A little spooky.

B

oo.

Magical, mystical, light bringing skull.
Bones in the window.

D

o I really need to say anymore?

T

his little collection is brought to you by The Spooky House of Storyteller. Happy Halloween y’all.


Southeastern Fall Color and Light.

C

old weather and chicken stock. Isn’t that what you do when it’s cold? Cook something. So, that’s what we did.

Then, I sat down to write this.

I’m always influenced by what, or who, I’m listening to. This time, it’s Brandi Carlile reading her book, “Broken Horses.” It’s bringing up all sorts of emotions. You know how they say, “I laughed, I cried…” Well, that just about says it all.

Let’s just put it this way, personal stories aside, she talks about what it takes to succeed… at anything, although her story is about music.

She’s making me sad for what I haven’t done. For when I haven’t worked hard enough. For all the time wasted.

You know, feelings that I think we all have. If you are lucky, they pass without too much worry. If you are me, you worry. That’s been my constant theme for the last year or so. I’ve made a little progress. Maybe that’s enough.

For now.


The glowing dusk.

W

eird scenes inside the gold mine. On one hand, a friend suggested that I write a book to which I replied as I always do. I don’t think I have a book in me.

On the other hand, I was told to stay in my lane by a person who didn’t like it when I told her that it was the law of supply and demand rather than Joe Biden’s fault that gas prices were so high.No one person has that much control.

Well, not exactly stay in my lane. “Stick to pictures,” is what she said. I haven’t said much yet because I just know this will go on and on.

It was started by another woman who is a flat out idiot. She’s taking the usual social media beating. I might return to the fray, or I might not. We’ll just have to see what happens.

The bottom line for me is stop trying to limit me or anyone else to your own tiny imagination. We just might fool you.

We usually do.

T

his picture needs a little technical talk.

You might be wondering how I took a perfectly sharp photograph and turned it into a soft, painterly like image.

I did it by accident.

I was trying to do something with it when it was sharp. It wasn’t working.

I managed to soften it in about three moves. I liked what I saw so I continued in that direction.

Glow came next which softened it some more and I stopped.

I liked it. I hope you do too.


Sky pilot deluxe.

S

omeone asked me what kind of projects I want to do. I talked about two, but they require some major culling.

Reviewing archive work is taxing. Not only to you sit in a chair with your eye glued to a loupe and stare into a light box, but all sorts of emotions crop up. Some are those ghosts that you hope are friendly. Some are simply photographic like, “What was I thinking?” You start wondering how many misses you had that should have been hits. And, how many hits were just luck. Or, wishing you had better technical skills.

Between the physical and the emotional issues you often can’t work more than four hours. Anything more will put you in bed the next day. I’m not sure that the emotional memories aren’t worse than sitting in a chair.

As I may have written, the black and white project could almost be life long. In many ways it has to be done in its entirety if my archives will be meaningful to future generations. The goal is a couple of art books, but I don’t think that I can just stop and start whenever I feel like it. I suppose I could do it in year collections, but that probably won’t yield enough material for even a “chapter.”

The other project is a little more personal. It’s about my days on the musical road. The images are made digitally so that the culling is easier. These images could actually be profitable but I have to be a little careful. Some people assume the wrong things. Or, the right things.

Anyway.

If I delve into these projects that’ll just about put a stop to making new work. By now you might be wondering if I’m only working four hours a day why can’t I made new images. I can’t really work much more than four hours on photography without making too many mistakes.

Besides, the older I get (I can’t get much older can I?), the lazier I get. Or, is it that I tire more easily?

That’s a whole other story.


Minimal food art.

T

his is one time that I’m not going to discuss what you are seeing. I’ll leave that to you. Let’s just say this. I almost converted this picture into black and white. After looking at it, I realized that I didn’t what I was looking at.

I’ll add one more thing to get you onto the right track, or some kind of track. I made this picture while dinner was cooking. I saw it and I photographed it. I learned something about an iPhone 12 camera. By extending the “lens,” you can actually make macro pictures. That’s very cool.

Now it’s your turn.

What are you looking at?


Once again.

A

nother day. Another block. Another time. Another house.

This is a place that I know for certain was damaged by Hurricane Katrina. I’ve watched it over the years. It follows the laws of nature with the overgrowth. In the winter, such as it is in the Gulf Coast, you can see more of the house as the vines and plants die and turn into branches.

In mid-to-late summer the house looks as you see it. Overgrown and almost beautiful in its ruined state.

Even though I’ve photographed and watched this house over the years, I have no idea what happened to the residents. If a house is still standing over the years, it usually means that the person who lived there moved on, either in this world or in the next.

If the move was made in this world, it means the owner doesn’t have the money to restore it.

The owner’s family usually comes into play if the owner passed on. If that’s the case a potential buyer has to jump through the usual New Orleans hoops in order to find the past owner and line of succession. Even then, the past owner might not really be the owner, but the child of the past resident who may be the child of an even older relative. And, so on.

This house was probably built in the late 1800s to the very early 1900s. If the house was passed on without a deed transfer buying this house could prove to be lost impossible.

That’s why there are so many derelict houses in New Orleans.


Looking and seeing the music.

A

s I recall, it was hot. A lot of us were sucking down water and sweating it out as fast as we drank it. We were tripping all over each other. I stepped on someone. I turned around to apologize mostly with my eyes because we couldn’t hear anything.

They guy I stepped on held has hands out as if to say it’s all good. Then he pointed at something behind me. I thought that I was going to be run over.

Nope.

He was pointing at the shadows the brass players made with their instruments. I made as many pictures as I could and then got out of there as they were headed straight toward me. And, they weren’t stopping.

I never saw my new “friend.” I wanted to thank him for the picture. I would have never seen it on my own. I was too busy heading in the wrong direction.

On that day, I was doing that a lot. I’m not sure what it was. It could have been the heat, the sweat, or my timing was off. Usually, I’m pretty instinctual on the streets.

I made my usual crop of good, but standard, pictures. But, this one. It sneaks up on you. I think it was one of my best from that second line year.


With his friend, a jealous monk.

T

here’s a story behind every door, but I don’t know what they are. A good guess is that this place received some of Hurricane Katrina’s flood waters, but not that much because a lot of Central City is above sea level which makes it that last great ungentrified piece of land in the city.

There was talk a few years ago of Central City being developed fairly quickly because parts of it are near to the train station and The Super Dome. Prime land you know. Unless you count a couple of restaurants and a failed grocery story-cafe complex not much has happened.

That’s how it should be.

Between storms and gentrification in every other neighborhood of the city this is the only place where original dwellers can continue to live. In a time when social aid & pleasure clubs have to drive from places way upriver in order to participate in their former neighborhood’s second lines that’s saying something.

How long this will last is anybody’s guess.

If I had any brains at all, I’d buy this house, restore it and lease back to someone who lives in the neighborhood. Unfortunately, tracking down the owner, or owner’s survivors or worse — looking through tax rolls, or deeds — is a big undertaking. I did that once. Of course, in that neighborhood the original deeds were written in French. I don’t think Central City, let alone this building, is that old.

Of course, I think of all this just as we are getting ready to pull out and leave the city. Unlike the post-Katrina years, we aren’t thinking of coming back. Hurricanes, potholes, shooting and car hijackings be damned. It’s time.


What was left.

T

his was once good business. Along came Hurricane Katrina who changed everything with her floodwaters the poured through broken federal levees. A lot of businesses were destroyed or closed.

Smith Tire seemed to linger. Whenever I passed by, it seemed to be closed. Or, was it ever open? I have no idea. I’ve heard, but I haven’t seen it with my own two eyes, that it’s gone.

That’s too bad.

No. This little building wasn’t a landmark. But, it helped to make up the fabric of the community, at least in its neighborhood. If it’s gone, I know that it will likely just be a barren, empty space. In neighborhoods like this one, nobody demolishes a building to build something new and better. They just leave a gap, like the missing teeth of a jack ‘o lantern.

Sometimes that’s necessary especially if you have a building that is a drug den, or if too many people are sheltering in it because they might cause a fire and burn down half of a street’s worth for buildings. But, this building was on a main street. It was locked up tight. There was no sneaking in or out of it.

I have nothing to draw from this. I’m not making a statement about the society or the world in general. I just like old things.