Fall’s here–so I’ll be switching gears for a bit, beginning with some images from the woods here on Long Island. This one’s from the wetlands in the Long Pond Greenbelt area, south of Sag Harbor.
In this part of the country our wetland trees are typically Red Maple and Black Gum (aka Black Tupelo), and leaves from both species make guest appearances in my picture.
…a gallery of other Autumn pictures:
A solitary cabin with collapsing walls–photographed about a month ago in Nevada. Rendered here in lightly toned monochrome.
G3 Panasonic/Olympus M. Zuiko 45mm
Nevada, August 19th.
Panasonic G3/14mm/wide converter
Rabbitbrush blooms in late summer throughout the Great Basin, and assuming there’s been enough rain, the yellow bushy flowers carpet the land for miles.
There was lots of it here–even between the tracks of the rail bed. It’s an unsung plant in the West, not nearly as celebrated as Big Sagebrush which grows in the same habitat. (Rabbitbrush is in the foreground of this picture, and Sagebrush is behind.)
The fourth in the series, all from last month’s trip.
This one was done with the 45mm Olympus M. Zuiko on the Panasonic G3.
Double click to enlarge.
The third image in the series, also from last month’s trip.
Olympus 45mm M. Zuiko • Panasonic G3
Double click to enlarge.
Here’s another image related to the one from the previous post.
August 27th • Olympus 45mm M. Zuiko • Panasonic G3
If your tolerance is high for these pictures, similar species may be seen here:
https://johntodaro.wordpress.com/gallery-9-jazz/
Double click to enlarge.
A photograph from August 23rd, made with the Olympus 45mm f1.8 (Panasonic GF2).
The door belonged to a Ford, and the shadows belonged to an extended side-view mirror.
A double click will enlarge it.
Walking my shadow into a photograph feels a bit brushing up against the landscape. Maybe it’s the closest thing a photographer has to the way a cat marks territory.
Interacting can be unpredictable, but on this occasion it resulted in an interesting dose of surrealism.
The Midland Building is in Green River, Utah.
August 30th
Panasonic G3/14mm/wide converter
A simple home in the Nevada sagebrush–lovely or lonely–maybe a little of both.
Olympus 45mm M. Zuiko/Panasonic G3.
August 19th
Day’s end at the rodeo grounds—Escalante Utah, August 25th.
Panasonic G3/14mm/wide converter
…a third picture from the same vehicle–and another with plenty of midrange grays.
btw–I’ve added grain to all three of these pictures in order to make the surfaces more luminous and tactile. Back in the old days, we did this by developing our film in Rodinal, and an image processed in this manner was said to have “high acutance”. You can get a better sense of what the grain looks like by clicking on the picture to enlarge it.
Photographed on August 27th with a Panasonic G3 /45mm Olympus M. Zuiko f1.8.
Processed in Silver Efex Pro 2.
Photographed with an Olympus M Zuiko 45mm f1.8/Panasonic G3 on August 27.
I’ll be posting a group of these over the next few days, and will be keeping the text minimal. A slight ambrotype toning was used on the next few images.
45mm Olympus M. Zuiko f1.8/Panasonic G3 on August 27th.
When it was opened in 1929, Ely’s Hotel Nevada was the tallest building in the state. It still presides over the town in an uncanny way–being visible from just about everywhere.
Here, it’s seen in the rain along with a supporting array of traffic cones. I photographed it with an extra wide view in hopes of creating a “gothic” sense of the vertical.
August 19th-Panasonic G3/14mm lens with wide converter
Frosty Stand, was photographed about three weeks ago during an afternoon thunderstorm in McGill, Nevada. The picture is framed by tall trees on the right, and on the far left, by the tilting pole from a street sign.
The picture is a sister, of sorts, for the Central Theater image in the previous post.
McGill is one of those towns that seems to have bypassed the sterility and standardization that’s got a grip on much of the rest of the country. It’s an easy place to like, for that reason.
No residents are visible in the picture, but hopefully their place has spoken for them.
Central Theater was photographed in Ely, Nevada last month, on a quiet afternoon toward sunset.
This is a lonely scene….but for me, it’s a worthwhile memory of small moments and places.
About the Central Theater:
Despite being up for sale, the building has some credentials. It was built in 1939 and is the most prominent example of Art Deco architecture in this sequestered part of the state. It was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1993.
“Magic Mike” was performing at the theater that evening, but regrettably, I missed the show.
A view from the corner of one of the few remaining structures in Widtsoe, an historic Mormon ranching settlement in central Utah which dates to the 19th century.
The picture required a bit of contrast-muzzling, but once that was accomplished it seemed amplify the sense of space and mood. This is one of those places where the light can get under your skin…even at mid-day.
I’ll be posting more from Widtsoe next week.
Three windows and a door make some music in Nevada on August 19th.
Stepping back from the junkyard closeups, this picture takes you to a view from the ferry. You can click on it to get in a little closer.
Shadows lurking around in landscapes were a theme I kept going back to in Utah so this picture ties in nicely with the next group of pictures I’ll be posting.
It took an hour and a half to make the crossing to New London and six more hours to fly to Salt Lake City.
Ship Shadow was photographed with a 14mm Panasonic lens attached to a wide converter.
…moving in closer, this time with a buttery look through the drivers’ side window of a VW Beetle littered with car parts. Reflecting in the glass is a yellow Karman Ghia and the orange Beetle from the previous post.
Olympus M. Zuiko 45mm wide open.
The reflection is from a yellow Karman Ghia. The color they used for that car was very much the same color found in Vermeer’s paintings.
F1.8 45mm Olympus M. Zuiko…photographed wide open.
My first car was similar to this one. Those weren’t olive branches, I was just pretending they were.
Portal:
This is the first of a series of related close up views. Many of these pictures were photographed wide open with an F1.8 Olympus 45mm (which translates out to a 90mm on a 35mm camera).
If it’s possible to fall in love with a focal length, I’ve probably come close with that one.
For these pictures, I wanted a creamy look because these colors seem to crave it. I wanted some form, but without the distraction of sharpness. Portraits are shot wide open in order to convey a bit of lyricism so maybe the junkers deserve it just as much.
Photographed on August 30 in Moab UT with the 45mm with the 45mm Olympus M. Zuiko @ f2.5.
Creepy Ford Fragment, the particulars:
This one was photographed two weeks ago during my trip out West with my Panasonic G3 and the wide converter attached to a 14mm lens. The neighboring bus was an interesting subject in its own right.
I’m back in town after a two-week circuit around Utah and Nevada. It was a trip which began (and ended) with a superfluous ferry ride between Long Island and Connecticut–admittedly, not the most direct way to get to Salt Lake City from here.
I was stubbornly avoiding the drive to the NYC airports on a hunch that maybe the original inhabitants had it right. The best way to leave this place is in a boat.
Out west there were lots of hikes and photographs although the two were rarely occurring at the same time. I visited several National Parks including Zion, Great Basin and Capitol Reef. The pictures in those places tended to be of subjects no more than ten feet away.
I managed to fill up several memory cards with pictures of limping towns, crumbling homes, junkyards, sign parts and lots of clouds. There were many closeups of aged vehicles and a number of photographs of my own shadow. There were fields of flowers and one that was full of Volkswagens. In case you haven’t heard, we Americans are a throw-away culture.
Up above, you’re looking at a shaved ice stand in Green River, Utah: a skinny shack caught in the dry roast of an August sunrise several hours before opening time. Nearby: an abandoned cafe whose wonderful sign is still appealing to the road.
It’s a good picture to start off with because the shaved ice stand looks a bit like a friendly robot.
Green River is struggling along on the dubious lifeline of I 70. It’s surrounded by grey hills comprised of crunchy shale deposits, terrain where hardly anything grows (although it should be noted that there are fields of cantaloupes which thrive on the silty water of the river once navigated by John Wesley Powell).
A vacation here in August can feel like a holiday inside an oven.
The ice stand is located about fifty miles from Moab–the nearest neighboring community and one which has been rewarded with an abundant flow of tourism.
Hopefully some of those folks will find their way up to Green River.
The picture was taken with a Panasonic G3 with a wide extender mounted on the 14mm prime lens. I had a lot of fun looking at the many types of distorted views that are possible with this combination. You can click on the picture to enlarge it.
The old trucks are from New Mexico, a place with lots of aging Chevys and plenty of wildflowers.
The picture on top is called Runs Good and the other one is Sweet Pea. You can click on them for enlargements.
Paint endures out west, mostly because of the lack of humidity. On occasion, you’ll find abandoned vehicles from the 1930’s with some original color. You might recall this one from a few weeks ago:
https://johntodaro.wordpress.com/2012/07/27/long-term-parking/
My own truck has spent far too many days on the salt lick of eastern Long Island. It’s got more rust than a box of wet nails…but it still “runs good”.
A pair of black and white photographs from East Hampton, captured in the low-angled light of sunrise at the ocean.
There’s more of these “marinating” on my desktop at the moment, and I’ll be posting them as the week goes along.
The photograph of a White-tailed Deer was taken in the historic orchards of Capitol Reef National Park in Utah. I’ve called the piece “Apple Time”.
This piece is from the Gardiners Bay area of East Hampton, and was photographed with the Hasselblad 903 SWC.
Another car with a collection of bullet wounds–this one from the Comanche National Grassland in southeast Colorado–a place so far off the beaten path that I had no clue where I was.
Bonnie and Clyde drove a 1934 Ford Fordor Deluxe Sedan but I like to think it looked something like this. I love my silver Toyota Echo, but in truth, I would’ve preferred this shade of green.
Photographing aged vehicles is a lot like photographing old folks. You have the opportunity to work with very engaging characters. And just like centenarians, these aged cars have plenty of good stories, lots of texture, and very compelling lines.
I’ve never seen a car come off the assembly line with the ability to do this.
It’s a midsummer’s night, so what better way to celebrate with than some more photographs of abandoned vehicles — (spoken like a true Luddite).
First up is a photograph of an ill-fated VW Van which I found on a back road outside Phoenix, Arizona. This was a remote place, near nothing in particular. It was a hot day in April, and yes, those are bullet holes.
I owned a VW Van myself back in the 70’s and once drove it across the country in a trip that’s beginning to fade to the same extent as my high school picture. I do recall breakdowns and mechanical issues, and on the return trip we discovered that one of the spark plugs had fused to the engine block.
That was pretty bad news, because when we let the van idle, it would stall out.
We drove it home from Easton PA, all the way through NYC and then out to the suburbs on Long Island, gunning it in neutral at every toll booth and stop light in order to prevent stalling. If it stalled, it wasn’t likely to start. I didn’t check, but there must’ve been a pool of sweat under the driver’s seat.
I can’t remember what happened after that, except that my VW Van bit the dust. I always liked it, and it looked quite a bit like the one in the picture, minus the bullet holes.
This picture has become its elegy.
Photographed on Gardiners Bay, East Hampton: A skirt of incoming tide with pebbles and Slipper Shells.
Photographed on Gardiners Bay in East Hampton: A wafer of sand, seaweed, Slipper Shells and pebbles.
I found Outlaw not far from Old Red (the truck in the previous post).
In this part of the country, horses are a traditional means of transport–a point which invites comparison to the more prosaic pick up.
Horses consume less fuel (depending on whom you ask), and they require about the same amount of maintenance (although some would disagree). You won’t meet any ponies who are as red as pick ups, but a chestnut coat can be just as handsome as any factory paint.
One thing separates them flat out from trucks: They crave more affection.
Click on him and he’ll come closer.
•
Photographed on transparency film using a Contax G2 and a 28mm Zeiss Biogon. Scanned with the Minolta Dimage Scan Elite II.
I found this exhausted truck in Utah, not too far from the crimson rocks of Bryce Canyon. One wonders: is everything is southern Utah turning this color?
A close up:
https://johntodaro.wordpress.com/2012/07/08/semi-abstract-photographs-rusty-red-trucks/detailing/
I’ve owned about fifteen vehicles but I’ve only owned one that was red—-a VW Bug that was my very first car. The car was red, but I was closer to green because I was only 18.
Sadly, my recollections of all the rest of my vehicles are starting to fade. When I reflect back, that VW bug really stands out. It seems that all the red things in my memory have a much longer expiration date.
I like my red photographs, so I try to cut this one a lot of slack. Problem is: I shot it on Fuji Velvia, so I had to decrease the red saturation.
Here’s some quotes about the color red from four different artists:
“Red is the ultimate cure for sadness.” –Bill Blass
“I love red so much that I almost want to paint everything red.”–Alexander Calder
“Red is one of the strongest colors, it’s blood, it has a power with the eye. That’s why traffic lights are red I guess, and stop signs as well…”–Keith Haring
“Red, of course, is the colour of the interior of our bodies. In a way it’s inside out, red.” –Anish Kapoor
I have a group of pictures of abandoned vehicles which I’ll be posting intermittently.
There are people who find these old creatures and restore them, and their work can be painstaking and rewarding.
There might be something wrong with me, but I much prefer aged cars that look like cow skulls. In truth, they’re often found in the same places and are much more interesting to look at. Peeling paint works for me, and the fresh stuff never has.
Unless it’s my imagination, more light shines in when the window is missing.
Photographed near Escalante, Utah, with the walls of Escalante Canyon in the background. Click on them for enlarged versions.
I’ve gotten absorbed with these dune photographs for the last week and ask for your patience, especially if this sort of image provides you with no ignition.
The pictures were taken at various times during the last twelve years and have been mothballed until now. They were recorded on archaic film with analogue equipment (none of which I’ve yet surrendered). I scanned the pictures using an obsolete Minolta Dimage Scan Elite (which I bought on eBay after my original was fried in a lightning strike). The good old stuff.
Once you’ve scanned your film and it’s been nestled into Photoshop, it has been rescued from obsolescence–a good thing, I suppose–although as a child of the previous century, I feel the pangs of resistance.
The picture is from the Little Sahara Recreation Area in north central Utah. I have some other images from this locale which I’ll be posting later.
(The camera: Contax G2; 28mm Zeiss Biogon)
The photograph is from Death Valley and was made on film with the Contax G2 (and 28mm lens).
Click to enlarge.
Photographed near Taos, New Mexico, August 2011.
The photograph of reflecting boats, ropes and buoys is entitled “Chimera” (and yes, that’s a small school of fish swimming in the upper part of the picture). I’ll be displaying this piece and other images at an upcoming show at Ashawagh Hall in East Hampton, in NY.
The show will take place on Tuesday and Wednesday July 24th & 25th, and will run from noon until 9pm on Tuesday (with a reception beginning at 5pm) and also from 10 am until 5 pm on Wednesday.
“Chimera” is being made as a limited edition pigment print in a 22 x 22 mat, and the first print in the edition is currently available.
Ashawagh Hall is located at 780 Springs-Fireplace Road in the historic area of Springs. It’s a short walk to Accabonac Harbor, The Springs General Store and the Pollock-Krasner House.
There’s free admission and kids are most certainly welcome!
I’ll be displaying with painters Cynthia Loewen, Phyllis Chillingworth and Anahi DeCanio and also the pressed-flower artist Deborah Anderson. The five of us participated in a very well-attended show at Ashawagh Hall this past February, and I’m really looking forward to showing again.
There’ll be a good mix of landscapes and abstractions at the show, with lots of new work from everyone. There’s plenty of visitors on the East End right now, so we’re hoping you stop by after a day at the beach, especially for our Tuesday evening reception.
Below, you’ll find some details on the artists with links to their sites. Please email me if you have questions.
Cynthia Loewen is a realist painter from East Hampton, who renders her subjects in minute detail. Her specialty is local landscapes and seascapes which she’ll be displaying as acrylics and watercolors. Cynthia has a talent for evoking a sense of place (a technique no doubt informed by her family’s long history in the area). She’s also the founder of the new Community Art Project in Springs which has been having quite a year. Here’s Cynthia’s work:
http://www.aaeh.org/Cynthia_Loewen.html
Phyllis Chillingworth is a painter whose watercolors and oils evoke the transient moods of light from Montauk and nearby areas. Her paintings are bold, beautiful–full of the flavor of local light. She’s a graduate from the Yale School of Art and Architecture and also the Illinois Institute of Technology, and she also attended the Art Students League and NYU and exhibits frequently in the NY area. She’ll be showing new oils from Montauk and Napeague. Here’s a link to Phyllis’ work:
http://www.phyllischillingworth.com/
Anahi DeCanio’s abstractions and multimedia works have won many awards and have been exhibited worldwide. Her abstractions demonstrate a sophisticated sense of color and line, and her work often ties in themes of women’s issues in very creative ways. Her work has been displayed at Pen And Brush (NYC), and the International Museum of Women and also at The Milan Film Festival and the Boca Raton Museum of Art. Here’s a link to Anahi:
http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/anahi-decanio.html
Deborah Anderson is the creator of “Pressed Petals Of Sag Harbor”. Deborah’s art involves detailed arrangements of dried flowers, butterflies and other botanicals which she fashions into a variety of framed formats. Her work recalls elegant botanical art and design from the 19th century. Deborah has showed extensively here on the East End and will be displaying many new framed pieces at the show.
The pictures were taken in Utah where the sky is kind of blue.
Click on them, if you’d like to see the enlargements.
I’m back at Cadillac Ranch again, but only because photographs sometimes travel with memories.
Last summer when I made the trip I was hungry for the details. The story goes like this: It was 1974 when the junked Caddies were interred into the plains of Amarillo. The act was committed by a wily group of artists who called themselves The Ant Farm. Since then, visitors have begun to leave their marks. Over the years we’ve unleashed a monument unlike any other.
A hundred yards north, the east-bound lanes of Interstate 40 funnels a river of vehicles toward a distant Atlantic coast. Out here in the heartland, the bloated roar of eighteen-wheelers is virtually non-stop. On the other side of the fence are the three lanes of the western artery. Either way you travel, it’s fifteen hundred miles to an ocean.
The traffic keeps flowing here because that’s the way desire works. There’s a thirst in this place that never really gets quenched. The Cadillacs are buried in the heart of the continent and it’s from that spot that we reflect on the backwash of our dreams.
At sunrise, I was alone with my cameras, but within a few moments a dingy car pulled in behind mine. A young couple walked across the field to where I was setting up my tripod. There was a boy with hair knotted up in a blue bandana and arms blazoned with tattoos. He wasn’t much older than my fifteen year old son. His short-haired girlfriend was wearing a white hoodie because the heat had yet to arrive. She approached me shyly asking if I would agree to take their picture with her phone.
I did what she asked because it mattered more than what I was doing.
They explained that they were eloping. They’d driven all night from Tennessee en route to Las Vegas where they hoped to make it official. I took their picture and gave her the phone back. They happily looked at their portrait. The boy asked me if it was okay to spray paint one of the Cadillacs.
“Yeah, everyone does,” I said, feeling like the curator.
“I always wanted to see this place,” he explained.
“Me too,” I said.
He pulled a can of paint from his hip pocket and walked behind a Cadillac at the far end of the row. His girlfriend smiled and followed. For a few minutes they were out of sight but I could hear their muted voices. Once, between the Cadillacs, I could see her stepping backwards. She was angling for a picture with her cell phone, trying to find the best position to photograph her boyfriend. This was body language which I understood. After a while they waved to me and walked off to their car.
There was the crank of ignition and then they pulled away. For the second time that morning, I was alone with the Cadillacs.
I looked at the view from my tripod but my heart was no longer with it. My thoughts had gone with those kids. They were young and it was a really long way to Vegas. There was a door that was about to swing open into the rawness of their lives and I had been ambushed by an unexpected wave of sorrow.
•••
My earlier post about Cadillac Ranch can be found here:
https://johntodaro.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/amarillo-twelve-megabytes-for-the-ant-farm/
I’ve queued up another image from the archives–one with a similar story to the glowing gate from the previous post. In both cases, the capture involved archaic weaponry: a roll of Kodak negative film and an obscure 120 film camera. For this one, it was the Fuji 645W, an odd plastic camera known for its unusually sharp lens. I also owned the 645S–similarly designed with the addition of a “roll bar”. I liked them both because they were undersized. I could travel light and shoot without a tripod. Nowadays they’re stored in the basement in a shoe box near my record collection.
The abandoned house was discovered after an afternoon of zig-zagging through the plains. As usual, we were out on the greyest roads on the map. Once you get into this part of the country you begin asking yourself, “Now what do we do?”
My companion took no pictures, but I was engaging the question.
The plains are the least photographed part of North America–a fact which is even more astonishing when you realize that they represent about a third of the United States.
As I’ve written before, this is a place which is currently reexamining a number of historic assumptions–having had a lengthy quarrel with invading Europeans. At the moment, the plains are back in charge, especially west of the 100th meridian where the middle of North America is filling up with ghost towns. It’s the same story from Saskatchewan to the Texas panhandle.
There have been books which tell the of the struggle, and Willa Cather’s My Antonia is a personal favorite. But the contest has also being written into the the photographic record. Two photographers come to mind: John Vachon and David Plowden.
Vachon was an artist employed by the FSA seventy years ago during the depression, and was one of the first photographers to focus a lens on the life and landscapes of the farming population of the Dakotas. By the 1930’s it was already apparent that this was not an easy place for a gig. He took many images, but none is more deeply felt than the one of school children playing in a snow storm. It was recess. It looks cold, and the children are constructing a fort. Behind them: a one-roomed schoolhouse in blowing sheets of snow. A few decades later, Plowden published The Floor of The Sky. This time, many of the photographs were in color. The photographer wisely chose to make C Prints. They were warm-toned, bittersweet and full of lonely grass.
Both photographers looked closely at the people as well. As I flip through their books nowadays, it’s hard not to notice the similarity between the furrows in the fields and the deep lines in the faces.
There’s a link for Vachon’s image (at the Library of Congress) below in the comments.
And, keeping within this theme–two related posts from a few months ago:
https://johntodaro.wordpress.com/2010/12/06/one-room-schoolhouse-western-south-dakota/
https://johntodaro.wordpress.com/2011/01/26/abandoned-home-approaching-storm-north-dakota/
A few years ago, I paddled up to this dinghy while exploring the wetlands of Bullhead Bay in my sea kayak. The bay is a good place for this sort of exploration and much of the land from there up to Scallop Pond has been preserved by the Town of Southampton and The Nature Conservancy. The picture was taken in November–a time of the year when you pretty much have the estuary to yourself. In this setting, the boat seemed appropriately named.
The picture was captured on transparency film using a Contax G2 with a 90mm lens. In order to do this, some preparations were needed.
Once I was positioned close to the dinghy, I inflated a paddle float and placed it on my paddle. Holding the paddle behind my back, I braced myself against the water. By using a paddle float in this fashion, you create a relatively stable outrigger from which you can then carefully take some photographs.
The 90mm is a fast lens, and this situation is a good example of when you might prefer a fast prime to a zoom. A slower zoom would’ve been unusable at ISO 100, and also would’ve been very difficult to stabilize while trying to shoot one-handed.
Because I was willing to take an expensive camera out onto the bay without any waterproof housing, I was taking some chances. To minimize the risk of water damage, I sealed my equipment in a water-tight dry bag which I then sat on top of my lap. I also stashed a bottle of fresh water in my cockpit so that I could wash my hands before handling the camera. The deflated paddle float was bungeed to the boat. After taking a few pictures the camera went back into the dry bag and I continued on my way.
Attempting this procedure in rougher surf requires a bit more attention to bracing properly, but I’ve done it successfully several times.
The picture at the link below was taken near Cedar Point with the same camera and the same film. On that occasion, I was bracing myself against a fast moving tidal rip in thirty feet of water:
https://johntodaro.com/buoy-6-profile.htm
The red dinghy up above required a bit of post-processing. The first step was to make a high-res scan on my Epson V 700. After a bit of clean-up work I settled on a cropped square image which made it very compatible with a number of my full-frame images from the Hasselblad. One thing I’ve noticed about scans from Provia F is that the intensely blue bias of the film often benefits from a bit of desaturation in Photoshop.
Here’s a photograph captured with my new Panasonic Wide Converter…a Micro 4/3 camera accessory which is also known as the DMW-GWC1. If you ask me, better names must certainly exist.
As I’ve explained in other posts, the converter attaches to the Panasonic 14mm f/2.5 and presto—you have an 11mm lens. This is equipment for those who occupy a very specific niche: The Micro 4/3 completist, or at least anyone in possession of the 14mm Panasonic lens who’s curious about a wider field of view (and doesn’t want to fork up the $600-plus for the comparable Olympus lens).
The picture was captured as a RAW file (handheld, and using a Panasonic GF2). The RAW was converted to JPEG in order to publish it here at my site. No color adjustments were made, and the file hasn’t been sharpened. A slight reduction in contrast was employed in order to make the image more internet-friendly. (Keep in mind–you really should be checking out at these photographs on a MAC monitor anyway if you want them to be spot-on, a point which is especially relevant when it comes to highlight detail.)
If you’re wondering, the gradation from the upper left to the upper right in this photograph is entirely natural (the sun was shining a few degrees starboard). Happily the files from converter photos show only a slight (but acceptable) amount of vignetting. If you’re horrified by any vignetting, the post-processing fix will cost you all of four seconds. Barrel distortion is present, but can be likewise dealt with in Photoshop. If you’re not shooting architectural subjects it may not matter anyway. Overall, the optics of the converter seem comparable to the 14mm lens it attaches to.
The location of the picture: Sag Harbor, USA…on the eastern end of fish-shaped Long Island where our wild roses are now blooming.
Several more of my converter photographs along with additional comments may be found at the following links:
https://johntodaro.wordpress.com/2012/05/18/swan-at-havens-beach-panasonic-wide-converter-dmw-gwc1/
My friend Peter (at .documenting.the.obvious) has published a more thorough review of the DMW GWC1, (especially as regards vignetting, barrel distortion and corner sharpness). Visit his post at the link below but please take some time to enjoy his many unusual photographs:
http://dothob.wordpress.com/2012/06/23/into-the-great-wide-open/
I’ve been working with my Panasonic wide converter, a recently introduced accessory which is also known as the DMW-GWC1. If you ask me, there are gasoline additives with sexier names–but don’t let that scare you off.
As I noted several posts back, the DMW-GWC1 is screwed onto the front of Panasonic’s popular 14mm Micro 4/3 lens. Once attached, the lens is persuaded to yield a wider field of view (about the same as a 22mm lens on a 35mm camera). If you’re accustomed to using a 28mm, the converter is decidedly more expansive.
The first thing you notice is the increased depth of field, something which opens up many new creative possibilities. This is especially true when used on cameras like the Panasonic G3 with it’s full range of manual controls and live viewfinder. The second thing you notice is that whatever is close to your lens has an appearance of being much further away.
Over the last few days, I’ve been using the converter on subjects that are well below the horizon–a technique which is admittedly counterintuitive. A lens this wide has an enormous appetite for skies, but summer is on the way and there’ll be plenty of time to go looking for clouds.
The Hydrangeas were discovered while walking up to the coffee shop a few mornings ago in Sag Harbor Village. The image was captured quickly without the need of a tripod. I was in full shade. Everything’s in focus in the picture because there’s more depth of field than you can shake a stick at. Moments later I was sipping coffee and making sure my lens cap was affixed to my converter. The bulbous glass accepts no filters, so you have to be careful.
The image is essentially a copy of the RAW file with no further color or contrast correction. To me, that’s a good sign.
As you can see, the converter performs well in low light, yielding images that are both bright and fully accurate in terms of color. I haven’t yet pushed this thing into more challenging light and contrast, but I can tell you that within the gentle gamut of shade, it’s fine.
Nice work, Panasonic.
My other two posts for the DMW-GWC1 may be found here:
https://johntodaro.wordpress.com/2012/05/18/swan-at-havens-beach-panasonic-wide-converter-dmw-gwc1/
For those into the particulars, the image was handheld @ 200 ISO, f9.o @ 1/100. I was using the Panasonic G3.
New Bedford is a city with a waterfront revitalization in progress and is worth visiting if you’re in southern New England. The National Park Service administers New Bedford Whaling National Historic Park which includes a museum and visitor center located within walking distance of where the pictures were made.
Any of the thumbnails above can be enlarged by clicking on them. Email me if you have any questions about what you’re looking at.
This image was found on the east side of Long Wharf recently, on a calm morning with unsettled skies. One hundred and seventy years ago (around the same time Fox Talbot was perfecting the photographic process) this very same wharf was the locale of Sag Harbor’s formidable whaling fleet. Sag Harbor had notoriety in those days, both for its industry and for its multifarious collection of sailors. There are several references to the village in Moby Dick.
These days, the only thing being processed out on the wharf is restaurant orders and the data for an occasional photograph. From the northern end there’s about 300 degrees of water to take in, along with North Haven and Barcelona Neck (in East Hampton) which are visible beyond. Straight out past the breakwater is a prominent beacon. There’s some rocks near there where the seals like to sun, and beyond that are several thousand acres of Mashomack Preserve.
For those in tune with the tides, Long Wharf still can still whet the taste for adventure.
A photograph taken in November on the south beach of Napeague Harbor (just east of the Art Barge). For this one I employed a Panasonic GF 2 and its wide angle 14mm lens.
Photographed yesterday (around sunset) on the tidal flats accessed from Northwest Creek. Captured with a Panasonic G 3 with the wide angle 14mm.
Photographed yesterday: an image which combines the incoming tide with the rippled flats of Northwest Harbor. Taken with the Panasonic G3, handheld, and using my prime 14mm lens. My son describes the effect as “cross hatching”.
I rarely make these statements, but I’d have to say that this picture is my favorite of all my own hoodoo images, east, west or anywhere in between. I do concede that it’s a gloomy scene, but for me it evokes the place, and I can smell the tide and the crumbling earth and the oozing out of spring.
They don’t call them hoodoos for nothing.
Have you ever been at Shadmoor and asked yourself, “How did they get here?” These formations (unlike their more famous cousins in places like Bryce Canyon) are not comprised of eroded sedimentary rock. What we have here is a mish-mash (my wife’s words) of sand, clay and gravel–also known as glacial till. Long Island itself is pretty much nothing more than a sandbar full of such debris left by retreating glaciers.
The formation of hoodoos here in Shadmoor occurs when water percolates down and begins to move horizontally in the ground. There it pushes out the softer deposits, which kicks off a process of slumping and erosion creating hoodoos out of the remaining harder sediments. In spring, if you hike down in front of the bluffs on the beach, you’ll often find water leaching out of the clay. In some spots, it forms rivulets which flow onto the sand below. The ocean takes care of the finishing touches with its own brand of erosion, chomping off huge vertical sections after storms.
Anyone who has visited National Parks in Utah (or who has read anything by Edward Abbey) invariably comes away with a fondness for the term “hoodoo”. In the west, a hoodoo is a name for eroded sandstone and limestone formations, especially the ones that conjure up ghastly shapes, anthropomorphic or otherwise. The term is an alternate take on the word voodoo and probably originated in Africa. You can see plenty of hoodoos in Goblin Valley State Park (in central Utah) or in Bryce Canyon.
But the west doesn’t own them all.
Similar spires may be seen in Shadmoor State Park in Montauk, where eroded bluffs create a fantastically ragged coastline. Much like their western cousins, Montauk’s formations continue to erode and reshape themselves (and are arguably just as spectacular).
This photograph was taken a few years back on an obstreperous winter’s day when a storm was clearing out. For about a half hour, I was present for a very interesting display of light which included the occasional sunbeam slanting down to the ocean. The picture was shot on negative film with my Hasselblad.
Shadmoor State Park preserves a half mile of oceanfront in Montauk along with 99 acres of parkland up on top, and is home to a variety of rare plant and animal species and unusual wetland habitats. Sand Plain Gerardia is present here along with thick stands of Black Cherry and Shadbush, the small tree which gives the park its name.
Shadmoor has historic significance because it’s also the location of Camp Wikoff, where Theodore Roosevelt and his troops were quarantined after the Spanish American War. Additionally, there are two observation bunkers in Shadmoor which date to WW II and which were part of our coastal defenses.
I’ve photographed Shadmoor at various times and seasons. This image is from down on the beach in front of the bluffs facing Ditch Plain. A half mile walk will get you up-close and personal with the famous Montauk hoodoos, which is the local name for the eroded bluffs of the park.
In December, as I’ve mentioned, I picked up a lens for my Panasonic Micro 4/3 outfit – the Olympus M. Zuiko 45mm, a lens of such beguiling compactness, it could snuggle up next to a golfball. But more to the point, it’s the very satisfying speed (f 1.8) which has been making most of the news.
By designing it both small and fast, they’ve escorted handheld telephoto imaging into a new dimension. Interestingly, the M. Zuiko suggests a miniature version of my much-used 90mm Sonnar (for my Contax G2)–a Zeiss telephoto that was another good performer when used without a tripod.
Much has been written about the lens’ ability to deliver a creamy soft focus when used wide open (aka bokeh). As you might know, this is an old technique which is quite the rage at the moment. And it is true–with this lens, a very shallow depth of field is possible, to an extent not previously achievable with point-and-shoot. If you’re into bokeh, this lens is your huckleberry.
Needless to say I’m generally not using it for portraits (nor for shallow depth of field). The picture above demonstrates how an effective handheld picture is possible in low light outside. My camera was set at ISO 400, at a moderate f 9 aperture, with a shutter speed of 1/400. Because I was only ten feet from my subject, the depth of field achieved here (with a handheld camera) is quite impressive throughout the image. Plus, because this lens is so fast, the image was recorded in the very sweet central area of the glass. (Using a zoom I would’ve been shooting much closer to wide open, and would’ve also required a tripod which would’ve made this particular image nearly impossible to take.)
To me, getting handheld images like this is a testimony to the compactness of this lens, and the beauty of the Micro 4/3 system. The 45 f 1.8 is capable of delivering stunning bokeh wide open, moderate bokeh when used around f 5.6 (something which I often employ when shooting in fog), and superb depth of field at the higher f stops (which, in truth, is even greater than a comparable 35mm lens because the lens construction for Micro 4/3 is so much smaller). In these terms, the Olympus 45mm f1.8 is extraordinarily versatile and one of the most usable telephotos ever made.
The lilliputian character of this lens relates directly to the Micro 4/3 sensor. It should be interesting to see if the (significantly larger) Sony NEX 7 system will have a comparable fully automatic prime telephoto available in the next year. I doubt it, but even if one comes along, it’s likely to be larger. For landscapes I much prefer a fast telephoto that’s usable without a tripod. I’m not ditching my Panasonics, and I suspect there’s an argument to make for using both formats.
BTW–This is how I’m currently working with my 4/3 primes:
I pack the Panasonic G 3 and the GF 2 into a small Tenba bag. The weight of both cameras (and all three prime lenses) is less than my old Hasselblad 180mm. That’s a lot of lightweight equipment using very little space. I keep the 14mm Panasonic on my G 3 and the 45mm Olympus on my GF 2. Since my GF 2 is silver, the lens is quite bewitching when paired this body.
The odd man out is my equally speedy 20mm f 1.7 which I can quickly install onto either body when needed. Having two bodies affixed with prime lenses makes it very easy to switch horses in the middle of a shoot. Advice: if you already have a GF body and are considering the G 3 (or GX 1)–keep your original camera. With prime lenses in your bag, having more than one body makes a lot of sense.
Here’s some specs on the lens from the Olympus press release:
http://www.olympus-global.com/en/news/2011a/nr110630zuiko45e.html
The four square format ocean landscapes were shot on negatives with the Hasselblad 903 SWC – a fixed wide angle camera with a 38mm Biogon lens. To this day, the 903 is totally without peer in terms of its compactness and the ability to deliver a ruthlessly precise and highly accurate wide-angle image. Click on the thumbnails to see an enlarged picture:
I promise this won’t be a review. Well at least not exactly. I will take this opportunity to crank out a bit of a “rolling plug”
I started working in the 4/3 format earlier this year using a Panasonic Lumix GF2 and a pair of those morsel-sized a la carte lenses. I have the 14mm and the 20mm primes which translate into a 28mm and 40mm respectively (0n a 35mm camera). These lenses are sometimes referred to as “pancakes” and we can rest assured that whoever conjured up such a name had a functional imagination. (We could also call them truffles, or slightly flattened cupcakes).
There’s been plenty of hype about this format along with all the hyperactive comparisons that we’ve come to expect at regular intervals every time a new product arrives. Rejoice in knowing that I won’t contribute anything else to that particular subject.
Those in love with increasing numbers of megapixels got their fix a couple of years ago when the format first surfaced. Plus there was a larger sensor. We now know that the RAW files produced by any of the Olympus or Panasonic bodies will serve you well if you caress them properly. But … be warned: If you own one of these cameras, don’t doubt for a minute that you’ll be seriously tempted by the next wave (spelled: NEX 7). If you decide to chase that carrot next February it will be your strictly your decision. My advice is to sit back and relax. Be a tortoise. Avoid the bleeding edge. They’ve stumbled onto a nice balance between performance and weight here at the moment — and we might as well enjoy it.
My friend (and fellow photographer) John Ellsworth told me last week that handling one of these micro 4/3 lenses is something like handling a “chess piece”. I enjoyed the thought. (He was actually referring to the Olympus M Zuiko 45mm f1.8, another lens which I finally sprung for). John and I are old enough to remember what 120 film cameras feel like when they’re hanging around your neck.
Anyway, the photograph above was taken with the Panasonic GF 2 (and the 20mm f1.7). With this camera, I’m able to focus the picture and adjust the exposure by the very simple act of touching the screen, (something which I still regard with amazement). I’ve been surprised to read that touch-screen navigation has aggravated some photographers. It seems there’s those who’d rather twist a dial. I’m fine with the touch screen because it appeals to my severely limited capacity to follow instructions. Look at it this way: touching a screen requires only one finger and turning a dial takes two.
I’ll admit that since I bought this camera I’ve been cornering opportunities to explore the speed of these lenses. Believe it or not you can perform a variation on street photography far from any lamppost. The 20mm lens is also capable of producing shallow depth of field. In Japan they call this effect “bokeh”. I’m still uneasy with the pronunciation but I’ve been using the word a lot lately because it’s a lot sexier than saying “shallow depth of field”.
At any rate, my camera was hand-held for this picture and was therefore free to shoot six or seven variations in several positions and all in less than a minute. I feel like I’m playing jazz when I’m not off mucking around with my tripod and its multitude of extended joints. Let’s face it; tripods are a bit clunky by nature. They also require at least three fingers to operate. That makes them even more complicated than turning a dial and much more so than touching a screen. I use them strictly when I need to.
Enough with cameras. Let’s move on to the West.
I’ve visited the eastern plains of New Mexico many times over the years and I always wonder why everyone else is driving though the place as fast as they can. I concede that there’s nothing much to see except for open space, which for me, is pretty much the point. This is not the Grand Canyon. If you spend any time out on the plains your expectations for normal landscapes will need to evolve. The scenery basically comes down to various combinations of grass and clouds, and (for better or worse) the ever present evidence of humans which usually takes the shape of a fence. There’s cows everywhere but one thing about the plains is that you hardly ever see the people. That’s okay, because their absence creates interest.
One visit didn’t involve taking any pictures. Many years ago my wife and I took a train ride west from Long Island. We took it all the way to Albuquerque just to see what it was like.
It was long. Even compared to a bad day at the airport, this was a trip which slowed time down to a slurpy crawl. It seemed like years before we were rid of the east (but once we were past Chicago things did get more interesting). My favorite part was the morning after the second night. We got up and walked groggily through the train to a very lovely dining car. I remember cloth napkins. We were seated at small table and had the most delicious breakfast with a very compelling view. We were now chugging through the plains and were finally situated in New Mexico. All you could see was mile after mile of grass, clouds and the ubiquitous fences of ranching. It looked something like my picture up above except it was brighter because the sun coming up.
As I said, it wasn’t a day that I used my camera. The train window took all the pictures and we stored them in our memory.
On a winter’s day about twenty five years ago, I was photographing over on the North Fork with my Fuji 645’s. The New Suffolk waterfront in those days was the location of the former post office – a homey red building which doubled as a grocery store. It was an inviting hang-out for locals who could grab some coffee and catch up with the neighbors.
For a period of time, the store was known as Bill’s Grocery (later to become Fagan’s). It had a lovely view of Robin’s Island, which on warmer days one could enjoy from the porch. New Suffolk, in those times, possessed a degree of character which has since begun to evaporate here on eastern Long Island. Back then (and even today when I look at this picture) it’s hard not to notice the similarity between this building and the Springs General Store on Accabonac Harbor here in East Hampton.
Sadly, New Suffolk’s general store never did enjoy the same degree of longevity as its cousin in Springs. On a Thursday morning in 1993 (only a few years after this picture was taken) it burned to the ground despite the Cutchogue Fire Departments’ best efforts. Last year I inquired at the local library to see if anyone knew the history behind the quirky red shack in front of the post office (the one-eyed building which is the main subject of my photograph). Was it a fish shack or a bait shop? A tool shed? Was it moved there temporarily to sit out the winter on concrete blocks? The reference librarian was unfamiliar with the building and after a bit of research, told me that no one seemed to remember it. It lives on, at least in the picture … a long-forgotten shack on the docks of New Suffolk, caught in a snowy gale.
Anyone with any details about this relatively recent footnote to North Fork history please feel free to comment!
Barcelona Neck is a peninsula in Northwest Harbor that is home to the 500 acre Linda Gronlund Memorial Nature Preserve. Linda was a Sag Harbor native who died in the Pennsylvania plane crash which occurred on 9-11. The park has a network of well-maintained trails that explore field edges, salt marsh, second growth forest and beaches. There are many water views. My picture above was taken there a few years ago around this time of the year.
The peninsula has historic ties with Sag Harbor, although the park itself is within the Town Of East Hampton. It’s been said that homesick Spanish sailors thought the bluffs at the north end of the peninsula resembled those in Barcelona. On a clear day from on top you can see the distant archipelago formed by Plum Island, Great Gull, Little Gull and Fishers Island.
I gravitate to the park mostly to photograph fields, or more specifically to photograph the “gradient” of habitation as it fades gracefully into the woods. In some respects a lot of my pictures appear to be preoccupied with this, although it’s not usually a conscious function and is sometimes not successful.
Winter arrives in a week. If you live far enough north to have an ice rink in your birdbath then you’ll be enjoying a low angle of sun for another month. It can be a reason to plot an escape, perhaps to a warmer place with a sun on a higher perch. But on the other hand (if you stick around), you can always grab a camera and try to harvest the light.
An image from last week looking east from Long Beach into Sag Harbor Cove.
This recent scene from Sagg Main demonstrates the sun’s current position relative to the beach at sunrise. It shines directly down the beach and sets the place ablaze. You won’t see that here in summer. Another interesting thing about the picture is the graceful pattern formed by the tire tracks – something which I’m usually trying to avoid!
The picture was photographed with the Panasonic Lumix Gf2.
On Monday morning, I photographed the sunrise from the Lance Cpl. Jordan Haerter Bridge. Even without a camera, the bridge is a good place to watch the morning begin. Our most recent sunrises have been subtle events – clear, with only a smattering of clouds. That can be good especially for a more minimalist approach to the seascape.
Photographed from the street (Canyon Road in Santa Fe).
The pair of verticals were taken at Fort Union, in New Mexico (discussed in my previous post). On the trip, I used my older Canon G 10 for situations like these because they seemed to be asking for a telephoto. The tendency of telephotos to simplify potentially distracting elements can be very helpful in some situations. The Canon G series cameras (as well as the S series cameras) have well-deserved reputations for zoom lenses with lots of depth of field, even when maxed-out.
Fort Union is a good place for anyone who enjoys watching clouds, especially through a window. Being in New Mexico, just east of the Rockies, there’s no shortage of spirited skies. The adobe walls also provide opportunities to frame “blue within red”. The ruins create scale, and more importantly they create moods. Imagine photographs of the same clouds in these pictures without the foreground walls. Those pictures could be good ones too, but would be entirely different animals.
It would be an enjoyable project to photograph the sky through an individual window at this fort every day for one year.
Fort Union is an historic site administered by the National Park Service which preserves the remains of the largest Federal fort along the Santa Fe Trail. It’s located in New Mexico. The fort’s moment in history commenced during the latter half of the 19th century and lasted up until the arrival of the railroad. It’s an imposing reminder of what a city-sized outpost on the Santa Fe Trail might have once been like. After 100 years, it’s still surrounded by many square miles of prairie and a view of the Rocky Mountains. Although the wagons have long since vanished, it’s become a striking place to photograph, and one with abundant amounts of quiet.
This is the first of several pictures from the fort, a horizontal image with a view through a standing wall. The sun was caught at a good angle here, especially for revealing texture.
If you look closely, there’s a curious smaller window at the bottom of the rear wall. The view through that window has been “shortened” by a rising knoll of grass behind the fort. The picture was captured with my Panasonic GF 2 and its normal 20mm lens.
This picture dates from just a few weeks ago when were exploring an especially ragged section of Route 66 somewhere in the vicinity of San Jon. The town lies in the eastern part of New Mexico very near the Texas border, a sparsely populated region with an occasional mesa and abundant mesquite. The old route veers south of the interstate here, and leaves the pavement behind.
The evening was coming on and it wasn’t clear if we’d gotten lost. My son was up front, and my wife was in the back squinting at the Delorme Atlas wondering if we were near San Jon or another town called Lesbia. Not much appeared to be left of either place and there wasn’t anyone around to ask.
It grew darker. On the north side of the road we slowed down and crept up to the scene in this photograph. I turned off the ignition because the sky was exquisite. Needless to say it was time to get out the camera.
Behind the former gas station were some brushy remains of buildings that might have once been a motor court. The place had clearly seen better times, and with the final touch of a collapsing roof was nothing short of haunting.
Another predawn expedition on our recent trip took me to the outskirts of Amarillo. I’d been curious about the Cadillac Ranch for years. This was the place where they buried some cars in a cornfield so I wanted to have a look. Back in 1974 the project was the brainstorm of a local iconoclast (who prefers to be called Stanley Marsh 3). He was assisted by an unusual group of friends known as the Ant Farm.
I was never sure what I’d think of the Ranch, and now that I was in Amarillo I wasn’t even sure where it was. My atlas indicated that the ten Cadillacs were located somewhere west of the city on the south side of I 40. This also happens to be the former path of Route 66, and so it was undoubtedly considered a perfect place for the half-burials.
I drove out there and couldn’t find them. It seemed I needed coffee.
There was a Starbucks on Soncy Road at the previous exit. I returned, wondering if my family was still asleep at our nearby motel. Inside the coffee shop, the two employees who took my order debated the best way to send me to the Cadillacs. I thanked them and headed back, this time with plenty of caffeine and several sets of directions.
I found the Ranch right away. It was right off of the Interstate in a field just like the one in my imagination.
As you can see from my photograph, the cars have been spray-painted over the years. The interesting thing is that Marsh and the Ant Farm have encouraged everyone to do this. Purists argue that the original Caddys were far lovelier with their peeling factory paint and without all the annoying graffiti. Now that I’ve seen the cars in person I completely disagree. I’ll elaborate on that in a moment.
In the meantime, empty cans of paint littered the ground in open defiance of Texas law.
Being a photographer, I noted that the sun was about to peer over the horizon, so I got to work. The impulse is to stand back from the cars in order to take a group portrait. I have to admit they look good from back there (something like a GM version of Stonehenge). But I also felt I was taking pictures of a Little League team. I took a few anyway and they looked like all the other ones I’d Googled back home.
I decided to go in closer. What I discovered, is that when appoaches the cars they inspire a palpable sense of reverence. I sidled up to one. The fins were high above my head and looked especially wonderful in the first rays of daylight. I was feeling something like one of the apes in Kubrick’s 2001 and so I placed two fingers on a wheel. I was surprised that it spun freely.
Of the pictures I took after that, the one I liked the best was the one at the top of my post. Truthfully, it’s not easy photographing someone else’s artwork.
The problem is, whose artwork is it exactly?
These handsome vehicles were first penciled up by a creative team of designers back at General Motors. That was a long time ago, so I don’t know if anyone has properly celebrated their achievements. Years later, ten Cadillacs were dragged from their various junkyards to be partially interred here in a cornfield. This was not an easy task and involved the use of a crane and other massive equipment. Like it or not, Marsh and his friends made an auspicious attempt to clarify the meaning of the cars. They also remade a landscape. Since then, anyone who has sprayed any paint here has tweaked the project slightly, and those who of us who come here and take the pictures have taken it somewhere else.
Everyone’s involved at Cadillac Ranch. It keeps going. That appears to be the point.
Did I spray paint something?
Yes. I picked up a couple of spent cans and shook them until I found some paint. Carefully aiming, I hissed out a tribute on a wheel strut. I did this for Joe Strummer, the former frontman for The Clash who would’ve thought the Ant Farm rocked.
It was red paint, of course.
At pre-dawn on the morning of September 3rd, I left the family asleep at our motel and drove over to the historic downtown section of Tucumcari. It was deserted. The warming glow of the eastern sun had stretched its fingers across the plains and was just reaching the first group of buildings. I took some pictures using a normal lens. I’ve admired similar pictures taken by photographers like Joel Meyerowitz and Stephen Shore, although their work was done with large format cameras.
For these photographs, I was using my new Panasonic GF2 which permitted me to handhold the camera. This is easy enough to do because the 20mm lens is a fast one. To me, avoiding a tripod in a situation like this can produce a pleasant combination of spontaneity and connecting ideas. The project was wrapped up in about a half hour. This group of five represents my favorites. You can click on any of the thumbnails to produce larger pictures.
When entering New Mexico from the east on I 40, the first town to seize your attention is Tucumcari. It’s located on what is now called “Historical Route 66” and is said to boast the largest collection of original motel signs from the glory days of the famous highway. The town, despite its multitude of splitting seams, is still a wonderful place to gas up, eat, and locate a cheap motel.
On our August trip we drove into Tucumcari three separate times (not an easy thing to do considering it’s really in the middle of nowhere).
The town is divided into two parts – the historic downtown (which looks desperately in need of a friend), and the strip of Route 66 with its ragtag collection of cafes and motels. Honestly, it’s difficult to say what’s original out on the strip. Everything blends into a nicely textured, slightly-disintigrating mosaic. There are old Chevys anchored down in front of even older motels and none of it has the look of corporate tourism. We stayed at one, in an effort to avoid patronizing the “big name” chains in town.
Selecting our motel took a bit of effort. First we surveyed the lineup because there are least a dozen separate Mom and Pop operations. Each have historic signs (complete with missing bulbs) and buildings in similar states of disrepair. The motel owners are in hot competition with each other (with many advertising rooms for under $25). Such astonishingly low prices gave us a bit of hesitation, but we were determined to snub the big chains. The place we settled on was run by a charming couple from Hyderabad (fellow vegetarians) who gave us some useful tips for cooking Idli. We thoroughly enjoyed our conversation with the owners along with our stay in their old motel.
There’s something about this town that made me feel like the country’s going to be okay.
Tucumacari has a fascinating modern history. It goes something like this:
1700’s – Apaches and Comanches take turns with the region bringing in their thriving nomadic economies. This included raiding, hunting and collecting local herbs – a system far superior to the current model.
1901 – A tent-city springs up during railroad construction. The village (now in its infancy) is known as Ragtown and later as Six Shooter Siding
1908 – Trains are everywhere. Tucumcari is finally named “Tucumcari” (a Comanche term for the nearby flat-topped mesa).
1926 – Route 66 is famously paved into town replacing wagon yards and blacksmith shops with motels and gas stations. You can still see chunks of original pavement both east and west of town.
1960’s – Interstate 40 is built, an event which effectively served Route 66 with marching papers. The country begins to look the same everywhere.
Today there is renewed interest in the Route 66 phase of the town’s history. This is a healthy sign of revolt. The photograph above is a good example of local architecture. The building was done in a style unique to Tucumcari – one which effortlessly combines original with retro (easy enough to do since everything looks like its falling apart). No one seems concerned with what determines originality here and it doesn’t much matter because the town is full of character.
By the way, “La Cita” in Spanish means “The Date”… a curious name for a building that appears to house both a florist and a Mexican restaurant. We didn’t get a chance to eat there (or order flowers). Maybe next time.
JOHN TODARO 