Garry Winogrand

I guess it is sort of fitting that I am extremely tired this morning and don't want to go into a full length post. Last night I did a presentation in class on Garry Winogrand. He was a street photographer famous for his work in the 60s. This morning I have decided to acquaint you all with some of his work.

He loved to get out into the streets of New York with his 35mm camera and just snap photos. He also loved to snap photos at parties. He had an eye for the opportune moment. His tilted horizons and juxtaposition of unrelated elements set his work apart from other street photographers.

On a slight digression: Did you all know that photography has been an experimental art form almost since its invention in the 1830s? But it wasn't taught as art in schools until the 1970s. Up until that time it was taught in chemistry and science departments. Just to give you an idea of how long it took for photography as an art form to gain legitimacy.

Anyway... Here is some of Garry Winogrand's work.

The man himself

For more on Garry Winogrand you can read this article and many more.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/photo/essays/vanRiper/030131.htm

Fantasy

The following is a work of fiction.

Fiona looked herself over in the full length mirror. She wore her favorite magenta blouse with her second favorite pencil skirt. She gave a little turn and looked to make sure her butt looked nice. It always did, but it never hurt to check. Besides admiring herself in the mirror was probably her favorite thing. She inspected her makeup. She knew just how accentuate her green eyes. Her beautiful full lips were understated. She knew she was every man’s fantasy.

She brushed her long blond hair one last time before heading out the door. She took the stairs down from her apartment. Fiona never neglected to do the right thing when it came to keeping up her looks, because she knew that was her one and only asset. She wished she were brainy or confident or had the gift of gab. Anything. She sometimes would have preferred to be pretty instead of beautiful and have other talents. What she really wanted was to stay gorgeous and have talents.

As she stepped out onto the street she noticed the eyes, the wandering eyes of the men and the glaring stares of the women. She walked down the street as though she didn’t notice as always. The sad truth was that though she liked her job and was reasonably educated she couldn’t help but wish there was more. She wanted more and didn’t know what that was. Things came pretty easily to the beautiful women, but for once she wanted to be noticed for something else. If there was something else.

She walked into work on time as usual. As she made her way to her desk she saw him. Her fantasy. Every woman’s fantasy more like. He was tall and handsome and had the kind of brains and common sense that turned everyone on (even other men, but in a different way).

Fiona started to panic a little as he headed her way. He started talking to her, but she was too caught up in her own thoughts to understand what it was he was saying. “I-I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” She mentally shot herself in the head.

“Repeat what?” He gave a bit of an arrogant smirk.

“Um, what you just said. I wasn’t paying attention. Uh, sorry.”

“You mean when I asked you how you are and you gave me a blank stare?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She gave an embarrassed smile. Her cheeks were probably as red as beets.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Hoow aaaare yoou?” He drew out his words like he was talking to someone who was mentally handicapped or a toddler.

“Oh, I’m fine. Just fine. Uh, I’ve got to get to work. See you , Fred!” She bolted to her desk and started frantically looking around for something to do. Jesus Christ, he must think I’m a beautiful dumb ass. A Bimbo. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. I AM an idiot.

From that point on Fiona determined that she would make it her goal to get Fred to notice that she was indeed NOT an idiot. That would be her new fantasy. A fantasy made real.

Evening

What a mysterious witch the lady is
That changes her face and colors her hair
Once golden and pale the blue of her gown
Blazes with color and then calms down
To a deep shade of night.

What wonders she works that mistress fair
That stains her lips red as she changes
And magically sets her dress afire
And the violent shades exchanges
For those that are twilight.

And darkening still her blue eyes bright
Turn swiftly into pinpoints of light
Her tresses have blackened and embers fade
As the mistress of night moves in
The maiden of day gives flight

-Marjorie-

Doodles

I decided to be a bit silly today and write a poem about my youngest child. Though I was going to find something more serious to write. I also thought about another character study. The truth is I'm too tired so a light-hearted, ridiculous poem it is! Enjoy.

Doodles
Markers and pens and pencils
The toddler finds them all
And shows his creativity
On the freshly painted wall

He colors on his skin
Plus on the couch and chair
If that isn't enough
He colors in his hair.

There's no end to the doodling
At dinner there's no doubt
He'll paint the table bright
With the food he's spread about

To destroy the house
Seems to be his only chore
Unless of course he's sleeping
And I'm off to clean some more

Concealment

The following is a work of fiction.

Cheryl had a secret. She wasn't going to tell a soul until the right time came. But how? Surely it would be a disappointment to some. To one person at least it would be devastating. To worry about that after all this time would be absolutely fruitless.

About a month ago she had gotten a major promotion. It was in Portland, Oregon. That meant relocation from her town in Virginia. She was ridiculously excited... and scared. After all, Chuck would not want to come with her. He wouldn't want to leave his son. Besides if she was this eager for the job and was determined to take it did she really love Chuck all that much anyway? Probably not as much as she should have.

While mulling all these things over in her head Cheryl failed to pay attention to where she was walking. She stepped right into a giant mud puddle. "Crap, crap, crap!" She cleaned herself off as best she could and continued to walk along to the bus stop.

What would she tell Chuck? She knew he would be crushed. Would he call her an ungrateful bitch? Would he cry? She actually would prefer to be called a bitch or any other name than have to deal with a man crying. Yuck!

She took the stairs to her second floor apartment. She was digging around in her purse for her keys when she heard the noise. It was Chuck's voice and a... woman? Cheryl opened the door slowly and quietly. She rounded the corner to the living room where she found Chuck and his ex wife on the couch. They were in a very compromising position indeed and having quite a lot of fun at it.

Cheryl almost laughed at the looks on their faces when she dropped her purse loudly. "Oh, don't let me interrupt you! Carry on. I'll be in the bedroom changing."

Chuck burst in after her completely naked and sputtering. "I can explain. Give me a minute. I'll-

"Don't trouble yourself, Charlie." She only ever called him Charlie when she was angry. This time there was a definite coldness to her manner. She knew that this was the perfect time. She was inwardly thanking him for giving her a reason to break up with him. "It looks like we both have been concealing things from one another. I think it's time we came clean."

The End

Broken

The following is a work of fiction.

Broken

Tick, tick , tick, tick. The clock on the wall beat in time with the twitches of the sleeping figure. The room was bare but for small, metal framed bed. The floor tiles were dingy and there was small barred window that sat high on the wall.

The eyelids of the sleeper moved rapidly. Behind the lids in the sleeper's brain an endless struggle raged. Is it real or isn't it? Am I or am I not?

The employees of the institution in which he now slept remembered the day he walked in and asked to be admitted. He seemed sane, but as time went on it was clear he was quite disturbed. Doctors speculated that a traumatic event had cause him to break and that he only had enough presence of mind to realize he needed help before he completely cracked up.

The truth was they had to keep him constantly sedated. A week after he checked himself into treatment he began to whimper and then to whine until blood curdling screams were tearing through the institution.

Was he insane? The doctors and nurses would have said that it was certain. OR somewhere was there a man in a suit holding down a red button. Was our sleeper being called to a place he didn't want to go to do things he didn't want to do. Was he broken? Or were these more delusions? You decide.




Image courtesy of google images

A-Z Begins and "A" poem

I'm so happy it's April. It gives me an excuse to blog regularly, and I LOVED A-Z last year. I made so many new friends and found some awesome blogs. I'll be continuing the writing theme this year. Though I may insert some photography this year too. Which I hope is fun for you all and will spare a bit of reading for those who are trying to get through a lot of blogs this month. I might keep my posts shorter this year, but we will see what happens. I guess it depends on the letter. A, for example, is going to be short and not-so-sweet.

I guess I should have started by giving some sort of introduction for those who are new to my blog, but I think that you all will get to know me by the end anyway. So, my name is Marjorie and this is my post for "A".

Anger
A moment in time clothed in red,
A heated face and narrowed eyes,
Stomach clenched and bared teeth,
A sinking heart and underneath,
The grasping claws and pain of hatred!