The past weekend was hella busy, so I’ve been trying to write it out in little chunks; on the back of napkins at bars, in matchbooks, on my wrist, etc. I wrote this and a lot more last night which I will post in bits throughout the day. For those of you concerned about the draining impact this writing-mania may have on my day job, let me reassure you that I’ve composed one article, two memos and several pages of a speech already today. I am prolific.
Friday night was great. The good doctor and I enjoyed steak and red wine, moseyed over to the AGO for the photography exhibit. The Ansel Adams section was completely different from what I’d expected, partly because I’d expected to see those popular iconic landscapes that make it into calendars, which are mostly from his later period of visual mastery in the 1950s and 60s. This exhibition had 120 images, including rare prints from when he was just starting out and screwing around with technique in the 1920s, 30s and 40s. Photos of old dudes on porches, grocery stores, portraits and interior shots. Where are the big rocks?
The other thing that threw me was the scale of the prints being all out of proportion to their subject matter. Somehow images of Giant Sequoias and massive moraines, Yosemite and Joshua Tree in the California desert feel like they ought to be 50 feet tall, printed in high-contrast on glossy white photo paper. Not so much. The initial print of the 1927 shot titled “Monolith – Face of Half Dome†which features a spectacular uplift of granite carved by glacial ice, was on a tiny 3â€x4†piece of heavily yellowed, textured paper. Chemicals and paper cost a lot more back then, I suppose.
I had a few moments of self-discovery at the museum. Turns out the Doctor likes her photos to be of living trees with leaves, while I prefer deadwood, driftwood, petrified forests, etc. Also, I have spent 29 years of my life spelling Georgia O’Keeffe’s name incorrectly. Two f’s? Really? Shit.
The 50 or so Eisenstaedt photos weren’t at all what I’d expected either. Like most people who lived in a university dorm and went to the poster sales, my prior experience of his work was the classic sailor-kissing-nurse photo that captured the celebration of V-J Day. But this is a man who was born in Poland and didn’t immigrate to the United States until 1935. The body of his recognizable work is photojournalism, mostly for Life magazine where he worked for nearly 40 years. But again you got to see the progression from “bum with a camera taking photos of random crap†to “serious international photojournalistâ€. I liked seeing his candid style develop.
First there were lots of snapshots of some very bizarre forms of entertainment that seem to have died out in recent years, such as weird archaic non-hockey sports on ice skates and card games that involved all of the participants to be sucking on baby teething soothers (not making this up), or playing their poker hands on different floors in stairwells while calling out bids using megaphones (not making that up either). Then his international travel years, with photos documenting old Ethiopia, the Galapagos, etc. Lastly, from the era just before WWII, lots of industrialized workers in factories making sewing machines, or large groups of people in uniform running about, delivering telegrams with this frenzied “the Nazi’s are coming!” feel.
All this, however, was trumped by the strippers. Yes,
I wasn’t permitted to take any photos in the Adams/Eigenstadt show due to copyright protection of the images, but the guards did allow me to snap some photos off, without flash, of the Swing Space strippers. Ladies and (more particularly) gentlemen, enjoy…
***WARNING: Strippers may not be workplace appropriate, depending where you work***
I look about 80. I can clearly never wear that skirt again. But those are some good pics, love…
I enjoy the omnipresent “report inappropriate content” link under the strippers — but how can it be inappropriate? it’s from the art gallery! 😉
Also, enjoying that this entry adds yet another bullet to my artillery in the battle to convince that I am not, in fact, the only person in the world who writes on her wrist.
Totally. I am a confirmed wrist-scribbler. It feels less creepy than writing on the back of your hand – I don’t like the sensation of a fine point rolling over my metacarpals – and is also kind of sexy, like having a mini-tattoo.
Plus, I just DON’T CARRY ENOUGH PAPER AROUND. Post-its last about a day in my purse.
And also, there’s the privacy factor. I don’t want to be at a meeting at work, digging around in my wallet for a business card, and then have a tiny slip of paper that says “steak. sequoias. soothers. strippers.” fall out into plain view of someone who has a hand in my career. I mean, really.
I’m sorry, do you mean you look eighty as in, “eighty on a scale of one to one hundred”? Because, honey, you’re selling yourself short. I’d give you at least a ninety-five. The skirt looked hot. You looked hot. The end.
my palm pilot has a note pad built in.
It’s lurvely. 😀
Paper is for chumps! In most forms, it is easily destroyed/lost in a large and possibly overstuffed bag. Even a sturdy notebook can easily be left behind someplace. By contrast, I can’t forget my arm no matter how dippy a day I’m having. I also keep SEEING it, without having to remember to dig it out and find the right bit to look at.
I never found the privacy factor to work in my favour, though — instead, I’d be handing something to someone and they’d be like “Having asparagus for dinner, eh?” and I’d be like “Say what — oh.” Because there it is on my arm.