08 October 2015
we are not known for our bikes here in this town. we are a city that loves our cars. we do not love our traffic, we curse our many highways but we will not give up our cars. and I really wish we would because bikes are nice, bikes are nicer, bikes are nicest.
city of bikes, teeming with bikes, busting at the seams with bikes. in fact, joyce told me there are roughly 900,000 bikes in amsterdam, that there are actually more bikes than inhabitants. well, we do not have 900,000 bikes in atlanta. but I bet we have 900,000 cars.
(more of joyce's perspective over at on a hazy morning//more about our twelve week collaboration here)
01 October 2015
atlanta on the left:
a fried peach pie from the varsity, still warm in the bag, sounds of the streets all around us, north avenue to the right, the big downtown connector off in the distance. the sounds of folks coming and going, swinging those front doors open, bits and pieces of that old varsity chorus wafting out, what'll ya have what'll ya have what'll ya have, a chorus cashiers have surely been singing out since the restaurant first opened back in 1928.
amsterdam on the right:
joyce's norwegian cinnamon rolls and can't you almost smell them? because I can. straight from a cozy kitchen in amsterdam, which I imagine be filled with a lovely light, a clean light, the kind of light I like to think only exists in amsterdam. am I wrong? I do not think I am wrong.
(read more over at on a hazy morning) (and more about our twelve week collaboration here)
30 September 2015
(last look at portland for a little while, maybe a long while)
(crater lake before me, state of oregon behind me)
(northern california magic hour from the magic highway 101)
(majestic, magnificent avenue of the giants, smallest feeling self)
(fiery miraculous sky, outskirts of san francisco)
(southern california haze from an endless I-5)
(cloudy, cloudy monument valley, great state of utah)
(sunset over navajo nation, somewhere in arizona)
(sunset over route 66, somewhere in new mexico)
(and finally, the city of atlanta) (home)
across this great country of ours, as told by one humble rearview mirror. who knew it'd have so much to say?
29 September 2015
24 September 2015
atlanta on the left:
a favorite old abandoned building, downtown atlanta, two blocks from the alleged heart of the city, woodruff park, peachtree street. atlanta, with its propensity for tearing things down and starting over again. atlanta with its insatiable need to destroy and rebuild, deconstruct and reconstruct, this is the pattern. the blood of too many beautiful old buildings on the hands of this city I love (which I do still love, despite this).
amsterdam on the right:
joyce's favorite corner building, de jordaan neighborhood, amsterdam. amsterdam, with that climbing ivy and those lovely bicycles. that history, that charm. I would climb inside this polaroid and live for a little while, if I could. if science would allow it.
(read more over on joyce's lovely, amazing blog and you can read more about this twelve-week collaborative project here)
22 September 2015
september third rolled around last year and we realized, hey. we made it. we made it to twenty, our twentieth wedding anniversary. which is no small feat because, as you know, marriage is hard, marriage is not for the faint of heart. it's a radical, magnificent thing and it is not to be entered into lightly. full disclosure: there were a few years there where I wasn't sure we were going to make it.
but, we made it. maybe not without a few bruises, a few proverbial tender spots, but we made it. and we celebrated the heck out of things with a road trip (just the two of us) down to new orleans, the city where we honeymooned two decades ago. we celebrated with a room at the same tiny old french quarter hotel we stayed at back in 1994, the one with the old wooden green shutters, the quiet, mossy courtyards and gurgling fountains with the fat goldfish, the little swimming pool and continental breakfast (which is exactly the same as it was twenty years ago, by the way-- croissants, orange juice, coffee, newspaper) and the smell of the place-- something like aged wood and humidity and powdered sugar--that is also, somehow, miraculously the same.
and things were the same in new orleans, but they weren't. just like we're those same two kids, but we aren't. and we celebrated this, the way things stay the same (but they don't) with beignets and bike rides. followed by an afternoon swim followed by a catnap followed by street music followed by po' boys followed by moonlight. and while there wasn't a bottle of champagne waiting for us when we checked in like there was twenty years ago, there was this: a second-line wedding parade, pouring out of our hotel the exact moment we arrived. a bride and groom and a cavalcade of big brass horns and people waving white handkerchiefs and paper fans and plastic solo cups and before we could even get the luggage out of the car, before we even knew what was happening, we were swept up in it, marching along side the thing, as if the parade was our parade and the musicians were playing for us. the bride, twirling her white cotton parasol and the wedding party, drunkenly lifting plastic cups to us. and we kept thinking, well, this was us. twenty years ago, this was us. minus the second-line parade, of course, but teeming with hope, floating along in that completely different plane of existence, the one reserved solely for the newly wed, those perched at the beginning of the beginning, who can so clearly and confidently see years into their spectacular infinite happy forever.
I wanted to pull that bride aside and tell her things. I wanted to tell her all that I know now, that it will be hard, so hard. that things will crumble a little bit, things might actually crumble a lot. the floor will feel shaky sometimes and there will be cracks. they will need your attention. it will be real work, real not-kidding-around hard, hard work. you might have to walk through a little fire, you won't be able get around it. there is no alternate route, no shortcuts. you'll just have to walk through it and let it melt and shape you, the both of you. but it will be worth it, all of it and if you're lucky, if you really work at it, you'll make it. and you'll celebrate your twentieth wedding anniversary with a wedding parade that is not exactly in your honor, but you won't care, not really, because you made it. you made it. and you can't wait to celebrate the next one, you can't wait to celebrate again.
and again and again and again.
(number 20 off the list, properly celebrated)
17 September 2015
the internet is a ridiculous place. a ridiculous, crazy place. but for every ridiculous, crazy internet thing, there are at least a dozen spectacular, wonderful internet things. in an instant, we are connected in impossible, miraculous ways, find commonality in similarities and differences, in the ways our stories intersect through the sharing of the work we make and the photographs we take. never has there been a better time for collaborations between artists, never in the history of the world.
in the spirit of this, I give you atlanta + amsterdam. over the next twelve weeks, I'll be collaborating with joyce (from on a hazy morning) to bring you looks at two different cities through the lenses of two polaroid SX-70 cameras. every thursday, we'll be here (and there) with different polaroids, side by side-- bits from atlanta, bits from amsterdam. a little world travel every thursday, if you will, without having to move even one inch.
meet you back here in a week, folks. until then, the streets of atlanta and amsterdam are waiting.
15 September 2015
to write stories for a thousand found polaroids.
to watch him on infinite loop.
to climb inside nostalgia and live for a little while.
to mend all the holes in all the blue jeans everywhere, sashiko style.
to convince lisa the chroma installation should stay up on walls forever and ever.
to read this and then read it again and then probably read it again.
to write anonymous love letters to my city.
to get lost in an afropunk crowd.
to see 100,000 giant white balloons with my own two eyes.
to look like this when I'm eighty.
to still be here, even when I've been painted over.