 |
|
So
Sunday morning came and I was all fired up to take more pictures -- to
do different things than I had been doing. I had read in "The
Artist's Way" about having an "artist's date" where you
do something special to nurture your creativity, and one of the ideas
given was to go to a junkyard. So it was as if some force was just
lifting me out of the bed, and I heard a voice in me say "I have
better things to do than to stay here." And as I was driving away,
I focused on the excitement I felt, and I nurtured in my heart the love
of nature, love of beauty, and love for sharing beauty with people that
propels me in my art. And I was also aware of some mild fears of doing
something different and of going to a place I had never been before. |
|
|
So I pull up to this one auto salvage yard and go into the trailer. I had this optimistic feeling, like I
couldn't wait to discover what goodies might be in this candy store. When I told the man behind the counter what
I wanted to do, he refused me permission to go in! I couldn't believe it, I tried to explain what I wanted, and
he just kept shaking his head. "No, we don't need no pictures here." I sensed he was afraid of something, but I
didn't know what, and I didn't know how to reassure him that I was harmless. I offered to show him some of my
pictures. He started talking again with another fellow in there, and after a minute or so, I just left. I felt sad.
I was just looking to find some beauty in his own back yard...maybe even help him to see things in a new way,
and he just shut me out. I thought later that maybe he was afraid I was a reporter or an environmentalist. I thought
how maybe I could come back in a few weeks, bring him some of my photos to see, or even offer to have him walk with
me so that I could explain to him how I saw things. Maybe I could help him see beauty in the scrap heaps that he
had never seen before. Maybe I could help him appreciate more the kind of work he does. But for now, that door was
closed. |
|
| I pulled into a turn-out that actually went nowhere and parked. It overlooked a slimy pond, and I took a few wide
angle shots there. I saw a tall thistle-weed that had attracted several huge bumble bees, and I took a few there.
I also saw an interesting sewer grating with an empty plastic bottle lying on top of it. I remembered the grating at
Stanford I had shot, and this one also appealed to me, even though I had been looking at dozens of others since then.
I liked the idea of garbage sitting on top of a grating, as if it were somehow waiting to get in. There were cars
whizzing by on the highway (and they must have thought I was nuts, stooping down to take a picture of a sewer drain),
but I felt sorry for them -- being in too big a hurry to appreciate what I was appreciating. |
|
 |
|
|
I drove down some gravel roads, including one that was marked with a "no trespassing" sign. The chain gate was
down, and I saw another car coming out, so I didn't think I could get into too much trouble going there. I must have
driven several miles. I knew I was between a shipping canal and a river, but there were no landmarks or anything.
Part of me wanted to keep going and explore the road until the end. Part of me was afraid. Afraid that I shouldn't
be there, or that my car would break down. Finally I turned around and headed back. I noticed how I saw different
things that when I came in -- that maybe it was just the angle, or that I was looking at a different spot than before.
As I was coming back toward the underpass, suddenly I spotted a barge being pushed by on the canal by a big boat.
I realized this was a whole different world than I was used to seeing. |
|
|
|
|
At the next junkyard I just walked in, without stopping in the office. I was amazed first of all that these places
were open on a Sunday morning. There were people there looking (I imagined) for a difficult-to-find spare. I walked and
walked through endless rows of junked cars, rusted parts, and discarded vehicles of all types -- cars, buses, tractors,
snowmobiles, RVs, trucks, trailers, boats -- even bicycles. Every imaginable kind of vehicle was there!
|
|
|
|
Actually, it was hard finding things of interest to photograph. I guess I look for bright colors with high contrast
to add interest to my photos. Here was an endless sea of rust, rubber and sheet metal, with the occasional bit of chrome
and glass thrown in. But my wanderings were rewarded every now and then by oddities of various sorts. What will come
of it all I don't know. |
|
|
|
Another strange thing about the junkyard was the order amidst the chaos. Someone had gone to the trouble to extract
all the radiators, or all the axles, or all the batteries, or all the engines, and to group them together. I saw an old
church bus that was filled with transmissions. I imagined how probably not too many months ago children had rode
happily in the seats, laughing or singing as they returned from summer camp or a retreat. The bus had
served its purpose and wound up there. I wondered if Steven Covey ever contemplates what the bowels of a junkyard look like when he
admonishes people to "begin with the end in view." If people did, they would visit a junkyard before buying a new car! |
|
|
| It never
occurred to me that there might be ghosts in a junkyard, but it's not hard to envision what the owners of
these vehicles were like, or to see them using their cars. What would the owner of a recent model sports car think now
if he could see the trash littered around the bucket seats, or the insulation hanging off the firewall, or the wood dash
paneling all sun-baked and cracked? Every car was part of somebody's life -- if not their pride and joy, or their
livelihood, then at least their way to get to and from work for so many years. I actually didn't see too many vehicles
that had obviously been in a major smashup. I would have expected to see more of those! And although I was constantly
aware of how people had once owned and used every vehicle, it never crossed my mind even once that anybody might have
died in one of these hunks of scrap I was seeing.
|
|
 |
|
|
|
It was hot, and I had walked a long way, so I finally turned around and went back. Again, I noticed different things.
I realized that a bike path ran along one of the outside fences, although heavy vegetation kept the junkyard out of
view to those passing by on their bikes. Maybe another day it would fun to explore the bike path and see what the
junkyard looked from the other side. |
|
|
|
One thing I was aware of at numerous points in the morning was how paying attention is the first step in seeing things
in a new light. When I think I've already seen something before, I need to try to look at it in some new way. I realized
how well-developed perceptive "filters" actually prevent me from seeing the beauty that is already around me. And so I
forced myself to take a second look at things. Maybe there really is something wonderful about that pool of oil in the
gravel, or the way the sun is hitting it now, that warrants a second look. |
|
|
 |
|
I also felt torn between experiencing all I could in these new surroundings and making the "best" use of my time.
I feel some pressure to maximize the limited time of saturated light I have before the sun gets too high and bright
and washes all the colors out. I also feel a burden to find images that will interest others, knowing that part of what
propels me to do what I do is to help others see the world differently, and to appreciate its beauty. Yet I wanted to
look longer at some things that intrigued me (the pond with the scum-like film of thick algae covering it, or the barge
docks). Just getting close enough to some things would have eaten up precious minutes. Then too, what interests
me may not interest a lot of other people. |
|
|
I
remember taking a shot of several rusty augur bits all stacked together.
After taking and bracketing a few shots, I stopped to listen to my
feelings about what I was seeing. I know that there are times I take
multiple shots of something just to make sure I'll get one image, only
to have the film developed and realize that none of the images I
captured (and which are technically usable) really "grabs" me
-- there's not a clear feeling I have when I look at the image. And I
can almost always go back to the moment I was taking the shot and
realize that I was excited by a texture or a splash of color, but I
wasn't really clear in the moment why I found the particular image
compelling. So staying in touch with my feelings as I shoot is a really
important part of my "quality control" process. Sometimes just
pausing to listen helps me see something else that I can capture if I
change my angle or composition. In the case of the augur bits, my heart
told me to move on -- that my time was better spent somewhere else. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
