garrison beau scott

One of the very cool things the camera allows is admission. Admission into places otherwise off limits for everyone else. I’ve been blessed to have been able to use the camera as a ticket for entrance into many great events and an introductory device to meet some very cool people.

Recently the camera served as a vehicle for me to meet Paul Katz. Paul is a world renown cellist, formerly of the Cleveland String Quartet and now an instructor at the New England Conservatory of Music. The assignment was to photograph Paul working with two of the quartets he mentors, the Parker and the Ariel, for an article being written for Strings Magazine. The magazine also asked for a few portraits for a potential cover and Paul invited me to his home to see if it would make for a good location for the portraits.

As soon as he sat down in his practice space and picked up his instrument, a 1669 Andrea Guarneri cello, I knew I was in the company of a very talented and accomplished musician. To watch him play was to watch another man breathe, the notes came that easily for him. The music was mind blowing.

I met up with Paul the following day at the campus of N.E.C. for the photo-shoot with the quartets and he gave me a quick tour of the facilities, highlighted by a look at Jordan Hall. Opened in 1903 as a gift of Eben D. Jordan, it is said to be one of the most acoustically perfect performance spaces in America. The stage has been host to Pablo Casals, Martha Graham, Arthur Fieldler, Béla Bartók, Aaron Copeland, Stan Getz and Benny Goodman. The true star of the Hall however is its immense pipe organ.

When Paul asked if I wanted to see if he could arrange a few hours to have the hall to ourselves to use as a setting for some pictures, I couldn’t get the “yes” out of my mouth quick enough. Fortunately for me, the students at the N.E.C. were on Spring Break and Paul was able to secure a few hours of the Hall’s use. Just standing on that stage was a thrill, let alone photographing a man who could put it to its greatest use.

I met Pablo in May of 1993 during orientation for Brooks. At the time, Brooks was still privately owned and run by the family who started the school and class size was small. I think there were 14 students in that BA-1 class, but even in that intimate setting, Pablo was still a bit shy. But who could blame a kid from Guatemala for that? The thing that struck me about Pablo immediately after was how nice he was, probably one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known.

For the next four years, I’d have plenty of opportunity to get to know him as our paths at Brooks would run almost parallel. Even though the program was intended to last just 3 years, both Pablo and I took time off and found ourselves graduating together in February of 1997. One of Pablo’s trademarks was just barely getting his assignments in on time. You could often find him in the lab mere minutes before critique putting the finishing touches on his project, and then the Guatemalan Hurricane would dash off to crit. I have many memories of class having just started when the door would burst open, Pablo would enter with his print in hand, place it on the crit rack and then calmly walk to his seat. A look of relief and a bead of sweat replaced by that million dollar smile of his.

But my favorite memory of Pablo comes from the morning of graduation. True to form, he’s working up to the very last minute before the assignment is due, in this case, himself. Only this time he needs a little bit of help. He doesn’t know how to tie his tie. It’s in his hand and he’s looking around for someone to do it for him and then he spots me.

“Of course Pablo, I’d be honored to tie it for you.”

We talked briefly about how fitting it was that four years after we first met, with everyone from that original BA-1 class either graduated or dropped out that we’d both be standing there together with me helping him with his tie. Our conversation was about joy and satisfaction, the irony of the moment and a bit of the reminiscing that occurs on graduation day. Not once did we mention cancer.

On that morning cancer was the farthest thing from our minds, the cancer that would ultimately claim Pablo’s life was still a few years away and his million dollar smile was allowed to shine without the strain of life’s unfair test. I fixed his tie, giving it a dignified knot and then we walked into graduation.

I’d have contact with him many times after that day. We exchanged prints, spoke on the phone a few times and I even had to hunt him down once when a friend of mine saw a photo of his on my site and wanted to publish it in a book she was producing. That was the last time I spoke to Pablo. I could hear his smile, though I could also hear it being tested. We talked about a few things, including life since graduation, the tie, and then about cancer. He said he was going to beat it. I think that was the only time he ever lied.

My grandfather Fred was a photographer. My father Dennis was a photographer and still is. In fact he’s got a set of Leicas I covet to a biblical proportion. There was a time when I was very young when my father was a stringer for the Associated Press. His real passion was serving in the police force and gave up working for AP sometime in the early 70’s. But he remained a photographer and his preferred subject matter was myself and my two sisters.

The archive of imagery of my sisters and I growing up is the reason I became a photographer. Inside the countless boxes of Kodachrome and contained on the endless strips of black and white film negatives is my childhood. Just abut every piece of it from first steps to first day of school, family vacations, Christmas celebrations, and all the subtle moments in between that make up a childhood.

Fast forward to the early 90’s. My parents have divorced, I’ve graduated high school with zero direction, barely making my way through junior college, and one day I’m in the attic of my grandmother’s home trying to piece together my life when I stumble upon the family photo archive. Right then and there I make a decision to learn all I can about the craft of photography, if only to provide my children, should I be fortunate enough, with the same gift my father gave to me and my sisters.

I enrolled in a photo class at the jc I was at, then a few more, then transferred to Brooks Institute of Photography, graduated, met the woman I’d marry, had two children and…well it can all be traced back to this picture and thousands and thousands of ones just like it.

This is my cousin Brian and I from a family picnic, that’s me on the right.

When I got the Holga, I figured baptismal by fire would be the best route. That and I am infamously impatient, especially when it comes to test rolls. So I started shooting film before I had any real results. By the time I had gotten my first set of exposures back, I had already shot two rolls of film at night.

The results of the first rolls told me that with 400 iso film, anything I would shoot at night on the normal settings would be greatly under-exposed. So when I dropped off the night stuff at the lab, I had them push it 3 stops, the max they’d do. Lesson?
1. Test
2. Patience
3. 3200 at night
4. Longer exposures
5. Test
6. Test

One would think I’d have that figured out by now, but like I said, I’m impatient. However, I did get some stuff I like. Enough that I’ll be posting ten images into my “Featured Portfolio” section at garrisonbeauscott.com in a day or so. Here’s a preview, this is of the T transfer station in Watertown.

I love walking around. If it weren’t for the camera, you might say it’s aimless wandering, which in and of itself is still pretty cool. But add a camera to the mix and I could walk all night. On this particular night, if it hadn’t been so cold, I just might have.

Jeff Engel and I met up in downtown Boston and began our trekking, with him as the guide, showing some of his favorite haunts when he goes out snapping. This image came at the very end of the night, taken at a parking garage he’s fond of.

I think in any other context, with maybe the exception of architecture, admitting being fond of a parking garage might raise a few eyebrows. But again, add a camera to the mix and there’s a whole bag of justification. This is one of mine.