The Big Dull

Originally Posted Sunday, January 13, 2013

My love of awkward poses does not always please the people I photograph.  I think they come because they like the work, but many just want flattering pictures of themselves.  "That is not my gig," I tell them, and they are alright with that for other people, but I guess they do not wish to see themselves in that way.  It gets frustrating.  I love this photograph, for instance, as it looks as if the figure has been painted a little wrong, the proportions off, the arm too long or perhaps the neck.  It is too static, the way the Greeks made figures as opposed to the Romans.  It is rigid, without life or depth.  It is no accident.  It is hard work. 

"I don't like that one.  I'd rather you didn't use it." 

What can one say to that?  O.K.  Shit.  But I print them.  I have stacks of of them. 

Yesterday was all wrong.  It couldn't have gone wronger.  It could have, but not in such a dull way.  I woke with such hopes.  I went for an early-ish run, then showered and ate some yogurt (rather than going to a high calorie breakfast with my friend).  I decided to do what I said I would do in yesterday's post--go out among the throng to see what happens.  So I went to the Boulevard to take a stroll.  It was awful.  Eighty-four degrees in January is hot.  It is hotter than ninety mid-summer because you are conditioned for it by then.  And apparently the Carnival Cruise Ship had docked and let off the Cruise Ship crowd.  The Boulevard was packed with cheap t-shirted men and their overweight concubines in Clothing Barn florals, crowding the sidewalks three abreast with ice cream cones and baby strollers and the pie-eyed look of those who have found the promised land.  Our merchants think they have won some victory, I assume, but these are not real shoppers.  They are Pilgrims unwashed and without the wherewithal to truly pump the economy. 

I was sweating like an overweight alcoholic and as irritable. 

I stopped in my friend's little hippy shop at the end of the street, though, and bought some pretty oil burners and some Myrrh and Jasmine and Frangipani to scent the house.  That made me feel a little better. 

I decided to get off the avenue and take my new prints by Ellen Rogers to the framer.  I'd called him earlier but he hadn't answered.  Since I wanted the photos framed, I told myself that he was busy.  Why wouldn't he be opened on a Saturday?  So I got in the car and drove across town. 

One college radio station was playing opera, the other something equally horrible.  The new CD my friend had given me sucked.  Traffic was bad and I was already a hater.  And, of course, when I got there, the shop was closed. 

Driving home without joy, I thought I should get coffee which I needed and a tank of gas as I was almost out.  But fuck, I just wanted to go home, take off my clothes, drink a beer and take a nap. 

And that is what I did. 

When I got up, it was moving toward dark.  It had been a wasted day, so I poured a drink and sat down to work on some images.  I tried some internet college stations, but they were all playing crap.  Around seven, my friend called.  I told him I would go out for cocktails with him at a nice bar on the Boulevard, and it was time.  Shit.  I needed to get coffee and gas, but there wasn't time.  Afterwards, I said.  This would be an early evening. 

The bar was packed.  It was impossible to get a table or even a seat at the bar.  Apparently the cruise ship was docked here for the night.  So we ordered two Kettle One martinis, slightly dirty, and stood behind the people seated at the bar watching the Ravens and the Broncos playoff game on t.v.  The whole thing, as it turned out.  Standing.  Though we got lucky after about an hour or so and were able to find a corner to lean on.  More martinis as my friend chatted up some girl he likes who, he said, had changed since he last saw her into some terrible version of Jersey Shore.  After awhile, they went around the other side of the horseshoe bar and somehow found seats. 

"Look at her eat!" my friend said.  "She used to be. . . ." 

"She eats like a sailor," I said.  She was hunched over with her elbows on the bar, head down, sucking up some bit of feed between her lips. 

"I don't care.  I can live with that." 

Three martinis later and an order of meatball hors d'oeuvres, we were back on the street. 

"Jesus, look at this," I said.  Some fellow was displaying his horrible paintings on the sidewalk next to a talentless busker with a guitar.  "Who let this happen?" 

O.K. O.K.  So I'm being a horrible prick.  I'm just in a mood.  I don't really want to be around people as overweight and as poorly dressed as myself, for I have other redeeming qualities that make me desirable.  Trust me. 

Today has all the promise of yesterday.  The sky is blue, the temperatures climbing.  The gas tank is still empty, and I am drinking instant coffee.  I think I will try a different tact today.  I have little hope, though, for anything satisfying let alone nurturing.  The Big Dull is upon me.  There is little to do but hum.