My latest photo collection, “Sing The Seagull’s Song,” is scheduled for release in July. I envisioned it as a narrative about a beach town and the man behind the lens. Maybe all work is biography. That town is Oceanside, California, but it could be any beach destination with the signature muscle cars, surfers and beaches. We find a common bond in the sea and the impermanence of memory.
Thanksgiving. It pours; a menacing sky. I hope for a break in the rain so I can take pictures. That seems unlikely: it won’t clear up until Saturday. I retreat to the studio, fondling some of my medium-format cameras: a Mamiya RZ67, a Hasselblad 500 C/M, a Rolleiflex and a Fuji GW690, a monstrous rangefinder that produces exceptionally sharp photos. The beloved Hasselblad now has a prism finder and I’m eager to try it out: the glare was too much in bright sun.
A series of 6X6 photos has been on my mind for a while, maybe enough for a book. I love the square format, something inspired by the work of Vivian Maier and Robert Adams, among others. I find it easier to compose in 6X6. Medium-format images are exceedingly sharp because the negative is four- to six times larger than a 35mm negative. The general wisdom is that not even digital can match that crispness.
I lack a project, but it may be time to revisit the Rosicrucian grounds in Oceanside, a beach town in San Diego. I’ve taken pictures at the Rosicrucians (below) for years and planned a book, but the project lacked uniformity, since the images were taken in black and white and color with different cameras. I realized that I may have to retake the pictures I had taken in those four years. Most of the pictures in “The Open-Air Bookstore” (a recycling center shown below) were taken in this format, along with the pictures in the newly released “Fragments (the last five images, which were taken with a Holga, a plastic camera. Holga make for blurry, poetic images). I’m enjoying digital but am excited to resume shooting film. I will be posting more images as the adventure unfolds.
[“Fragments” is available on Blurb.]
It started as a lark: go to the swap meet in Oceanside, California, just to check it out and maybe find some cheap cameras. I had told a good friend about a project involving an alternate take on downtown Oceanside, and she suggested a narrower focus. The project became a reality after a few trips. Doing a maquette for publishers is hundreds of photos and edits away, but the pictures so far have kept me coming back. There is a social aspect to it: most of the vendors are Mexican, and there’s a high level of distrust of cameras in what is essentially a microcosm of the immigrant world. That hasn’t deterred me so far, despite the angry looks (I’ve been confronted several times by people asking why the hell I’m taking pictures), though I’ve settled on a cheap film camera that won’t be a big loss if smashed. I also like the graininess of the images, all of which will be high-contrast black-and-white.
While compiling my last collection, The Elastic Dome, I began a series of poems titled “The Radio Odes” using various cut-up techniques. Some of those surrealist works were included in the book. They were composed by arranging excerpts from feature shows and news reports from a popular broadcasting station. I wrote down the snippets that struck me, rearranged and tweaked them, and added a few lines of my own. Some turned out well; others didn’t pass muster.
I’m turning to cut-ups again, and plan a collection further on. Some are traditional, but the majority have my own spin. My source material at the moment is radio, newspapers, magazines, journal entries and excerpts from correspondence. The ones pictured were mined from a torn photocopied letter, a character sketch and a copy of Mark Twain’s On the Decay of the Art of Lying.
The Third Mind is the title of an out-of-print book by William S. Burroughs and Brion Gysin. It features cut-ups, popularized by Burroughs and Gysin in the ’60s.
This is a stunning typewriter that exudes elegance. It’s in great cosmetic shape and seems rarely used: the seller’s relatives said the father liked to collect typewriters but didn’t use them. Besides the customary cleaning and a brushing of type slugs, it was ready to pound paper. But it had a glaring flaw: the capitals were misaligned.
I was able to fix it after finding the adjustment nuts at opposing sides below the machine. It took a good hour of tweaks and turns which resulted in a busted knuckle. I haven’t done many alignment repairs, and was overjoyed.
A week later, I noticed it was typing lightly at times, which annoyed me. So I tinkered again with the adjustment nuts. Big mistake: while tightening, I heard a slight pop, and then the shift key seized. After two hours trying to make it functional again, I gave up. It’s the first typewriter I damaged during a repair, and the last one I wanted to bungle.
Weeks later, I took it to the shop, already bracing for a call from the German repairman telling me it was “a dead dog.” (He had used this phrase before in reference to an Olivetti Praxis.) I was resigned to selling it on craigslist as a wedding prop. But ‘ole Ott fixed it, though it took him nearly two weeks. I was elated.
However, when I tested it at home (always test a machine at the shop), I found the capitals slightly misaligned. It was an easy fix, requiring only a few quarter turns of each alignment nut. The shift key remains slightly stiff, a small price to pay for having it back in the small writing studio, a luminary among elders.
This is delightful electric, and my favorite so far. It was Olivetti’s first portable electric, and was made in the ’70s. It was designed by architect Ettore Sottsass. The first versions had rounded keys which which were later determined to be impractical for faster typing, and later models had rectangular keys. It has a metal body and a floating keyboard, and feels light to the touch. This one came with the original black, molded case, which is streamlined and has ridges running along it.
I find the Lettera 36C wonderfully compact and tidy. I like the sleek design and find it very user-friendly. There are three dials on the bottom front: one is the on/off dial; another is for touch-control; and the other is for adjusting key force when using multiple sheets. The red button at the top left of the keyboard is a key dejammer of sorts: when keys strike each other, the keyboard function disengages. Pressing the button returns it to typing mode.
One thing I really like is that the spools don’t have nuts, something I’ve always found irritating because lacking one can render a manual useless, at least in my experience. I also like that is has a correcting function, though I haven’t bought a ribbon for that. I’m afraid prolonged use of correction tape will result in fine dust that can cake on key parts with time.
I’m a big fan of uprights from the ’20s through ’50s, but this charming machine is enjoyable and efficient. It’s attractive, and one feels like touching it, humming along as the sentences snake forth.
Shortly after a renewed interest in older standards, I retrieved this L.C. Smith from the garage, where it had lain dormant since last year. Newer machines held my interest since then, and only a fascination with an Underwood No. 5 drew me back to the venerable standards I had long ignored.
I ignored the No. 8 because I remembered s typeface as being too grungy for my tastes. It had a special place in my heart, though: it was given to me in a dire state, and the shop wouldn’t take it, saying it would be too much work. I had more rudimentary skills then, but through sheer persistence I managed to get it working. I was so thrilled that I wrote a 12-page letter with it. It must have been treasured by someone, since that person took the time to weld metal strips with where the body had cracked in the front and left side.
On a whim, I took it out last week and discovered that my prejudices against it were unfounded. It’s a great machine, and I have been using it almost daily. It has some “character”: the carriage sounds like an old coffee grinder when returned, and the keys sometimes skip, albeit for half a space, if I type too fast. Now I find the inky typeface appealing and, well, full of character.
All of which makes me wonder that initial impressions of a machine are best put aside until one has given it time for more substantial assessments. This has happened to me before, most recently with a Woodstock 5 I initially considered over-hyped. I was wrong about that one, too.
I gave short shrift to these older L.C. Smiths and now find myself coveting them. My cherished Olympias have receded into the background. Some things truly get better with time.