Really Worth It?

Did you know that the replacement cost for a Cadillac windshield is about $2,200? There is a lot of electronic sophistication in the windshield of a modern Caddy, which explains the cost. Does it justify it? If the primary headlight burns out, that's about $1,100 a pop. The average Cadillac has roughly 32 computer modules built into it, built on about five networks. After my conversation with the insider who told me this, I began to think that this has wider implications than I at first thought.

If you want a Caddy, and you can afford it, go for it. Same goes for a Lexus, Mercedes, even (to a lesser extent) a Hummer. But I don't want to feel the pressure of carrying anyone's insurance rates on my first gen Neon because they cracked their windshield. I don't want to feel the pressure of paying higher gas prices, just because they can sell it at whatever price they pick to the wealthy gas guzzler. And I don't want to pay for extra, unnecessary electronics in my car, included just because that's what the market says should happen.

Interestingly, as time goes on, I find that people who are in the automotive hobby are becoming increasingly distanced from the current market. Even the import scene -- comfortable with the highest level of technology -- is going to older and older cars. They are more fun, and easier to work on. How could any amateur car lover even lift the plastic engine cover off of a vehicle with 32 computers? The higher the level of automotive technology, the more I'm glad I have an old carbureted V8 in my hobby car. Now if gas prices would just get low enough that I could drive it. (And I'll save house prices for another day...)

On Being an Individual

I discovered this week what I've been told all my life: I'm an individual. It's hard to explain this realisation purely in words, because they all sound like what I've heard forever. In university I used to tell people, "You're unique, just like everyone else." I meant it slightly sarcastically, but I have finally come to grips with what it means. At least a little.

Perhaps it's of interest what precipated this epiphany: I entered a picture in the local photo club and its was given a lower score than I expected. Enough positive comments were made about it to preclude bitterness, and so I was allowed to wonder objectively what happened. The effort that went into it was obvious, so I'm left to assume that ultimately it was judged to not be worthy of that effort. "If you like that, you'll love this!" has been the presumption informing so many lost causes.

The whole discovery is a little unsettling for a person who needs to engage a wide variety of people. I realised suddenly that I need to keep reaching out for new ways to connect. At a very basic level, no-one can read my thoughts, and no-one can share my exact beliefs. Truly, no-one can fully understand me. Well, I guess I've known that for a while :) It's a fascinating thought, though, because what I really mean is that no-one can fully understand anyone else. It's a miracle that humans have gotten as far as we have. There is a flip side though.

There isn't nearly as much competition for the things I like as I have been led to believe. There isn't an unquenchable market for Pentax equipment (much to Pentax's chagrin, I'm sure). For early 70s Dodge sedans. For old Suzuki 750s. For basement suites in suburbia. But more importantly for creative expression, deeply appreciated or not.

There is a place in the world for me. I don't have to work so hard to make it, or even find it. In many ways it's being provided, and I just have to accept it. And I'm starting to. I'm starting to.

Down the Middle, and Round the Corner (self-assigned writing excercise)

Dayton cut a line right down the middle. He carried some of the inflection of a self-described auteur, but not exaggerated enough to be called on it. His clothes perfectly split the difference between the jeans and t-shirt regular, and someone who's trying too hard not to be. His hair wasn't combed carefully, but the short cut kept it controlled. And the way he talked to Nadia in her emplyee's uniform teetered on both sides of smug and bashful.

The cognitive dissonance between the book I was perusing, and the lack of self-awareness this pair exhibited was almost audible in its intensity. Sally Mann is a photographer shrouded in controversy over the implicitly sexual images that she has taken of children. I was introduced to her in my last year of university, and the work is on the knife-edge between insightfully-observed, masterfully-recorded reality and all-out exploitation. The book I was reading at the time does not contain her most contentious images, but still shows the adult awareness of preteens. I wonder if we forget by 17 what we were afraid to learn at 12.

He asked her about various books, and carefully looked through the ones she offered him. She talked with conviction about the books she loved throughout the art, illustation and photography section, oddly shuffled on the shelves.

"I just sold my absolute favourite book," she volunteered.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it was a book of fashion concepts. You know, the pictures before the clothes are actually made? It was all hand-drawn. The girl I sold it to really liked it too, and she was so cute about it, so I'm okay with it."

"I should do some fashion photography."

They happened on a book on polaroids wrapped in plastic to resemble an old polaroid film pack, and he launched into a story about a polaroid camera he found at a thrift store.

"It's coloured like a rainbow, gotta be from the 70s," he told her, verging on enthusiastic. "And it works. It only cost seven dollars. I'm gonna get some film and try it out. Maybe I should buy this book to get some ideas."

He looked at the price tag and gingerly put it back.

"That's a Taschen. I love Taschen!" That she wasn't going to make the sale had no effect on her, one way or the other. "They do these really crazy things with their packaging. Here's a book on wood, and it comes in a wood box. Who does that?"

They fumbled together over the origin and history of the publisher, and came back around to photography.

"...It's all about the rule of thirds," he was saying. "It's an important rule, and it's everywhere."

"Yeah," she joined in. "There are, like, seven rules in photography that you have to keep."

"Or that are there for breaking." I gave my comment a slightly sardonic tone, and just like that I suddenly broke the delicate observer-participant boundary.

She paused, in that way one does when a stranger unexpectedly joins a conversation (I should know), and then flashed me a brilliant smile, that became a brief, surprised laugh. It was a laugh that came from a place where she was surrounded with books she loved, happily diverted with a friend, and pleased with the little freedom I had taken. "Touche."

Dayton looked past her to me, a little uneasy. "Do you have that book with all the digital manipulation in it?" he asked her.

Her attention readily returned to him. "Do you have a title?"

"I think I remember part of it."

"Do you want to look it up?"

He nodded slowly, but she was already leading him to the desk. Presently they rounded a corner and went out of sight, without a backward glance. From either of them.

Movie Review: A Love Song for Bobby Long

Here's a John Travolta movie for people who hate John Travolta movies. This has none of his usual cocky, man-above-town swagger. Instead he portrays a lost, broken drunk slowly coming back to his senses. The story is crafted with such brutal honesty that it becomes in its own way beautiful. Scarlett Johansson is in the role of his foil, tearing him down where he needs to be, and yet also shoring him up where he sags.

There is a depth to the cinematography that is truly inspiring. I never felt like it was intruding, but as a photographer I really appreciated the warm lighting and colour that lends life and dignity to the dilapidated shack that is the primary set. Even in the midst of its cluttered ugliness, the old house is given beauty -- an excellent metaphor for the entire story.

It has given me a new understanding of the character of New Orleans, a city rich in history...and only history. The city's lofty aspirations and deperate reality are acutely reflected here, and it makes me wonder what is to become of it now.