Magical night.

P

laying. Having fun. Tinkering. Messing around. That’s some of what we should be doing. But, often we get sucked into making a living. Or, we really get sucked into the gear of the thing.

Experimenting and playing is what Storyteller is about, has always been about. Oh sure, a client or two has found me here. Or, I’ve sold a couple of photographs to private collectors.

That’s it.

I’m trying to make a big decision. You heard about this in the past. I’ve been quietly building a new website.

It’s a portfolio-commercial site that contains a blog within the website itself. Oh for sure, I’ll take all of you with me who want to come along.

Some of you would like me to stay here. That’s humbling. If I send you an email link that takes you to the new site you shouldn’t see a difference, except you probably won’t be able to “like” a post without commenting.

That’s not the real question.

Actually, there’s two. Will a semi-folksy blog like Storyteller confuse the commercial users? Will LaskowitzPictures confuse the folksy readers?

And, the bigger question.

What is this new website? Do I continue to publish a lot of New Orleans pictures? Or, travel pictures? Or, a giant portfolio from 45 years past?

Or, should I go with my instincts? And, make the site about artistic pictures?

Or? Or? Or?

Please, you tell me what you think. Please.

L

et’s assume that Storyteller becomes an art website and an artistic blog.

See where I am really going with this? Heh!

There are many forms of art.

Some are like these layered things that I’ve been doing a lot over many years. See the picture.

Others are minimalist, almost Zen-like in nature.

Others are a collection of dark, moody and mysterious pictures that I’ve been making.

Do I show a small portfolio of each of them? Could I turn those portfolios into more pictures with a click on the original image? Like a tree with branches?

Do I know how to do that coding and linking?

Does anyone?


And, then the light went crazy.

Exploded. The light exploded. The developed and processed image actually caught me by surprise. It did everything I didn’t think that it would.

Which brings me to this.

“Everything that I didn’t think it would.” Sounds just about life. I got caught out this morning. I was listening to a song from home, when it hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew the singer when she was young, and yet we didn’t know each other.

She was singing about a specific kind of “girl.” They are the ones who stay in the corners, who are shy but have the same desires that everyone else does. They love you from afar but if you love them back, they run away.

Damn.

This singer has been nailing me every few weeks. Her song, “Asking for a Friend,” brought back so many bad memories that I haven’t listened to it since. I talk a good game, but I’d rather run than fight.

These feelings are from the past. The distant past. My life is good. All the rest is fine. Although I’m worried about a few things on the world’s stage, I’m happy.

But.

I’ve been digging in my past when it comes to learning about my family. These songs are either killing me, or are a very big help.

As I’ve written a few weeks ago, I’ve come to learn that everything we were told as children is a lie. Why would my parents lie to us about how my paternal grandfather made it to these shores?

They said that he sailed on a tramp steamer, eating kasha and apples for two weeks. They said he arrived at Ellis Island where the kind folks at immigration couldn’t spell our last name so they made us Laskowitzes.

No. No. No. And, no.

My grandfather didn’t sail from Hamburg. He made is way to London from Russia, where he worked for a couple of years. He learned some English. He saved his money. He sailed from Liverpool in cabin class, which is equivalent to first class on other ships.

I think that I told you that. Since then I’ve seen pictures of how he traveled. He spent 12 days in a suite of rooms. He ate very well on board. He lacked for nothing.

He didn’t arrive at Ellis Island. He arrived in Philadelphia. The immigration folks didn’t mangle our family name. They handled it just fine. I know this because I saw his immigration document. He signed it “L-A-S-K-O-W-I-T-Z. In English letters, not Cyrillic.

What the hell?

Why were we lied to? Why didn’t any family member tell us about my dad’s sister, Olga? Apparently, she followed my family west. She lived in Los Angeles in 1953. She returned to the East, got married in 1962 and returned to the West where she lived and died not five miles from where I grew up. I had an aunt that I never knew existed. I have cousins that I never met.

Oh, that’s not all.

I’m learning this through Ancestory.com. They found documents that I could read. They kept asking me if I want to add another family to my tree. Why? I’ve never heard of them.

Silly me. I followed one of my cousins on my mom’s side of the family. That mysterious family is linked to my mom’s side. Who the hell are they?

And, you wonder why I never share much personal stuff. Go ahead. Ask away. Apparently, it doesn’t matter anyway.

I’ll likely never know any of this.

I’m pretty sure that you want to know about this picture. After all, it looks like an explosion on the page. Or, worse.

You know I love autumn light. I was walking toward the sun when it poked through the trees. Ah, that light. I broke the biggest rule in the book.I photographed right into it.

It didn’t look like so much in my LCD. But, when I developed and processed it, the picture exploded.

I took the picture a little further because I always do, and this is what you get.

When I uploaded it into OnOne, I had to tune it back some. It was too vibrant and to sharply defined.

As it is, it looks like a version of heaven. Or, hell. You can pick.

A technical comment. A couple of my younger friends love AI. I can’t stand it. When I copy edit these posts I find words that I would never in a million years use.

Automated Intelligence is anticipating my words incorrectly. I realize that in theory it learns from me, but I think it’s learning from someone else.

I just wasn’t meant for these times.

Stay safe. Stay mighty. Wear your mask. Keep your distance. Vote.


And, then it happened.

A little rain to clear the skies.

A lot of sunlight to make the color explode off the page.

That’s what I saw as the day turned to dusk and beyond. The original picture didn’t quite do it, so I experimented. Then, I experimented some more. Then, I tinkered. I took it up a few notches. Then, I took it to notches unknown.

I added this. I added that. I did the reverse and subtracted some stuff. I got to a place where I actually liked the strangeness of the picture. So I went further. Beyond notches unknown. I was about to put a frame around it. Then, I thought, “nah.”

So, her it ’tis. A kind of art. Or, the work of a sick mind.

Speaking of sick minds. Remember, our falling down Hard Rock Hotel construction? It’s getting worse. The two giant cranes are shifting each day. In a true New Orleans moment, a fairly large tropical storm is brewing in the Gulf of Mexico. It won’t hit us head on, but we’ll get wind and rain. Water makes the cranes heavier and the parts more lubricated. Wind, well… you know what wind does.

So.

The rocket surgeons who came from all over the country have come to a conclusion. The cranes must come down before the storm arrives so that they fall down in a controlled manner.

So.

The cranes are going to be blown up. Yes, You read that right. Blown up. Small charges will be placed at crucial places along the two cranes infrastructure and…

BLAMMO.

In theory, they should fall straight down. Even so, there will be some horrific damage to the street. The street that has the main source of electrical power to the French Quarter and two major gas lines that run very near to the building itself.

What could go wrong?

Why do I have a really bad feeling about this?

The City of Yes.