Beihai Park

From my second afternoon in Beijing.

We didn't waste the weather.

Thoughts on a Curve.

May thirtieth, two thousand twelve.

A portrait of (a young man as his older brother.)

Wm. graduates in two weeks. Lil' bro is growing up and going off to college. It's terribly cliche, but it happened so fast. 

As I sorted through my closet, packing for my upcoming two month stay in Beijing, I stumbled across a torn paper bag. A Southwick tweed lay inside, wrinkled and forgotten; it was one I bought when BWmF and I were leaving the Outer Banks in late January 2011 and far too small for me, especially at that time. Made up in a bold gun club check and featuring all of the details any Trad/Ivy enthusiast would want, I figured I'd eventually find a home for it somewhere. I tossed it to Wm. who sat aimlessly in my room in typical fashion, his vibrating phone adding an erratic rhythm section to selections from a recently mentioned playlist (now almost two months late and to be mailed this afternoon.) 

Admiring the fit on the tweed, I told him to grab an oxford and the pair of raw denim I bought him at Christmas. Duke came along, too. He grabbed my glasses after a few frames. Weird.

Though we're not related by blood, he increasingly resembles me when I was his age. Comparing photos from the summer after my graduation from Mercersburg and my first semester of college, his typical swept hair, backwards hat, and Top Siders seem eerily familiar.

Wm. and Duke. May 2012.

Wm. and I've an odd relationship, though congruent in practice with many of my long-running friendships. Dictated most by vicinity and presence, one could offend our friendship by suggesting it was one of convenience; our brief time backpacking together, especially after our last evening in Rome alone, can dispel any such notion. "I love you, man, 'cause you're my little brother." Some jokes needn't be remembered to endure.

There's less and less I can do for him these days, and I don't mind that. We've shared moments memorable both independently and mutually, and though the frequency of such opportunities wane with every passing year, I look forward to what the future brings for both of us.

Good luck, Wm. 

Self-portrait, sort of.

The slow shifting of pebbles across a stony shore lie hidden below the surf. The gradual turn, equally imminent to his being and unencumbered by volitional considerations oft requisite to migrations, has led him to this place. As he looks back, ever carried forward, memories tinted dull or histrionic through the years will scurry past; he will carry on once again as if naught but an idealized moment was ever reality.

5/17/12

5/10/12

Bryant House

Black and White in Bloomington ii.

Several hundred yards down the track, the rain started to fall. So much for keeping promises. Pocketing my camera and exiting an unlocked gate, passing a sign saying "Class D Felony", I walked through neighborhoods to meet with Pops and JAH for dinner. A good meal is just what I needed. It usually is.

Pops.

An hour earlier, wanting to shoot more than study, with camera in hand and music in ear, I wandered out. I was tired of sitting and didn't have time to wait; clouds loomed overhead, taunting an early arrival of late night storms. Walking with misplaced deliberateness past the restaurants on Walnut Ave. idly awaiting their dinner guests, I could think of only one place to go. 

Sometimes getting on track is just a few minutes away.

Hopping the fence next to a train station turned cocktail lounge, I was back atop a familiar overpass. The clouds hung heavily, threatening nothing more than continued taunting, or so promised the weather report.

On Track.

This wasn't my first time there this semester. I did so with greater clarity, or so I thought, this time.

JASH. May, 2012.

Black and White in Bloomington i.

It had been weeks since my desk had been clear, let alone my mind.

Order, finally, at the end of April.

I spent too much time in March and April hunting for new ways to look at the world, literally. Looking back, I was unfocused as I sought clarity no lens could provide.

By the time I left town, four Nikon One Touch/L35AFs of varying vintages hung on my wall.

(They can be had cheap, though often untested, online. I averaged $7 a camera, which, considering the well-performing 35mm f/2.8 lens, is well worth it. One for my car. One for my bag. One to break. One that probably doesn't work.)

Between finals, I needed something to relax my eyes and my mind. One can forget the importance of getting out when it seems that one should stay in. 

A beautiful day beckoned the aforementioned visit to the Other Quarry with AF. Stopping at CVS on the way there, I picked up two rolls of Kodak Tri-X 400 on discount. AF sat in the car with the air conditioning running; the long overdue playlist for Endres turned down. I never shoot black and white, but it seemed fitting; "shades of grey" is more a more accurate name, however. 

Over the edge.

AF lent a hand for a few frames.

After my last test, a classmate approached me saying, "I'm packin' today." He pulled an M6 out of his bag. I responded in kind, or in difference, showing him my One Touch. There's a virtue to both, though I look forward to running a few rolls through his M6 when I return to Bloomington in August.