December 27th, 2009
lomo lomo lomo
Photo by Andy (that’s me down at the end, snapping away…)
I don’t know where I first heard about lomography. I can’t remember, which is odd for me because usually I can pinpoint a specific idea that started something off. What I do remember is that somehow I found out about Holga cameras and decided that I’d get one because they were so cheap (ha! Little did I know that it’s the film developing costs that will kill you with lomo) and because, from what I saw online, they produced really fun, interesting results because the cameras have “light leaks” that allow light in at odd places, and this has a natural effect on the film. I imagined roll after roll of fantastically interesting shots.
My first roll on the Holga was an absolute disaster. Such a light, small, plastic camera? I could not hold the thing still in my hands and almost every picture turned out blurry and completely un-usable. What made things worse was that I didn’t know where to get the film developed at the time, and the place where I took the film quoted me $16 to process it and then I was charged $24 (because processing and printing are different, and they did not explain that). So, it was some ridiculous price for one roll of black and white 120 film, and then $24 for printing blurry pictures–not the adventure I’d been hoping for. Now I have found SF Photo Works, which will develop 120 film for $5 and print for $5 more (you can mail it in!). Also, I’ve figured out that you can get 35mm backs for Holgas and other cameras that normally take 120, which is of course less expensive. Furthermore, I’ve figured out that if you just tape the back of your Holga and count 35 clicks when winding, you can use 35mm film with a Holga even without buying the special back for it (I figure I’ll pass along the trade secrets in the hopes that others of you won’t need to do as much trial and error as I’ve been doing).
Another thing you might not know about me is that I have a huge fascination with old, abandoned buildings. I do not often wish to have been born with a penis, but when I see old, abandoned buildings and want to go explore in them, I do wish I were a guy so that I could explore such structures with less of a chance of being victimized by any characters who might happen to be living in there. I once found a photography book where the photographer had gone in to old buildings and taken pictures of what he found there (have no idea if this was done with permission or not). He matched up his pictures with pictures of what the place had looked like at one time, and I was fascinated (and, unfortunately, still in my “cheap” phase…I passed on that book and have always regretted it, and the store that carried it closed down and I have no idea what the title/author was). I am obsessed with vintage photographs and have quite the collection (a smattering of my very favorites can be found in my vintage set on Flickr).
All of this leads up to the story of Christmas Day. Andy got me two books for Christmas–one on the Holga, one on Fisheye cameras, and I was so inspired that I said, “Let’s go out and shoot pictures!” We headed out first to see the side of this building, which I had spotted a few months ago and had been telling myself I wanted to come back and capture on film:
It was Andy who said, “What about getting shots of that train station?” There’s this abandoned train station here in the East Bay that I have always wanted to get shots of. This is all part of my obsession with abandoned structures–the tracks of the station, including the elevated tracks–are still standing. There is a high chain-link fence around the entire thing, but in my secret fantasies, I would actually be brave enough to wiggle through the bent places in the chain link and take pictures. In my biggest fantasies, maybe there would be an open door somewhere, and I’d be able to just go inside and actually get photographs from the inside–beams of sunlight coming through cracked windows, dust particles caught in the light.
We drove over to the train station. No one was around, since it was still before noon on Christmas Day and no one was working at the nearby industrial complexes. I saw many places where I could have wiggled through the bent chain-link, but all of those places were so exposed, and I was too afraid. Then–who knows why–there was a place where a gate door was open to allow cars access. We parked the car across the street from this area, and after a moment’s hesitation, I said these words to Andy:
“Look, I have no priors. Let’s just do it.”
If I were to get arrested for trespassing on private property on Christmas Day so that I could take pictures, would that really be the worst thing in the world? I was willing to find out.
To my utter shock and amazement…from this completely open gate we were able to walk all the way along a set of train tracks to the abandoned station. Andy took pictures with his iPhone camera and I was snapping away with both my Holga and my Blackbird, Fly camera. (P.S. This 35mm camera is cheaply made and more fun to carry around than necessarily producing brilliant pictures. But still–) There were signs everywhere warning of CCTV, but they were bluffing–there was no a camera in sight, and if there was, no one was watching them on Christmas Day. No cars were really driving past. Andy I were whispering the entire time, just in case. With it being Christmas Day, and morning, the entire world was already quiet. Here, it seemed even quieter.
I took a deep breath and mounted the staircase to the upper level.
Being on that top level was both incredibly anti-climactic as well as a total high. It was anti-climactic in the sense that I didn’t really see many beautiful shots–what was more interesting to me visually was the lower level–but it was a total high in the sense that I knew I was doing something completely illegal and that in addition to that, I was standing in a spot where thousands of people had walked before me, people from a totally different time and era. What were they like? What were their stories? Did they think, as I sometimes can slip into the habit of thinking, that the way the world was for them at that moment in time was the way it would always be? That women would always dress that way, that cars would always look that way? This station actually didn’t close until after the Loma Prieta earthquake in the late 80′s, but I was having such fun imagining what it would have been like after the turn of the century.
I found this Flickr set that contains copies of old archival photos of the station, as well as a lot of modern shots that are probably going to turn out to be remarkably similar to what I shot on Christmas Day.
Oddly enough, I felt–despite intellectually knowing otherwise–that I had a “right” to be there. There was something beautiful to capture here. It needed to be captured, and I had wanted to do this for so long. Given these tough economic times, I imagine that the city of Oakland could make quite a mint of money if it would allow artists access to some of these older buildings (and given that there is an entire Flickr group dedicated to capturing shots of this beautiful station, there’s a market for this). Sadly, what the city is going to do instead is “restore” the area by putting up a bunch of truly ugly looking condos (they’re already blossoming) and a “retail center.” I read that as meaning that this beautiful old station will someday be a new retail outlet for the likes of The Gap.
My only bummer about lomography is the obvious–there is no immediacy, and for now, the only photographs that I can share are ones from the iPhone because I need to send out my 120′s and 35mm’s for processing. I’m crossing my fingers that these rolls of film come back looking good, because I would be so horribly disappointed if it were roll after roll of blurry film.
Then again, regardless of whether or not the pictures will turn out as anything, there is also something to be said for the beauty of experiencing something right in that moment. When I alighted the last step and was standing on the top platform, Andy was downstairs and I was just standing there alone, looking around, looking at the pool of water that had collected on the tracks, looking at the highway in the distance, feeling totally present and totally alive and totally connected both to this moment as well as to all of the people who had walked those same steps. It was silent, and a little cool, and the sky was very blue, and I couldn’t stop smiling.
Then the moment was gone, I lifted a camera to my eye, and began to shoot.
