DISCLAIMER: THIS PHOTOGRAPH IS NOT MINE
Having never visited New York City, I can't vouch for it being either the raison d'etre for all mankind or the second-most over-hyped place on the planet after Hut's Hamburgers. But what makes me want to move there is the enormous amount of attention and gallery space devoted to photography. Witness a new Edward Weston exhibit—150 of his master prints (he was a portrait and California landscape specialist), at a gallery surrounded by 150 acres of gardens. That plus a chicken friend steak is like God's seventh day of rest to me, and—and—to be crass but not totally outside of Weston's own personal indulgences, it'd be guaranteed action if I could find a date. I'd have nudes of some fine girl on lockdown as soon as we rolled home and I got my mac on.
Anyways, I came across a book on Weston's later works at a colossul unnamed green and brown bookstore the other day—hey, I never buy shit from Omicron's bookstore unless Seth's cutting me a discount—and pretty soon became completely absorbed in it. Again, these were his later works, after he'd had his most productive years and as Parkinson's disease began to eat away at his body. Ridiculously good. I'd seen some of his stuff before, but he's now quickly becoming one of my favorite photographers, nearing W. Eugene "Country Doctor" Smith status. Damnit, if I wasn't so financially irresponsible and not in a mound of debt, I'd find a way to get to New York and see this fucking exhibit stat. Instead it's more Stet at the office.
Ooh, that was pretty much the worst joke I've ever made. Hell yeah.
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This pic accompanied the Times article. More of his famous stuff, including his best-known work, a portrait-like study of a pepper, can be found here.
Having never visited New York City, I can't vouch for it being either the raison d'etre for all mankind or the second-most over-hyped place on the planet after Hut's Hamburgers. But what makes me want to move there is the enormous amount of attention and gallery space devoted to photography. Witness a new Edward Weston exhibit—150 of his master prints (he was a portrait and California landscape specialist), at a gallery surrounded by 150 acres of gardens. That plus a chicken friend steak is like God's seventh day of rest to me, and—and—to be crass but not totally outside of Weston's own personal indulgences, it'd be guaranteed action if I could find a date. I'd have nudes of some fine girl on lockdown as soon as we rolled home and I got my mac on.
Anyways, I came across a book on Weston's later works at a colossul unnamed green and brown bookstore the other day—hey, I never buy shit from Omicron's bookstore unless Seth's cutting me a discount—and pretty soon became completely absorbed in it. Again, these were his later works, after he'd had his most productive years and as Parkinson's disease began to eat away at his body. Ridiculously good. I'd seen some of his stuff before, but he's now quickly becoming one of my favorite photographers, nearing W. Eugene "Country Doctor" Smith status. Damnit, if I wasn't so financially irresponsible and not in a mound of debt, I'd find a way to get to New York and see this fucking exhibit stat. Instead it's more Stet at the office.
Ooh, that was pretty much the worst joke I've ever made. Hell yeah.
---
This pic accompanied the Times article. More of his famous stuff, including his best-known work, a portrait-like study of a pepper, can be found here.
posted by Matt at 6:26 PM
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