No…not the movie, or the main combatant for the Predator. Actual aliens. If the stereotypical image of them; skinny elongated bodies, large heads, is true to form, and the state of things with the majority of this populace continues on its trajectory, would anyone be surprised to stumble across E.T. asking this lamppost for its leader?
The World Does Not Get Any Quieter
I don’t make it a habit to photograph graveyards, though I am eternally intrigued by them. They’re all over the place here in Massachusetts, and there’s a stately quality about them that almost transcends death itself.
Now, you may be wondering what in the hell was I doing at a cemetery at night, and I can assure you I have a perfectly good answer. I was on a road trip, exploring Western Massachusetts on my way to the Rhinebeck Valley in Upstate New York. Not wanting to just hop on the Turnpike, I decided to take the scenic route, and as I usually do when driving at night, with no idea where I am, or how to get to where I want to go, I got lost. So I pulled over to consult the map and discovered this scene.
The way the trees mirrored the headstones was what caught my attention, and prompted me to get out and explore. This is with the Holga, rigged with a rubberband to keep the shutter open, and just a wild guess on the time. I think I counted to 60.
About mid way through my kindergarten year, my family moved from Dallas, Texas back to where I had started life, and to where all of my family was still living. At that time, 1976, Newport Beach wasn’t the “O.C.” that recently became whored out to the likes of MTV and Fox. It was a quiet beach town more akin to Mayberry than J.R.’s Dallas or wherever the hell it was Dynasty or Falcon Crest took place.
I may be hopelessly nostalgic, but growing up in Newport and Corona del Mar was idyllic. My memories of those years are some of my most cherished, and a lot of them are tied up to the elementary school I attended from kindergarten through the fifth grade. Corona del Mar Elementary was, and again this might just be me romanticizing things, just about as perfect a place for a kid to go to school as one could wish for.
Living in Boston, I make it a point whenever I go “home,” to visit all the old haunts, to re-connect, to re-live, and to make a mental note of how it’s changed. One of the places I can’t do that with is CdM Elementary, as it’s now a few blocks of condos. The school closed down after my fifth grade year and was torn down. Before the demolition, a few of my friends and I broke in to the school, in essence, to say goodbye.
I remember standing in the room that served as my fourth grade class, Mr. Crockerd was the teacher, and feeling very nostalgic, for what was probably the very first time. There was debris strewn about, desks were scattered and toppled, the chalk boards were a mess. We cleaned one of them off and wrote, “We were here.” And then walked outside, home, and began our summer vacation.
Looking at the image I’m posting today brings all that back, I hadn’t planned on getting sentimental on you, and at the time I took this shot, those memories were the farthest thing from my mind. At the time I was just geeking out on line and shadow, composition. But something about the expired film and the Holga conspired to bring about those old ghosts of CdM, and if for only that, the 22 bucks I paid for the little plastic camera was money pretty well spent.
Using expired film in a Holga. Not much to say except it feels like playing hooky from school. Wrong for all the right reasons, or right for all the wrong. I don’t know.
Something like this, something never felt or touched before,
but on first glance it’s sweet and divine, the urge to explore,
to keep pushing past all that is seen at once,
discover all the hidden secrets of its promise.
