That was the lesson I learned last week.
Soooo this happened:
But also awesome things!
(guess who had a wide angle lens for the weekend? holler.)
I’m sorting out pictures and highlights, but I will be sure to regale you with my NYC virgin voyage tales.
Amazing, amazing.
When people ask me about photography, I usually say, “I dabble.” I took a couple courses in college. I’m not always in focus. I’m always longing for a better camera, a faster lens. If I have any knack in “visual art,” I suppose it would be photography. But I’m hesitant to call myself “a photographer” because of one name: Pete Motherfucking Souza.
Pete Motherfucking Souza is a PHO-TOG-GRA-PHER. Nay, THEE Photographer. (Specifically, the Official White House Photographer. But that sounded less dramatic?)
I follow the White House photostream on Flickr, and never before have I felt more reverence for the art of photography. You’d think there would only be so many ways to photograph the Oval Office, but Pete Motherfucking Souza LAUGHS AT YOU.
But in all seriousness, I gasped the first time I saw this photograph of Obama & Co. in the situation room, watching the raid on Osama Bin Laden’s mansion AS IT WAS HAPPENING.
If you wanna critique the composition, the neon lighting is less than ideal. The photograph is a little off-balance. Something’s intruding there, in the bottom left. But HOLY CRAP, right? He captured something so legendary. And this is BALLSY — I can barely photograph strangers at a major public event, and my boy Souza here is tripping the shutter while Bin Laden is getting the kibosh.
……
In these, the last days of NaBloPoMo July, I’m having a hella battle with writer’s block. Tonight, scouring my hard drive in hopes of finding some scrap of inspiration, I came across a set of photographs from early January, when we celebrated Sebastien’s birthday in Cincinnati. However, I’d only taken a handful of sober shots, and something quirky soonafter happened with my 50mm lens – so I was about to scrap the whole blurry mess of an album…until I stumbled upon this photograph. I sentimentally titled it, “It Only Takes a Moment” on Flickr.
Because I’m a sap.
Katie and Sebastien. Mayday. January 2010.
Just to offset the cloyingly sweet nature of this entry, I’d like to also point out that this was also the night that Jordan fell sleep in the bathroom of a Skyline Chili.
A little over a year ago, Katie, Matt, and I made our rarely-trekked trek to Broad Ripple’s Alley Cat Lounge. I had too long sequestered myself up on the northeast side of the city, had just broken up with my live-in boyfriend of 3+ years, and had declared 2009 “The Year of Friendship.” I was determined to surround myself with the fun and fascinating.
“I texted Glasses. He’s meeting us,” Matt had declared on the cab ride up.
See, we’re always meeting “characters” in the various hipster hotspots around Indianapolis. We’ll have these brief, random run-ins with these personalities and immediately give them monikers for future reference: “Knee-Knocker.” “The Kid.” “Poop Guy.” “Eyepatch.”
In Spring of ‘09, “Glasses” was a new character, one Matt and Katie had met a weekend earlier at the same bar. Naturally, he was sporting a pair of plastic frames at the time - hence the name (hey, I’m not saying the nickname has to be ORIGINAL, just MEMORABLE.) The two of them went on and on about how cool he was, so every time the door opened, someone would inevitably whisper, “Glasses?…Nope.”
Finally, Glasses - or Jordan, as we now know him - walked into the Alley Cat and INTO. OUR. HEARTS.
They were right: He was a cool dude, who seamlessly became one of The Gang. Throughout that summer, we found ourselves saying, “Let’s see what Jordan’s up to!” By Autumn, he spent most Saturday nights on our couch and spent most Sunday days drinking with us on Mass Ave. By Winter, we were Secret Santa-ing and taking weekend trips to ring in the New Year. By Spring, he was coaching me on my boy problems and introducing us to his new love.
I thought about all of this last week, as I watched Matt meticulously insert 27 neon candles into a cake we had just made.
“Just over a year ago, he was Glasses,” I said. “And now we’re baking his birthday cake.”
I’m so happy that we get to.
Happy Birthday, Jordan.
Matt, walking with our cake through Lockerbie on our way to The Ball and Biscuit.
Dapper Birthday Boy and the Ever-Lovely Sarah D.
Indianapolis' Coolest Came Out to Play
Cake Blur, because I can't hold my camera still and sing at the same time, silly.
Happy Birthday. Love, Chief.
A little over a year ago, Katie and I met our friend Bubba. Whom you might know as “Brian,” but…whatever. He’s Bubba. Prior to that, our friend Uriaha constantly regaled us with stories of this best friend, stories that always started “Me and Bubba,” or “Bubba did the funniest thing,” or ”My friend Bubba makes homemade bread,” blah blah..and we were eventually like, OKAY. WHO IS THIS GUY? We must meet him. And meet him we did. Friends ever since.
As is evident by this series:
You might be thinking to your self, “Jenn, it looks like by the time Bubba showed up to this shindig, The Cockpit was already a shitshow.”
And you would be right.
Dancin!!
Having trouble balancing your wine AND your plastic axe, Katie?
(PS. Those inflatable guitars? The brain-child of yours truly. And by “brain child” I mean, “I got bored at Party City waiting for some stoner high school kid to blow up my balloons, and totally started making impulse purchases.” BEST IDEA EVER.)
Um, this would be the Cake Wreck that I made, that Matt decorated. It was a red velvet little number with cream cheese icing. It was alright, but it was a little bland and dry for my liking. Good thing everyone was drunk, and yelled at me to shut up when I announced this.
Hope you had a good birthday, Boo.
That’s the only way I could describe it.
Last night I went out to the Downtown Traverse City bars with cousins Allory and Katie, along with Allory’s husband Steve and my cousin Erin’s fiance, Ben. (Side note: Thus far? The Cousins Kriscunas have picked out awesome dudes to marry. Bar has been set so high. It’s ridiculous.) My cousins were raving about this nearby restaurant called Trattoria Stella, which boasted fresh, local ingredients and an impressive wine list. Despite being set in a renovated portion of a former state insane asylum, the trattoria was bright and contemporary. However, it was not without it’s oddities: Katie spoke of a “secret door” in the ladies restroom, and Allory talked about strange writing on the walls if you wandered off the beaten path. There were small pockets of modernity, but most of the surrounding grounds were eerily abandoned.
“I WANT TO GO TO THERE,” I declared. “And I must bring my camera.”
So this morning my pops and I (and his Nikon D200, which makes my D50 feel like a Vivitar from the 90s) headed to the the “Traverse City State Hospital.” My mom, a former social worker who had visited the asylum WHEN IT WAS ACTUALLY FUNCTIONING, stayed home. “I can’t believe you find this fascinating,” she said. “I saw some really crazy stuff in there.” Which, of course, made want to go there all the more.
Here’s a preview of my shoot:
Abandoned weird things = Photographer’s dream. The place does emanate a strange, sad energy - which didn’t actually hit me until I came back to the hotel to quickly shop these shots. See, behind the camera? I am brave. I’ll walk up the steps, I’ll stand on the fence, I’ll lay on the concrete. I am thinking about light, and shapes, and rhythm. I’m not thinking about what sorts of crazy this hospital has seen.
Oh, and sadly, Trattoria Stella’s was closed for the holiday. Going to try to get in there tomorrow, because the exterior just whet my appetite.
And I’m proud to be an American –
where at least I know there’s fudge.
Cross it off the list.
(Or, cross it, uncross it, and cross it again. Rinse. Repeat.)
Whilst day-drinking on the porch of Old Pointe Tavern one sunny afternoon in April, three friends brainstormed about a birthday party for one Miss Katie A.
“What shall we do for my birthday in June?” the birthday girl asked. Matt put the pencap to his mouth. “Hmm..what does Katie like…what does Katie like..”
Lightbulb.
From The Redhead: “Jack. White.”
And thus the Party Planning Committee mapped out festivities for the Demaree-penned “Twenty-five Years of Filth and Stripes.”
PHOTOBOOTH. (What, you expected some lengthy diatribe fresh out the gate? I haven’t blogged in three months. LET ME WARM UP.)
* I want to write more but of COURSE I wanted to do NaBloPoMo for July which means I have to get this sucker posted in fifteen minutes and blahbity blahbity every picture tells a story blah.
I’m writing again.
I’m not going to be a dead-beat blogger anymore.
Promise.
NaBloPoMo.
Count it.
Some more photos from last Sunday. These were shot on the back “porch” of RadioRadio for the We Were Promised Jetpacks show.
More at my Flickr set, “Epic Weekend #985231495.”
This was a pretty hazy night, especially for a Sunday — one of those where you wake up and hope to God you didn’t say something too inappropriate (or, in my case, more inappropriate than people expect).
Also? After the Matt Wilson drunk dial incident? I’m always fearful of going Cathy-Comic after I’ve had a couple. [AAAACK!] I’m having these Morning-Afters, these faintly-remembered conversations wherein people (cough Dodge cough) are patching up my self-esteem. ["You are NOT revolting." "Guys DO want to make out with you."]
See, sometimes I tend to project myself like this:
When really, on the interior, ESPECIALLY WHEN IT COMES TO MEN, I’m TOTALLY this:
Which, yeah-yeah, I’m working on. But I don’t want YOU to know that. [She writes, in her BLOG.]
I know the easy-peasy solution is to PUT DOWN THE WINE, but psh, do you know me AT ALL? I need a little help, some people to hold me accountable. So? PACT: If I go Cathy-Comic after a few brewskis? Just slap me upside the head and tell me to stop. Deal? Deal.
“Now, are you still with your boyfriend?” a woman asked me yesterday.
“No, we broke up, like..a year ago,” I replied. “Yeah. It’s been quite a ride since then.”
Understatement of the Year.
TOP TEN RECAP.
In eleven months and five days, I :
1) Broke up.
2) Became pretty much a hot mess for a month.
5) Moved in with one of the COOLEST GIRLS ON THE PLANET.
6) Defibrillated my Photography Bug.
7) Realized that, yeah, dating? NOT WHAT IT WAS IN 2005.
10) ???
10) . . .
Well, I’m not sure when “10″ should be. Something like, “found myself right where I needed to be,” but less schmaltzy-sounding.
F*ck it. I’ll be sentimental.
In the midst of a year that could have easily rendered me completely useless (and let’s be honest - some days it did), I managed to surround myself with the most amazing friends a girl could ask for. Dewy-eyed romantic that I am, it takes all that I have not to continuously blurt, “I love us,” when we are gathered together. Instead, I just sigh and take another series of photographs:
Happy New Year.
Why haven’t I told THIS story yet? Probably because it’s been nearly six months. Probably because it’s so surreal that some part of me denies that it ever happened.
My experience at the Monolith Music Festival last September topped out with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs on Saturday night. Not that everything surrounding it wasn’t perfection - but that show was what I’d call a “peak life moment.” When you look around you and everything is right. When something deep inside your brain is manufacturing permanent snapshots that stick with you forever.
We were standing at the base of Red Rocks, only a stone’s throw from Karen O, dancing. Dancing. Dancing. I have never danced like that before in my life at a show. We jumped and sang and shimmied. How could you NOT?
My all-access pass granted me the luxury of taking pictures anytime, while the rest of the photographers only had the first three songs. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs are obviously known for some fabulous stage grandeur, but I could have SWORN she…saw us. I looked to Katie, who had the pleasure of a meet-and-greet with the band before the show. “Is it just me or is she…totally looking at us, sometimes?” I shouted over the wall of sound. “No no - she totally is!”
Maybe she’s just that good - making the audience believe she’s totally putting on the show just for you — but being so close, it felt like we were feeding off of her energy, and VICE VERSA. YES, VICE VERSA. I’d pull out my camera, and I felt like she was…I don’t know…working it. I know that sounds silly and amateur, but I guess you had to be there.
During “Soft Shock,” Karen O jumped down to the stage barrier. She pointed straight at us. POINTED. AT US, followed by a “come hither” motion. I stood there and peed my pants, convinced that she was directing that at someone else. I saw Katie walk up and I thought, “Okay yes. Apparently this is happening.” She pointed the microphone towards us and we sang some “Ooh-oohs” in glorious harmony. [Or possibly just excited girl-shrieking. I can't remember, and unlike my White Girl Bop, it is not on YouTube.]
“I got my GIRLS with me tonight!” she shouted.
Her girls. We’re her girls.
Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.
[I'm trying out something new with this slideshow, but if it's not working or if you totally hate it, you can mosey on over to my Flickr set.]
THE GOOD: I learned how to curl soft waves in my hair.
THE BAD: I nearly burnt my fingers off in the process.
THE REALLY GOOD? Since January, I thought I had broken one of my Nikon cameras. It’s been sitting in the corner, sad and listless, because I was in denial that eventually I’d have to take it somewhere to get fixed (read: $$$) Well, it must have had some time to think about what it’s done, because I picked it up today, made a few adjustments, and it’s seemingly good as new. (Thanks, Google.)
