the self-taught man

Litch, part 2

2011-08-21T21:57:00.000-07:00

I previously posted a story regarding a certain straw-hat-wearing, drunk gentleman who played along using a recorder to the karaoke music in a small bar near City Lights Bookstore. He gave me his email address:

I promised photos of the man, and have finally found/scanned/cleaned the images. Here they are:

The Not-So-Happy Drag Queens

2011-05-08T11:20:00.000-07:00

Baja 6 Years Old

2011-05-01T17:50:00.000-07:00

festa (in medium format and color)

2011-04-26T03:30:00.000-07:00

this is a portuguese festival celebrating some canonized queen who gave food to the poor. it involves a parade of girls dressed like princesses whose capes are lined with plastic, golden-horned bulls toting squeaky-wheeled carts, children dressed like peasants who make offerings of bread, and flower-surrounded idols carted through town to the catholic church. it's pretty much the most eventful day in newman.

negative scans are cold.

2011-04-21T16:49:00.000-07:00

but better than nothing.

Greetings from the space between the object and its shadow.

2011-04-19T01:10:00.000-07:00

Oh, my faithful followers, fear not! I have acquired a brand-new photo scanner. I've shared so little of the six bulging negative boxes scattered about my bed, but all will be made right. I've yet to post snaps of small-town drag queens, aquariums, tourists, streets, supermarkets, Exotic Erotic Ball attendees, 8th graders fancy dancing, and more. I'm hard at work getting it all in the system. For now, I will share two photographs I found in a used book store on Judah of which I am particularly proud.

Pola'roids

2010-08-31T22:15:00.001-07:00

Bits and bits

2010-08-31T01:17:00.000-07:00

Bits

2010-08-29T22:08:00.000-07:00

Goodbye, San Francisco.

2010-08-13T01:28:00.000-07:00

The Fifth of November

2009-12-01T17:49:00.000-08:00

The Fourth of July

2009-12-01T16:46:00.000-08:00

Gambling on Market

2009-11-22T15:58:00.000-08:00

Fair Slides

2009-11-21T17:16:00.000-08:00

Finally...

2009-11-20T18:09:00.000-08:00

Luis

2009-11-07T16:12:00.000-08:00

Digital Images I Might Actually Like

2009-10-29T19:22:00.000-07:00

These are from a sad period of my life when I had to use a digital camera for awhile. Somehow, I still may like them.

boots

2009-06-03T07:50:00.000-07:00

in 1/250 of a second

2009-06-01T20:36:00.000-07:00

i fell in love for the last time.

a superwebcom in the making

2009-04-11T15:32:00.000-07:00

the protagonist:

the roommates:

...

2009-03-04T00:42:00.000-08:00

still from Earthquake

joan of arc's ring

2008-10-01T20:30:00.000-07:00

feel free to purchase this for me.

my new haircut

2008-09-08T23:00:00.001-07:00

brush and tic

2008-08-29T10:34:00.001-07:00

(this is love)

stan-co fair polaroids

2008-08-29T03:43:00.001-07:00

stanislaus county fair

walter dobbs, pulled out of a hat

2008-08-20T09:39:00.000-07:00

though i am no prophet, no sooth-sayer of noble pedigree

a man comes to visit, demure and starched-collar,

his hands stuck together in feverish prayer,

to ask, to answer, wondering, letting the brain wander.

--now's a bad time--i don't know what to say--

and his shimmer's so faint i know nostalgia is a lie

he asks what he would ask

given only one question.

"Granddaughter, why have you forsaken God?"

i can only assume i get one chance to respond.

i ramble on about shades of gray

black's sexy texture, white's colorful construction.

he looks at me, understands at once.

"I've loved you without meeting you for 24 years,"

we cry, this strange chorus

until the scroll out his pocket falls

unravelling about us

stinging like a slap--

i am this generation's preacher with perfect pitch

my visions send me to the insides of stars

and my sermon is dry

4th of july

2008-07-16T17:39:00.000-07:00

at graceada park.

the author self-indulges

2008-06-25T02:02:00.000-07:00

this is a poem. i wrote it five years ago.

The meeting of four dead men

in multi-dimensional waters.

I'm late

in the conference room

of some distant Radisson

Walter Dobbs

neatly-dressed Church of Christ preacher

glows against white walls,

delivering dirty jokes

over an unsteady oak podium.

the great room

swallows his scattered audience

Nick Nichols laughs from the 2nd row,

his mind strays

his legs cross

his hand

limply clutches a black cigarette

He and Walt think of

commonwife, Juanita Bowman

her son Jeff sits in the middle of the

green-lit room,

the fluorescent tubes reveal

a face withered

by ex-cons and genetic heart failure

at the back of the bright room

is Poppa John

silent and stoic

I crouch down to watch him

this room is too bright

it's too cold

like a walk-in freezer with no ventilation.

Poppa John wrings his hands,

speaks nonsense,

never sees me.

litch

2008-06-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

there's a fedora over there. and white hair and dusty black suit. and a brown plastic recorder, used to accompany our karaoke as he sits melancholy and sauced and schizophrenic near the only window. he is one block from City Lights. i can tell that being a down and dirty beat has taken its toll. the light hit his silhouette, this slouchy man who cannot stand straight and crosses his legs. i spotted him, crumpled in the corner, his white hair glowing like down. the hat on painful knee. the recorder to his lips. his eyes so wet and whiskey-stained yellow.

i walked up in the bow wow bar as he attempted to make his dirty fingers work. i photographed him playing. i had an instinct that not photographing this man would haunt me for life. so i summoned the voightlander and 1600 fuji to snap away at him.

he interjects rusty recorder trills when he deems it right. i kneel down, attempting to capture every angle of this man, this doisneau man, in a san francisco bar run by candee, the polynesian barkeep in lime eye shadow and crackling neon pink lipstick who insists on treating us to free pineapple juice cocktails.

he stopped playing after i'd snapped about 8 shots and asked if he could have a copy of the photograph. i kindly obliged him and gave him a pen to write his address on a "save the chimps" pamphlet from his pocket. as the sharpie touched the paper, he began to sob.

"my granddaughter, jane," he says. "my------gr------aaaahhhh..." and i lightly touch his shoulder. i squeeze it and say, "oh, honey," and i kneel down to look into his eyes. "you must believe me when i say everything is fine right now. enjoy this moment. we're listening to karaoke. you're playing your recorder. isn't that fun?" he replies in the affirmative. he begins to draw and i add, "right now, we're doing alright. do you believe me when i tell you this?" no response, just a sharpie and a save the chimps brochure, on which he scribbles his email and mind meanderings. he cries. he cries. he apologizes. i tell him to listen to the music. he doodles. he scribbles nonsense.

i waited patiently and photographed him deface a piece of paper covered in photographs of monkeys, mesmerized. he asked me, "can you read my writing?" to which i answered yes, because his name was rene litch. It was done with an attempt at painstaking detail, like a 73-year-old drunken graffiti artist. i watched every pen stroke. i listened as he screamed at the karaoke singers to get it, yeah, waahhhh! and crumpled into sobs again. i asked, "can i do something to help you out right now?" he asked for beer. i wasn't about to buy this poor drunk another beer. "then, maybe a glass of water with lime?"

and i say, "sure, rene. be right back." i arrived with his water and he started to tear up again. i say, "drink some of this, friend. it will make you feel better." he looks at me like this is the first act of kindness he's experienced in decades. taking the glass, he looks at me, his glasses in his pocket, his hat on his lap, his recorder leaning against his chest. "keep playing that recorder, rene, i can tell you love it," i encourage. and looking straight into my eyes, with his once-blue, now ethanol-steeped eyes, he says, "you are exquisitely beautiful, young woman. i cannot thank you enough."

i gave him a big hug, he in the undertaker suit he sleeps in every night, and told him it was very nice to meet him, and wished him all the blessings an atheist can give.

*i shall post photos once they are processed

The Weather Underground

2008-06-12T13:44:00.000-07:00

12.05.08 @ The Independent

my first zine

2008-04-29T15:24:00.000-07:00

it's called

IN THESE TIMES OF HEIGHTENED SECURITY

with a lovely red cover, thirty pages spanning four years of my photographic endeavors, and available for $17, which includes shipping.
it's totally worth the money, people. so be the first 6 to email me an order and i'll throw in a tiny zine made up of my grandfather's photographs from WWII.

here's the centerfold:

the beginning and end of gun club syndicate

2008-04-29T14:58:00.000-07:00

it happened in one day.
in the immense, sprawling villa of quinta fas outside gustine, an 'architecture digest' photo shoot waiting to be had, was a shop.

i had been told by one of the inhabitants of this breathtaking piece of portugal dropped in the middle of dairies and alfalfa fields that there was a darkroom, a small room with a thick red glass bulb and redwood cabinets waiting for me. it sat, nearly invisible, at the back of the property near a monkey cage and chicken coop, boarded up and locked from within. my dad pried open the board which had been incompetently wedged at the base of the exterior wall and we climbed on our knees inside. it took some doing to find the breaker and a lightbulb to get a clear glimpse of the place.

this was a darkroom. untouched for at least fifty years. covered in dreck and dust so thick spit couldn't wipe it clean. ancient rat shit and long-forgotten spider-webs covering every inch, a sink, electrical outlets, finely carved redwood cabinets, a slanted roof, a built-in desk. it was grandma's unbelievable attic. it was seemingly perfect. and right at the end of GUN CLUB ROAD. i don't think i could think of a better name under which to publish.

and the daydreams made me giddy. i saw myself working tirelessly in this room, inhaling enough silver to kill several sumo wrestlers, hanging wet prints with clothespins, meandering to the resort-like pool surrounded by blue chaise lounges to cool off.

but reality has a way of ruining things. my parents are fully willing to build a darkroom in my old bedroom, which would have a higher ceiling, plumbing however i desire, plenty of cabinets and counter space, room for over-matting, air conditioning and ventilation. all of this will probably cost about the same amount as having the old place redone, without the worry of a sour investment, in which we would lose everything.

so i let my fellini dreams go, and now it's time to get my hands dirty. but not covered in rat feces.

BRITISH SEA POWER

2008-03-06T22:51:00.000-08:00

british sea power

better without words.

thereminty

2008-02-09T13:02:00.000-08:00

my first show is up. it has been an overwhelming experience.

my theremin arrived yesterday and i've been playing with it all morning. as of now it sounds a bit like the moaning dog next door, but i'm dedicated to learning it. here's my setup:

and a close-up to show y'all it's a for realz moog.

like branch?

2008-01-23T13:59:00.000-08:00

in the wind her trench coat

was black and cloak

hair an orange knotted sponge

but her face

like lemon

like leather like choke

parchment cracked lips puckered outward

fist-squeezed mud

covered in red

in the wind she was straight

steady her movement

thrust forward

spinster

in the wind

forcing that posture

forcing the steps

forcing me to question

my fortitude

my aptitude

my stubbornness

in the wind

she knows i force

my soul to move

my heart to conform

to what could be best

what should be right

what i know must be made

but i wonder without starch

without lips thrust out

in the wind

one of those crickets

2008-01-21T22:59:00.000-08:00

Shall I then rank with gods? Too well I feel

My kinship with the worm, who bores the soil,

Who feeds on dust until the wanderer's heel

Gives sepulture to all his care and toil.

---Faust, Goethe

meeting paul and buck

2008-01-19T15:17:00.000-08:00

they have an auto-repair shop near 9th street. i ran into paul while he was working. he asked if i was taking photographs for first baptist church, to which i replied, "i don't believe in god."

he showed me the puppies of a pit-bull and german shepherd. i was led to his boss' office, a picture of chaos. both acted as if having a photographer in the place was normal.

morvern callar

2008-01-19T14:43:00.000-08:00

a film i love. most don't, but i do. here's a clip:

exhibition

2008-01-18T10:15:00.000-08:00

my first show, EXHIBITION, will be on view beginning february 8 at the prospect theater project. it will be up for the run of its concurrent theater piece, ionesco's exit the king, for four weekends beginning at 7 pm, friday and saturday, and 1 pm sundays. entrance to the gallery is free; only the play requires tickets.

the show will include work from the exotic erotic ball in san francisco and greg laurie's harvest in turlock.

the prospect theater project is located at 520 scenic drive, modesto, with a rear entrance on downey avenue. for more information, see www.prospecttheaterproject.org and for tickets to the play, call 209.549.9341.

found mug-shots

2008-01-17T15:37:00.000-08:00

i like photos others throw away

learning to love you more...

2008-01-17T00:57:00.000-08:00

#28: edit a photo album page.

#32: draw a scene from a movie that made you cry.

a bit of blue

2008-01-15T19:57:00.000-08:00

welcome

2008-01-11T08:15:00.000-08:00