An uncensored glimpse into conceptions of painters known, studied and/or admired by Yours Truly. Or why YT usually prefers the company, conversation and art of photogs.
Painters are a quirky bunch and are manytimes planted stubbornly on the introverted quadrant of the chart of personalities that I am looking at right this very instant, (well a representation of same) scrawled on a shabby piece of paper outlining how me and one of my X's were never going to work out (and, by golly, he was like so right) as I was in one quadrant, he in the other. I see that he, I forgot this, put me in the same quadrant as Bill Clinton. I am good with that. I think, looking at this scrawl, he put himself in a box with Tolkien. Or maybe that is John Wolffer. Who in hell is John Wolffer.
Anyhoo.
Painters fret too much. Whereas a photog, or a group of photogs, gets down/off on chaos, good old-fashioned adrenaline, extreme physical feats and geeking on equipment, painters are all into organizing studios, getting the light right, nay, perfect, being solo, being in control, making just the right swerve. And for all this Fret there are so few grand painters, those whose canvases or boards whap you upside the head.
Photography just simply rocks.
So, why am I jurying a painting show in January.
Well, I will tell You.
A painter thought I'd, as a photog, be a good judge of what sucks and what does not.
I said I am honoured.
And, really, I am.
Perhaps during the opening reception, amidst all the cheese cubes and white wine in plastic cup swilling, I will expound further upon my Painter v. Photographer special thoughts.
Until then.

Cheese cubes of love.

Breezing about on the ol' PowerBook I chanced upon this image and Yours Truly cannot at all recall if this has been posted before and if it has not then why not and so then here it is in all its ironic glory. This is from a pow-wow, a real freakin' pow-wow-wow, outside the Middling City in some hillock-strewn landscape and this image post is inspired by the NPR story today deriding fry bread, mainstay of Native Americans, focus group of pow-wows. In this NPR snippet of life I learned that frybread is so not a native Native dish, but a culinary/nutritional disaster made from surplus ingredients handed over to the natives by the government of this country. Remember, do You remember, the newsbits about twenty or whatever years ago that crack was the white man government ploy to kill off the inner-city yutes of colour. Well, Yours Truly is reading between earnest NPR docket lines and seeing a ploy to harm the natives who are now 70% diabetic, about same rate for obesity and frybread has a lot to do with this. Now, look at this image. The bear has no eyes, they are dried slits for the bear is deader than a proverbial doorknob.

Proverbial Love.

Minding my own business, driving back to the home office hovel, had a conflation of visual imagery, a collage of sorts that was delightfully confusing. Such a bonus to one who slings not hash but images, in this over-imaged universe - a virtual sea of sights.
Driving down one Middling City avenue, Jefferson, to be exact, I look up to see a set of those iconic golden arches. As we all know the season is autumn and Halloween is pressing upon our sensibilities. I look to the left and see two women exiting a building, one woman in a golden pirate hat. At second glance I realize that she is exiting an ancient church, that her pirate's hat is, in actuality, a Sunday chapeau.

Misconstrued visuals Love.

Been gathering objets d'arts, or rather devenir art, things like little odd metal pieces and perfect little green crabapples, for art's sake. Still trying to reclaim art life after art school. My mantra of Art is supposed to be fun helped me get over, somewhat gracefully, thesis deadline hurdles but now it's time to forage on to works on paper, ideas in head, images on paper, items under hot lights, art under glass.
Got an email from Rio that she's giving up her long and lovely and straight hair for the charity that makes wigs for children with cancer. Of course lovely Rio is making such a gesture with her hair.
I am supposed to be succumbing to someone's whimsy at a hair school some time next month. Hair is only hair. It grows. It turns, with a lot of help, from primary red to normal after one's pal's experiment, guided foray into hair weirdness, runs amok and then fades out to further oddness of colour.
Today is a gray Middling City day, typical of later autumn.
I do not have more than a few gray hairs, despite my tribulations, and thanks to Gramma Vickie's excellent hair genes.
Today is a wet Middling City day.
Do not leave the house in cold weather with cold and wet hair for you will be inviting sickness to land upon your head and crawl down the back of your neck, lodging itself in your lungs for an indeterminate amount of time.
Next hair/health/weather question, please.

Chestnut hairballs of chestnuts and wisdom Love.

Just returned from the Liz Phair Extravaganza featuring her, her pretty guitars, her nice boots, band of Scruffian boys, and some odd onstage lights that looked like supersized Ikea items. Deb took me, Katherine, and Karen to the gig and we were to be seated in row G but, upon seeing the empty spaces, I insisted that we move into the front row, center, which we did. What did I learn at this show. That her new songs, like her old ones, are fine poetry that appeals to bandguys as much as earnest girlies and art types.
Before that made some images of the nouveau China art shows at Middling City U's two galleries and one of the moments at the suburban gallery was a performance featuring a woman artiste, sitting in a shopping cart putting on makeup while wearing a wedding gown as eight men in collars & leashes pulled towards their individual cupcake before them on the floor. The strongest neck and larnyx which reached his treat was performistically rewarded with the bride. I got some shots of one puller in particular who looked like his temples were going to explode blood all over the terrazzolike floor.
The cat is angry about the annual turn of the weather, angry at me as if I planned this to irk him in some way. He gets quite vocal in the autumn and this does not wane until spring's melty goodness.

Melty good love.

As is my wont, in the midst of turbo-powered deadlines breezed through Blogville to see what others are up to and located this must-see: go here for a neato-gleato treat.

Boom Love Box.

Did the Greg Sterlace Show (Yours Truly uses that term ultimately loosely) last night, arriving for taping and waiting a long while for some stoner musicians to show up - their band name was . . . Dyspepsia, no, Dysorg, no, it was Dystopia or Dysmorphic. It was a duo and they brought along their pal, Snake, a very Guns 'n Roses-lookin' dude with aviator shades and bandanna who said very little. I refer to him during the taping at one point as the show's potted plant. I did, most importantly, get a chance to do my famed rock jump during the band's "performance," over the top of the percussionist's head. Annie Deck showed up so she appears in the group photos, next to me for some. Oh, and Bad Ronald and I renewed our vows and the attorney who married us on the GSS a few years back couldn't make it so Greg did the honors. Standing in the background for that moment was a guy named Jim who showed up in a tricked-out suit fabricated from some classic PlayBoy fabric. His shoes were a rollicking shade of Pepto pink. All in all, the usual mayhem. After, headed out with Annie and met up with her brother Tom at Hardware where there was actually good live music warbling throught the convivial molecules.

Love conviviality.

Began the day just post asscrack of dawn and drove out to Middling City U where Yours Truly had an odd conversation with a student receptionist with listening comprehension issues. Apparently all the staff was in a meeting or vaporized and I was awaiting the arrival of my photo subject, a man who works at a top-secret defense contracting site associated with the U. As I am waiting and dropping off work for one who works at the desolate Friday office, I make some chat with the hearing impaired girl who, I am gathering, is probably a gigantic follower of all things sci-fi. Why, You may ask, is that my deducement of her. It had to do with her aerospace engineering studies, her manner of speaking, her sci-fi-looking shirt that would fit into any movie which outfits the femmes aboard a celestial ship of sorts in concurrently fetching (read revealing) yet sturdy and work-ready wear. So we're talking as the man/subject is late and then later yet. She says she's going on to grad studies in all things aerospace and so YT states Oh, you're done. Well, nearly done. She is squinting her eyes. WHAT, she replies. You are done, well, nearly done. Repeat exchange once more. Then I realize that she thinks I've called her dumb so I re-say You are nearly finished. She gets this.
The man arrives.
I have been warned that he's been hard to agree to being photographed, harder to schedule. This shoot was arranged by one of my editors so I only just found this all out yesterday.
He is sweaty and apologizing and says he could not find the building.
I suggest we leave this building and expect an argument but YT has gracefully pointed out that we will have a better time of portrait-making elsewhere. I give the nouveau location and off we speed. He is then late and then later still at the other spot.
I think he's pulled an archetypal male move of not saying he does not know how to get to this new destination. A car pulls up and it's not him.
Ten minutes drift along and then he arrives, saying he ran into someone he knew in the parking lot.
So we're making small talk as I photograph him and he goes into a rant about how his business is super-secret and that he's jetting off a lot to lobby in Washington and we discuss airports. Then he returns to ranting about how the Middling City Daily has misquoted him severely four times and the whole time I'm shooting away, offering some compositional strategies and thinking Uhh, okay, I'll be certain not to misquote you in any photo captions, Mr. Secret.
He wants a jpeg sent to him to prove to some of his colleagues far away that it's not always snowing in the Middling City and then I suggest we do a few portraits outdoors. He declines.
So, I'm thinking Wow, Mr. Secret is kind of kooky for how in h-e-double-hockey-sticks are some images of him standing inside a very neutral building with some very natural and pleasing window light going to prove a damned thing about weather maps in this region.
Moral:
You may be a lobbying scientist but that does not make you a MapQuest or Art scholar.

Scholarly Love.

Hearing this soundbite from unsound GWB yesterday on NPR I thought I'd e-fetch this quote, brushoffalicious and diabolical, regarding the press pressing on about the background of the next possible Supreme Court appointee.

"People are interested to know why I picked Harriet Miers,'' [President Bush]; said. "They want to know Harriet Miers' background. They want to know as much as they possibly can before they form opinions. Part of Harriet Miers' life is her religion.''

With logic akimbo, sidesteppingly the President answers nothing. So, as an exercise, is some self-MadLibbing below:

'Blog readers are interested to know why I picked Nancy J. Parisi,' Yours Truly said. 'Middling Cityites want to know My Perfect sport utility wagon. They belch to know as much as they possibly can before they form monkeys. Part of Yours Truly's perfection is her Oban.'

MadLibbin' Love.

Live and clean forget from day to day,
Mop life up as fast as it dribbles away.

-Sam Beckett, from
Collected Poems in English & French

Some birthday wizened words from the Sam, this emergence anniversary after picking up the niece and nephew and quote unquote kidnapping them for a sojourn to the avenue for some caffeine, sugar, cd's, rollicking hijinx before returning them to their more steady advisors and handlers. Time to head out with Kennedy and then points beyond.

Wise Love.

John Lennon's birthdate. Today.

Yoko always suggests to remember the beginning, not the ending.
Ending time is near, the garden the yellowed green and withered leaves and bees searching for the last pollen morsels, and the Middling City sky turning its customary Autumnal Gray.
Tomorrow is my own day of reckoning and it's usually a day I work and sort through matters but tomorrow I'm holding off on work, à la Day of Rest, for a change. Brucey observed that I have a hard time with the 10/10 and to that I said It's one's own special private New Year's Eve, in a way, a time to assess the highs, the lows, the plan of action, the bell curves, and pie charts. Yours Truly also believes a person's b-day is, if you care, love, like a person, a time to say Hey, you came out into the world and yafuckinhoo to that. Belated Happy B-day to JW,Esq., who, I am certain, spent his special day body-painted and addled in some club after hanging up the BBsuit. Tomorrow is also Katharine's date of birth, the niece, who plopped onto the scene on the 10/10.
So yesterday was Marty and Susan's wedding day and in lieu of being there in a cute black ensemble amongst some of my most favoured people and giving a reading penned by YT, I was a hired camera at a wedding of near-strangers who booked me over a year ago. And I did her sister's wedding and there was no way in h.e.l.l. I could say Oh, oops, sorry, I won't be there. So there I was. Encountered the sociopathic priest at Saint Weirdo's, I'm sure I blogged about him at last year's wedding of the sister of yesterday's bride. He didn't perform the ceremony yesterday but there were stories about him from the rehearsal run-through, of him pronouncing that there would be no alcohol, cigarettes, shenanigans on the premises of Saint Weirdo's. Nothing of the sort. So he's nowhere to be seen, whew, but then, during the formal fam photos in the church he appeared. He, as is his wont, approached me discreetly and mustered up in a most astonishing hate-filled and passive-aggressive stylee This is NOT a photo studio . . . you have TWENTY minutes. I informed one and all. Then I requested that the couple stick around with me when we were done, they had asked if I needed anything and I said Yes, please wait with me while I break this all down, last year this priest waited until everyone had left and came from God knows where to harngue me and scared me a bit. So they did, and, lo & behold, Father Creepo appeared and, when seeing that I was not alone, sort of disappeared again. Thwarted.
At the reception I was seated for dinner between the d.j. and a retired, 80-year old cop. After several attempts to ask the retiree about his former career as cop and boxer I gave up, his suspiciousness from years on the beat preventing me from hearing some good tales, I asked Andy the d.j. about his side job as a d.j. at a Middling City strip joint. Far more interesting, and rewarding. Now teeming with fun facts about the dancers, percentages, strategies, etc.
YT does have a priviledged purview of an enthralling cross-section of an odd assembly of people on any given week.
On that positive tale-rich note I end.

Love of rich tales.

At last evening's gig was seated for dinner, between two music types, one wearing his Africaner tie of jazzy hues. Someone at Table 10 commented on the tie and he quipped that this tie was responsible for thee Hillary Clinton going all woozy at the luncheon You might recall this past winter in the Middling City, when her eminence passed out c.o.l.d. and The Globe, with giant photo (pre-skid-hitting) of same by Yours Truly queried thusly: WAS HILLARY POISONED.
Well, in the mind of this music type he and his tie did it. I do have an image of him greeting HC at the door, her hand outstretched for him and the tie is there. There was a movie and/or t.v. star who I did not recognize, I thought him to be another grad student being trotted out to impress the major Middling City U donors, a look-see visual aid. But, no, this was a living, breathing, smiling widely movie/t.v. star who I could not have named, fingered in any event to save my precious, perfect life. So, being YT, once I did learn of his pending bronze star in Hollywood I jumped on the op to photograph him merrily, even posing him with a few people in the room who did know him. And this is not the sort of image that, say, my pal at The Enquirer would salivate over. Now, had he choked on the extra-brut chicken on plate, that would have been a, what we call in the trade, windfall.

Love windfalls.

Love Post.
If the title is too much, please do scamper now.
No time for non-Bryan Ferry-luvvin' fairies at this juncture. More than this.
The weekly therapist/mixologist Jeremy says Nancy, do you recall a morning at X. I say Yes, I do, regaling him with his own self-made details. They include a girl I do not know and Jeremy carefully purchasing a mug, a thing, a gift. I ask Do you LOVE the girl and he - sadly - balks. This boy I pegged as human, as genuine, as Real, as It All. He says I have said It but I don't know if I mean It. Plunging toward sad I ask Then why say and he say c o n v e n t i o n. Which leads me to the next scene of my lifemovie when I am driving aimlessly without a real home towards wherever and sobbing - the last time - for him. Concurrently, writing the first airy draft of a poem called same, the last time I cried for you and it's sad, sweet and liberating as it's - get it - the last fuckin' time. The last time a person can touch you somehow with words, memories, or remnants.

One of yesterday's gigs was to make some ports of a Middling City suburb political type, running for (and from) only God, voters, party planners may know.
So I show up at party h.q. and there he is, one of his brochures sticking out of his shirt pocket. This was there on purpose. I know, I asked.
He balked when I said I'd like to have his assistant (with my assistance) tape one of his larger signs to the wall - for a thrill, for a prop.
I wanted to shake him firmly by the shoulders and say this
Look, X, you stick to what you know. And I'll do what I know best. You stand there and look political, no art directing. End of orders.
So all worked out swimmingly, him finally succumbing to the art direction of Yours Truly most perfectly.
Time to press on with deadlines and hit the highway for two back-to-back jobs making all in front of the d2x look beautiful, pensive, pixel-worthy.

Pixel-worthiness of Love.

Not to be like so totally biting on OnlyInNewYorkKids,OnlyInNewYork fame - Liz Smith - but the fabulosic newbie to the eating and see-and-be-seen scene Freeman's has this majorly fun fact attached to it. Apparently those wretched Bush twin girls tried to sup & sip there and, noting their wide and over-priviledged faces. the hostess, when asked by one of the twins (who knows if it was the fat one named for that one grandmother, or the dumber-looking one, named for the other) how long of a wait it could/would be (after the furtherance of their stance at front of line was not helped one teensy schmeensy bit by their surname, which they brandished like a truncheon) were told Four years. Only in the Shiney Apple could a hostess come up with such a superb utterance as she was probably also a writer of some sort, or a comedienne, or a diplomat.
Speaking of such, had to shoot a Canadian dip today with the prez of Middling City U. And I thought how easy it was to spot him amongst the MC bunch. It harkened back to the wine centre/vintner joint up in Fort Erie somewhere where, like the Mainland Chinese, suddenly it is noted that the humbleness of yore is more yore than before.
Overheard on the streets of SoHo: uttered by a guy with a curly mullet who, it was quite obvious, thought himself an eminent metrosexual type was, him walking quickly and speaking in a gush over his shoulder to three people behind him New Yorrrrk is like mental Ritalin, so perfect for someone like me.
I mean really.
Flew back to Middling City in an inward snit and sat next to a small dog (half chihuahua and half terrier... a good mix) who popped out of his bag, first staring at me and then offering me some languid kisses and his handler, a lesbian sex worker.
We spoke and then came the certain tone of voice asking if I do portraits. As I told Kennedy this conversation has happened countless times, it's sort of along the lines of the invariable male who asks Are you the OFFISHull photographer. She needed a Bunny Yeager and I was like so not into being her Bunny Yeager. Onwards.
Yesterday's shower for Susan was good old-fashioned all-girl throwdown with the usual bunch of girlies and ruffians. I won a prize, a door prize - a shopping bag of things that smell good and then a femme won a bag chock full of Ani merch (hostess Mary works for RBR and the lil' folksinger . . . Laura is right now barfing on the floor wherever she is) and gave me the tiny girlie tshirt she knew I would fit into and she would never. A bonus. A bonus in this Perfect world.
There are exactly seven shopping days until the birthdate of Yours Truly.
Fav colour: green
Shoe size: 7
Ring size: 6.5
Hat size: who the fuck knows and don't buy me a hat.
Fav restaurant: Gotham
Fav scotch: Oban
Look, this is enough to get You started. Happy freakin' shopping.

HFS Love.

Minding my own business, as per usual, ran into a Parsons School of Debonairity grad of second class (as opposed to the premier class, the class just spewed back into the harsh reality of the world, i.e. Mine) at the Sugimoto show at Japan Society.
Two wows: 1. Serendiptity. 2. Show.
His seascapes and waxwork viewing boxes are there as well as a hardcore fossil collection, his thoughts on fossils and photography (Photographs are fossils of the present.), and some Japanese antiquities shown as they are right now and some with his photographs fused into what they are. It's shadowy, poetic, surprising and the only factor that is a minus are the overly-vigilant guards who must have taken a lead from the obsessive watchers of The Whitney. They don't serve sake or tea in the joint which has always made me want to find the director and ask Why. Ate dinner at a new joint off an alley off Rivington off Bowery. Freeman's. It like so totally rocks and there was consumption, amongst others, of those little UK morsels Devils on Horseback. I mean, really, what is there not to like about a morsel with such a name. Another bonus thing is the smiling head of a wild boar looming over diners. Other taxidermied former fauna include a geese with feet out, appearing to be about to crash land upon a table for a feast. Not him.
Speaking of morsels, Yours Truly has been making visual morsels. And like Devils on Horseback they rock. Perhaps my next show will be called same.
Faithfully sticking to the fun facts, the high times, the misdemeanours, I end.

Love morsels.

OK, this is truly truly horrifiying.
Somehow, and I reiterate Some... how... some radio station was on and I was minding my own stinkin' business and then they were playing BILLY JOEL AND IT WAS REALLY BAD, AS USUAL, BUT I MEAN I REALLY DO LOVE TO HATE THAT LOSER BUT REALLY . . . DID YOURS TRULY NEED - EVER - TO HEAR youmustberightImustbecrazy ON MY HI-FI. No, the answer is no, no, never, no.
Onwards to more Smog. Oh yeah and all is good in Perfect Nancy's World once more.
An I Really Hate Billy Joel Story:
(god there are so many, where to glean)
He is about to go onstage in a Middling City arena. As is his custom he has his handlers basically shake all us photogs down. No this, no that. As if.
He comes astage and is promptly teleprompted, the screen facing him atop his piano, his chubby little fingers working away on his tunes.
That's enough for now.
Shudder.
Jetting tomorrow to the right side of the state and have sent out appropriate warnings and such. Jubilantly, I discovered a credit with the company that became for years my school bus, my networking tool, my saving planular grace.
Off I go to make art. I am so very happy to be on the brink of tossing myself into my ideas.
And the rest of it.

Rest, no, never love.

Well, well well, well well well.
Firstly,
minding my own business at one of last evening's photographically opportunistic gigs, a private all-femme high school reunification, I was smiled at by a woman proudly wearing her clipped-out portrait from thirty years hence, not sure if she knew me or not as the room was only full of this class as well as a few waitresses filling chafing dishes with chafing waters. I was there to wrangle all of the amassed into a portrait = a pending summer Olympic sport, and more fun to watch than ribbon dancing to boot.
I though OK, she knows me so I says my name and she says in an odd voice OhMyGodYouLookGreat whilst hugging me.
I then realized she had no idea who I was and thought of telling her I was merely the hired hand photog but let her swim in her case of mistaken identity as, You know, sometimes it is just so not worth the price of admission to get into details.
This fine morn gig was a race and the road crew included a group of Middling City U students all decked out in the decade of their births - the 80s - all grooving on the tackier edge of those mauve and teal-infused, teased, bisexualized times. The group of them, about half a dozen, came to shepherd runners dressed as an 80s band and they were outfitted well and accompanied by a vintage boombox blaring Journey. A few of them gleefully asked if I was down with Journey and I assured them I was. Then they also gleefully showed me their vintage cassette tape, a holy rock relic of sorts. Who can forget the new mode, compact disc, when some of us owned but a few and we thought it could be a passing fancy, reading audiophile articles that they would be a flash, a lower-rez version that would be outpaced soon(er than later) - but no.
Haunted by a Chaos song heard on the radio, finally something new to get auditorially hepped for. Bought the last Smog. A gem.

Smoggy Love.

Inspired quite a skid mark today, a good seven feet of burnt rubber along the Avenue, as Joe Rozler concurrently shouted my name as I was walking in the Middling City sun across said Avenue and laid hard onto his bike's brakes. I had just said byebye to Mary, Kunji, Allen and was wending back to the historical Old First Ward allegedly being bought up like beautiful wampum (according to Gilian Brown, Esq. and old college pal who I also saw at the coffee joint). Joe Rozler said he was just recalling my gracious thank you note for some vino he bought me for my last b-day and thinking about buying same bottle for some person who has a b-day today and all when *ka-poof* there was Yours Truly. And then the skid mark.
Two things of yesterday.
1. Gig was jam-packed with hundreds in a poorly-designed new build in the exurbs and as I elbowed (OH! what training not only being a camp's art lady for a decade was, but shooting rock shows for two decades was too in this madcap world. . . patience, resilience, respectively) others away for a set-up moment featuring five VeryImportantPhotographees a man's voice slithered into my ear. Do you EVER photograph yourSELF, it asked. Not taking eye away or turning head I summoned the paint melt stare© in audio out of the edge of my mouth:
Absolutely not.
Marky Mulville showed up amongst the throng and I shouted Marky, surprising him greatly and he looked up from his, he said, malfunctioning D2X, which had made several black frames = really, really bad news. I suggested he pose the honoree with her sheet cake. It was festooned with flowers of an odd brick red.
2. Approaching the bar to approach a social gathering I then approached the actual serving station manned by Scott leaving for a rock gig. I asked what position do you play to which he exploded DRUMMER. I asked are you a power drummer. He said I am THE drummer. Apparently, he's in the Poptops and he was grabbing champagne splits for his Mohawk Place gig. So Lovelorn Jeremy was left and so as I waited for the others I asked Jeremy, you hear a lot of things, you offer up lots of answers as a bartender. What do you think I should do with my hair, let it grow, cut it. He spent some time looking at what it is doing and then said Keep it like that. Noncommital perhaps. But I agreed.
Hair, like dreams, is not only subjective but ephemeral.

Love ephemeral tales.

A few nights ago had a gig to shoot a pop starlet emulating DMB - Josh Kelley - who was performing at Hilbert. The spare crowd was a girls gone wild scene. Overall, Kelley was harmless. Moved on to SoundLab to see Tony Conrad and the cowbell lady, Steve B, and a few others in the dankness, avoiding their liver-non-enhancing Yellow Tail poison.
Trying to upload a Josh Kelley moment and Blogger is not giving me a helpful link so here is an apt description in lieu of actuality. His fist is raised, his face is beet red. He looks angry. He is singing a pop song about love and such so, we might ask, why such rancor.
On the other hand, a study in comparing & contrasting, Tony Conrad was all beatific wall of sound noodling, no fist in the air. Only studied composure, although he did raise an eyebrow, I think the right, when he noted Yours Truly at the stage edge capturing.
Yesterday included getting into the car of a stranger for the sake of journalism. The subject: man who commutes from Buffalo to Rochester. Posed him alongside his car in a lot of Middling City U and made an executive decision - this said more used car salesman than commuter. So I says to commuter How's about we take a ride. He obliged and we sped up and down downtrodden Bailey Avenue until I had what I needed. Until I pried my editorial sense out of him, who, all the while, expounded upon the racist happenings down in the Gulf region.
For the sake of experimentation I had my camera for some moments on his dash, shooting from the hip as They say.
What are we aiming for, we journalists.
A Pulitzer in every frame, every take.
Time to compile orders and dispense them to the awaiting.
Art calls and plans are being formulated as I blog about a few upcoming projects, including the foursome show YT planned recently for an unsuspecting arts venue. We have even discussed site-specific works. Oh, this venue will be most surprised. They will comply.

Complied Love.