Do you want to fight?

Any street snapper visiting San Francisco should avoid the tourist traps. He should forget Union Square and Fishermen’s Wharf and take the BART subway to 16th or 24th Street. He will immediately notice the stench that is Mission Street and he will be inspired by it, for it is life lived large.

The street snapper will not find Gucci or Louis Vuitton there. He will encounter a neighborhood where the predominant language is Spanish and the most common price is 99 cents. He will absorb the atmosphere and he will know it is good.

Mission Street between the 16th and 24th Streets BART stops.

All he needs is a camera with a wide lens. The sidewalks are not especially broad. Stepping into busy Mission Street is a bad idea. The wide lens will allow him to get in close. The snaps will then be devoid of clutter. The lens is small and it is also right for the many alleyways. These are rich in murals. They are steeped in history, in popular culture and in political protest.

This is not Beverly Hills. Cops patrol actively on light Noddy bikes. That does not mean he should take his safety for granted. The weak should stay away. If he cannot afford to lose his camera the snapper cannot afford to come here. He must dress down and leave the Rolex at home. This is a place for men, brave men, and they will not be found wanting.

These were snapped on 40 year old Nikon lenses. Lenses made by engineers for men and for men who know what they are about and who know how to use them. The street snapper must risk losing his gear or be prepared to fight for it. He must think like a bullfighter. The smell of fear is broadcast louder than a whore’s scent. No bullfighter ever entered a ring expecting to meet a friend. Nor did he enter it scared. He will prevail or he will die, be he bullfighter or snapper.

Mural. 24mm.

Cop Noddy bikes. 24mm.

Sun and mural. 105mm.

Cocktails. 50mm.

Usurious lenders aplenty. 50mm.

Many derelict theaters remain. The street has seen better days. 50mm.

Primary colors everywhere. 24mm.

Buddhist low rider on 17th Street. 24mm.

Clarion Alley mural. Along with Balmy Ally, off 24th Street, this is a ‘must see’ location. 24mm.

La Taqueria with pups. The finest Mexican food anywhere, at 25th Street. Click the picture. 24mm.

With apologies to Ernest Hemingway.

From my favorite place in Yosemite Valley.

Ansel and I had been taking pictures together in Yosemite for several years, but eventually I tired of the genre. I was at a point in life where never seeing another image of Yosemite would leave me a happy man. Ansel would keep dragging me to El Capitan or Bridalveil Fall in the most godawful weather, and just stand there goggling, lumberjack shirt, pot belly and suspenders. Every now and then he would mutter “Far out, man” in between hits on that little hash pipe he carried everywhere. The strange thing was that, even though he was carrying a load of gear, he never actually took any pictures. On the rare occasions he straightened up, he would repair to that smelly darkroom in the log cabin and make more prints from snaps he had made in the same locations decades earlier. As long as I knew him, he photographed nowhere else, ever since he got that suspended sentence for driving with a kilo in the trunk. Only his fame had kept him out of Alcatraz.

“What gives, Ansel?” I asked, as he staggered out of a darkroom by now blue with marijuana fumes. “Far out, man, but you know ….” and here he paused to take another deep hit from that bong he had hand carved in the shape of Half Dome “…. all they want is prints of the old ones even though my gear was crap back then, ’cause I mostly tried to make a living as a barroom pianist and that barely kept me in bread, water and pot, certainly not in the best photo gear. But look, I get $2,500 for these, $3,500 if I yellow them up a bit and make sure to mark them ‘Limited edition 1/5’. I suspect I’ve unloaded about two thousand or so of that limited edition over the years. Hey, man, it’s a living. Gee, this is good stuff. Wanna hit?”.

Ansel dropped by the other day, zonked out of his gourd as usual, clutching a bunch of prints he had just made of those damned white Yosemite birches. When will photographers stop milking this theme? I mean, come on, how many more times in your life do you want to see a snap of a bunch of spindly, butt ugly, emaciated white trees with peeling bark, over printed and over enlarged which some jerk weed has just used $50,000 of gear to replicate for the umpteenth time?

He offered me a toke but I politely declined, seeing as it’s not my thing.

“But I’ll tell you what, Ansel. How about I give you one of my personally autographed white birches? In full color, as that’s not really something you know how to do now, is it? Feel free to stick it any place you like”.

“Far out, man. Like, yeah dude. Birches rock. I’m getting $5,000 for mine now!”

So that’s how Ansel happened to end up with one of my Yosemite snaps on the wall of his rustic cabin. I told the old fart it was hand printed from my 8″ x 10″ Deardorff, made using old growth oaks from Yosemite, and he bought it. And I think he missed the door handle, being higher than a kite at the time. He told me, in the strictest confidence, that he had to augument his energy with a couple of uppers, while in the darkroom, as he was so sick and tired of printing the same images for well over four decades now.

“That’s awesome dude. All my gear is handcrafted by that dude I get messed up with down the valley. Trouble is, he always promises to finish in a month, then when I go to pick the gear up, find he’s forgotten to start, because he was too out of his mind to do anything. My last tripod took him five years to make – said he finally got on with it as he was out and needed the money for a new stash. I was gonna offer him some of mine but reckoned that would add another year to the wait”.

White birches. Off New Montgomery Street, Yosemite. D700, 35-70 AF D.

A reminiscence.

He remembered those lazy Saturday afternoons when granddad would ask all the family round to his restaurant. There were no tall buildings back then, the area full of Italian immigrants and artisans. Stonemasons, painters, bricklayers, plasterers, plumbers, cooks. Most, if they spoke English, did so with difficulty and Italian was preferred at work or play.

It was the smells he remembered best.

He remembered how Grandpa would have an immense pot on the stove to which the whole family had to add tomatoes, spices, pepper and salt and the obligatory bottle of chianti. As he sat on his knee, Grandpa would recount stories of the Old Country, and the magnificence of the opera house in Palermo. “My boy, if you ever want to say you have arrived in the world of opera, there are but four venues which testify to talent. Palermo, La Scala, Covent Garden, The Met.” And it was invariably Tosca or La Traviata or La Bohème or (Mario’s favorite) Rigoletto which would be playing in the background on the old Victrola. “Lad” Grandpa would say, “Verdi and Puccini. That’s all you need to know about music.”

He remembered how his job was to change the discs, a task he adored. You would have to flip the huge 15″ acetates every five minutes or so, but it was his job and he was immensely proud of it. He never broke one, fragile as they were.

He remembered how his father had once told him that granddad was known to one and all as ‘The Don’, but to young Mario he would only ever be Grandpa. He never quite knew what Grandpa did for a living but the family never lacked for anything. Tables bursting with all manner of meats, condiments, breads, cheeses, cakes, bottles of wine, as often as not dropped off by grateful friends.

He remembered how obsequious these donors always were, how cowed, always behaving with exaggerated politeness to the young boy. “What a beautiful boy” they would say, as cheeks were kissed, hair tousled.

He remembered when Grandpa had passed away – it must be twenty years now – young Mario leading the procession of mourners, his three brothers and four sisters in lock step behind. Now, he was a man.

He remembered the long black limousines, the unending garlands and bouquets, his father and his father’s friends all dressed in black suits and white shirts, the priests, the ceremony. Hair slicked back, a touch of pomade, scent, heavy gold watches. His mother with all the other veiled women, solemn in their grief for The Don, upright yet broken.

He remembered how on those afternoons, all those years ago, the old man had always told Mario how one day the restaurant would be his. It would pass to his father on The Don’s death and his father in turn would leave it to young Mario. And so it had been. And while Mario, now a successful businessman, had no interest in running the humble eatery, he had kept it out of sentiment for Grandpa and, every now and then, would take the wife and kids there of a Saturday afternoon to hang out with the cook in the kitchen and reminisce about those lovely warm times from far away.

To remember.

Now the place seemed a lone survivor in a sea of mindless high rises, but the neon sign still proudly proclaimed the family name. And when he went there it was as if time stood still and nothing had changed. He was still that little boy who sat proudly on Grandpa’s knee, watching the pot bubble and the pasta cook. He was home.

Pachino, Kearny Street, San Francisco. March 3, 2012.

A tragedy.

She remembered the chill running down her spine.

The man was tall. Tall and wide in that Mediterranean way. He blocked the light. The hair a touch too perfect, maybe on the verge of receding, the muscles well defined, the loose fitting black suit jacket sporting a bulge on one side.

But most of all she recalled the man’s smell. It was a strange mix of machismo and Old Spice, both sickening and alluring at the same time. She recalled the scent from her father and remembered how she had sworn to get away from that tedious middle class world of movies and dinner out once a week with her mum. So controlled, so cloying. She wanted so much more.

“Is Roger in?” he asked.

Instantly she knew he had asked that a thousand times. It was not a question he expected to be taken lightly or one to be denied. There was a mix of command, expectation and threat in the voice, lower pitched than she expected.

The eyes ran down her body, starting at her full, rouged lips, pausing at the single strand of pearls, resting that moment too long on her cleavage and then down past her slightly too tall body to her waist and legs, perfectly defined by the black Chanel evening dress. Too tall for Vogue, she had found her niche in the interior decorating line. The clients were men as often as not, frequently accompanying their trophy wives to that little place on Jackson Square that kept her amused during the week. Strictly high end furnishings, neatly extricated from China and England thanks to understanding customs officers, and commanding healthy mark-ups. Instant credibility for the hedge fund manager du jour who had hit it big before the SEC came calling. At least the male clients appreciated her for what she was, unlike the interior decorators who were the order of the day, and seemed to have eyes for one another only.

“Who shall I say is calling?” she asked, surprising herself at the slight quiver in her voice.

“Guido. He knows me.”

Roger visibly started when she announced their visitor. She recalled how his face turned the color of the Aubusson she had so lovingly secreted away on her last visit to Chartres. It was posited as a buying trip to her partner Nigel, but the reality was that she and Roger had devoted much of it to the first throes of new love, lost in one another’s arms most of the time. She recalled his long late night cell calls, all whispers and hidden glances, but made nothing of them. Roger was in money management of some sort, so she supposed that secrecy was part of the game. And that new 911 he had picked up in Zuffenhausen at the factory, a gorgeous antique silver Turbo which made a rude noise, testified to his success. A glance at the speedometer on the Autobahn had told her that this was as fast as she ever wanted to travel on the ground and she had closed her eyes and enjoyed the fragrance of the seven Schwabian bulls it had taken to line the interior.

The meeting took maybe twenty minutes. Even though the library doors were thick oak – she had personally seen to their import from that old castle in Berkshire – she could clearly hear the raised voices through them. When Roger finally came out his color had changed from Aubusson green to something more reminiscent of China white. He had rushed to the living room and poured himself a generous tumblerfull of Aberfeldy 21 – he had it specially shipped from the distillery in the Highlands – downing it in two great gulps. As the color came back to his cheeks, she gently inquired.

“Roger, darling” she knew that he loved the ‘darling’ part, “is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing honey. Nothing for you to worry about”.

She knew better than to ask, but she recalled how Roger had shouted out in his sleep that night “No, no, not that!”

She had always smoked too much, and during periods of stress she only smoked more, castigating herself for the habit. How her mother had upbraided her for that. What was Raleigh thinking of when he brought those early tobacco leaves back to the West? The only calming influence on such occasions was her first love, from her days immersed in English Lit at Vassar. Fyodor Dostoyevsky. So it was ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ that she had taken with her to work that fateful day.

It all happened so quickly. She has been waiting too long outside the store, had smoked too many cigarettes. Nigel had asked if she needed a ride, and she had brushed him off. And when it happened, where she was expecting Roger there was a hulking Guido emerging from the long, black limousine. His scent had a new taint. She recalled it from her chemistry lessons at school. Suddenly, one of her Blahniks had fallen off as she struggled hopelessly against Guido’s powerful biceps, the red Dior wrap ripped off, her Prada eyeglasses hurting her then falling with a sickening crunch to the sidewalk, and as the handkerchief came up to her mouth, all she could recall was a mix of man odor, Old Spice and chloroform. Her book dropped to the ground and she felt herself falling, falling, falling ….

Osgood Place, Jackson Square, SF. Yesterday.