my dad's position do with a pro-level DSLR?

It illustrates the divide of perspective. If you're going to jump in the fire, you need a camera that can take the heat. But for my dad, it was a struggle to walk from the car to the doctor's office. So it's the same idea. "Nurse, get me my full frame DSLR with my 300/2.8, and while you're at it, would you help me lift this glass of water?"

At some point I realized that I was asking too much of him. So I came up with crazy ideas. So you can't walk: Why not mount the Pentax to a tripod and shoot through the window? Think of the birding portfolio you'd have after a few weeks. I realize now that I was in the stage of grief known as bargaining.

Imagine my surprise when I turned on the camera and found that he actually did it. Not the tripod and all, but there were a couple dozen bird photos shot from the house. If I had seen them before he died, I would have said, "Shoot RAW! Use a lower ISO! Don't trust auto-levels!" Now I just say thank you. I don't even know who I'm thanking.

#

Nothing is ever perfect.

I've already discussed the sunset dynamic. But imagine this: You have terminal cancer, and you're sitting on the balcony of a cruise ship looking at the most amazing sunset you'll ever see. What are you going to do, not shoot it?

Well, yes. When it hurts to move, and you're completely exhausted, you might ask your son to shoot it instead.

Yes, those are new sunset pictures. They look exactly like the old sunset pictures, because all sunset pictures look alike. What differentiates sunsets is not how they look, but where you are when you look at them.

I am a from the Eugene Smith school of thought: In photography, as in the rest of life, anything worth shooting is worth shooting twice. Or until you run out of ~~ammo~~ film. For example, I shot almost a hundred pictures of my friend Tom and I building my the box for my father's ashes. It made Tom very uncomfortable. I don't even know why I did it.

These days, I don't even know why I run this blog. I reap almost no benefit from it, and yet I can't imagine life without it. "Compulsion: a strong, usually irresistible impulse to perform an act, especially one that is irrational . . ." I run a backlog of about ten rolls of film. At times it has been more. Nothing compared to Smith, but an order of magnitude more than my father.

Then again, my father also drank his scotch over ice. Like Eugene Smith, I prefer it straight. Why do I draw useless parallels? Probably for the same reason that, at the end of his life, Eugene Smith threatened to burn all of his negatives.

Even to the end, literally in his deathbed, my father never stopped looking. His eyes were sharp until he lost the strength to focus them. On the cruise, he would call me out to the balcony and say, "Son, what do you reckon that is way out there?"

I would zoom the 55-200 all the way out and then pixel peep on the LCD and then say: "I don't know." There were structures, figures, vague lights. Did it bring him any comfort, that I produced those images? I can't say, but it gave me great comfort to find them on his camera. Even if they are just JPGs, shot with a cheap zoom on a "prosumer" body.

#

Soon I will begin the process of archiving all of my dad's photos and writings, as he archived his father's. This is a daunting and heartbreaking task. It will likely take me years. To begin, I've been reading my grandfather's account of our family history. I didn't even know it existed until my dad gave it to me a year ago.

It's a strange experience to read something that was written for me by a man who died before my birth about people who died before his. He barely mentions himself. What would compel a man to do that kind of work? You'd have to stand at a great height to see so far ahead. And what could he have seen of the future? Structures? Figures? Vague lights?

From beyond the grave, I receive advice from my father and his father before. It is good to be compelled, they say, as long as you are young.

#

I drink my scotch straight and neat. Lately, I've been drinking too much of it. But I have learned from my dad: I did not take pictures at the funeral. At least not while the minister was talking.

Gene Smith seemed to believe that photography would keep him young, when all it really did was leave him battered and blind in his old age. After the last few weeks, I feel like I've reached old age myself. I used to say "F8 and be there." But we are all trapped, with only a window.

Life is short: A photographer needs courage and wisdom. It is courageous to look out as far as you can. It takes wisdom to make a record of what you see.

[Photo by Drayton Cooper]

6x9 Fail

2011-06-14T00:13:00.001-04:00

At one point back in the day Larry White lent me a Fuji 6x9 rangefinder. My dad called it the "Texas Leica."

I took it out and shot some great night work. Except for the fact that Fuji's T mode is nothing like everyone else's B mode, and the camera did not close its shutter before the film transport engaged. Therefore, my carefully composed, impeccably shot existential night photos were ruined by all the light sources dragging across the image.

I never figured out if it was my fault or the camera's fault. I was done. But I was intrigued with the 6x9 format, which is basically the biggest negative you can get without going panoramic or large format.

All these years later I have inherited this camera from my dad:

Scale focus? No problem. Light leak? Adds character. Too big? It folds up into my pocket. Hazy lens? Makes people look younger. What could possibly go wrong?

After the second shot I started thinking, "Gosh, the shutter is quiet." Of course it was. Shutters don't make much noise when they're stuck open.

Oh well. It looks great on the shelf. And I did get two frames:

You wreck me, baby.

2011-06-12T23:45:00.001-04:00

Yeah, you break me in two.

The Treehouse, 1991-2011. RIP.

2011-06-08T11:17:00.002-04:00

Alexandra Duncan: The DarkTopo Interview

2011-06-05T10:34:00.000-04:00

From a book-clogged room overlooking the River District's rail yard, Asheville's Alexandra Duncan writes science fiction. The trains couple thunderously. The keys click feverishly. It's a very DarkTopo scene.

But after reading her work, you might think DarkTopo is very Duncanesque. In two years she's appeared five times in the prestigious Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction with subject matter such as death in space, trains caught in timelessness, and--my favorite--a mysterious door built into a rock face in the Western North Carolina woods. The current issue includes her strange re-working of the Rapunzel tale, a novella-length work called Rampion.

Now, Duncan is included alongside Neil Gaiman and other sci-fi notables in The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy, an anthology that hits the shelves today.

This is the first time I've interviewed an artist who isn't a photographer, or even working in a visual medium. It's a photoblog, after all, but when I find work that asks many of the same questions DarkTopo poses . . . well, that just leads to more questions. Alexa was kind enough to answer them:

DT: Why do you write?

AD: First and foremost, I like telling stories. If I’m not writing them down, I’m coming up with them in my head anyway, thinking about how to phrase them, and wondering what the story is behind that guy with the neck tattoos in the grocery checkout line. I think I would go crazy if I couldn’t get them down on paper. Or worse, I’d forget what I came up with. I guess I could compare my reasons for writing to how some people feel about running. They get to a point where if they don’t do it every day, they feel like something is wrong, like maybe they left the stove on or forgot to pick up their great aunt at the airport. It’s something I like to do, but it’s also something I need to do.

DT: Your stories all contain parent/child tension. Elaborate? What do your parents think of your work?

AD: I think the parent/child tension in my stories is definitely an autobiographical influence bleeding through. My parents divorced when I was three and each remarried other people, so my childhood reads like a playbook of all the stereotypical things kids go through when that happens, along with some added weirdness that comes of being a preacher’s kid.

My parents have actually been very supportive of my writing. My dad is a little bit of a sci-fi nerd, so he started subscribing to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction after my second story appeared there. My mother’s reaction to my writing has been the funniest and the sweetest, though. Science fiction and fantasy aren’t her thing at all. She seems kind of baffled that she ended up with a daughter who likes writing about spaceships, zombies, and temporal abnormalities, but like a good mom, she reads all of my stuff anyway. After my first story was published, she asked me what I was working on next.

“Well, it’s kind of a love story. . .” I started to explain.

But she got too excited and cut in. “In space?!”

My mom is the best.

DT: In your stories, death or its approach is often a driving force. How do you decide which characters will die and which will live? Do you set out to write knowing if a story will have a tragic or happy ending?

AD: I usually start a story with a vague idea of the tone I want to set, but I rarely know exactly how it will end or who will survive. I have to spend some time writing out the characters and seeing how they react to their environment before I know how their stories should end. Sometimes they completely surprise me. For example, when I started writing “Swamp City Lament,” I meant it to be a funny exercise to see if I could use arcane curse words, and it turned out to be something much more serious. Fiction is all about exploring change, and death is the ultimate change.

"I rarely know exactly how it will end or who will survive."

DT: What did you want to be when you grew up?

AD: There was definitely a brief period where I wanted to be Princess Leia from Star Wars, but before and after that, I wanted to be a writer. In kindergarten, I used to draw pictures in a journal someone had given me, and then track down the nearest adult so I could dictate what I wanted written on each page. Later on, my elementary school started a program where they took stories we students had written and illustrated, and bound them in book format. (Mine involved murderous animatronic dolls and a haunted house.) I thought that was the coolest thing ever. I was already a huge bookworm, and here was this thing with my name on it that looked more or less like the books I checked out of the library every week.

DT: In spite of enormous commercial success, science fiction has been much maligned by its detractors, giving rise to the term "Speculative Fiction." Conversely, it has been said that all fiction is, at heart, speculative. Where is the line? And, more importantly, why speculate?

AD: I think the whole question of what separates “genre fiction” from “literary fiction” is a semantic game we play, and it’s also a matter of self-definition and marketing. I’ve seen snobbishness on both sides of the line, which is ridiculous. A story about spaceships can enlighten us and comment on our society, just as a realistic novel about someone having an affair can entertain us. The writers whose work I admire most are the ones who refuse to buy into the idea that you can only write in one genre: Michael Chabon, Margaret Atwood, Jasper Fforde, Karen Russell, and Fred Chappell, to name a few.

Over the last decade, we’ve seen a rise in the popularity of young adult fiction across all age groups. I think part of that success has to do with young adult fiction’s willingness to bend genres and tell stories about supernatural creatures, murder, love triangles, space exploration, and dystopian futures, the kinds of things we all want to read about, regardless of our age. For some reason, “genre fiction” hasn’t been ghettoized in Y.A. fiction the way it has in adult fiction. I hope this means we’re raising a generation of readers who are willing to read more widely and not be ashamed to like both Ursula LeGuin and Barbara Kingsolver.

As to the issue of whether all fiction is speculative, I would be willing to bet almost all stories start with the question, “What if?” We can’t help but ask the question. It’s human nature. That said, I don’t have a problem with the term “speculative fiction” as a shorthand term for science fiction, fantasy, horror, and all of their related subgenres. What is steampunk for example? Science fiction? Fantasy? Alternate history? It’s hard to pin down with a single term. I think the popularity of the term “speculative fiction” isn’t simply science fiction writers trying to rebrand themselves, but a reflection of the variety in “genre fiction” as a whole.

New Cameras

2011-06-04T08:53:00.003-04:00

I've updated The Firing Squad with pictures of cameras I've inherited from my dad. As near as I can tell he left me about a dozen cameras and twenty or so lenses, some of which are very nice. Others are like the Pentax ZX50: Completely obsolete in this day and age, but it's the camera that I learned on, the one he loaned me when I first went to college. So it's not going anywhere, but I doubt I'll put it to any hard use.

Of course, everyone wants to see the Leica. So here it is:

Now maybe I can finally become Secretary of Photography.

The Box

2011-06-02T17:50:00.001-04:00

Ain't No Grave

2011-05-29T09:09:00.002-04:00

I'd love it if you went back and read The Fall of the House of Cooper, my post about May, buying a house, and death. But it's long, so let me give you the pertinent quotes:

1. "Today is my birthday. Every year in late May I have a freakin life crisis."

2. "On the day after we signed the contract, someone very close to me was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The cursor has been blinking at the end of that sentence for a good five minutes. What follows? What can you write after that? It says nothing. It says everything."

3. "Upon further consideration, there is plenty to fear. Photographs make you look at things as they are, rather than as you’d like them to be. That’s a scary turn of events."

Alright. Here we go.

#

It is 9:13 PM on 25May11. My dad is in the Solace Center, dying of pancreatic cancer. We were told on Sunday that he had "days to a week." The cancer has occluded his stomach, and he cannot eat or drink.

We are so blessed. He is in no pain at this time, and the nausea is kept under control by drugs. You may not believe that these are blessings. You may say that they are only mitigations of an awful curse. You'd be wrong.

I don't know why I'm writing this post. I suppose one reason is that I can, because I know he'll never read it. I've never wanted to write about him, because this blog is an exercise in ego and self-promotion, and I was horrified that he might think I was using his illness to gain attention. Oddly enough, I don't care if I ever gain attention again.

#

I called Madame Rex last night from the floor. I was drunk. Rex said these things we do, dance and art and vision, will matter in the end. I said they won't. But how ashamed I would be if he heard me say it. More importantly, where would I be if, all his long life, he had agreed?

#

My wife is the most amazing woman in the world. Which is pretty strange, because my mom is also the most amazing woman in the world. I don't know how they manage that.

It is so horrible to die. When this started I told Jes that I knew how I wanted to go: Shot by a rifle at a great distance, just after she dies of old age. Quick, with no foreshadowing. Not this slow march. Not these moments, these last times. The last time you eat, the last time you see your dog, the last time you hear birds in the morning.

But Jes walks in with waffle fries. Dad has asked for them. I can't ask for her: She is more than I could ask for, if I had a thousand lifetimes to phrase the question. You just have to take it, and be amazed by it, and be thankful for it. Like waffle fries. Dad eats them, and savors them, when he hasn't eaten anything in weeks. It's a miracle. I can't believe we're crying over someone eating some fries.

To live is to die. Is it horrible to live?

#

God has built the world this way. In His beautiful plan we all die. People file in, talk about comfort. We thank them. People from work want to help, to make us food. We thank them, too. Everyone says, "If there's anything we can do . . ." And I thank them, and I know what they mean, but the semantics of the question make me sad. What can you do? Cure death?

The Bard visits. I can remember once in the middle of the night, my dad yelling down at us from through bedroom window because we'd just blown something up in the yard. We must have been 17. And now Dad looks up at him from the bed.

Later, Bard and I sit outside in the rockers. Old people orbit around us, some walking, some in wheelchairs with catheter bags full of bloody urine. We reaffirm our commitment to dying before we get old. But just a few weeks ago, we were sitting in the rockers on my porch, and we said that most of what's wrong in our lives is because we never planned on making it to 30.

I turn 30 in four days. A few weeks ago, I wished I could tell my 17-year-old self to finish school quicker, save more money, make better choices. But the plan to die young sure led to some hellacious living. So when the chaplain and the visitors ask what they can do, I say nothing. We are meant to die. To die is to live.

[photo by Sharon Cooper]

#

Stephen Hawking is one of my heroes. Diagnosed with ALS at 21, he's lived 44 more years to become the Einstein of his generation. I've written him letters about how much he inspired me. Fan mail for physicists.

Hawking recently reasserted his position that there is nothing beyond the physical realm. "Heaven," he said, "is a fairy tale for those who are scared of the dark." He didn't read my letters, and he'll never read this blog, but still:

I know something about the dark. I can render its likeness and take its measure. I can tell you how starlight behaves in a lens. I can tell you what the wind sounds like just after your flashlight dies. And I can tell you, Dr. Hawking, that you should be afraid of the dark.

#

Dad has given me his Leica. The cursor has been blinking at the end of that sentence for a good five minutes. What follows? What can you write after that? It says nothing. It says everything.

I don't want it. I want him to have it. But he can't have it. So it's mine now, the finest camera I've ever owned.

We look through a photo album. From the early 80s. My birthdays. I can pick out the photos that were taken with the Leica. Or maybe just the photos taken by my dad, the ones that were well seen and well shot.

I found a picture of my dad in his robe, standing in the apse of the church he served in 1985. Without knowing of the old one, I took another photo of him in the same room, in the same robe, last fall. It makes me feel better about the Leica. There's a quarter century between the two moments. Life moves on. Somebody better take some pictures.

I try to tell myself that it's okay to be afraid of the dark. Really, it doesn't matter if it's okay or not, because I am terrified. If Dr. Hawking isn't, he's a braver man than I. But I'm learning that bravery will leave you there in the darkness. Reason and achievement will pass away.

What's left is something my dad taught me: Never doubt in the dark what God has shown you in the light.

Edit, 29May11. Dad passed away from us last night. My gratitude eclipses my grief. A life well-lived, no more sickness, no more sorrow: Thanks be to God.

It was Henley--and yes, it is.

2011-05-24T01:02:00.003-04:00

"I think it was Blake who said, 'I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.' Well, that's a bunch of bullshit."

-my dad

Operation Brightstar

2011-05-18T14:20:00.000-04:00

Serious photographers will know what I'm talking about: You're at a shoot, maybe a wedding or something, and Uncle Herb spots you. You can see him from across the room, making his way through the crowd, with a tiny point and shoot suspended around his neck by a giant strap with big yellow NIKON letters on it. You try to evade, but he's locked on like a cruise missile.

"Hey, I'm Herb."

"Hey Herb, I'm a photographer."

"Yeah, me too. So . . ."

"And by that I mean I'm at work."

"Right. What do you think about . . ."

"Herb, are you back in the kitchen talking to the chef about his stove?"

"No, but . . ."

"So why do you think I can take my client's valuable time to talk about cameras?"

"Speaking of cameras, you're a Nikon shooter, eh?"

". . . Yes."

"Me too. The autofocus is so much faster than Canon."

"Yes, it is."

"Especially on my Coolpix 9,000,000 XL-TTYL-BBF-STFU point and shoot with face-recognition, red-eye reduction, vibration elimination and a super fast f5.6 lens. I've got more pixels than the national debt."

"I'm happy for you, Herb. Now, if you don't mind . . ."

"I took some great travel pictures on my vacation last summer. Still got em on the camera. Wanna see?"

And that, DarkTopo fans, that creeping cringe of a feeling you get when someone is trying to show you his vacation pictures, is what you should be feeling right now. I took some awesome photos on my vacation. Wanna see?

I have led a charmed life. Know how I can tell? Because there has been an astounding surplus of moments where I look around myself and think, "Hot damn, how did I get here?"

Shaking hands with presidents, laying beneath my tripod in the middle of a forest fire, dodging brass at the shooting range, crawling through abandoned buildings in the River District: None of it has been even half as surreal as stepping onto the deck of a Carnival cruise ship.

Suffice to say I had never planned on boarding a cruise ship, and it came as quite a surprise. There was not a lot of time to prepare. I traveled light: Only four cameras, four lenses, a tripod and a strobe.

And that was good, because there was much to capture. In fact, the first few hours were well nigh overwhelming. You might even say it was an assault.

The smartest thing to do when you're under assault is usually retreat. That we did. Upon boarding the ship we ran down the woozy corridors to our cabin and locked the door. After a few minutes, I gathered the nerve to look out the peephole.

You may not have noticed, but I am generally a minimalist. On the Carnival Fantasy, a minimalist is pretty much screwed. Everywhere you look, there is too much.

But a ship is similar to most enormous things in life: It moves forward, whether you want it to or not. And if you lock yourself in your room when you embark from Charleston, the next thing you know, the skyscrapers of Miami will be specks on the horizon:

(100% crop from my longest lens on the D70)

So the wise retreat. The foolish, and photographers, counter-attack.

Too Much

The ship is big. I'm sure you can look up the numbers somewhere, but what's important is that it held about 1,000 more people than the town I grew up in. As if that weren't enough, about 60% of the guests were spring breakers. Of those, it seemed 95% were female. And of those, it seemed that only about 5% had brought any clothes.

Now let me word this very carefully. I can neither confirm nor deny that a ship crammed full of drunk, bikini-clad women is a photographer's gold mine. But, and I say this in all honesty: It ain't my scene. I have no problem with partying, and I have no problem with ships, but if you put them together, people start having fun.

Lest you think I'm a prude, allow me to refer you to the epic Fight For Your Right series (Parts I, II, and III) and the Ozzfest essay. DarkTopo is populated by crazy drunk people with no clothes.

But the difference is that those people are partying almost out of desperation. There's a compulsive quality to it that fits right in among the rest of the work here, if only because I shoot most of these photos compulsively. The people aboard the ship with us were relaxing. It was almost as if they were on vacation.

So I was lost. But, to paraphrase the old photojournalism cliche about tragedy, the only thing worse than drunks is undocumented drunks. So:

The Application of Reason

All around us the most amazing work was being done. I have spent a lot of time photographing trains. Trains have nothing on this.

Rand says that production is the application of reason to the problem of survival. I counted 500 containers on one of those ships, and another cruiser told me that they each weigh 14 tons. So it seems survival must be a troubling problem, indeed. And yet there we sat in a hot tub, guzzling alcohol, trying our best to do away with our reason. If there's any place less DarkTopo than a cruise ship, I haven't found it yet.

So what I need, reader, is an anchor. And I'll sit on a platform in Freeport harbor, photographing ships as they slide by in the night.

Sunsets

If you do a search for "sunsets" on DarkTopo, you'll find nothing but eye-rolls. Well, until now.

Aboard ship, life is punctuated by sunsets. If you're like me, and you've never lived with a flat western horizon, they are the most amazing, gut-wrenching sunsets you've ever seen.

Looking back, I don't think I've ever taken a picture of a sunset before. That's because I have trouble dealing with the limits of my medium. Back to that anchored platform in the harbor: You can't buy a tripod sturdy enough to get the shot. And there's not a camera, digital or otherwise, that can render a sunset with anything but mockery.

But still. You try.

The Slithery Dee

The best picture I took of the ocean is here. I include the quote from the Cancer Man because, of course, everyone knows that UFOs live under the ocean. And because I've made it four years on DarkTopo without quoting Nietzsche, so why start now?

The quote is also apt. There was a strange sense of timelessness to every moment aboard ship. The ocean looks like it did when Columbus sailed over it. Sometimes when we were in our cabin, I'd glance over at the window and feel like the sea was in the room with us. Some might say that's comforting; some might say it's horrifying. I say it's a starting point.

VacationTopo

Melvillian metaphors aside, the cruise was pretty awesome. Here are some photos from my vacation.

A Hard Rain

The next to last day of any vacation is when dread starts to creep in. We found ourselves in Key West. My parents very generously paid for us to fly in an open cockpit byplane over the island. So we covered land, sea, and air in one vacation.

Before the last flight, a supercell thunderstorm built up over the tip of Florida and started heading our way. The pilot's wife showed us the radar on her IPad, but it was obvious: A developing wall cloud coming down from the north, smooth and dark and sinister. The flight was canceled. By the time we left the airport, the rain was falling in giant cold drops.

It was one of the worst storms I've been through in years. I loved it. We got stuck in a parking garage, soaked and shivering. Later, other passengers would tell us they had seen water spouts out over the ocean.

Is it cynical to look for trouble in paradise? Maybe. Or maybe I was just comforted to know that here, too, they have dark moments. They run in from the beach. They watch the skies.

You might say I just don't know how to relax. Maybe you'd be right.

The last night we went to dinner. Have I mentioned dinner? Dinner was amazing. Just ridiculous. I think I ate filet mignon four out of the six nights. Anyway, half way through our dinner, a voice came over the ship-wide public address system and said: "Operation Brightstar, Operation Brightstar, Operation Brightstar. Empress 218."

The din of the dining room hushed only for a moment. Jes and I shared a glance. This was the first time we'd heard anything like it. Our waiter was an Indian guy named Sam, and we asked him what it meant.

"A medical emergency," he said. We were still 18 hours out from port.

I woke up in the night, motion sick. I could feel the ship rolling over the waves. I turned on the TV to the "Cruise Channel" and saw that we were traveling at the ship's maximum speed of 20 knots.

I woke up again around quarter to five in the morning, and we were in Charleston, three hours early. From our window I could see them drop the gangplank. I watched for a long time to see if they'd roll out a stretcher, and then I wondered just what the hell I thought I was doing, and went back to bed.

I don't know if there's a moral to this story. Maybe it's like that old philosopher guy said; when you look for trouble, trouble looks for you. Maybe everyone just wants to talk about their vacation.

In any event, I took some awesome photos.

[photo by Jessica Newton]

Larry White makes me nervous.

2011-05-18T12:31:00.005-04:00

Another wedding with Larry White. The cool thing about working with real photographers, rather than the namby pamby flowers-and-sunsets bunch, is a certain expectation of fearlessness. You do what it takes to get the shot.

On the other hand, there is this. Everybody makes mistakes. Walking into a reception and seeing a swimming pool always makes me think of Chekov's gun. By the time the party is over, someone will be in that pool. My job is to make sure it isn't me.

And, frankly, that's why it's good to hire a photographer whose experience includes something other than weddings, little kids in cute outfits, and dandelions in the sun. A misstep into a pool will ruin the wedding. A misstep here will get you killed.

Or maybe that's an unnecessary dramatization. But it would make a nice slogan: When Max Cooper shoots your wedding, no one goes home in a body bag.

A couple more shots here.

Makes You Stronger.

2011-05-01T00:23:00.000-04:00

What Doesn't Kill You

2011-04-30T00:12:00.001-04:00

The Course of Human Events

2011-04-28T10:26:00.004-04:00

I am so excited about the royal wedding! I've called off all my appointments this week so I can watch the coverage. Sorry, clients! This is history in the making. I'm not going to miss it just to make a living, or because my ancestors fought a freakin war to get away from just such excess. Kate is ADORABLE! (But do you think she'll live up to Diana?) I don't knnnoooooooooooooooooowwww!

I've been searching through my archives all morning, trying to find a picture of a rat's ass so that I can illustrate my exact level of interest in the royal wedding.

But I do have this sort of morbid curiosity, the same kind that makes you look into hospital rooms as you walk down the hall to visit someone. Not about the royals or the spectacle or any of that silliness. About the photographer.

There's no question that Mario Testino is blatantly awesome. I'm not knocking him. But we're all human (except the royals, of course) and I just have to wonder: What happens if you screw up?

Corrupt memory cards happen. I'm sure Testino is using wireless backup reverse engineered from UFOs, but any system can fail. And besides that, what if the autofocus picks out the flowers instead of faces? What if the shutter fails during the kiss? What if . . . ?

And on top of all that, what if he's just having an off day? For example: This shot is very nice. This one makes Kate Middleton's head look like a watermelon with hair. Sorry, Mario, but what were you thinking?

For anyone who's ever shot a wedding, imagine having to answer the queen of England when she says, "Why do I look so old?"

One thing's for sure: As wedding photography goes, you cannot rise higher than this, and Testino doesn't have to listen to guys like me, who mostly criticize him so that they can pepper their blogs with keywords. (By the way, Kate Middleton's eyes are as green as Obama's birth certificate.) So I guess Testino can cry into a bag of money if he screws up tomorrow.

On the other hand, will Testino even make any royalties (har, har) off this circus? Since he's being paid by the British government, will he keep the rights to his photos, or will they be public record? You know, like this one:

Happy wedding, readers. Don't let your mascara run.

SCAM ALERT: "April 12th is ARTS DAY!"

2011-04-12T00:00:00.001-04:00

Today is Arts Day! What did you get me?

So I received an email from a certain local arts group. It's my practice not to be on the mailing lists for such groups, but I'm on this one because I happen to have exhibited in their space. That was before this particular organization completely imploded and lost their space. Last I heard, they had reorganized, and opened a new gallery where they would showcase local work, but not necessarily sell it, because they didn't want to "increase competition."

Anyway, the crux of this email was that The Arts are under attack. Budget cuts threaten to take the paint right off the canvases. No one will be able to afford clay or film or scrap metal or ink or anything. We're all supposed to get together on April 12th and lobby our government keepers to give us more money to make art. And the email concluded with this:

"How do we drive the perception of the Arts from being merely a luxury or frill among our society's priorities to become more broadly recognized as a critical need for a healthy, vibrant culture?"

Easy. You don't. Because they aren't. In other news, I'm going to make a new label for the blog called "Career Suicide," and this will be its first post. But, I'm sure, not the last.

Need

Art is not a critical need. Food is a critical need. Gasoline, tires, electricity, breathable air, national defense, housing, blood transfusions, prisons, and fire trucks are critical needs. And I know there are high and mighty art types who will read this blog and start spouting about culture and healthy this and vibrant that, so let me frame it this way: I am an artist. If art is a critical need, you have no choice but to buy my prints. Will that be cash, check, or charge?

Let's get this straight: I don't do this to benefit "the culture." There may be artists out there that do, but they make soulless drivel that amounts to little more than Rebecca Black's tear-stained diary entries. If your goal is to benefit culture, your art will always be a reflection of the culture's needs, and you will always be a nurse to its illness--and let me tell you, its illness is transmitted in some unappetizing ways.

I do this, every bit of it, to benefit me. So you can rest assured that not one bit of the DarkTopo process is financed by your tax dollars. If you like my work and want to support it, I thank you wholeheartedly, but I will not take money that was pried from you at the point of a gun in the name of some "need."

If I had applied for government grants years ago, I might have enjoyed more success, but there are worse things to regret. Look at those who are now losing their funding. DarkTopo has had some hard years and some harder years, and money is always scarce, but at least I am immune from one law of nature: When the host is sick, the parasites go hungry.

The Arts are Under Attack

The LA Times laments the modest growth of the National Endowment for the Arts in the last decade. In another article, they report that the president will be slashing the 2011 budget. And here, that stalwart of journalism Chris Matthews teams up with a famous actor to warn us that the entire NEA dole is on the chopping block:

I am not an economist or a mathematician, but I do have access to public records and spreadsheet software.

NEA Federal Budget Allocations by Year

2000: $ 97,627,600
2001: $104,769,000
2002: $115,220,000
2003: $115,731,000
2004: $120,971,000
2005: $121,263,000
2006: $124,406,353
2007: $124,561,844
2008: $144,706,800
2009: $155,000,000
2010: $167,500,000

That doesn't look like modest growth to me. And according to the White House Blog, that 100% cut Kevin Spacey was so worried about didn't happen. So, for a bit of comparison, I calculated the last decade's increases in the NEA's allotment versus the increases in the United States Gross Domestic Product and the median household income.

NEA total increase: 71.57%
GDP total increase: 46.91%
Median Household Income total increase: 10.32%

(Sources: NEA Allotments, US GDP 2000-2009, US Estimated 2010 GDP, Household income here and here.)

Therefore, as a broad generalization, art money recipients are raking it in compared to the average working stiff. Not even the wall street speculators can keep up: If GDP is any indication, it is better to be funded by the NEA than to invest in US stocks. Especially since investors incur risk, and most art types just show up and eat crayons.

So I think the arts are doing just fine. It is interesting, though, that they picked April 12 for Arts Day: It's awfully close to Tax Day.

Jes Reads Tonight!!

2011-04-08T00:14:00.002-04:00

[Zero Image 2000 Pinhole shot, 4 min exposure]

My smoking hot and incredibly talented wife has been chosen as a finalist in the Mountain Xpress poetry contest. She will be reading TONIGHT at the Masonic Temple (it's a conspiracy!) downtown at 8:00 p.m. After the reading, the top ten poets will be locked in a cage and forced to fight to determine the winner.

Now, I haven't officially been given permission to publicize any of this, so read the post again and pretend I'm whispering. And if she asks how you knew, tell her you found the deets on Facebook.

The Mountain Xpress Poetry Show
Friday, April 8 · 7:00pm - 10:00pm (readings at 8:00)
Masonic Temple
80 Broadway St.
Asheville, NC

[ hit the lights ]

2011-04-06T14:04:00.003-04:00

Donating AshevilleHDR Photos to the Japan Relief Concert!

2011-04-03T11:12:00.003-04:00

Get off your ass and do some good. The Japan Relief Concert [Sat. April 16 @ the Grey Eagle] is going to be awesome, and all proceeds will benefit Peace Winds America.

Here are the photos I'm donating. And here is why.

DarkTopo Obsolete; Art Student Owl Says it All

2011-03-27T12:12:00.001-04:00

[ collection complete ]

2011-03-24T23:39:00.000-04:00

Fire @ Colbond: Who Is John Galt?

2011-03-23T19:20:00.008-04:00

I just turned down a job as a senior photographer in a portrait studio. Let's keep the details out of this, but suffice to say that I would have been taking the same photos over and over again, every day, with no allowance for vision. Or anything else, really. The cameras are set, and never adjusted. If customers desire a unique portrait, perhaps they can pose with their favorite team's pennant, or lay their baby on a bed of artificial flowers.

And during the busy season, that baby will be one of sixty that will lay on that bed of flowers, or on that fluffy pillow, or in the oversized teacup--every day. The interviewer asked me if I was willing to act ridiculous. "Anything to get that smile," she said. I said that I was willing; in fact, I felt pretty ridiculous at that moment.

When I say I just turned it down, I mean like, two hours ago. And that's enough time to start thinking, "Well, maybe." Everybody thinks it. I'm no different. I am certainly not Ayn Rand's ideal man, John Galt, who never doubts, never questions, and never shows a speck of weakness.

In other news, they are tearing down the enormous Colbond tower in Enka. I have been trying to make a photograph, but management will not let me in the fence, even though I promise to be quick and wear a hard hat. Just one shot, I say. They must have dealt with photographers before. So I shoot from outside.

A pretty good shot. Maybe it would be better with my team pennant on the fence.

The other day I shot a family portrait, and at the end of the shoot, the client spotted the TAGGART TRANSCONTINENTAL sticker on the front bumper of my car. The Fountainhead, he said, had made him who he is today. But I had known before that; the whole family resonated with backbone. I could see it through the lens.

A straight spine is a rare and precious commodity. Reading a book can't give it to you, though it might help you define it. Money won't help, though it might keep the burden lighter for some time. And other people . . . well, they just want you to act ridiculous. Just to get that smile.

And it's okay sometimes, to think: "Well, maybe." But only to think it.

I thought it a lot on the drive home. It sure would be nice to live a more stable life. To be able to plan for some sort of future. To introduce myself without sounding like just another wishful art major, struggling along. To have the clients come to me. "Who is John Galt?" It's a lament, an indictment of the world we live in. But it's also an excuse: "Who is perfect?" No one. So maybe . . .

The National Weather Service had broken through the program I was listening to, warning of tornadoes, and the light was a sly peach color. I got out of the car at a gas station, and in the air I could smell the sharp, delicious scent of a structure fire. At home, my unbelievably gorgeous wife wanted to know about the job, but I said, "Let's talk outside, there's something going on."

Smoke seeped up into the sky, and the sirens began to sing. Hot damn. I was still dressed up from the interview, and I grabbed my gear and my vest, and my DarkTopography.com press pass [wink wink]. We hit the road.

Not an hour after being asked what strengths I could bring to a photography studio, I shot this as the rain began to fall:

Rand got almost everything right, but she forgot to account for the clamoring weakness in us. The hesitance, the wavering, and the agonizing wonder: Did I do the right thing? That question is the worst part of having a backbone. The best part is how it's answered. You see what you're given to see, and all you can do is take pictures. F8 and be grateful.

So true.

2011-03-23T10:27:00.001-04:00

MemeBase introduces Art Student Owl

"Everything changes

2011-03-22T23:38:00.001-04:00

but the sea."

-The Cancer Man

[ underway ]

2011-03-21T23:35:00.002-04:00

Benefit Concert for Japan @ the Grey Eagle!

2011-03-17T12:57:00.003-04:00

Benefit Concert and Silent Auction for Japan
The Grey Eagle
16 April, 2011
All proceeds will be donated to Peace Winds America.
more info on twitter!

I'm torn up over Japan, folks.

There are times when it is good to analyze your response to things. DarkTopo has (sort of) covered two big hairy tragedies, and you can read my thoughts on the role of photographers in those situations. Watching the tsunami overtake houses and cars was the closest I've felt to this since it happened. That post, and the one about the shooting in Knoxville deal with journalism in the face of tragedy, and my limited experience in it. And I'm glad I wrote those posts, and figured some things out.

Now it's time to shut up. There's no amount of analyzing or "dealing with" anything that is going to help the people of Japan. We can question ourselves, we can feel guilt, we can ask why, and none of that will matter. The only question that matters is whether or not you'll do something about it.

Friends of mine are organizing a benefit concert at the Grey Eagle on Saturday, April 16. There will also be a silent auction, and I will be donating a print. If I feel that it will make some money for this cause, I will donate more than one.

It's not much, but it's what I can do. So I'm asking you, who I assume to be fans of my work (and not just morbidly curious), which print you'd like to own. If you were going to show up and buy a Max Cooper original for a good cause, and probably for a killer price, which photo would you want?

Choose anything on the site, and post your answer in the comments. If I don't get a better idea by go-time, I'll choose one of the AshevilleHDR photos, because they've gotten the most interest over the years.

Let me know what you want to see, and what you'd bid on, and maybe you and I can make some small measure of difference.

buy viagra said...

2011-03-16T11:46:00.003-04:00

So I come back home from a big vacation and find that some dude named Buy Viagra has really taken a liking to my blog. Unfortunately, he's an idiot, so I've deleted most of his comments. But I have to take some pity on him, because, after all, he is struggling through life with the name Buy Viagra. What is that, Slovakian or something?

Anyway, some of his comments were actually pretty hilarious, so I've saved them here for posterity.

On Ektar 100 in 120: The DarkTopo Review!
I've been learning a lot weapon, and I can say I love this, indeed, a true machine gun is essentially a fully automatic rifle, and the boundaries between the two are often blurred. Often, the criterion for a machine gun as opposed to an automatic rifle is considered to be the presence of a quick change , and most of the solders know it.

On Fungus on the lens, fungus on the lens . . .
I don't care about it, but they may become noticeable when fruiting, either as mushrooms or molds. Fungi perform an essential role in the decomposition of organic matter and have fundamental roles in nutrient cycling and exchange.

On SAD120: Fight For Your Right, Part I
This man was a lucky man because he put his hand on the ass of that woman, I had made the same thing, I think only am stupid man wouldn't do that.m10m

gone.

2011-03-13T09:10:00.001-04:00

we discovered a silo.

2011-03-12T09:08:00.002-05:00

Some good ol DarkTopo adventuring rightchere.

Ralph @ Iris

2011-03-10T09:07:00.001-05:00

jb

2011-03-08T09:06:00.000-05:00

Jawbones

2011-03-07T09:01:00.000-05:00

Jawbones are everywhere.

The Jackson Building, from Fred's Speakeasy

2011-03-05T08:58:00.001-05:00

Elise @ Highsmith Gallery!

2011-02-14T12:12:00.002-05:00

Elise at Craggy Prison

One of my best photos of all time is currently on display in the UNCA Alumni Show. The jpg here can't hold a candle to the print: Drop whatever you're doing and go see it.

Seriously, though, the show is awesome. Walking through the door was like logging on to some weird art-comprehensive-exam version of Facebook: Can I tell which of my peers created these pieces? And while my photo was, of course, the pinnacle of the exhibit, I must say that Matt Jacobs' work spoke from across the room.

It was also very nostalgic to see John Westby-Gibson's shrine. In typical UNCA fashion, the powers that be scheduled John's senior show on the same night as mine, and I never got to see it. Better late than never.

Also in typical UNCA fashion, the show is completely under-promoted and buried on their website, so here are the deets:

2011 Art Alumni Exhibition & Second Annual Art Alumni Reunion!
Highsmith University Union Gallery
Feb. 14 - 26, 2011
Closing reception: Feb. 26, 5:00-7:00 p.m.***
Gallery hours: Mon – Fri 9 a.m. - 6 p.m., Sat 9 a.m. - 6 p.m., Sun 12-6 p.m.
More info: 828.232.5000

***See you there, DarkTopo fans. Nothing says ~~"awkward silences"~~ "wild party" like an art reunion!

Lone Bird

2011-02-10T12:39:00.001-05:00

. . . works alone.

Flash Practice, Part III: Spousal Abuse

2011-02-09T14:35:00.007-05:00

. . . continued from Part II.

If you've ever been in a car wreck, you know that insurance agents, attorneys and chiropractors pull accident reports and send you all sorts of mail advertising their services. After reading posts like this, divorce lawyers send the same kind of letters to my wife.

After all, nothing says 'marital problems' like coming home after a long day at work only to discover that your living room has been transformed into a bad memory of senior picture day:

And then, to throw you off from being mad as hell, your lazy artist husband (who has of course been home all day planning this moment) says "Here, sweetie, toss this banana."

Bam. Just like Harold Edgerton. I wonder if he was married?

---

I pity any photographer who doesn't marry someone beautiful. And I pity anyone who marries a photographer.

You have to understand, as the photographer, that people generally want two things: To look good, and to be left alone. And as a photographer's spouse, you have to understand that any good photographer is crazy. And when you look at the image on the back of the camera and think, "Yeah, I guess it's okay, but my hair is all full of static, and I'm hungry and cold," he's thinking, "My God, her hair is all full of static, and that out of focus highlight in the background . . . that's the sun!"

To a photographer, especially one who lives by the rule that you always keep the sun at your back, this photo is proof that he's moving in the right direction. Bouncing a flash off a brick wall and warming up the subject while balancing against the sun is pretty much like defying gravity. To the spouse, I can only imagine, this must be an exercise in patience.

I still have a hard time with the flash thing. I understand that some lies are white. They are still lies. I feel about flash the same way I do about long lenses: They make pretty pictures, but this is not how we see, with perfect light in all the right places and the background blurred out. For most of our lives, we see everything in bitter light, and sharp, harsh focus. If there are rare good times, they are dim and blurry, and trying to change that changes what you sought to capture.

---

So for the life of me I can't understand why I'm still married. It must be because I am either (A) a Famous Artist, or (B) incredibly lucky. Whatever the reason, there have been no divorce papers served (yet), and so I really haven't had any consequences to learn from. Thus, while Jes is trying to work at night, I do things like this:

And she is patient as a saint:

And the result is here. To my eye it looks too good. Surely it can't be the truth. But I reckon that anyone else--without my jaded vision--would see that it is. You can hope to capture perfect light. But when it's a long, dark, cold winter, sometimes you have to make it for yourself.

PS: No flash FTW!

PPS: Oddly enough, Pepper is also patient:

on second thought, maybe photography isn't for me.

2011-02-09T10:40:00.004-05:00

I just had to use the "Take me to Kittens" button on Flickr. First time ever.

Cannot unsee what I sawed.

Flash Practice, Part II: Self F****** Portraits!

2011-02-05T13:37:00.003-05:00

. . . continued from Part I.

After the stunning success in the coal room, I bought a flash rig. Are you hearing this, potential brides? Why wouldn't you want your portraits taken in a basement by some dude who censors obscenities out of his blog titles?

My endeavors all defeat each other and I'm going to die unknown in the gutter. But back to the flash: After a decade of saying I wouldn't, I bought an umbrella and a stand and gels and started reading Strobist. It's not that I don't like flash; I do. It's that, all these years, I thought that flash was a dilution of photojournalistic principles. In fact, every serious photojournalist I've talked to hates flash--it's always a necessary evil.

Then I read an article on Eugene Smith in Photo Technique, discussing his blatant violations of journalistic ethics. All through the article, I was dreading the mention of one of my favorite photos of all time, Tomoko Uemura in Her Bath. It's an amazing photograph with an even more amazing story, and you should read the entire Wiki article to see why I don't post a link to the image itself. It's out there on the web, but you won't get there from here. Anyway, reading the PT article, I was hoping and praying that Gene Smith didn't alter that photo. And of course, he didn't, according to Photo Technique. The only alteration was the flash, held by an assistant.

So that got me thinking. Is it a lie to bring your light with you? Probably so. But, when you strip all the skin off the bone, do we ever tell the truth? These are the kinds of questions artists use to torture themselves. And according to art school, what's the only thing that will quench the fiery hell of artistic dilemma? Self f****** portraits. These are from my "blue period."

And of course, the only thing with more artistic depth than a self portrait is a naked self portrait.

Made you pause a second, didn't I?

Actually, I shot self-ports because there was no one else to model. Jes was out supporting the family and the cats are so traumatized at this point that they can't stop shaking long enough for me to get a sharp photo.

I hate self portraits. But that last one breaks the rules, and is of course the most interesting. It is very hard to take self portraits of any worth. It is technically hard, in holding the camera and focusing. It is also artistically hard to separate yourself from the image, and swallow your pride. Luckily, after being an "emerging artist" for several years, I have very little pride left.

I like the last one so much that I shot this one, with my favorite art crime of including the light source as an integral part of the image. Screw you, Van Gogh.

Stay tuned for Part III, the shocking conclusion . . .

Flash Practice, Part I: The Coal Room

2011-02-03T13:00:00.005-05:00

[The Coal Room. Zero Image Pinhole. 15min exposure.]

It's winter. I know this isn't news to anyone, but winter is cold and boring. I generally spend the first few weeks of January in artistic malaise, whatever that means. Then I get cabin fever.

So I'm downstairs doing laundry, which requires kicking open the door to the basement with the clothesbasket in one hand and a handgun in the other, and then doing a commando roll over to the furnace and dropping a flash-bang into the coal room, the dark annex in the corner that proves the architect who designed our house was a big fan of Poe.

This, of course, is a complete exaggeration. I don't own any flash-bangs, and if I did, I wouldn't waste them on the laundry. That would be silly. But think how silly I'd feel if I went to do laundry unarmed, and had to use a bottle of Laura Lynn detergent to fight off the zombie that shambled out of the coal room?

See. Cabin fever. Do flash-bangs even work on zombies? Who can say?

So I was doing laundry, and it occurred to me that any self-respecting homeowner should not be afraid of a portion of his house. We all know what happens when you're afraid of your house. And though I don't have any flash-bangs, I do have a very nice Nikon flash. Almost the same thing.

Fears faced. Now the coal room is my favorite room in the house. In fact, I'm thinking of using it as a bridal studio. All I need is an umbrella and some cages made of shipping palettes.

Lessons learned:

1. The only thing worse than cabin fever is having a fever in a cabin that has a coal room.
2. You can't hold your head up while facing your fears if the ceiling is six feet high and covered in spiderwebs.
3. When your wife comes back from Home Depot with bricks and mortar, it's time to leave the coal room.

Stay tuned for Flash Practice, Part II . . .

Pull pin. Squeeze lever. Sweep from side to side.

2011-01-30T11:44:00.015-05:00

It occurs to me that most Americans have never had to use a fire extinguisher. Therefore, when it comes to this sort of thing, I'm a bit more qualified than most. After being friends with Cpt. Destructo for so long, you might even say I'm an authority.

But even I learned a few things last night.

We stood a very dense, very dry Christmas tree in a cinder block. Cinder is an apt word. Anyway, I set the D200 to interval mode, and shot all these pictures two seconds apart. I set the camera on manual, thinking I was all smart and stuff, but that turned out to be a mistake. In fact, the whole night turned out to be a mistake. One big, face-searing, glorious mistake. Lessons learned:

1. Shutter priority is better than manual. It may look dark when the Christmas tree isn't burning. Then it will be daylight.
2. To determine the amount of clear area you need for safely burning a Christmas tree, multiply the tree's height in inches times four hundred thousand.
3. You have five seconds between ignition and full involvement.
4. When Cpt. Destructo is speechless, you have a problem.
5. In the time it takes you to say "This was your idea," it has become too hot to get close enough to use the fire extinguisher.
6. Someone will have to take one for the ~~neighborhood~~ team and use the fire extinguisher anyway. That someone is usually the ~~person to blame~~ photographer.

Bonus lesson: Rocket blowers are great for getting ash off your camera!

Steve Dixon, 1950-2011

2011-01-23T22:22:00.003-05:00

I just found out. I shot one assignment with the man, years ago, as a test to see if I was up to the job. He drove me around in his Miata like a bat out of hell, and when he said that if it were up to him we'd all still be shooting FM2s, I knew Steve Dixon was my kinda guy. Asheville's journalistic scene just got a little less old school.

RIP.

Pinhole Portraits

2011-01-23T15:06:00.003-05:00

So the other day I convinced my smoking hot and incredibly patient wife to sit for some portraits. And it took a bit of convincing indeed, with promises to mow the lawn, hold down a job, that sort of thing. But I've had this idea in my head for years: A picture of a face with the eyes moving back and forth over the course of thirty seconds or so. And because I normally give my wife a headache anyway, I figured I might as well get her to roll her eyes around in their sockets for a minute or two.

This is not as easy as it sounds. How do I know? She made me to it, too.

The other thing is that, to accomplish the photo in my head, I'd need a pretty good macro lens, a pretty sturdy tripod, good light, a lens that can stop waaaay down, and probably a neutral-density filter. Oh, and one of those things they strap your head into at the eye doctor.

In the absence of all of these (well, except the tripod: love my 'frotto) I used my Zero Image 2k.

I'm not where I want to be with the pinhole thing. Every shot seems like a science experiment, rather than a photograph. It's just not raw and vital enough for me. But I went to art school, and I was taught the higher knowledge withheld from the average modern man, and I know how to fix this problem. How does one make art out of otherwise-drab work? Self F***IN' portraits!

That's the best I can do, unless I find women who are willing to be underexposed, blurry, and nude. Plus, here's a candle burning for eight minutes:

Xtol in the jar-o

2011-01-21T23:34:00.000-05:00

Bad weather / Good photos

2011-01-20T23:31:00.002-05:00

No Horizon

2011-01-17T23:52:00.000-05:00

Culpepper and the SB600

2011-01-15T12:27:00.002-05:00

Have we talked about my cats? First, they're everywhere. If not in body, then in fur. Second, they take my hard-earned money and turn it into poop, which they expect me to shovel from their litter box into the big green city trashcan, which previously smelled of rotten meat and fixer and wallpaper remover. Those were the days. Now it's like a hog farm in my yard.

Third, they are for some reason worth it. I haven't figured this part out yet, but it's true.

You met Rosie here, but there is also Culpepper, who showed up the day before we left for a week and, in our absence, had her illegitimate children in our basement window. Pepper and Rosie loathe each other. This makes the house seem very small.

In any event, Pepper loves my flash almost as much as she hates Rosie.

I'm pretty sure this has to do with the blinking red light when the Creative Lighting System is engaged. It also doesn't hurt that she's a prima donna.

Because I don't want to be one of those photographers who mostly posts photos of his cats, but I know I will become one anyway, I'm limiting the cuteness here and letting it have its way with the commercial site. So you can see the best photos from this session here.

Elise and Rae in the Boneyard

2011-01-13T11:45:00.004-05:00

If you don't go to the boneyard for a long time, you start to lose track. It isn't something you can do with purpose. You can't make an appointment. You just look around and realize you've ended up there again, and again what you've found is yours only for a moment, and then it slips away.

The boneyard is here and here as well.

If you haven't seen it,

2011-01-12T11:35:00.002-05:00

see it.

Re-tooled commercial site design, completely with new images, better images, and even shamelesser shamelessness.

This is how I figure it: The divide between the commercial and art sides of photography--my photography, in particular--is there for a reason. You don't want your DarkTopo fix interrupted with wedding photography, and brides don't want their wedding photography interrupted with . . . whatever it is we do over here. But take a look at the portraits. Yes, there are babies. But there is also this:

I've already gotten a couple of Facebook mails accusing me of selling out. That's fine. I will respond with the words of Ozzy Osbourne, who must have had a moment of clarity when he wrote them: The greed brings us together.

Rev. Peyton's Big Damn Band

2011-01-08T09:59:00.003-05:00

Live @ Gottrocks, Greenville, SC. Couple years ago. Finally getting around to posting them, though they've been on smugmug for awhile.

On a side note, these are the first images I'm sourcing from my 2011 directory. Happy new year. AND on top of that, I'm showing rare organizational foresight by making a folder for each month, so that I can't delete them all with one mistake like last year.

Jan1 Changes

2011-01-01T12:05:00.003-05:00

New masthead, new gallery design, new images in the DeclareArms series. Happy New Year.

The Best Revenge

2010-12-31T12:59:00.003-05:00

These are the best until-now unpublished photos from 2010. Another year gone, and you ask yourself the same questions as always: What do I have to show for it? Let me give you the answers I've pried out of the frozen ground.

Happy New Year. Thanks for reading, folks.

For Rent

2010-12-29T11:32:00.000-05:00