It's always about the stories...
"The hell if I can remember the past 2 months at all...
... But I will try to share good stories 'round the LED/LCD campfire glow anyway.
Been up to a lot of "soul searching", I suppose. Developing a solid sense of self, a concrete form of character, and of all the silly methods I have done so by whittling my social circle into a collection of people worth knowing as opposed to a collection of people I met at a bar one day or in high school years ago. People I can actually learn from, not a cheap collection of fan boys who do little more than masturbate my ego. I feel like a better person because of it. More so, I've seen a lot more in the past 2 months because of them.
I'm not going to inundate your web service with what amount to little more than re-posts since I know most of you over Flickr anyway. No no, this is story time more than photo time.
I've started hanging out pretty frequently with the only legitimate Baltimore urbex crew that exists. That is a pretty harsh statement, but given the wide gamut of personalities that I have come across this year as far as fellow explorers goes, they are the, THE only crew that isn't wasting time trying to impress other people, one-up other explorers or otherwise collect a crowd of followers unrelentingly fapping to HDR of wheelchairs. In wholly impromptu fashion, we hang out, scope out neat city locales, have a beer then call it a night. Entirely informal and with no real expectation. Some nights we spend feeling jaded, others we hop trains, still more we light paint or any number of lazily thought out endeavors. And it's great. We talk, we learn, we share experiences and in the end it's always a satisfying and chill night. If not for the intervention of that crew I wouldn't have expanded my horizons (to coin the cliche) and actually surf through cities with the level of comfort and carefree attitude I now have. I thank them for encouraging me to not be a sissy shit and see the city for what it (really) is.
Roof topping specifically is a new thing for me. I've always had the stupidest issue with heights and as much as I've loved others' roof top photos I've been too wary to attempt them myself. With positive encouragement all around, however, I've been pushing myself in various instances to tackle that irrational fear of heights. The views are simply stellar, too amazing for any photograph to ever translate as well as the experience of being there.
Not that I'm entirely knocking "old fashioned" urbex outings, though. I'd be lying if I said I'd completely sworn off tours through abandoned neighborhoods, factories and distilleries. Such structures are undeniably amazing. They simply aren't the end-all-be-all of the hobby, which is where my personal disconnect was.
It was my first time meeting this person, and she turned out to be an amazing mind with which to debate philosophy and abstract concepts just for the shit of it. To analyze our choices, our decisions, why we made them, why other people made theirs, and theorize about the plight of the human condition. Stupid stuff that made us laugh later over a hookah on the porch. We'd hit it off so well that only a week later we committed the majority of an entire day to exploring random things we drove by in the city.
One of the neater things I've picked up shooting with her is a willingness to shoot freehand once again. It's been forever since I've felt comfortable enough with my hands to tackle an interior shoot without the crutch of a tripod to compose the lines tightly parallel. With her encouragement to try, I surprised myself with how well I could handle composition with a little faith in my own steadiness.
We've done various other explores in the past couple weeks as well. Our common theme seems to be abandoned houses, which I was never into before, but am finding myself taking a liking to what with the wealth of story to be gleamed from remaining possessions. Locations less of photographic interest but nonetheless piquing strong curiosity. Occasionally they're also good for little treats like unique cookbooks that make for great presents for significant others.
This past weekend I ended up traveling to Pittsburgh for a certain gathering of ill repute. While aforementioned gathering was certainly the underlying pretext under which I went to the city to begin with, I essentially had nothing to do with it. It was an excuse, at best, to take time off work, go someplace new, drink, spend time with friends and, of course, urbex the shit out of everything I could get to without a car.
Thursday I spent entirely alone. I hadn't met anyone of a similar mindset as myself, so it wound up being a pretty lousy day of excessive drinking and bad decisions. It did produce one interesting story, though - the building next to my hotel was undergoing renovations, leaving the first 5 floors of the mid-rise an unknown, potentially awesome explore. I found this out while sober. 8 beers and 2 flasks of honey whiskey later I stumbled up to the building while a tenant of the upper floor was wandering in. A key fob was needed to access the building, and a simple drunken "Hey, can you hold that" was enough to slide in. Rode the elevator to the fourth floor and got off with the confused pedestrian behind me wondering why some drunken idiot just got off on a pitch black floor undergoing heavy renovation. Bored, drunk and unable to see a damn thing, I rode the elevator back down to leave, but the door wouldn't open. The key fob needed to get in was needed to get out. I kicked and slammed on the door for 20 minutes, pissed and suddenly wishing I were sober enough to figure out what I was doing in a secured building to begin with. I turned to the stairwell, hoping the fire escape doors would open. 11 floors later and I was on a rooftop - every fire exit was mag-locked. With no choice left but the most dangerous, I drunkly stumbled and fell down 11 floors worth of fire escape. The next morning, my hips were black and blue with bruises from swaying side to side, slamming onto the railings of the iron stairway.
I suppose the logical response to this story would be "Pics or it didn't happen". With that logic, I would like to pretend that it was the most retarded dream ever. But my hips still hurt.
Friday came, and my always-missed partner showed up at the gathering. No sooner did he arrive did we meet up at the same room party, boozing up and getting ready to tackle the world. And that's exactly (at least it felt like) what we did.
The rest of the weekend was random explores, city wandering, rooftops, cab rides, amazing food, spectacular beer, incredible vistas, the stuff that makes you want to retire from the expected Western standard of life (sleep->work->housework->sleep) and just drift. We created the kinds of memories screen writers couldn't make up if they wanted to.
I haven't sifted through all my photos from the weekend yet, but did punch through one locale we hit. An abandoned and half-demolished white building off the Southern end of the city, across the river. Of all people, the barista at the Crazy Mocha in the Westin hotel clued me in on the location. He'd originally asked me if I was there for the event going on, and when I said "Yes, but I'm more here for photos of the city and abandonment" he immediately opened up. Wondering if he isn't maybe one of the local contacts I tried to make before, but remained ever elusive.
We plan to make another week-long trip to the Steel City some time in the future. As much as we saw, there's still far more we couldn't see simply due to limited transportation. In any case, though, it's a weekend I doubt either of us are going to be forgetting. Times were simply too good, and words wouldn't do them any measure of justice.
Photography in general has been a thing in flux for me. Recently I was contracted by a travel listing firm to do real estate photography work, and through contacts I've made through jobs for that listing service, I've managed to slip into other commercial photography jobs of a terrifyingly high profile. As such, finally making money with what has been a passionate hobby for a decade at least, it's been strange trying to rationalize the hobby end of it with the business. I find myself taking things less seriously than I ever did before when shooting for myself. On top of that my motivation to work on processing images has suffered because I don't seem to be able to justify the effort if I'm not getting paid to invest time in the image. It's a weird position to be in. However I find my personal value assignment to the photos I take for pleasure that much more important these days. As if my interest has taken a very blatant turn from the ultimate quality of the image to the memories that image represents. The nostalgic walk in my brain it conjures. And I'm alright with that. My images have gone from sterile pieces of "art" to reminders that, yes, I am alive, I have done amazing things with amazing people, and here, look at this moment in time and be reminded that the experience of life is a beautiful thing.
And hot damn, am I happier to be alive for it."