dude, you bloggin?

Ugh, I never remember which font I actually use when I update this thing. That, however, may be because I hardly update this thing, which in turn makes it -my bad-.

Last night Monique and I headed to St. Louis to watch the Shins live in concert. A quick aside: Monique is a Shins fan, I am not. At this point in our relationship, it seems we have simply decided that the other party likes horrible music (with a few notable overlaps in taste) and have gone our musical separate ways. Even when we like a similar style of music, we diverge: I like Of Montreal, they are not anything of much interest to her. But, back to the story at-hand.

So, Monique had offered to buy my ticket for me to attend with her, because going to a concert out of town by yourself is mostly impossible; either the boredom of having no one to talk about the show with, or simply having no one to talk to period on the drive back would destroy any enjoyment I could get from the experience itself. So we traveled to Stl and got to the show about half an hour before the show began.

As for the show itself, it was an overall good show. The opening band, whose name I can't remember, seemed to be trying a little to hard to have credibility and ended up creating rather uninspiring rock n roll that sounded like a mixture of White Stripes melodic form along with unnecessarily flashy guitar work. So, 0 for 1 and I was pretty tired of standing by the bar at this point because of the smoke and annoying people.

Another aside (I apologize): It's amazing how used to the smoking ban in Columbia I have become. It's only been a month and already going to bars outside the city is an unwelcome experience, as I have to return to the old ritual of showering and fumigating my clothes as soon as I get home. And I had gotten so used to actually being able to go to bed when I got home. *sigh*

But anywho, the Shins proceeded to come on and played a pretty good set. From the crowd and Monique's reactions, they played what people wanted to hear, which in my mind always makes for a good set. I wish I could say whether they played anything unexpected but I haven't the foggiest. However, I did manage to figure out which songs were from Shutes Too Narrow, because the most annoying girls on the planet managed to scream in our ears every time the band played one of those songs. Glad to see someone bought one album and came to the concert. Either way, after encore they had played for about 1.30 total, and we proceeded to get back on the road, where we tussled over whether I should be allowed to get Jack-In-The-Box on the way home. As she was driving (and is an evil, evil person) I was refused and had to spend the next hour + starving in the car before making home and to bed (although I was up online till about 4am). Some people, I tell ya, just have no soul. :)

until next time ...

(paul)

on 'photographer'

Only a few days ago, I was asked if I was a photographer. I think that several times throughout the afternoon the camera around my neck was addressed (it makes sense, we are in a language office, not an artist studio). I am always stopped by those questions and find myself giving the world's longest explanations because of the general reactions I have encountered in the past.

I hate saying things like 'Yes, I am a photographer,' because that term carries with it different connotations and is subject to individual interpretation.

First I will go over the cameras I own - they are low maintenance, light-weight, and some of them just low quality in general. I have a 127 Brownie (tangent: really, I have two but have only used one I bought from Helena Kvarnstrom who is - I can't emphasize this enough - just one of the most amazing human beings on the face of this planet. Look her up. I love her photography), a Canon Rebel G (film, not digital), a Nikon Coolpix 4300 (oh for a digital Rebel), a pop art camera (read: action sampler knockoff with coloured lenses) & finally, the newest addition is the Holga. As anyone who knows can tell, three of those cameras are mass audience toy cameras, two of which take an older type of film, 120 (medium format for the Holga) & 127. Until recently, 127 film was no longer being produced and had not been since 1995, but I had managed to get my hands on - count it - one roll. Fortunately, it is again being produced in North America.

I got two rolls.

Anyway, for the most part, especially in regard to the toy cameras, these are just not the sort of cameras you bring in for studio shots. I have to emphasize how non-commercial the pictures I take are, & really, for many people there is not much of a difference between what I take and a regular snapshot because of that overall lack of equipment and staging. I don't really care. If a photographer is just floral shots and staged portraits, then no, I am not a photographer. If a studio is required, better lighting than just natural lighting, or a context that is set apart from the everyday and the sudden movement of human beings, again, I'm not a photographer. Of course, realistically 'photographer' means many things. It can mean each of the aforementioned (and with my respect, I know some people who are quite good at it) or maybe we could use photographer in the journalistic sense, & of course there is that notion of art that everyone tries to control and on which we can never come to a sort of agreement.

I am someone who simply tries to capture on film what is around me or at the very least, what is influencing me; obviously there are certain sets that are staged and are not a part of my environment but do reflect my influences and thoughts.

I am concerned with intimacy, with simplicity, and most of all, with my own enjoyment.

In addition to my hesitance because of the variety of definitions on 'photographer,' I am hesitant because like with nearly everything, I think of myself as a hack. If you look at the journalistic work done by my good friend, Chris Ammann (one of the human beings I will always respect, admire and adore), or the shots taken by Helena, Kim Winderman, Alaina Burri-Stone, et al, then maybe it becomes obvious why 'hack' is what comes to mind when I think of myself. Can anyone think of another word for the mediocre surrounded by the amazing? Thinking about it makes me turn into some neurotic, insecure mess of Woody Allen proportions. Anyway, I like to think I am at least somewhat honest when I say that anything I take is a rehashed, poorly executed shot. Yes, I've always been that critical of myself. I like myself as a writer, but even then I refer to myself as a hack. I suppose if I read a bunch of garbage novels or Chuck Palahniuk's latest, I'd feel like a goddamn genius. I don't imagine to define myself by my hobby, and I must stress that for me it is a hobby. I think it is more likely to say, with confidence, that I am a blogger than I would say I am a photographer. I blog with a serious passion which is why I have just under several hundred online blogs.

-Monique

look who's blogging again

I cannot tell whether being candid has become an art like the sort of film still that reveals a person's most intimate moments, or if I am just lacking in tact for the most part. I imagine it is the latter, but only because I am somewhat modest.

Truth be told, I was sitting on the toilet seat on the cellphone with my mother while we talked about the death of Anna Nicole & how her life had been a living hell - lawsuits left and right, one dead son, divorces, her nightmare family. 'That woman,' my mother said, 'went through so much. She is probably in a better place right now.' It is easy to think that because someone is involved in the sex industry that the person is expendable, particularly when one's record is not to clean, and it's hard to come away from that, to move toward getting better and to make the effort and to try to meet tragedy head on. I thank God that I have always had good people who love me and who care about my well-being.

It is nine pm & today what has been most on my mind is that which is on my head: hair. God, I had the most disappointing haircut today. I cannot express how disappointed I was, I can only say that I cried and fortunately my desk in the office is placed in a fairly private area.

I understand that what I want from my relationship, or at least as far as the ceremony is concerned, is something non-traditional and seemingly unromantic. People generally don't think of signing papers at a courthouse as the ideal way to get married, I guess. I really am not a white wedding dress walk the aisle with bridesmaids (don't have lots of girlfriends!) sort of person. That being said, I am not without my notions of romance. What I wanted, honestly, was to have such nice hair and I had been growing it out for that purpose, & to have a short dress with short sleeves & a rounded collar, offwhite empire waist with my brown maryjane sort of shoes & we would walk off hand in hand and then ride to a hotel and spend the night holding each other and I would wake up and stand on the balcony & drink hot chocolate and turn to see him asleep with head on white pillowcase sinking into the bed.

I keep feeling that my image is just breaking apart piece by piece. It's been impossible to find a dress that is even close to that which I want, and now my hair is a total disaster. My hair is like, Roseanne meets Pat Benatar & I don't care who says it is cute, I am twenty five & tired of being cute. For once, Christ, I just wanted to be pretty. I keep telling Paul 'I am too young to rely on personality alone.'

Maybe I could pull off trying to look like Bebe but without that spunky of hair. I am having a twelve year old overdramatic 'My life is over' day. At least I got my Holga. I added a picture to show everyone the mess that is my hair. I could be Janet in a Three's Company remake. My life is over.

-Monique