Normal, IL: Documentary Photos Part Two

The first set of photos that I took of downtown Normal only covered half of the main street. This is the other half. Photos of the downtown area would be incomplete without pictures of Babbitt's Books, the local secondhand bookshop.

You'll also notice some construction going on. The downtown area is being completely renovated right now. Parking is horrible and the construction has affected some of the local businesses. All the store owners I talked to are looking forward to the new sidewalks that were poured today.

I woke up at four in the afternoon (because I was up all night). After checking my email, I went into Normal to take the last set of pictures. Most of the stores were closing.

In my last post, I talked about my interest in documentary photography . . . Well, I had an insight tonight about these pictures I've taken in the last two days. At first, I thought there was such a thing called "documentary photography," but now I'm starting to have my doubts.

Although these are pictures of my town, I think they reflect me more than anything. Does documentary photography really just document ourselves?

The first slideshow has a youthful, rebellious feel. I focus on headshops, skateshops, and used CD stores. The second slideshow depicts the town as nearly deserted because of the construction.

I come to the scene late, to take pictures. The workers have all gone home, except one. The giant orange equipment sits idle in the trenches.

Also, notice all the pictures of books, it's because I love reading, I love looking at books, I love holding them. And I've been in Babbitt's Books many many times. I used to go there every day.

No matter how objective we try to be, we reveal ourselves. We cannot help it. The self cannot be disguised. We represent ourselves in everything we do.

Normal, IL: Documentary Photos

I recently bought my first digital camera. Inspired by the work of David del Pilar Potes, I decided to try my hand at some documentary photography. In particular, I'm interested in how photographs are arranged and the meaning that arises between pictures based on their linear relationship to other pictures. My background in fiction may explain this narrative approach to photography.

A single photograph will of course catch my eye; but for some reason, a gallery of photos produces a greater emotional effect. I want to know what I can do with a gallery. I can tell a story with the arrangement. . . the story can be literal, closer to an objective documentary style, or the arrangement can be more lyrical and associative, more subjective.

I also see myself as a "journalist". Not an old-school journalist, but a new media journalist. I don't work for a newspaper and I never have but my writing is hugely influenced by reading The New York Times. Combining my joy of essay writing and this new appreciation for documentary photography, I can see many possibilities for experimentation.

Autumn Unfolds

Fall is my favorite time of the year. I live in Central Illinois where despite the cold winters, I enjoy the succession of the seasons. If I lived in a place where the seasons never changed, I imagine I would be stricken with a sort of grief.

Change is inevitable, impossible to avoid, and Fall over all the seasons demonstrates this to us. Why? Because Fall is beautiful, more beautiful than the other seasons. In her bright burst before death, Fall heightens the senses, brings us closer to our bodies, refreshes the psyche.

In the arts, Autumn has been depicted by a hare, vine-leaves or a horn of Plenty brimming with fruit. In mythology, the season is sacred to Dionysus, the god of wine.

Every Fall, I become super-sensitive to the two-day interim between the tail end of Summer and the beginning of Fall. I can remember the warmth of the final day, how the clouds looked, and how I felt; and then, I recall the arrival of the first Autumn day and her cold breath on my face.

I am rejuvenated in the cold air, my whole body awakens. As if Summer were only a long slumber. The scents in the air come alive. I can smell the high school bonfires burning before homecoming. And the corn husk after the fields are cleared. The sky appears as if it has been scrubbed clean; provides a stark background for the range of colors in the leaves.

Driving down the tree-lined streets of my neighborhood, I think of golden apples, which is what the trees look like to me.

The succession of the seasons punctuate the rhythm of life. The seasons reflect our own stages from birth, growth, maturity, and decline. If the leaves are able to move us, then perhaps it is because we see a reflection of ourselves in their beauty. Their beauty represents change, alteration, succession. We sense our own fate in the changing of the landscape.

Really the only proper attitude to take toward life is to marvel at it. To marvel and to keep marveling and never to stop.

When my energy returns (and I'll never understand how I lost it), I gain momentum in my thoughts and my emotions and once again I have a passion to accomplish things. When my energy returns, I feel alive again, throbbing with motivation and good ideas. This overflow of energy of course produces an excitement and a desire for more energy, more action, more accomplishment. Sometimes I get too far ahead of myself.

If there is any "work" to be done in nature, I don't see it. What I see in nature is an unfoldment, a succession of events without effort. I wonder if my life can become like that.

As an adolescent I swung between two extremes--an excessive, almost manic self-directedness, in school, sports and social life--or the opposite, which was undirected, amorphous, purposelessness. You watch the seasons and see neither one of these extremes. You watch the seasons and see how life occurs, how nature unfolds.