Thursday, June 16, 2016

The Birth of Forensic Foraging. Work By William C. Crawford

Forensic Foraging Embraces Minimalist Throwback Techniques To Unlock An Evolving Photographic Genre
essay by William C. Crawford and co-author Jim Provencher
The trite, trivial and mundane are often dismissed by today’s technology driven photographers. Images shot insitu can unlock the beauty and intrinsic value hidden in most everyday things. Thus, an old fractured glass window found on a wrecked desert shack might better be presented as a compelling image.
Such a transformational presentation can be achieved by applying basic photographic techniques: framing, lighting, coloration, saturation, contrast, etc. This precise application of seminal tenets can often transform the mundane into a pleasing lump of eye candy. This process forms the essence of Forensic Foraging.
Photographers today possess a plethora of powerful technical tools. High resolution sensors, potent post processing software, and cameras with such jacked up processors that they could, in a pinch, support the governmental operations of a small city. Many camera images today all but surpass the human capacities of the brain and eye to fully appreciate their miraculous clarity and resolution.
Photographs now often look far better than the real thing. Some forward thinking literary journals frequently publishing digital images are formally distinguishing between heavily embellished computer images and more traditional photographs in their submission guidelines. In a word, this is because photography, in some of its contemporary applications, may have both lost touch with and even surpassed reality.
We don’t denigrate the vast vibrant sea of present day images. However, we do strongly embrace the plodding, minimalist techniques that made our medium a success in the first place. Rather than advancing the now routinely spectacular work produced by powerful technology, we prefer to shoot everyday images relying on carefully crafted seminal techniques.
Forensic photography evolved to record and to help analyze crime scene evidence. Forensic Foraging borrows from these precise sifting techniques. We ply the world of the trite, trivial, and mundane in a plodding, systematic fashion. We record everything encountered in a structured series of images. Then, upon careful review, some of these photos are publicly presented in our specialized format.
Sometimes this process yields striking images by mere coincidence. More often, mundane shots are elevated to reveal a bit of beauty and hidden substance found in many everyday things. Our aim is to tease out unseen value which then spurs the viewer to consider our image in an expanded fashion. We don’t consider this process to be creating art. Indeed, we think of ourselves not as artists but rather as itinerate shooters with a distinct, discerning eye for the world around us.
The photographic DNA of Walker Evans, Robert Frank, and Saul Leiter permeates the pedigree of Forensic Foraging. However, Stephen Shore’s early volumes, American Surfaces and Uncommon Places serve as the primary influences on our present day work. Shore demonstrated that the mundane delivered in color could attract a wide audience. His work is always actively simmering in our subconscious when we shoot.
Jim’s strong declaration to “get out there and extensively shoot your surroundings” holds true to the primary theme of Shore’s early works which showcase thousands of travel snapshots that could have been taken almost anywhere.
Shore’s deadpan, banal images of motel rooms, faded lampshades, battered armchairs, and dinner food on Formica table tops hint at some deeper human narrative. His strong, astutely frozen moments helped back then to open up the color medium as a powerful new photographic tool.
The trademark redundancy of Shore’s  work pays homage to the usage of serial artistic forms which are also an integral aspect of Forensic Foraging. The “forage” with its methodical searching and sifting for subjects often employs the use of an endless array of serial forms. Our genre requires dedicated moving about in the photographer’s immediate world while shooting hundreds of serial forms in a distinctive throwback style. A sample of these carefully crafted images is then presented to represent pictorial highlights from the forage.
Australian ex-patriot (Italy) painter, Jeffrey Smart, has also suggested some of our primary techniques. His paintings of urban scenes exude the heavy, layered, color saturation which we employ in Forensic Foraging. This approach helps us to “hook” the viewer with exaggerated color, thickness and vivid polychrome.
Smart’s use of bright, colorful repetitive geometric shapes can also often be seen in our work. We frequently find these visual characteristics in naturally occurring situations such as street art and wrecked desert buildings. We capitalize on exaggerating texture and Golden Hour light to cause trite, mundane subjects to “jump out” to the viewer.
There are also obvious instances where Forensic Foraging, street photography, and photojournalism come together to form the nexus of our emerging approach. Street photography, of course, can also exist outside of the urban setting as does Forensic Foraging. Framing and timing are usually regarded as key ingredients of street photography. The decisive, poignant moment is extremely important here. Street photography aligns more closely with photojournalism because both usually attempt to convey a story.
Forensic  Foraging  sometimes coincidently relates a narrative, but its primary purpose is engaging the viewer with a compelling photo. Thereby, the image trumps any accompanying story line. Where they just happen to crop up, visual narratives can greatly complement Forensic Foraging. In the final analysis, our genre captures the essence of ordinary elements revealing both the universal and, at times, the extraordinary.
Forensic Foraging is still evolving as we continue to tediously shoot the world around us. We don’t seek to impede the inevitable advance of techno driven photography. We do, however, hope to give pause to the sometimes over prevalent notion that basic, seminal shooting techniques have been all but replaced by the near magical mantra of post processing alterations and computer clean up.
We hope that some photographers today might pause just long enough to consider our emerging parameters. We have growing confidence in our throwback, sifting approach. If it was good enough for Shore, Evans, and Frank, there exists the strong possibility that contemporary photographers might just relearn a bit from these techniques. After all, they helped to make our medium into a dazzling success in the first place! Like the skilled stone mason, we continue to add to our genre just like a wall—one stone or shot at a time.
-essay by William C. Crawford and Jim Provencher

Tucked just inside the Mexican border, we approached this derelict tool shed. As we moved in, we saw only a photographic shit pile.



But as we poked slowly about sifting the scene, an innocuous, fractured window sprung to life! We had a desert epiphany, and we began to turn the trite, trivial, and mundane into eye candy.



This fractured glass is product of the desert elements--sun, sand, wind, rain, crystal blue sky, and even vandalism. The desert thrives as an open air museum with the unique geography as the curator. Funk which helps to identify intrinsically hep, unconventional stuff is an integral element of Forensic Foraging.



Monochrome departs from Stephen Shore's early techniques. However, it adheres to the early precepts of forensic or crime scene photography, and it tracks the brilliant work of Walker Evans and Robert Frank. Forensic Foraging would not exist without these key influences.



We slowed way down and ferreted through Sierra Blanca. We found this sun mottled back wall in a wrecked mechanic's garage.


As we foraged through what was left in this trashed shell, we teased out brilliant art in this Museum Of No Where. In a chic NYC gallery with the right artist's name on it, this portrait would be worth millions. Sometimes our painfully plodding techniques coincidentally cough up the spectacular. The location is trite, trivial, and mundane; however, this work could easily hang in the Metropolitan Museum Of Art. This is the allure and genius of the Border which Jim appreciates better than most.


The State Cinema remains stately even in decay. We venerate history and decay, and using our throwback techniques, we lift it up for the viewer of our photographs.


Desert funk--The best damn cafe in Sierra Blanca. The food here eternally is cold!

We shot everything in serial images capturing the the essence of this near ghost town. We are forensic detectives obsessed with teasing out the beauty and substance of everything we encounter.

Dead pan, banal scenes form the crux of Shore's early works which could have been shot almost anywhere. This peeling, padlocked door caught our eye in pleasing winter Golden Light. Frozen in time, this image begs many compelling, unanswered questions. How many brown hands on the move gripped this rusty door knob hard up against the Mexican border? Why is this door on a wreck still so tightly locked? Or just just how  many coats of red paint conspired with the elements to produce this funky texture?

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Three Poems By Chase Spruiell

Chase Spruiell was born in Denton, Texas. He spent the majority of his life playing basketball throughout high school and college. He has a bachelor's degree in Digital Cinema and currently resides in Austin, Texas where he writes and plays music with his band, Free Kittens & Bread.

life tolerance

the clerk handed me 24 ounces
of life tolerance
in a brown paper bag.

he told me to have a good day
at 11:37 at night.

on my way out,
I held the door open
for another lost soul
and took his thanks
to heart. chances are,
he was on his way in
for what I was on my way
out with.

getting into my car,
I noticed a man sleeping
just to the left of the store.
slapped down on the pavement.
in rags. barely breathing.
tolerating life to the fullest.

and beyond all recognition
of placement and stature,
I couldn’t see the difference
between him and me.



 Chase Spruiell



this body of mine

it flags and
drags

it’s numb and it’s
slow

it burns and it
yearns

it stumbles and
it trembles

it can’t
keep up

and how
it disgruntles the
separations I would like
to keep intact

the mind
versus
the body

it allows me to be
a person
but
not the person
I would like to be

it encroaches upon
the mind’s empty
saddle

upon the
mind’s dream’s
empty spotlight

forever
never
the hero
never the
rider

no, all it can do
is sit and wait
for death to
take it

until it burns out
fully
nakedly
and innocently

in the spotlight
of the moon
or sun

this stalemate body of mine

this pale-future
body of mine

what a shame it is
that I shall go down
with you


            things of beauty

I hear you singing in the shower.
bloodcurdling:
            the way it eases the air
            in the room.

the hot water touching your skin
beating down upon your melody
blending into it
lifting it.

I lay in the bed with all of your fire
in the other room.

I’d like to sift through the sweet air
of your voice
and catch every note for my memories

but something there
something here
holds back my smile.

I don’t want you to forget this:
            how you don’t know
            this moment for me.

how beauty is behind the curtain.
how what twists me up inside
            are the things
            of beauty.

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

Poems By Robert Beveridge

Crisis of Expectoration


You thought the tide
would keep you close to shore
but hours later
you're still out. You shiver
as the sun sets, tread
water, look for some
sign of sand



Early Smoke Break


an ant crawls
from between the buttons
of my shirt, out the gap
between my ribs. A woman
carries palm fronds
(in August).
A rabbit
nibbles ivy, seizes,
falls, shudders for a while
before death. I can feel
ants scorched by smoke
from the cigarette between
my fingers.



Fourteenth Century


The Inquisitor
touches the torch
to tallow-soaked logs


tied to the stake
is a rosebush


stripped of their thorns
the roses catch tongues
of flame, caress them
into painful erection


cry sap-tears as
they are consumed


ask a twice-blind god
to punish their sins


and forgive their miseries



Tiny Drawing By Jenny Mathews 12.13.2010


Jack's Bar
the ashes snow
down onto the lemon slice
the lime in my drink
goes cold with the thought
I have seen many worlds,
the wino thinks to himself
many worlds of glass and salt
royalty of dogs and inbred hamsters.
On the rooftops a gun
goes off, a boy's chest
sprouts flowers. He
quotes Baudelaire as he dies.
The gunman, faceless,
ejects his weapon
ejaculates horror
at the boy's words

the gun lands in the wino's lap

Momyou for Men
face sticky fertile earth creature
bask in the rays of this dissection table
take in a few Picassos and think you know art
you glorify stakes
and whisper nonobscene words
in the ears of those
you call your mojo
du stinkst du sau!
du stinkst du sau!
benihara fuckmamma
and relax eyeless
YOU BEG!
Buy some codependency books
if they make you feel good
seven waves and will
lullabies Orpheus
make you puke
Father Ubu man of the incestuous cloth
invert!
You need the change of scenery.
Ice your collar
and feather the windows
mow the dog
and polish the couch.
Will!
You won't do a fucking thing
incestuous priestmomma
facesticky earthmomma begcreature
lapsestake fencepost sau

Pieces of Eight
big balloons of brains
called out to earthenware
tea-jars

and you, peasant
thought it the whisper
of the wind!
What do you know about
the way balloons drink?
Maybe if you try to join
in their drunken song
you'll start to understand


The Return of the Ocelot

Mauling the mutilated
ape, the ocelot
thought it better to say

“March off, but first
let me get my mention
in Playboy.”




Poetry By Former South Sider Donal Mahoney

Donal Mahoney, son of immigrants, grew up in a blue-collar neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago during WWII and the Korean War. Unlike his peers, he was no good with tools. Books and school were his ticket out of the neighborhood but emotionally he has never left it as indicated in the first poem, “A Chance to Say Good-Bye,” which in much of its detail is true and autobiographical. Mahoney knew the kids he writes about in that poem. Later he worked many years as a print editor with folks who wore suits and ties. Emotionally he was never a fit but his claim to fame and a bit of job security was that he could spell “ukulele” and other odd words seldom used before Spell Check and computers came on the scene. He never had a job he really liked but five kids get hungry and they too wanted to go to school and they did, thanks to jobs Mahoney never really liked. He’s happy now to be retired.

A Chance to Say Good-Bye

After World War II 
before television, 
before women had tattoos
before men wore earrings, 
I was a child in a world
with kids as odd as me.
I’m still here but tell me
where are they?

Remember Joey Joey
who yelped in class 
every day before 
doctors knew the nature 
of his problem, his
barbaric yawps scaring girls 
and driving boys down 
on their desks laughing
until the day he disappeared.
I had no chance to say good-bye.

Can’t forget Petey, the toughest kid
in class, not quite right either.
He uppercut a girl in the third row 
and disappeared the same day.
So did Bobby, who my mother saw 
on his porch eating worms
one by one off a porcelain dish
as she was coming home from church 
under a parasol, stylish in that era.
She asked if Bobby and I were friends 
and I said, “Bobby Who?"
I had no chance to say good-bye. 

But Jimmy was the nonpareil
when it came to kids not right.
I saw him after graduation leap-frog 
parking meters like a kangaroo 
down 63rd Street for half a block
woofing as he cleared them
until the cops took him home.
I had no chance to say good-bye.

They locked Jimmy in the attic
of his parents’ house for years 
but at least he didn’t disappear.
Years later I saw him in a dark bar 
with his twin brother drinking beer. 
He sat quietly, not a single woof,
not a bar stool threatened by a leap.
There I had a chance to say good-bye.


Donal Mahoney


CEOs and Hogs

You have to have regulations
in any industry, the hog farmer 
told the slaughter house CEO 
visiting his farm that day.
Otherwise raising hogs
or slaughtering them
would never work,
the farmer said.

Hogs are honest animals
he told the CEO, but they 
must be fenced or they’ll 
run wild and eat everything. 
You can’t have hogs
rooting where they please.

You’re here today to see
how well we raise our hogs.
In a way you regulate us 
as does the government.
Someone has to regulate
the slaughter houses too. 
I’m sure you get inspections.
Otherwise, hogs would take over
but not the kind you get from us.


Donal Mahoney


Big Meeting at the Corporate Office

When a young woman like that
sails into the conference room, 
all masts billowing, 
there's nothing the men 
around the table can do 
except take a breath 

and wait for her 
to settle in her chair, 
open her laptop 
and fuss for a moment 
with some errant hair 

before she fixes her stare 
on the podium to wait
for the chairman to arrive 
and take it from there

if he possibly can. 
The chairman won't know 
the young woman has said
everything his men 
will remember tomorrow
without saying a word.

Sunday, June 5, 2016

Five Poems By Angelica Fuse

Turn

everyone deserves
a good turn
sometimes to get
to the right
location
sometimes to be the
right person
sometimes to finally
grow teeth
so we can chew through
the toughness
we are delivered.

Swig

take another
swig
of the dark matter

enjoy
the rush of chemical
through brain

it is supposed
to heal
but all I can do
is barely walk
funny
on carpet
that seems to be
moving against me.

City Mouse

the mouse
is supposed to be
from the country
from I am the urban
species

head tucked low
trying not to be seen
heart as big as a skyscraper
but still
feeling very small.

Hands

these are
the hands reaching
for me

lifting me up
even above myself
goodbye I wave

as I pass my own
being
as nice knowing you.

Blood Shot

my eyes
at the end
of a long
day

my yearning
blood pumping
self

rolls
out onto the world
at large.