behind the kodak

The old Goody's Kodak building has been abandoned for years. It was Shirley Franklin's lair when she ran for mayor in 2002, but it's seen no action since. A few months back some construction workers began gutting the place and tossing stuff out the back. I walked by to see if there was any indication what it was going to be or who bought it, but it's still in shabby condition, sans a few hundred pounds of asbestos. I'm guessing the locals are beginning to envision the small lot behind the Kodak as their new landfill.

beacon

I doubt that many people think of Atlanta as a foggy city. Sometimes I'm amazed by how much moisture crowds the atmosphere and blocks the view of our sporadic skyline. On some days, the tallest building south of the Mason-Dixon just disappears into celestial obscurity and I forget how suffocating the mist can be on a cold day.

unicorn

I get nervous taking pictures at concerts because I always hear of photographers either getting pummeled by crowd members who don't like a camera blocking their view of the stage or of musicians who don't appreciate getting strobed sixty times point blank. Last week, a woman told me her and her husband went to a Mastodon show at Lenny's where a guy was using his flash point blank on the lead singer. In between songs, the lead singer told this guy to stop flashing him. The guy did not and the next time he took a picture the singer kicked him in the face, saying, I warned you. Since I haven't been injured at a concert since high school, I don't want to be that guy.

Luckily no one said anything and I got some mosh pit images without any elbows to the face. There are a number of dive bars up and down Ponce, but I admire the Unicorn. Anyplace where the bartender simply reaches into an open case of PBR when a customer asks for a beer is one for Zagat.

splatter effect

I don't know what this is.

It was splattered across the wall of the halfway house near the
Yaarab Shrine. It's not blood, but beyond that, it's anyone's
guess. It's the most interesting shot on this roll because I still
couldn't get access to the barbershop.

I took a couple photo walks and tried to talk to Bobby again.
Bobby is the owner of the barbershop down the street. The
shop is dripping with a classical touches like a rabbit-eared
television, old leather chair and wall decorations that are historic
and important to the barbers and their clientele. I've spent more
than six months trying to get permission to take pictures in there.
First the owner was sick, then he wouldn't return my calls. I sent
him promo postcards to show him that I was a real photographer
but to no avail. Finally I managed to speak with him and he
confided in me that he deserves a cut of my money. I told him
I wasn't getting paid. I told him this was a labor of love; a historic
document of Ponce and the people who thrive here. His story was
some barbershop in Decatur had allowed someone/some crew to
film inside and they paid the owner $300 for his troubles. To Bobby,
I think there is no difference between a video shoot and
documentary photography. Our last talk ended in another stalemate.
I would love to take pictures in there, but I'm not going to
compromise ethics and pay to do so. I'm hoping that with enough
patience, I'll convince him that this is a project worth accepting.

This roll is the first I've developed that I felt actually turned out
well. It's been more than seven years since I processed my own film
and the initial results were disappointing. I went back and reread
the directions and made sure to wash the film longer this time, so
maybe that was my problem. Either way it still takes some time
getting used to a fixed lens rangefinder and knowing that it will be
a day or two before knowing if you took a good picture or not.

tuesday at manuels

World War II veteran Manuel Maloof once served as the CEO of DeKalb County. He also owned a bar on the corner of North
and Highland Avenues which he operated with his family. The bar is still called Manuels and literature promoting the place
touts his reputation as the "Godfather" of Georgia Democratic politics. Odd that on my first visit, I didn't notice the portrait of
JFK that hangs above the main bar, nor the scattered collection of images depicting other politicians who leaned toward the left.

I just assumed Manuels was your typical blue-collar bar. The aging wood interior and the bevy of domestic brew taps
seemed like a good indication that this was the place where you could ingest saturated fat and carcinogenic air
in the same mouthful. The servers and bartenders had a non-conformist appearance and still maintained a cheerful smile as
they dotted about the pub slinging suds and placing orders in the glowing LCD screens that contradicted the vintage atmosphere
and reminded you that it was still the 21st century. The vibe reeks of positive energy and easy going attitudes. This is place
you want to get drunk and lose your wallet because the gut feeling is your wallet will turn up and someone will volunteer to
safely drive your inebriated ass home.

I spent super Tuesday at the bar, watching CNN scroll down the primary reports as districts began declaring their numbers.
McCain, Romney, Huckabee, Paul...but the only politicians being accounted for were those of the two democratic frontrunners.
Every time a state had Obama as it's winner, the standing room only crowd burst into applause. Clinton supporters were few,
and even received boos when they applauded the New York senator after her wins were announced. "Hey, we're all democrats
here!" shouted a Clinton-supporter sitting near me. We had to leave early, but considering the close results, I'm sure the rest of
the night was any less tense. When things get crazy over the next eight months I'm going to have to remind myself this is an
election year.

snowfall

Snow fell down on the city for the first time in few years. Having
lived in the midwest for most of my life, the sight of snow is usually
more of a nuisance than joy. When you were a kid, just a couple
flakes could involuntarily smash your face against the window panes,
achingly straining you eyes for the first signs of unforgiving blizzard
that would incapacitate the district bus system while building an
enviable hill that could propel a two-person toboggan at speeds once
limited only to Chuck Yeager.

Now, snow just means you have to shovel the driveway and spend an
extra hour in traffic. Two hours if you live in Atlanta.

Snow is uncommon in the city, but I wouldn't go as far as to say it's
rare. A few inches seem to fall every few years and the locals are
reminded that as much as everyone wants to think we live in the hot
basement of the American south, we're just a few clicks below a full
four seasons.

Last year I was the still photographer on a documentary about UGA
football in Athens. One of the crew members and I were driving
around around Athens and asking about each other's lives. He was a
native New Yorker and we got to talking about the way locals handle
the precipitation. I told him that once it started to lightly rain when I
was driving down 75. Soon the traffic slowed to a crawl and people
started darting left and right, changing lanes the way roaches scurry
away from a flashlight. I thought there was an accident ahead or
maybe a big sporting event in town but after a while, the realization
came that the traffic and erratic behavior was a result of a little rain.

The crew member scoffed and gave me one of those grizzled veteran
looks of cocky experience. He leaned over, as if we were in a
crowded bar in Warsaw and he was going to tell me a Polish joke,
and said, "These Georgians can't drive for shit! They don't know how
to act when it rains or anything else." I asked him about snow. He
proceeded to tell me horror stories of a city crippled by the kind of
accumulation that St. Paul wouldn't even register in the evening
news. He told me that if I saw another now fall in Atlanta, it would
be the scene of mass hysteria. Employers flooded with sick excuses,
cars gridlocked at spaghetti junction and a mass run at every
Kroger for milk, eggs, bottled water and Marlboros. The next
whiteout, he predicted, would be on a scale that I had never scene
and it would catch me off guard.

So when those huge snowflakes began falling on Ponce a couple
weeksago, I grabbed my camera and tried to get some shots of it
and the ensuing chaos. I was able to snap a few pics that brought
out the snow, but the mad rush I envisioned at Kroger was replaced
by calm shoppers trudging about, buying kitchen staples and meat.
The traffic was calm and the mood lacked desperate citizens
grappling over the last tuna helper.

By the time I had walked back home, it was dark and the half-inch
flakes had turned into rain. It dissolved what little remained of the
snow on the ground and sent patches of fading ice cascading into
the gutter. I still believe that locals have a tough time dealing with
anything less than sunshine, but I hope that the next snowfall brings
out the hysteria that proves it.