Travel Through Time

Above:  Cartagena's train station; now
greatly altered. Below: the building
still exists in the old city by the
Customs House.

As I wait the final hours to board the last flight home and, for the moment, relax this image-amassing marathon, I reflect on the biggest change to the life of my centenarian subject, who now approaches 102 years old: Travel itself.

To get to Santiago from his native north Colombian town, he didn't jump the two-hour flight to Bogota and take in the snow-capped Andes from the six-hour flight to Chile as I did. He took the three-week train journey.

I went to the Museum of Cartagena, from where I traced the fate of the railway that carried my elderly friend the 4297-miles (6915 km) to his university studies. The railway from Cartagena began in 1894 as a way to ship tropical products like sugar cane to the interior. Construction was undertaken by private companies and later, subsidized briefly by the government.

The line's use steadily decreased as another port city--Barranquilla--grew and operated its own rail service to the south. The Cartagena line was ripped out in 1951, pushed out also by air travel that was more cost effective for travel [Avianca, Colombia's national airline, is the second oldest (after KLM)].

The museum's curator gave me a series of original recording of the steam engines pulling into the Cartagena station; the collection was made by various train buffs over twenty years (how awesome!). The engines were never electrified or converted to diesel engines--another contribution to their demise as cargo needs increased and the little steamies couldn't make it up the steep Andean inclines.

The station house in Antofagasta still exists
 happily; built from pine and lovingly
maintained.

From Bogota, another long train ride followed with stops along the coast to Guayaquil, Lima and Antofagasta. The routes along the Pacific were built mainly connect with the trains from the Andean mining areas of Bolivia and Peru.

Stories of luxury train cars from the mid-1930's pale today as the trains no longer transport passengers, only mine freight. The big transfer spot was Antofagasta, in the northern Chilean Desert. From there, the trains went inland to Santiago. What remains of that depot is the Antofagasta Rail Museum just north of the city with a few steam locomotives, train sheds and a turn table. Riding those freight trains through the deserts would be an adventure. Next time.

Quite ironically, there is a Cartagena-Santiago railway--in Chile. The railway station in Cartagena, Chile is a beautiful historical monument on the coast south of Valparaiso, however not visited by the young Colombian traveler.

Here's a video of the train from Cartagena (Chile) to Santiago. Skip the first minute; the old footage is wonderful.

Rock of Ages

Yes, SIS is finished, but I can't resist following up with all things steel, ice and stone.

With all shooting for FTS in Santiago finished, I peeled of the $ 500 and 6-hour (each way from Santiago) flight to one of the world's great stone capitals: EASTER ISLAND!

A friend on my FB page said it was the Holy Grail of travel designations. Honestly, it falls short of that. Not that I don't recommend it, I do. But, after viewing the Moai (pronounced Mo-ah-ee--say it fast), there isn't much of the original culture left to round out the experience due to all kinds of errors--environmental; over-priced, overreaching construction; mind-control antics from self-serving leaders and their descendants; governmental in-fighting....ehem.

A cautionary tale, the Polynesian-origin inhabitants got to the island with just about none of their provisions--the sail had taken longer than anticipated and rather than fishing for food, they ate their domesticated livestock. The only things left were a few chickens and the rats on board.

From there, they cut down trees--eventually all--for fuel to keep warm. The island is temperate, but has cold trade winds in the evening. So, from a lush sub-tropical forest, they were doomed to live in a desert in a mere hundred years with no trees left to build boats to get the hell out of Dodge.

"Maybe they shouldn't have cut down the trees..."

"Ya think?!?"

Along the way, the population divided into thirteen tribes whose leaders consigned the massive sculptures hacked out of the mountainsides. They themselves lived in 3-foot shacks built from reeds stuck in holes bored into blocks of volcanic rock, while the plebes were relegated to caves with nothing but rocks to keep them warm.

This lasted about 500 years, with very little input from other cultures--even the sea-faring South American indigenous. Research and genetic studies confirmed that mainlanders came to the island to try to trade, but left quickly donating edible roots like sweet potatoes, ginger, taro and a resistant breed of chicken. No doubt the Rapa Nui's preference for cannibalism had much to do with the short-lived relationship. Even further in the 1800's, the very few visiting traders refused to set foot on the island for fear that they, too, would be the ultimate dinner guests.

The population almost became extinct due to civil wars and slave raids adding to a lack of sustenance farming. Only as recently as the 1970's was the island and its archeology appreciated for research and preservation; only since the 1990's has tourism turned into viable option for the original 118 Rapa Nui inhabitants which have coupled with (mostly) Chilean nationals.

Valparaiso

As one car goes up, the other
returns on the same cable.

Finding correspondence to my subject's address in Santiago, I inferred that he had gone to Valparaiso to view the Pacific Ocean for the first time. I hadn't seen it in years, and I thought it was cool that the Pacific was, in Chile, in the same time zone as NYC. So I plunked down the six bucks for the bus ride and went for the day.

Like most port towns, the mountains come straight out of the ocean, and Valparaiso is an enormous precarious group of shacks forming a large favela on the precipitous Andes. I took a bus ride around hairpin curves at 45˚ angle elevations, hanging on at every turn.

Now I get it: Run for the hills. The design
work says it all.

But that was not the attraction: To get to the very tops of the hills, 12-storey staircases aren't enough. There are seven or so "asensores" (elevators) that bring you higher. The one I rode was built in 1906 and runs on a pulley and cable system, much like San Fransisco's cable cars.

I was told the crime at the top is astounding but walked around anyway, musing the Tsunami signs indicated that this was a safe zone--unlike other sides of town. Ahhh, Life in Quakesville!

Chilly in Chile

Packing for southern South America needed more thought. Asking around, I was told to pack for autumn in Milan. The fact is, it's winter in Santiago. Not like NYC, but still winter.

Santiago hadn't seen snow in 20 years. Waiting for me, I guess.

I glided into town on the surfboard of a major storm with below-zero temperatures, 6 inches (20 cm) of snow, a 48-hour blackout and a little earthquake. Add to that just about NO apartment in Santiago has heat, and I developed a major attitude problem. I almost left.

With the tiny bit of resolve I had, I layered my congealed ass with everything in my suitcase and took to the streets. Many spots my centenarian told me to look up are gone, devastated by various earthquakes over the last 80 years. Others are in tact, existing quietly alongside their neighbors, in varying states of graceful age since the Pinochet years.

Most industry has been privatized since, so the price of everything but wine is high. To meet costs, everyone--who owns a property or not--has to take in a boarder. Santiago is city of roommates and everything that comes along with it--some 70's furniture, fingerprints around light switches and doorknobs, and refrigerators with unspeakable contents.

Clear on the other side of the bohemian-neighborhood-perched-on-hip-gentrification where I'm staying, is the financial/commercial area, a sprawling collection of glass towers and conspicuous spending similar to Battery Park City pre-9/11. The backdrop for the city is the snow-capped mountain range, which most Santiaguinos say is the reason they vow never to leave--though they weekend in Buenos Aires, Valparaiso, Rio, etc, etc, etc.

Also remarkable is a weak sign of indigenous people--a chief reason to suffer seasonal jet lag. After coming from the diversity overload of Colombia, this was a jolt. Looks like you're in downtown Madrid.

And, while the street signs are amusing, I noticed a scarcity of federal buildings, compared to other capital cities. Every man for himself. Maybe this is what the US will become.

¿Como Estas?

I came down with an infection. What a drag.

I consulted with a contact in town, who picked me up and said he'd bring me to the doctor's. The doctor's house, that is. After a few questions, he reached into a credenza in his dining room for a stethoscope and BP belt, checked my vitals and wrote two referrals for lab tests.

As I suffered through the pain silently (everybody hates an ailing guest), I awaited the results of the lab tests needed to confirm which hideous bug has crawled under my skin to make voiding a few drops every half hour so excruciatingly painful. Add this to the bacterial lung issue I caught the day after I got here and the rash on my neck from something else that bit me and I strain to tell myself it's going to get better. It must.

Thanks to digital imaging, the patient
knows exactly what they're
getting into as they walk through the
door.

There's no such thing as one-stop shopping medical care down here; and, judging from the sheer number of labs, radiology facilities, pharmacies and drug stores, dentists, pediatric centers, dialysis and colonic centers, on and on and on, the population seems to battle the same stuff I do on a routine basis, hopping from place to place to get healthy.

The health facilities open at 6:00 AM. Gathered in front of each clinic is a waiting crowd of spouses, family and friends of the patient; fruit, juice and coffee vendors to ease everyone's pain; and a parade of taxi drivers and motorcyclists offering their services to bring you home. Geez!

Inside is a receptionist, an electronic number dispenser and a second receptionist behind a protective window who, I suspected, takes the payments. Everyone wears a uniform. When entering, the first receptionist--a young man who doubles as a security guard--asks the reason for my visit. None of your business is not the approved answer. Instead, you politely answer questions like: do you need a general exam? Is it an emergency? Is it an x-ray, ECG or something else?

He directed me to the electronic number dispenser and showed me which of SIX tabs to push so I'm assigned to the proper second receptionist. Seated, I watched for my number on a flat screen TV alongside a silent soccer game. The waiting room is quiet, ice-cold and so clean you could eat off the white floor; a feat that catches your attention because outside is astounding confusion and dirt.

What you see is what you get.

To the second receptionist you show your physician's referral and she, like in the US, asks for identification--Official ID, please! 
Give me a break! If I'm writhing in pain in front of you, pleading for an appointment, the name on the script says Anita Giraldo, and I've got cash in hand to pay for medical services, why do I need to prove that I'm anyone other than Anita Giraldo? 

OK fine. Here's my passport and the cash. I was annoyed at myself for not having gotten traveler's health insurance, but you never really know if it's gonna be accepted in a place like this. But hey, an x-ray set me back $ 15.00 and the lab test $ 11.00. (I'm not joking. That wouldn't even have met the co-pay). Take my money.

Sat down again. A few minutes later a door opened and a technician called me in for the test. Now we're getting somewhere...Perfect painless phlebotomy technique--never felt the needle going in, couple of pulls and I was done. Come back Thursday.

Groan. I'm in horrible pain now! Smile. What do you suggest? She: Your physician gave you two pain medications. Fill them both and take them wisely. See you Thursday around 4:00. Me: Can't you send the results directly to the doctor? Apparently not.

The pharmacy experience was better. In a faintly perfumed, again, ice-cold shop with gliding cabinets, an impeccable man took the script, gave me a bunch of bubble foils (to protect the pills from melting). He went over the instructions THREE times and charged me $ 3.50 for two sets of pain killers to last fourteen days.

Keep smiling!

Shooting Notes III

Cartagena, a city on the Caribbean with a rich and long history, is surrounded by a huge mangrove formed by the flood plains and lake lands of the River Magdalena and its tributaries. While the Magdalena does not flow through Cartagena, a series of natural lakes, lagoons (ciénagas) and man-made canals dug by the Pre-Colombian Zenú form an enormous thorn mangrove that stretches all the way to Santa Marta.

To defend the city from bands of pirates and invading navies often numbering in the thousands, the colonial Spaniards built a network of walls around the city's outermost shores, leaving the waters behind it to ebb and swell sustaining a diverse ecosystem of birds, fish and crustaceans.

Further to the west, the mangrove winds behind a sandy beach area, an area of extreme poverty where a native population--mixed with Spaniards and the slaves they brought throughout the 1500's and 1600's--eek out a meager living on the water.

The first time I went, I shot within the tunnels of reeds and trees from the slow-moving canoe guided by a young man from the area, fairly knowledgeable about the flora and fauna. Toward the end of the tour, near sunset, I saw, on the flat calm beach, the villagers unwinding from a day at work. Some were coming home from meager jobs in the hospitality industry, but most, were fishermen in the ocean and mangrove. The light and the scenery was captivating.

I pushed my equipment as far as it would go; the shoot was a failure. Next day, I looked at the worthless footage, burned out in some areas and in grim focus in others. I revisited the equipment I brought, packed the long lens with the extra-long lens-hood and the tripod. A few hours later, at sunset, I was on the water with my tour guide again.

The waters of the mangrove are only about 12 inches (30 cm) deep, so when I saw what I wanted, I requested the tour guide to stop, planted my tripod in the water and shot, with just a little sway, because of the incoming tide. Washed the tripod in the shower when I got back to the hotel. As for the edges of the reeds, again, with the long lens, I shot from a distance to capture details of the environment as we glided by.


I used images by Frank Gohlke (left) as reference and inspiration.

Lesson learned: push your equipment as far as it can go without ruining it. And, never hesitate to shoot something twice. Three times or more if necessary.

Entrepreneurship

Turning a trade into a livelihood is the basis of entrepreneurship. Just ask any artist. And, while artists might wince at this statement, they're quite adept in finding ways to pay the rent, get a plane ticket or finish their next piece that go around selling an artwork or performance, since it's not a dependable source of income (even if famous).

The one-person, do-or-die business model is in full display in developing nations since many entrepeneurs take to the streets to do business.  Beyond food vendors, some get their living from the streets by plying their trades: Need those heels done? Hand'em over. A hem to your skirt? Hold still. Need a paralegal to create document, typed with a typewriter? No prob, have a seat.


My interest is how technology aids in that entrepreneurship. The man selling pineapples needs to get his message across: I have to sell and save my throat, so I got one of these and found the speakers in a junk yard. Works great, huh?

A different weekly message is on endless loop, and interspersed with a joke or two, so I can attract customers with a laugh.

Move Over, Hermes

Further down the Fifth Avenue of Monteria are more ranger supply shops, some with ready-made items for the cowboy in a hurry, and others that will build to suit.

Needless to say, there are many kinds of saddles, each appropriate for the type of horse and its use. This particular outfit custom-makes draft saddles; taking orders and special requests from an iPad. Love it.



Left:
top: Look at that old Singer in the backroom! Now that's a work horse. The store owner said he's waiting for a part to come in for it...
middle: The exquisite leather punching detail is not for draft horse but for a gentleman rancher's steed.
bottom: Everyone likes a decorated stirrup...Note the motorcycle helmet: You know, we deliver.....

Sound Notes

I have other stuff, of course, but
here's the main set-up on my
beautiful bedspread. 

Shooting in the topics has its challenges. Taping sound in the tropics is a challenge on steroids. While my sound buddies will scoff at my set-up, I did come prepared with a digital recorder, my two Audio Technica mics--one cardioid and one shotgun, a lavalier for interviews, quite a few XLR cables of different lengths, brackets to hold the mics while I shooting, and headphones. I brought cotton-paper ear covers to make them more comfortable in heat. Good idea since they also offered protection from the humidity.

Early on I had determined not to synch any sound to the images, I was going to tape ambient sound and mix it in post production. So, I set about taping the sounds of the city--the birds, monkeys, river sounds, all good. However, within the week, the poor recorder was shorting out; the batteries heating up the little thing until it was useless. I'm looking for a spot where I can unscrew it to see what's wrong; but, the manual indicates that the recorder will not work in high humidity environments.

Come on....this isn't a steam room, I thought. Well, it is. Ninety-six+ degrees with rain three times a day and 99% percent humidity qualifies. So, I'm retiring it for the moment and I'm off to the market to get a pound of rice where I'll immerse it to try and pull some of condensation out of it. Go ahead, sound geeks, scoff some more. But it's not working now, so how's a little rice gonna hurt?

Panicked because I didn't have any way to tape sound, I turned to the camcorder I threw in the suitcase at the last minute. I got it a scant four years ago to tape my KS video and happy home vids.

Rewind to a few weeks ago at B&H: Technology now allows a professional grade outfit for $20 more than what I paid for my pro-sumer item. So, if you're in the market, go for the video recorder because  you'll get superior sound recording capability. Even my little camcorder has various sound file formats which most SLRs don't. But if the machine says it can shoot video, it ought to. Sound is a critical part of motion media.

The only drag about the camcorder is

that both jacks are accessible only 

when the screen pops open.

The SONY with which I have been shooting all the visuals doesn't have a mic input (perhaps other digital SLRs might); the camcorder has a the jack for the mic, and a jack for the headphones too. Just tested it, it sounds great; I'm back in business.

Going forward, I'll be bringing desiccator bags.

Ganado II

Note the earring: a different
type of cow chip.

Quick post: I went to a rodeo today, it's the 57th annual in this area. The exhibition of the animals were mostly the Brahman in various categories: male, female, age, weight and whether they supply meat or dairy. Most interesting are phone apps that, in synch with the chip on the animal's ear, can instantly populate a database with the animal's data: qualification, age, weight, vaccination schedule, and of course, (if one desires) name.

Another app developed by the local technical college is an app that alerts the manager when the feed is low, so a a signal can be sent remotely to solar-powered cell to distribute the appropriate amount of feed as necessary.

That's a significant leap in 100 years, even if the ranchers themselves sleep in hammocks above their herd.

The chip, through a bluetooth capability sends data to the phone, 

which then populates a spreadsheet and a 
hard copy is kept as well.

Shooting Notes II

Having spent most of my shooting years as a still photographer in the studio, then, outdoors shooting architecture, I remain faithful to a tripod. Not so much because I can't hold the camera stable, it's that crooked structures are unacceptable as are unaligned ones.

PShop has an excellent algorithm to take care of any flubs but I never learned it since I'm old school and prefer to spend a few minutes fixing it in-camera rather than hours on the computer. Similarly, software exists as plugins for motion editing to straighten horizons and adjust backgrounds, even though image will need cropping. I'm not editing at the moment so I haven't researched it yet; stay tuned.

For me, the same rules apply for still as for motion. I believe a straight horizon grounds the image, which can get difficult when using ultra wide lenses; everything slants inward. As I scouted locations for one of the last shoots before I leave for Cartagena, I started slicing away at the park along the river's main drive.

Since the boulevard isn't wide and traffic is one-way, it's negotiable. And, to deal with subjects moving across the screen, I thought that tethering the camera with a long lens and a high frame rate ought to give me the desired results.

However, upon testing it, a long lens flattens the scenery, pulling away the charm of the landscape. So, the conclusion is to start with the wide angle; if time allows, close-ups with the telephoto.

Shot with the long lens from slightly above.
It's easy to follow moving objects, but a lot
of the background could be forfeited.

Shot with the wide angle which
allows more room for moving
objects in the field.

I also found that honing in on the image by hand rather than the slide lever on the camera allows for slower and more deliberate zooming in, the rest can be take care of in post. Hopefully, the motion will be long and fluid, just as I want it.

The Cowboy Boutique

Cowboys have professional needs like all other trades. However, it's fascinating to see a cowboy shop in the same location my centenarian game me, smack in the center of town on the now-highly polished main drive along the river.

Right up front, bales of hay for the horse. Bridles, saddles, machetes and spurs are inside. Shoes for the hard-working fellow are on display; the shop owner explained he has both new and used--it's hard to find a good blacksmith nowadays.

Ganado

My 100-year (actually, now 101) lived in a town where livestock (Ganado) was a way of life. Families were large, and at least one of the sons were destined to work on the farm as a rancher.

Many acres of the fertile land were set aside for the huge beasts, and farms profited or floundered depending on the amount of dedication put into this truly difficult endeavor.

I was invited to the family ranch of a successful "Ganadero", which translates to Gentleman rancher, who also owns a pristine butcher shop in the center of town. In North America, especially New York, we have little concept of what meat and edibles are like in the developing nations. And while the Capital and cities like Medellín are probably more attuned to presentation, that idea is not a central preoccupation in this coastal city. A glass and marble butcher shop with its products meticulously displayed is a welcome, if sometimes intimidating, (to many locals) addition.

The laptop is right next to the evaluating
station; a little complaint that it could
better link with the phone app.

Back to the ranch.

Wiping away the tears from the pain of two illnesses I've come down with (the beginnings of bronchitis and something else I won't discuss), I got on my rubber boots and went to the farm at 7:30 AM, already late. If I go again, and I plan to, I want to be there just after sun-up, at 6:00 sharp.

I was received my the rancher's son, an affable and handsome man who studied veterinary medicine to maintain his family's livelihood. The place, like the butcher shop, is also pristine, with a farm house, potted garden and an outdoor living room with a perfectly thatched roof. All great. Walk to the choral, step inside.

Nothing prepared me for the gentle conversation I would have with the animals. A little shy, but quite curious, they wanted to know what on earth I was doing. Their master called them each by name and they followed his direction. (Really? Naming cattle? Of course, the rancher replied. They're all cataloged and numbered, why not name them, too?)

The breed of his cattle is called Huzera, which is a natural selection--not a bred animal. It is a descendant pf the Buhara cattle which originally came from India. This particular group of animals were brought from Brazil (now that's a cattle drive!) and chosen for their resistance to disease, adaptation to heat, and yes, personality. Finally! I met a cow I can deal with!

Otherwise, how could have I been able to enter their space and share the warm, sunny morning with them?

Lorica

Goods set-up in thecleaned-up old market
on the river's edge. The structure is open
to the outdoors, the rich earth colors preserved
from the original.

The first port of exit (or entry, since the Rio Sinú is an estuary) from the Caribbean Sea is Lorica. A pleasant city that, because of heavy federal and architectural input, has seen restoration with more on the way.

The market has been totally redone. It's still quite characteristic with a "food court" facing the river, across from grazing brahma bulls. Facing the interior are merchants selling various wares, mostly touristic handcrafts. The rougher and more congested part of the market is an area just behind it and, I imagine, was once housed in the large golden yellow building on the river's edge. It's in a state of filth and chaos, but it's fun.

One of the official buildings on the town square. Note many
of the original details preserved in the louver doors and
cement tile so hot right now at home....

Immediately one is struck by the older buildings several stories high, and, as Dr. Puche explained, since they weren't made of reeds and mud, many of the original details were easily maintained.

That said, I noticed a lot less vegetation in this town--no shady streets under which moss grows, and gritty dust blasts the sidewalks clean. The blazing sun bakes everything dry. It's near from Montería but a world away.

Slow...s...l...o...w...

The state of suspended motion is at the core of most video work.

Under, a 3.5-minute video by Kevin Frilet (2014, however presented this year at Video Art and Experimental Film Festival, VAEFF, http://videoart.net/about-vaeff-2017-2/) is a mysterious black-and-white piece in slow motion under water. While the explanation says that the film was photographed in a public swimming pool with people the director knew, the piece was masterfully edited, with a large crew and beautifully scored to give the chills of a rape and its escape. I'm not sure, though, what opening sequence has to do with the violation--perhaps a predation of someone who strays from the crowd...?

Slo-mo seems to be the M-O of experimental video, contributing significantly to its genre. Video Art, as commented by various critics and curators need not have a narrative, and usually don't. They're meant to express a reflection on an event or emotion, very personal to the creator; hence the abstraction and eerie music.

We're in the artist's head!

I have my own take on this, of course. I find the persistent presence of sexy, naked, young people very commonplace--do millennials strip naked the minute they're inside? And, are we still so exploratory about sex that it's the main thing to make videos about? (Saying this may be unfair; we are a "puritanical" country, after all).

I have seen some nice work with and about kids, about travel and the freedoms it gives, dancing on the streets and roofs of Paris (https://vimeo.com/217624589). Most of it runs in real time--our shaggy friend crafts time for his own uses.

The slo-mo vid reads like an expanded photograph; the decisive moment just wasn't enough to capture the depth of the mental image. That could really be said for most video work, however the slower the motion, the more the viewer must train their acuity visual structure: color, form, composition, taking over where there is no narrative.  It's also why most vids have a ten-minute or less duration. You can ask just so much from your viewer--even a willing one.

Enter Bill Viola, but I'll write about him another time.

Shooting Notes

Arriving to a highly humid tropical town with a variety of equipment proved to be a good idea. Just before leaving I purchased a mirrorless camera with video capabilities and an adjustable recording speed.

Mini dolly with extendable
monopod.

 I was about to get a stabilizer/support, but backed down, thinking I didn't need it. Big mistake. Supports and rails were made for these ultra-light devices because, unlike the traditional video camera which is balanced from front to back, the leveling the horizon while shooting with an SLR-shaped device becomes a challenge.

The 3-axis crane.

So, today, I spent  time looking for a monopod with wheels (AliBaba trading has exactly what I want but will take 12 days--possibly more--to get here). I'll probably kluge something to a shopping cart or a tricycle.

As I considered a stabilizer, I came upon the exquisite Crane-M 3-Axis Handheld Gimbal by Zheyun-Tech (at B&H in New York) which stabilizes action and still cams beautifully but not my camcorder (the pull-out screen doesn't allow perfect balance).

Interesting that professional video equipment is now available for the price I purchased a consumer camera a scant four years ago. The reasoning behind my purchase was that this particular collection of cameras were well adapted to accept XLR input for the sound mic, which is critical for my work. But the pro cams have that, too.

Going forward, I'm seriously considering an upgraded camera; I'll post my research on the advantages. Then again, the motion picture Tangerine was shot on an iPhone 6.

Sticks, Mud and Plaster

To understand why a still-standing hundred-year-old house is a phenomenon, some attention must be given to construction on the north coast of Colombia at the time.

In most of the US, we had much different building techniques due to our need of keeping warm in the winter. Although most places have hot summers, a lot of the US--even the deep South--can and do get snowfalls, even in this age of global warming.

No such thing in this Colombian town. The area I'm drawn to is in the winding delta of the Sinú River, a plain of fertile soil and twice-daily rainfall, once home to the finest indigenous goldsmiths in all of South America.

The homes built around the turn of the 1900s all needed to provide shelter from the sun and rain. Other provisions, but not many, had be made for fungi and moss that grow in the dark, warm, shade. Nothing lasts too long under these conditions, except, a significant element of the population, but I'll write about them another time.

The houses were made by reeds nailed to a hard wood frame. Mud (usually cow manure) was stuffed into the cracks on both sides, and finally, plaster with casein was troweled on. Several coats of oil-based paint sealed the deal, with occasional patch-ups.

The ceilings are high, and the roofs are made from corrugated sheet metal. In some areas, curved brick is put on top of this, but mostly not. Instead, sometimes the roofs are thatched with dried palms.

There are bars on every window and two-level shutters for the afternoon and nighttime. These homes do not have screens, since the insects in the area can easily enter the standard mesh. Instead, people used mosquito nets; I discovered some still cling to that tradition.

One Day a Hundred Years Ago

I had the opportunity to meet with an architect from the mayor's office in Monteria. Dr. Luis Eduardo Puche. He's at the helm of developing an historic quarter for this passed-over city. The project involves an investigation to evaluate, repurpose, rehabilitate where possible, and ultimately preserve the architecture of a a town that blossomed into a city and is bursting at new seams every few years.

As stated in other posts, the town was once a livestock processing center, with cattle health care and evaluation, auctions, bull fights, etc. Roads weren't paved to facilitate the cattle moving from place to place (trucks do that now...) and hey, who needs sewers in that case? When I visited Oklahoma City's Stockyards I saw similarities.

Built around 1900 from mud, piles and plaster, this house is
inhabited by descendants of its owner.

Cattle brings a lot of money; and other land industries sprung up--cotton and sorghum farming. The village was a kluge of shops selling all kinds of wares--purveyors of cowboy products like saddles, feed, twine, barbed wire and the like. Fabrics made from the fine cotton grown nearby went into making clothes and of course, there were food markets.

This kind of living brought about a type of planation living for the wealthy, even though it was edging toward an urban environment. Entertainment, night clubs, and restaurants weren't a large part of the flow of life, since these needs were better served by older, more established cities like Cartagena, Medellin or the capital, Bogota. Instead, entertaining at home was the chief activity, and most participated--even if it was a pre-dinner walk to visit friends in the late afternoon.

Back to Dr. Pucha: He gave me PDFs of the proposals and reports he's put together for the mayor's office of planning and development, which detail the blocks and lots in the oldest part of town. Houses are separated by age, and notes which have been demolished, which suits me perfectly.

I've identified 21 structures that may have been frequented by my subject; and  this web will widen. I plan on visiting them all, early in the morning, since the heat is outrageous. Sunrise at 6:00 and sunset 12 hours later, doesn't make things easier. But the adventure is that I'm never sure what I will find. 

¿Bueno...?

In a total state of disarray, I booked a ticket, filled out the necessary forms to replace an expired passport and got on a plane to the north coast of Colombia. Internet research on the area proved futile, and in full knowledge of how slow life is in a small town in the middle of nowhere (think Oklahoma City with mosquitoes), I rolled into town with the intention of staying a full five weeks to shoot and tape sound.

¡Ay Caramba!

When I got here I was slammed against a thought lurking in the back of my head: Everything in the epicenter of my centenarian subject was, too, going to be around 100 years old. Houses, sidewalks, and friends lingering and lumbering on, mostly withering away.

One hundred-year-old people are surrounded by 100-year-old things.

Yes, it's a part of life, and there is a sweet sadness to be savored. However I didn't understand until I got here that I was walking into a closing book.

One of the houses I was planning to photograph was being evacuated; stacks of fine china and armies of crystal glasses were being packed away, their destiny unknown, the process being done in a different universe from its owners.

I had experienced this several times before. Leaving a place where many years had passed within, what is left behind? With every item packed, discarded, sold or given away, one can't help but look back on an item's significance. The window is poised on a moment etched in time.

Mariana Cook

With less than two weeks to go and facing a mountain of obstacles pathetically mundane, I had to break my silence and begin posting again.

Another project had side-swiped me for a few months, and, while I thought I could shift gears quickly from one to to another, both projects are so intense that I had to shelve one for the moment.

So, in ten days I'm off to South America, where I will chase the life and memories of a centenarian throughout the hills and valleys of northern Colombia, the medical school in Santiago, and maybe the backstreets of Rio de Janeiro and Belo Horizonte. The Brazil trip is a maybe because it's dependent on funds and time.

I will be gone for two months, but everything goes a lot slower in South America, and I might be held back by the technology.

In the meantime, I started amassing images and ideas; Mariana Cook comes to mind. Mariana's work fell under my eyes while I was in my last year of art school, and I've been a silent fan every since. Her portraits are magnificent, but for my purposes, her stony landscapes, so carefully considered, are sleepy storytellers, one boulder on top of the other, as if delicately building a life.

Cairns and stone walls are a staple of human existence; carefully fitting heavy, inorganic objects in the hopes they will never again move betray the intention as time passes, much as memories do.

Yet, memories do move, from different parts of our bodies and minds. They shift in outlook, sometimes needing a reminder or even a resurrection. The connection of one to another, forming a vague synapse--a hand holding--allow them to age together until rustled by another event.

Sensing Motion

A NYT article about a North Carolina professor achieving animal behavior capture through motion sensor got my attention. Scientists have been filming and recording animals in the wild for decades with remote control apparatus, however the motion sensor is a recent development.

As I embark on the new project, I considered the end result, a large projected image, and it's taking shape as an outdoor presentation. Is a motion sensor even needed?

Probably not. Motion sensors get their significance indoors for obvious reasons. Being outdoors necessarily nears something is moving.

Here I bring up the classic structural avant-guarde film, Wavelength. The 45-minute film has little motion, save for a few characters entering and exiting the film briefly in four different instances. Otherwise, it's a slow zoom toward the windows of a Bowery loft in 1967, when that side of town was decidedly raw. Years after the film was made, I was in art school up the block from there. That was the kind of place we students coveted but couldn't afford since its price had blown up a dandelion wisp of the slumming trend so loved in NYC.

The film was made by a Canadian filmmaker Michael Snow. I saw it in graduate school and loved it since, as a still photographer, it gave me the opportunity to observe the details of the film without getting wrapped up in a plot, characters or acting (movies are a difficult medium for me).

As the one beholds the room closing in, the germinating details etch themselves building the stage for the four intrusions of the characters, one of which at a point collapses dead and is discovered by others who had visited the room earlier. The film culminates with the framing of a picture of the wall of a wave in the ocean. Totally great. It's a classic.

Moving while not moving was important in SIS, and is turning into a central issue in FTS. Do memories move or are the memories precisely because they are not moving, frozen in the time space?

Projected Project

As I look to the spring, I'm ready to dive into FINDING THE SKY. A number of personal issues impeded my art-making endeavors but I've decided to turn my back on them and forge forward with my installation.

My last entry was made before the nation was turned upside down by our electing a complete moron to lead us for the next four years. I take responsibility simply because I'm an American. My fellow citizens went to the polls and made sure that the Man in the Chair would get rid of anything non-white; at least push them over the border or to the back burner.

Enough. Four, maybe eight years of who knows what. I'm tired of hearing it/thinking about it.

I was looking at the various light art festivals around the world: Glow in the Netherlands, InLight in Richmond VA, Lux in Helsinki, Festival of Lights in Berlin among many, many others. With the event of light-weight and energy efficient LED units, night festivals with zillions of lights are popping up like mushrooms.

An image from the 2016 Festival of Light in Berlin.
Finding information about this truly engaging
piece is difficult. More information is forthcoming. 

I list the four above because, after carefully combing through a good 20 of them, I sat back and cataloged what I was seeing. All the festivals above include free-standing, flat projected and 3D mapped light sculpture shows--some animated--in which images are perfectly patterned and projected onto huge government buildings. The ones above (and I haven't visited any of them yet) showed works that appear to apprise the environment in which they are in addition to offering consideration for the medium and the message it carries.

The greater majority, sadly, fall short here. The beauty is in the envisioning and innovation of truly spectacular art pieces; they're fully immersive and interactive with the audience but appear (on my computer screen in my warm, cozy apartment) vapid on emotion and correlation.

Sensational work is  to be expected when test-driving new technologies. Exploration is supposed to be a touch naive if it's to be the slightest bit charming. My issue is that most of the pieces lack two critical qualities: an artistic message--why did I do this? what am I saying (or trying to say?) AND why do I need a light sculpture the size of the Sydney Opera House to say it?

In other words, is what's being expressed related--in any way--to light, time, space, color, buildings and architecture, night time, public theatre or is this just another groovy gizmo for the tourists to bring "income to the municipality"?

The most impressive--even if a little over the top--is the 3D animated mapping at Spotlight--Bucharest International Light Festival. The video is five minutes long. 

More on this in the very near future.