reproductions for momentary memoirs

Detroit Police Headquarters – Stairway to the holding cells. (click on picture to enlarge)

I entered the police station through a gray garage door that had been pried slightly open, just enough space to enter if I crawled in on my stomach, pulling my camera bag behind me, standing up, took out my flashlight immediately and turned slowly to see the panorama of the room.  Some hydraulic lifts had been left up and cast large “T” shaped shadows on the wall beyond.  In the far corner a stairway led away from the garage and into the main building an arrow pointing upwards with a sign that said that all guns and munition must be checked. I saw two sets of stairs, one leading up, the other down.  Life is full of difficult decisions.  I went down one long flight of concrete stairs to the basement. A sign reminded the officiant that all persons in custody had to remove belts, shoelaces, drawstrings, and turn pockets inside out and leave them out. An upended desk leaned near a large metal door across from what looked like a bank teller’s window – I imagine an officer had to be buzzed in at this point.  Two steps down and I was standing in very foul smelling water which had flooded the basement of the building. Cells, rows of them, one very large holding cell with a  long  red wooden bench and some smaller cells lining the walls, nothing but metal bars and concrete.  The sound of dripping water was moving around the room.  Heat, the humidity and odor were getting the better of me – I put my fastest lens on my camera and tried to take some pictures.  No light, the lens was fogging up, I could feel the familiar fear building within.  Who, but a complete madman would come down here?   And for my comforts, I was assured that only I would test fate in this way.  But,  I can’t help but feel some presence – “ghosts”, shadows of something very terrifying. I’ve taken pictures of many places, whorehouses, an abandoned meat packing plant, a crackhouse, and those places, like this dungeon; life had happened here too, the echo of withdrawal, the DT’s, panic, madness, an unquiet that is too intense, like when your mind races, it is as though your thoughts cannot catch their breath.  A long enclosed caged hallway led to the door at the furthest end of this long room.  “Check out desk”. This must be the exit.  Through a series of narrow hallways,  and finally, I came upon the curved staircase that let up to the inner workings of the abandoned station.  The court, the lawyers offices, the interrogation rooms.  I walked up the stairs, the air became cooler, the sky was a tranquil blue, a half moon window above the main door still had some glass intact while the door was boarded and nailed shut. This was a prison inside a prison – the building itself was in lock down.  At the top of the stairs, where I took the picture someone had positioned a chair which looked out upon an empty parking lot overgrown with wild weeds.  “We serve and protect” was the motto stenciled on to a piece of glass that was shattered and was covered with abstract graffiti.

Just as an aside: (and this is true)  As I was leaving the building, back through the garage,  the door had been opened fully and a French film crew were bringing in lights and cables.   I bowed slightly and made my way for the alley.   One man asked with a thick accent, “you work here”?    -  “Not any more… “,  I replied.

Not exactly cutting edge film noir; just a guy with a camera.
Eerie all the same.

click on photo to enlarge

so much depends

upon

red china

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens

I have been hearing of the ascendancy of China for some time  now, and while I consider myself a profound skeptic, having lived through and remember clearly the era of Japan Inc.,  recall, the Japanese were going to own the world, including all the parts not worth buying – but the Japanese would have had to purchase the world’s assets from the Saudi’s who prior to the rise of Japan, the power of petro-dollars could buy anything, or anyone, and the hand-wringing was all in print and commentary about how the House of Saud would one day control all of our destinies.

Somehow, like a thousand other similar prophecies, it went the way of hair frosting, and silly string.

I’ve always thought of my music as having a visual element, each piece is evocative of some place, some coordinate of memory, something seen or imagined . . something dreamed, constructed between layers of consciousness, not existing; and I was very glad to be able to incorporate some of these sound works into my last photo montage.

The largest store of my online music (by no means comprehensive) can be found at Reverbnation and the tracks can be accessed in the music widget above this post. Please feel free to email me if you wish to download any of the tracks. I no longer desire to sell or market my music; I have never been comfortable with the current models of distribution or the notion of creativity as an enterprise. I’m not criticizing the concept, just my discomfort with the process.