I Fucked Up a Photo

It was only until recently that I realized where my photographic style is heading / has always been. My father and I were laying on a beach in Florida last week. We'd taken a spontaneous road trip to Naples, FL for a week and found ourselves an afternoon to relax that wasn't actually spent inside a car. There we sat, beneath a 40 degree sun, facing the Gulf of Mexico. I think I was thirteen the last time I saw that water. There was, as there is every summer afternoon in Florida, an incredible storm system developing everywhere around us. Blue skies were turning into black and winds began to pick up. However, this didn't stop most of us from visiting the beach.

Directly next to me was my Mamiya 645 medium-format camera. I purchased it in early May and it hasn't left my side ever since. It literally changed the way I visualize, approach, and execute photographs. The decision to switch to medium-format simply stemmed for my current distaste for both 35mm film (in terms of it's grain seen upon printing) and digital (I don't know if I've ever put my heart into a digital photo my entire life). My Mamiya is fully, fully manual; some shots I'm not even sure will pan-out because I've tried to shoot them on the fly and each exposure requires careful attention to several aspects.

So there I am: dad, a storm, my camera, a beach, and myself. My dad suggested I take a photo of the oncoming storm. To his credit, my dad taught me composition at a very young age. "Get some of those ferns in the foreground, And" he has said to me at ages five, fifteen, and twenty-five. I agreed with him and pulled my camera out whilst being protective of swirling sand. I veered through the viewfinder and opted for a vertical composition (holy shit folks, this is like the punk rock version of photography). However, I noticed something very personally satisying that was creeping into the frame from below: my fathers tanned, hairy, sweating stomach. This balanced the photo perfectly. From top to bottom: the towering storm system that is contained by the frame, descending towards hoards of umbrellas, bodies and sand, only to be anchored in the lower-third portion of the photo by a glistening male stomach. I quickly made the correct exposure adjustments, cranked the advancement lever and took the photo.

For me, all I could think of was how much this photograph summed up "Florida": Sure, there's a view, but there's also a lot of tanned old people.

And that's exactly what attracts me when taking personal photographs. By "personal" I mean images that are intended for nothing other than advancing my own body of work. For lack of better wording, I enjoying aesthetically pleasing photographs with something fucked up about them. Something perhaps that is small in the frame, but just captivating enough to make you question why it's there. To continue the story, I wanted my dad to take a photo with my camera, in an effort to experience a sort of "passing-the-torch-full-circle" moment between the two of us. The only direction I gave was "shoot that way", to which I pointed towards the other end of the beach. As he walked away, I noticed a large family tearing down there beach gear to go home directly in his path. I thought it would have made a great photo to see an oncoming storm and a dissatisfied family heading for the hills. He walked right past them. Seeing as I wanted him to take the photo he wanted (which was not doubt a conventional landscape), I kept my mouth closed and watched him handle a camera older than any of his children.

I want to say this is a rather recent discovery, but not only have I been practicing photography in this fashion, I've been living it. For instance, whenever I put on an outfit, I make sure there's usually one fucked-up aspect to it ie. a nice collared shirt/sweater combination with some nice jeans and white shoes that have been painted black and have blown so far open you can see my socks. Like showing up to a well-dressed b.y.o.b. event and holding a 40 oz Olde English. So, to say that this recent "refining" of a photographic style is news to myself, it really isn't, because I live it every time I walk out my door.

always a good time.

This is what happens when my family gets together with a MacBook close by. This time we were in Jasper, AB.

From left to right: myself, Aunt Laura, Bike, and mom in the background.

Enjoy.

The Find

Sometimes I just don't believe in things. More specific, I believe things will never happen. One of the great personal attributes I've held high over the years is my ability to practice reason, and very well. I'm not an idealist - I'm a realist. I know when things are so fantastical that even romanticizing certain ideas is a waste of my time. Don't get me wrong: I dream as much as the next person, but I know when to draw the line between "sure, that's possible" and "sure, that's a nice fantasy". Although this is the line in which my mind usually draws in the sand, sometimes I just cling to realities long enough for them to actually come true.

On the evening of December 21st, 2008, I was given a Christmas bonus at the establishment I worked at for the amount of one hundred dollars. At this point in my life I was really into amassing a musical instrument arsenal, which continues steadily to this day. I wanted everything that challenged everything capable of sonic altercations (mainly directed towards electric guitar playing). At the time I was obsessed with something called an Ebow, which is an abbreviation of "electronic bow", "electric bow" or "energy bow". This device, about half the size of a can of tuna (wow, what a shit example), is a hand-held wireless device that creates electromagnetic fields of energy that, once placed over a guitar string, cause it to vibrate, simulating the sound of a stringed instrument. Trust me when I say I was obsessed. The bonus went to this, plus a bit extra. I ran home to test it out (on an acoustic guitar, strangely enough) and it was everything I'd dreamed of.

Here is where this story begins to take shape. My parents' marriage was in it's final state of disrepair around this time. This being the case, the summer I moved home from Toronto would be my last in that house, as we were about to sell the house that following fall season. I'm not sure how it happened, but I must have put the Ebow in a drawer and forgot about it towards the end of the summer, because it would be the last time I ever saw it.

I can't explain the breakneck speed needed to move out of that house. Towards the end of the move, we'd given ourselves such little time to pack that everything, and I mean everything, was rammed at full speed into boxes, wrapping paper, bins, jars, bags etc. (productive procrastination: a genetic guarentee to most Schmidt family members). The worst part is that everything was shoved somewhere, meaning that it could be in one of four houses, in one of three cities, in one of 200 boxes. Needle-in-a-hay-stack-type-shit.

There were only a few items I've missed over the years: a vintage Kentucky Derby t-shirt, some MiniDV tapes, some photographs, drawings, and that Ebow. My friend Danny knows this way too well. Wherever I'd go; whether back home, my cottage, any family members house - I'd always say, half-jokingly "Oh, and while I'm there I'll check for that Ebow". I'm not kidding when I say I'd say this almost every time, for several years. It would usually be followed by a very mutual sigh between us, and the realization that this thing would never be found.

I've already mention that I'm a realist, which doesn't rule out everything. One of my favorite lines that I've used over the years, which frustratingly makes sense to many, is "I didn't lose it. I just haven't found it yet". Losing something is accepting that you've lost it. When you know something is within your grasp, there is no reason to accept defeat. That's like saying just because you got sunburned you're going to look like a fucking lobster for the rest of your life. It's not like it doesn't exist anymore (philosophy majors, fuck off on that one). So with this in mind, I never stopped looking for it. Everywhere I thought it could possibly be, I looked through in a process of elimination. Imagine Indiana Jones trying to find the Arc of the Covenant in that warehouse. Kind of like that.

I came home yesterday to my moms house, mainly to work on school-related projects in the privacy of my own thoughts and not have to worry about anything related to being in Toronto. As usual, I grabbed about six beers and a few cassettes and descended into the basement to untangle the mess of cardboard, clothes, lego, books and Christmas decorations. Things were going as planned: I pulled a few photos from my past, a few books, some paint brushes, a couple slides, reels of Super 8 film and select skateboarding magazines. Then, there it was.

Laundry Room Drawers was the name of the box. I can understand why I've never touched this box. For starters, it was under some box called Moms Books, which is a fucking landfill of 40-year-old woman literature. Kind of like if Oprah's book club needed an archivist. After sorting through this and downing an entire can of Guiness, I undertook the triple-decker sandwich of needles, thread and newsprint that was the next box.

Scraping towards the bottom, I found it. The object I'd been looking for all these years was staring me right in the face. It had to be the equivalent to seeing an old lover for the first time in years, and you're both single, and outrageously horny. The unflattering grey sheen covering this relatively insignificant piece of my history was staring me in the face, and everything I believe in was rekindled. The look on my face was priceless. I know this because I took a picture of myself holding the Ebow and sent it to Danny. He thought it was a stapler.

I didn't write this for you, the reader. I wrote it so I'd remember this moment. However, you can take this story with you as a reminder that hope and belief, no matter how unattainable or distant, is very possible. I should know - I just did it.

If this overly-positive article could visually personify itself, it would look like Bambi eating an ice cream cone while Thumper sings Hallelujah.

dode

I found this photo a few weeks back while sorting through my moms photo collection. Others would call it a heap, but I'll call it a collection. The photo is of my grandmother in her youth with a friend (the one in white). I estimated the photo was taken sometime in the mid-1950's

When I found it there was considerable damage. I included the original just to show how much work had to be done. That, and I just have a thing for photo restoration. There's something annoyingly challenging but rewarding about it. Anyway I thought it was a classy photo and thought I'd share.

Also, after applying a spray effect to her face in Photoshop, I noticed something eerie:

Ummmm, what the....? Is that me? Think about it.

Happy New Year from the Schmidt Kids

Watch the magic as I, once again, trick my sister into thinking we're taking a photo - in video mode. I've watched it almost 100 times I think.
May the new year bring happiness and success to you all.
Cheers!

have a nice fucking day!

I have no idea what provoked these. I think it's because every time I see the image directly above, I utter the words "have a nice fucking day!", because it just screams energy, even though it's insanely grotesque haha. Come to think of it, most of them are pretty fucking ugly. Enjoy, and use them in any way you'd like. You can't say quality blogging is dead.

cravings

Sometimes all I really feel like doing is watching Boyz in the Hood. I honestly get a craving to watch this once every two weeks, just below The Last Waltz and Citizen Kane.

I consider it a small masterpiece. A little slice of 90's Americana set in the South side of Los Angeles. Everyone's performances are unique and memorable, and there's just enough gritty storyline and character development that it keeps your eyes peeled to the screen from start to finish.

Additionally, it has easily the greatest movie dad in cinematic history. Furious Styles (played by Lawrence Fishburn), is a take-no-shit kind of dad that'll give you "rubbers", eat admiring neighbours' bbq'd ribs, fix your fade, and still pay the bills and love you by the end of the day. If I were up for adoption and Furious Styles walked into the room, I'd be like "Shit yeah, take me home daddyo". Even Rotten Tomatoes gave Furious the top honor in their Fathers Day Special called "Top 5 Movie Dads of All Time" click on it to watch.

Plus, everytime Ice Cube's character is on screen he has an Olde E in his hand (except for the flash back to when they were kids at the beginning). So gangster. In fact, I might host a forty party in my house in the future where we do nothing but drink OE and watch Boyz in Hood quietly and let Furious teach us about sex ed. Shit yeah.

spreken ze talkin' schmidt

I know I didn't make any mention of it at all, but I'm off to Italy and Switzerland for 3 weeks.

Me and BK are currently sitting in Heathrow Airport in London waiting to make our connecting flight to Rome. Very exciting!

For those that remember from last summer, I'll be continuing my writing on my travel blog, Spreken Ze Talk. I sacrificed my film camera for my video camera this year, which should provide some memorable moments.

guero

Back in London, once again, for the weekend.

Came down pretty much to hang with family and get some work done for school, because lord knows I can't concentrate in my own home. The unfortunate thing is I forgot my video camera, which is too bad because we're both sitting on a mountain of mini and extended things worth mentioning (I have a lot of really short ones this time around).

Holler at me Londoners if you read this. I'll be around tonight.

find me outside

Finally, an updated Flickr account. I used to be so heavy into that.

Last weekend I spent some more time in London "researching" my term project. I'll say researching because I showed up to the schools, which were locked. I have no idea why I didn't put this together in my mind days before leaving. However, on a more positive note, the principle of HB Beal has just granted me access to the school at my disposal. Fantastic.

Another reason for being in London was to purchase what would ultimately lead me to applying for welfare. That's right: the coveted Sigma 10-20 wide-angle lens. I purchased it mostly for my term project, which solely revolves around the photographing of interiors. That, and it has a 10 year warranty - which is great because I'm pretty hard on my lenses for the most part ie. my Nikon stock lens vs. Rivoli pool hall floor circa 2007.


So, it's safe to say I've been using this lens extensively, which is at least ten times a day. On top of that, I picked up a portable flash from my moms house over the Christmas holidays, which allows for much more dynamic lighting scenarios as opposed to that flat-in-yo-face-flash. That's also been a ton of fun to practice.

Oh, and Bike and I got to play in the snow most of the day Saturday. Great packing snow.

i can see claritin now my rash is gone

After four days of incredible partying, dancing (my legs are whooped) and Valentineage, the dust has settled, slightly. I'll be heading back home for a few days later this afternoon, mostly with intention to visit family, friends, and shoot my term project.

This will most likely entail the drainage of my savings, seeing as I'm purchasing a brand new Sigma wide-angle lens for my digital body. But hey, that shit lasts forever, and who doesn't want a wide-angle lens anyway? Hopefully when I'm home I'll shake this cold, which has been perpetual for over a month now. On top of that, last night I experienced my all-time worst allergic reaction. A dark red rash spread over the upper half of my body covering my face, chest, neck, and arms. Seeing as I was scared shitless, I called my dad at 6 a.m. (karaoke, you understand), to which he granted me some sound advice and went to sleep.


The funny thing about this all is that I photographed the whole process, because I thought I was about to die. I showed my dad these photos and he wants to use them as allergic reaction examples when he teaches. Always glad to be of service.


The shitty thing about this is that I have no idea what I was allergic to. I came home after the bar and made my usual feast: oven-toasted pita with pepper, pan fried portobello mushrooms, arugula, hummus, and a big glass of pink lemonade. What the hell was I allergic to? I threw everything out this morning, including the giant pitcher of pink lemonade, which may have been the culprit of it all. Bummer, 'cause I love the pink.

But alas, after taking some Claritin, my face is back to normal. I also now have an epi pen.

"YTV, pull that shit down!"

Mike and I recorded the Basement Edition of Talkin' Schmidt last night. The topics include:

BK: Lego vs. Legos , Excess Disney Sequels, Useless Hand-held Phone Tactics, Backpackers, Call of Brutal Children

Andy: Matilda and Satanic Messages, Ex Girlfriend w/ Boyfriend Etiquette, Anonymous Donors, Vegetable Commercial Motifs / Dad vs. Dolphins

Collectively: Specific Souvenir Requests, Chicken Soup for the Damaged Readers Soul

It was all filmed quite quickly and efficiently. Seeing as we haven't filmed an episode in almost a year, the topics flowed rather smoothly. The Crown Royal didn't hurt things either. Christmas time will do that to you

the boys are back in town

BK is back in town from his Euro-travels and we're getting crazy.
Therefore, a small absence of posting.
Sweet berry wine!!

Mom, Prague, Czech Republic

mom's the best. i meant to put up this photo a long time ago.

myth busters

Mike took off to Europe today for six weeks. To say I'll miss him is an understatement.
Have an awesome time "TraBike". Say hi to Barcelona for me.

truly brothers

Everyone, feel free to print and frame this, or make your permanent background.

yogurt

Come September, I think I'll start doing some yoga.

I sat down the other day and really micro-managed my mental health and realized:

Although on the surface I consistently appear calm, my soul races with stress on the inside.

I think this has been the case for quite some time. It has always (ever since I can remember) been my style to just shrug things off and let them resolve itself in my head, mainly when I sleep. My family has always known this, and I am occasionally called "a fart in a windstorm", mostly because I just drift through life seamlessly without a care in the world.

Until recently, I realized differently.
There is a small sign in the gym, here in my condo. It states:

Stress can be related to 90% of all illness.

True or not, it scared the shit out of me.

Maybe I've lived so strongly by my carefree lifestyle for so long, I've neglected the possibility of having any stress in my life at all. Now that I do, I have no idea what to do with it. I usually play my music loud enough in my headphones to drown out any concrete thoughts that may come floating in. My mom wants me to see a therapist because, after all, my personal life took a huge beating these past two years. I've never been too keen on the whole idea, probably because I'm old school and think therapy is an expensive way of dealing with your problems. After all this I can only rationalize one thought:

Isn't life fucking sweet, folks?

Just when you thought you were as cool as can be, life switches the picture and smacks you on the head. Just when you thought life was all figured out, your mind throws a stick in the spokes and tells you to handle it. I'm fine with that, because the path to self-discovery is like finally learning how to factor or long-divide numbers in Grade 11 math. When you realize something is wrong, what else is there to do than to tackle that motherfucker and get to the bottom of it? You can ignore it all you like. Shit, I've done it for most of my life.

I'm pretty sure there is a literal mass of neglected stress, stories, memories, and images stored somewhere in my body. It has to have created mass by now. I'm assuming it's either in my brain, my stomach, my heart, or my balls. Wherever it may be, it's time for a reduction.

So maybe some yoga will do.

No Need To Read This Next Bit

We're back in town

London that is. After leaving Halifax, we thought we might as well drive all the way home, all at once. 27 hours, three caffeinated drinks, four tanks of gas, and more fast food than I'd like to mention later, and we're home. The thing about the energy drinks is that I couldn't get to sleep once my driving shift of four hours was up, so I never slept. I can distinctly recall driving through the GTA around sunup, barely there. My body shut down completely, while leaving me with enough energy to understand whether I was going to crash into another vehicle or not.
The funny thing was, I didn't sleep for most of the day once arriving home. I still haven't fully recovered from that night. Remind me to tell you a funny moose story later as well...

The Wooden Sky

The same night we arrived, we went to go see The Wooden Sky perform in Paterson's backyard. Awesome show. Not only did we get to drink Olde E for the first time in months, we saw a ton of old friends and met a lot of great people. I even saw the boys from my old band The Dustbowl Refugees, which I'll detail at a later date. Check TWS out for sure. Super psyched on their new record.

Golf, Big Time

Myself and the boys went golfing yesterday in St. Catherines. It was Dan's first game and he killed it. Well done my man. It pissed rain nearly the entire time, but we played anyway. Darcy and I both had flying-club incidents, which caused me to "peek" in laughter (which means it doesn't get any louder). I won closest to the pin on a hole, which is always nice. My prize money payed for gas on the way home. Dan and I also cleaned up in the prize draws, taking home the majority of the gifts. I fucking love golf. Alright? I LOVE IT.

Family Time

It's quite rare for me to have any quality time with my family when I come home. I'm usually rehearsing, eating at King's Inn Diner, visiting friends, attending whatever event, or curing a hangover. There's really not enough hours in the day to see everyone. Luckily for this weeks visit, I have plenty of time. Made tortellini prima vera for dad, visiting gram for the first time in a dogs age, made bbq'd corn salad and butter chicken for my ladies, and driving around town with my sister listening to Jackson mix tapes. Awesome.

Retro

By god, was that ever an interesting night.

The Heart

I've mentioned it a hundred times over: I have a bum ticker. It's not all that bad, it just gives me shit every once in a while. There's nothing like the feeling your palpitating heart is about to explode out of your chest. I'd arranged to have an Electrocardiogram with my dad about a week ago, which took place this morning. Everything looked pretty normal, save for my pulse, which pumps around 89 beats per minute, sitting down. Later this afternoon I have an appointment with a cardiologist to have a 48 hour heart monitor installed onto my chest. This is funny to me, considering we have a show to play tomorrow night, and I plan to beat the living shit out of my drums. Hopefully it doesn't run out of batteries and die like the last one. Electrodes are so much fun.

The Beard

I've never heard so many mixed reviews about anything. My beard has hit an all time record in length. Some people think it's handsome, others think it's burly and and out of character. Even last night, two ex-girlfriends of two years gave me polar-opposite reviews. What the hell? Maybe it was too radical a change for some and they're just not used to it. Either way, I'm going to keep it for at least another week I think. At least until I can't take the ridicule.

Haircut

I got a haircut yesterday. I proper haircut. One that I didn't do. My hair was a little pissed I think. I can't remember the last haircut I got professionally. However, it did feel good to get my head rubbed by some cute 'dresser. I think I'm going to marry a hair stylist just so I can get my head rubbed every once in a while. When I was young, my mom would brush my hair to get me to sleep. There's something about that brush that just conks me out. Looks good though.

Travel Tick

My career, no matter what it eventually may be, will not be boring by a long shot. Even as I sat in the waiting room today, my skin crawled with the notion of a desk job. The kind of job where the only things that excite you throughout the day are the fan turning on and off, lunch breaks, having to take a piss, and maybe the dirty magazine you keep in your filing cabinet. No thanks, not for me.
Even after being home for only days after traveling, I want back out. The thrills were all there on this trip: the strangers, the scrounging, the filth, the distance. I travel quite a bit for someone my age, only because I allow myself to. I have no sympathy for those who are jealous, because I have no more opportunity than the next person. Initiative is what separates the do'ers from the dreamers. All it takes is some simple planning, some vision, some money, and you're off. Don't wait for your friends to finish three years of school, just go get it.

On that note, I have to go clean the trailer. In two hours I'll be a robot.

easter photoboothage

I had my Mac on me last weekend and clearly had to have a Photo Booth session right at the dinner table. I think my sister loves it the most, and I can usually tell because she ends up crying from laughter. Here are some highlights.

Aunt Lo, rocking the Bulge setting. My personal favorite.

That's Bikes dog, Mana. The cutest half-dog half-rabbit ever.

That's my mom and her gigantic sagging tit. I think we were going for something else initially but I couldn't stop laughing at her asymmetrical chest.

That's my sister. Laye, don't say a damn word.

That's my grandma Dorothy. She's in her 80's and still manages to be funnier than most of my friends.

Gram, again. This time with icing on her face, but she doesn't give a fuck.

The ladies of my life.

the think tank

Bike, Cara Spooner and I discussing the changes, complications, and hilarity of keyboards over time, all within the greatness of the Think Tank.