Gasoline is up to four dollars a gallon! It’ll be up to FIVE dollars by Christmas! In five years, we’ll be looking back on these times as a golden age as we pay up to TWELVE DOLLARS A GALLON for the noxious liquid! We’ve all heard the wailing. Well, it can’t bother me too much, because not only are my wife and I still filling up and driving all the way to the next town for a freaking vegan cheeseburger (shades of Presley), but we still squander stupid amounts of treasure on useless crap that we find in second-hand stores. Was it the exhaust fumes or the post-lunchtime torpor that caused me to decide to spend ten dollars recently on a plastic bag filled with European postcards?

“Food for the beast,” I justified — yes, this blog’s gotta eat too. And as I sorted through the piles of dusty, faded paper, I wracked my brain for an appropriate criterion for which to separate out a handful large enough to be representative and yet small enough to fit into my limited blogging window. Old shit? Well, it’s all old shit. Buildings? Castles? You’ve seen ‘em. Pictures of humans dressed up funny? Maybe next week. Stuff that no longer exists? I can barely translate the inscriptions on the back; think I want to research them all?

But as I went through the stack, what began to jump out at me was not the huge lumps of wood and rock at the center of the frame, nor the quaint folk ephemera, but rather the tiny specks of vintage steel clustering in the lower thirds. Yes, it was the beautiful old cars evoking the ache this time. Back in mid-sixties Europe, they already had a feel for scarcity, and sized their vehicles accordingly. And why not? Hell, in some parts of the continent, thanks to sensible and far-sighted tax policy, gas is already pushing up towards the ten bucks a gallon ceiling. Which means the beauties in these pictures are already more of a historical oddity than our trucks and SUVs are on their way to becoming.


 

Anyway, I’ve finally finished my yearly task of archiving last year’s photos, and already my nascent education is affecting what I consider worth keeping. Suddenly, a whole new catalog of errors jumps out at me: blown out skies, camera shake, clueless use of flash, noise, chromatic aberration, and of course, mediocre composition.

But they say that a healthy part of any education is putting your work out there for better or worse, so here’s the short list from 2007. It’s no surprise that my favorites of the bunch are actually the ones taken by my wife. But this year, I hope to surpass her in at least the math department, which she hates.



I tend to steer clear of downtown Phoenix these days. It seems every time I venture down there, I discover another of my old favorites consigned to the scrap heap or worse, a target for “renovation.” The cheerfully run-down squalorous downtown Phoenix of my childhood is all but gone, a victim of the kind of people who have always complained that there’s not enough to “do” in Phoenix. Our downtown has never reflected the cultural aspirations of these folks who envision a shiny urban entertainment mecca full of fun for the whole family and free from spontaneous structural failure and those annoying homeless people. But now that they’re finally getting their way, I hardly recognize the place any more.

My wife and I don’t have much reason to go downtown very often, aside from the odd sporting event or circus protest. But she dragged me to a particularly galling theatrical performance one evening recently, and afterward we were restless from sitting on our hands for two hours. The night was warm and pleasant, and somehow, my wife got the notion that we might find something open up the street. So she forewent her usual fear of the empty after-hours desolation of the area and suggested we walk a little. As luck would have it, the Irish bar in the Hotel San Carlos was still open. While we drank beer and ate french fries, a group of college football fans watched the home team finish up a game across town.

As we headed back towards our car, we saw the old Professional Building at Central and Monroe, sitting empty as it has for the past two decades. But something made me stop and cross the street. As my wife’s paranoia began to reawaken, I peered conspicuously through the cracks in the boarded up windows. Sure enough, the ground floor showed signs of being recently gutted. As I looked left and right for some sort of posted zoning documentation, my wife began to make noises like it was time to go. When I began to move around the corner and towards the back alley, she grabbed my arm and hurried me towards the parking garage.

Fearing the worst, I returned home and hit the net. Sure enough, renovation was indeed slated to occur. Our once proud bedrock of former financial stability will soon be a holding space for upscale lodgers besotted with gourmet chocolate and high-end champagne. What’s more, I also discovered the old Hanny’s Building was undergoing a similar fate. I admit, I greeted this news with mixed emotions — I didn’t even know the Hanny’s Building was still standing (I told you: I don’t go downtown much any more).

Don’t get me wrong. I’m delighted that these wonderful old giants will not be sacrificed to make way for downtown’s “invigoration.” I hate to see what to me represents an important part of my city’s past scraped away just because a theater or fast food chain is desperate to maintain the unrealistic runaway growth they’ve conned their stockholders into expecting. But I’d rather these beautiful buildings stand abandoned forever than be thrown under the wheels of a doomed business plan. But that seems to be the way things inevitably go.

Anyway, the next chance I got, I grabbed my trusty point-and-shoot and went downtown. I need to start doing that a lot more.



JP Morgan Chase & Co. owns the building and is willing to save the bank…if the neighborhood will play nice and let developers rezone and make over the bank’s yard with four-story condos and luxe shopping…The neighborhood wants nothing of the kind: no more condos, no demolition…

Preservationists lean in favor of giving up the green space in order to save the bank. “In order to keep this icon,” Councilman Tom Simplot said, “they need to develop that green space. They are not going to be able to save the building if they don’t give it up.” But wedging condos onto the lawn, said Frank Henry, 73, the building’s celebrated architect [sic], is “like taking a painting and cutting off a corner of it.”

The empty land has been a pawn before. The bank was the first commercial development in that area, and the space was offered to placate neighbors. Now, it’s the only grassy expanse on a heavily commercial intersection that has grown up around it. Neighbors insist that the bank made a promise to keep that land green, but according to Chase and city zoning officials, no formal record requires the space to remain open.

It’s just a shame, Henry said. “The whole park and the building are all one thing, one composition. The geometry of it all was together…” When Henry was dreaming up the building in the ’60s, he was making an anti-war, anti-establishment statement. He took his inspiration from the circle so that he could combat the boring square box. “I always thought that the circle, the curved line, the curved space is so beautiful,” Henry said. “It’s always changing.”

(Note: Walt Lockley informs me that Frank Henry was the designer; Weaver & Drover were the actual architects.)

I have house guests this week, relatives visiting from out of town. But when I read the article, I had to drag them out in 110 degree temperatures to get my pics. They’re not great: it was afternoon and half the building was in shadow. But I managed to stitch together some nice panoramas. The Modern Phoenix web mag offers much greater detail on the subject.

Of all the VNB buildings left in the Phoenix area, this one is the jewel. It combines space age aesthetics with desert motifs, playing nice with civic responsibilities in the bargain. It’s even got two bronze nudes which I can only assume are the work of John Henry Waddell. I still remember when it was built in 1967. I’ll miss it when it’s gone, and the best intentions of various factions notwithstanding, I full expect it to go away soon.

UPDATE: Here’s an audio interview about the bank with Phoenix architecture critic Walt Lockley, plus a link to his site.

Since our entertainment was taken care of, all we had to do was map out a short list of vegan restaurants in the city. These were our anchor destinations, around which we planned our urban hiking adventures. Unfortunately, we left our Trimble-compatible mobile phone at home, so Geocaching was out. But naturally, we brought along our camera. For as terribly hayseed-like as it may seem, there’s nothing I like better when I’m in the city than a good long gawk at all the tenements. There’s something about a code-straddling subsistence-level multi-family dwelling that starts something fluttering in my breast. I don’t even mind if it’s just a crumbling old boarded up office building, as long as its got that hungry look of potential flammability about it.

Of course, to truly capture these mighty beasts in their own habitat, I’d have to live among them. But one look at the state of my complexion after a mere three days on the street tells me this option is out of the question. The slow buildup of toxins would surely kill me. So you’ll have to forgive my piddling and rather scatter shot approach. Still, I think the cumulative effect of the photos is stirring enough. I’ll leave the detailed documentation to those better equipped for more extended efforts.

Once a designation has been recorded at the Court of the Lord Lyon King of Arms, it becomes inseparable from the surname. James MacTavish of Auchenshoogle cannot be James MacTavish through the week and MacTavish of Auchenshoogle at the weekend or at Highland Balls. The whole name should be used as the daily signature, on notepaper, visiting cards, cheques, credit cards etc. Similarly, anyone writing to him should give his full style, to style him as “Mr. MacTavish” or “James MacTavish, Esq.” is not only incorrect, it is rude and disrespectful. The correct prefix for a Laird, Baron, Chieftain and Chief is “The Much Honoured”. The styles “Mr.” and “Esq.” should never be used as these are below the status of a Laird. By law, only Peers, Bishops and Chiefs are allowed to sign with one name e.g. “Atholl”. A Laird, Baron or Chieftain must use the Christian name, surname and designation e.g. “James MacTavish of Auchenshoogle.”

Clear enough.

While beautiful in its own right, with a strong European flavor (no doubt due its extensive sea trade with the continent), Edinburgh struck us as somewhat cold and stern. Given our time constraints, we were unable to crack its touristic facade (though we did find a terrific meal and spend a splendid evening with friends). The imposing castle overlooking the city that bears its name is restored to the point of fussiness and, having once been the headquarters of the Scots Guard, maintains a strong military presence. Many of the exhibits did little but glorify Scotland’s participation in England’s imperialist adventures. I did, however, enjoy the recruitment posters describing “national service” as an opportunity to play football with one’s mates.

Much more charming, and much less crowded, Craigmillar Castle rests nearby in a suburb on the outskirts of town. One of the most intact of Scotland’s surviving castles, Craigmillar still has its upper floors, allowing exploration of the rooftops and affording a great view of the big city off in the distance. Except for the resident pigeons, we had the place to ourselves.



From Stirling, we drove up the east coast to the outskirts of Stonehaven. By the time we got to Dunottar Castle, it was raining steadily and my battery light was blinking. I struggled to get off as many shots as I could, but my camera died long before I was satisfied. This ruin was one of the most awesome of our trip. Extremely defensible due to its isolation at shore’s edge, Dunottar is the site of both bloody battles and atrocities. Its earliest evidence of fortification is believed to date back to as early as the late 600s, when it served as a defense against Viking attacks. Centuries later, it was the last stand of followers of Charles II, who met defeat at the hands of Cromwellian forces. In the 1500s, the castles was used to imprison nearly two hundred enemies of the state, all but a small handful of whom perished in one of its small dungeons overlooking the sea.

We more or less blundered upon Linlithgow Palace by accident. We had some time to kill during our trip to Edinburgh, so we decided to cruise over. Who knew it would be a vast ruin so picturesque that it even lifted the spirits of my wife, who was starting to feel the negative effects of getting dragged all over the country just to stumble in the rain over mossy rocks covered with pigeon dung. But the clouds parted to reveal a delightful surprise. Though Linlithgow is the birthplace and home of Mary, Queen of Scots, it fell into serious disrepair after her abdication. It was later rebuilt, but government troops finally put the torch to it during pursuit of its final royal inhabitant, Bonnie Prince Charlie. Today, the palace is just a seven-story shell with no floors or windows. But what’s left is magnificent and — for septics at least — still evokes a “storybook” charm.

Unfortunately, subservient as they are to my own personal artistic agenda, my snapshots offer little actual sense of what the buildings are actually like. I’m more stirred by the odd abstract shapes in the stone and the imposing claustrophobic power of close-ups and tight framing. Not to worry, every year these Scottish landmarks draw amateur photographers by the hundreds. And it seems most of them have Flickr accounts. In fact, it’s easy find photos with the exact same (or better) compositions as mine. But for some real fun, I recommend a visit to old-picture.com to see what castle photography is really all about.



The main historic significance of Dunstaffnage Castle, built in the early 1200s, seems to rest on its being being wrested from its original owners, the MacDougall clan, by no less an individual than Robert Bruce. Bruce bestowed it upon the Campbell Clan as a reward for helping him best the MacDougalls. The Campbells and MacDougall wrangled over ownership until the late fifteenth century, when the MacDougalls finally accepted land in eastern Scotland as a trade. It has remained with the Campbells ever since. It is occupied once a year by the Campbell Captain of Castles as a condition of title, but the rest of the year it stands open to the public.

Doune Castle, on the other hand, was usurped by none other than King James I, who appropriated the property after executing its original owner, Murdoch Stewart, for treason in 1424. For over a century, it was used at the leisure of the monarchy as a retreat or a hunting lodge. Though it was eventually returned to the Stewarts, title finally passed to the Earl of Moray through the accident of marriage. These murky details are easily trumped in the minds of most people, however, but its more modern claim to fame: it’s appearance in the film, “Monty Python & The Holy Grail.”

No such turbulence marks the details behind Aberdour Castle. In fact, the circumstances of its ownership remained stable for so many centuries that its main claim to fame seems to be the numerous successive renovations and additions that make it somewhat of a patchwork of styles and architectural advances of its various periods.

Alas, my puny little Canon PowerShot and my even punier talent can’t begin to do these sites justice. I’d like nothing better than to return to Scotland with better gear under my arm and a lot more time to spend. For those grown impatient with my amateurish attempts at photography, however, I can’t recommend enough the awesome HDR work of Trey Ratcliff, especially his incredible series, “The Churches Of Italy.”

I commend our visitors for compiling such a mundane itinerary. To be sure, it’s the ordinary little details of a vacation that give its memories such resonance. During our recent trip to Scotland, when we weren’t busily cramming as much as we could into our schedule, we were hard at work parsing the landscape as we went along. As the navigator, it was my job to bark out instructions and sights of interest.

“Indigenous animal alert!”
“Council estate up on the right hand side!”
“Intense foliage up ahead!”
“Look out for that wall!”

It’s hard to tell from maps and guidebooks beforehand which area is going to be great and which area is going to be shite. But what we really couldn’t understand was why a stretch of road that looked like it’d take 30 minutes to drive in Arizona would be estimated to take almost three times that. Now we know why. People warned us that the roads would be narrow — they were. But we were determined to cover decent distances, so we saw plenty of beautiful countryside and tons of fascinating towns. As it turns out, my wife really enjoyed driving on the left side, once she got used to it. Now she’s convinced it’s the wiser way to go.

Without an accurate sense of how far we would be able to go on any given day, we dispensed with an itinerary and played it by ear from day to day. This left us with no pre-arranged lodging on several nights. We’d cruise the various travel info kiosks, and then narrow down the likely candidates once we started getting tired. While not particularly cheap (nothing is when you’re holding the ass-end of the currency exchange), the places we chose were both charming and painless.

We stayed at one bed and breakfast where the owner basically handed us a key, asked us to leave our name and address in the front hall, and wished us a pleasant night. No credit card, no first-born-male-child requirements, nothing. he waited until the next morning to inform us that he ran a cash-only business. Surprise! I just barely had enough to cover the bill.

We found similar surprises when dining. Planning is especially important when you are a vegan in a strange land. For the most part, we floated through the countryside fairly unscathed, only getting burned once or twice by substandard cuisine (I’ve suffered much worse at the hands of my own countrymen). But we did come up against some odd customs. Who knew, for example, that when in Stonehaven ordering a hummus sandwich (our only vegan option), you can expect it come to the table covered with salsa?

It’s easy enough to remember to ask for coffee without “whitener,” but how many other local custom defaults are out there that we’re unaware of? That’s a lot of gauntlets to run through. Hopefully, I’ll get the chance to return to Scotland and uncover more of them.

We probably should have made the trip before we became vegans, however. Buffalo meat was on every menu. If we hadn’t packed lots of food to take with us, we might have starved. As it was, we took a couple of ill-advised culinary gambles which left me feeling ill on more than one occasion. But what the hell: I got to see my stone presidents.

We took our fair share of photos, and even took our video camera out on its maiden outing (I’m afraid to even look at the footage). But none of them came anywhere near to being as cool as the ones my wife recieved from an old friend of the family when we got back. It seems her family made the trek back in the late 30s while the carving was still incomplete.

Unfortunately, whoever scanned them had a little trouble with his equipment. The pixels on these pix are a big as the pores on giant Abe Lincoln’s nose. But, to paraphrase the military, you post with the jpegs you’ve got. Regardless, they’re a treat, if only for a glimpse into the safety standards of the era. And how about that guy standing in the middle of the Badlands in a suit and tie? That’s some commitment.