Let's Keep It Nice #7
An occasional series of posts prompted by pictures of the USA that have sat in my loft for 30 years.
Unlike some of the other pictures I’ve written about in this series, this one is vividly etched in my memory. Actually, that’s not totally accurate. What I remember is the taking of the picture, the precise moment when I elected to press the shutter, rather than the memory of the picture itself. In fact, the picture was a pleasant surprise. It has sat, unlooked at, as an unscanned transparency, in its plastic box for nearly thirty years.
The reasons why I remember the moment of exposure are numerous and interlinked. It’s a funny picture, in many ways, but the circumstances surrounding it are complex and a bit painful.
Thirty years ago my wife and I (we weren’t married at the time) were spending a year teaching high school English on a Fulbright Exchange in Austin, Texas. In the summer of 1992 we had attempted a Greyhound bus trip through the southern United States. Beginning in Atlanta, we’d journeyed through Georgia to northern Florida, then up through the Carolinas to Washington D.C., briefly visiting Maryland and the Virginias. We had a romantic notion of Greyhound buses. We didn’t have much money to splash on transport so it was the economical option. We had no idea how gruelling some of the journeys would turn out to be.1
I digress. Despite the various hardships, we loved the adventure and were keen to return. We applied for the Fulbright Teacher Exchange, were accepted and lucky enough to swap lives with two English teachers from Austin (unrelated) who fancied a spell teaching in south east London!
On our first trip we had skirted north of Louisiana and New Orleans. We remedied that as soon as we could, visiting in 1994, during our first American school holiday. When my parents came over to visit us in 1995, we suggested re-visiting the city with them. My dad, who is no longer with us, loved jazz. The Big Easy seemed like the perfect destination for a family excursion.
Best laid plans and all that.
My first mistake was to write home, after our first visit, partly about a priest who had been murdered not far from where were staying. I suppose it felt a bit edgy and interesting. To be honest, I’d forgotten about the letter. My dad hadn’t.
My second mistake was not fully understanding how anxious my dad would be about the whole visit. He arrived at Austin airport announcing, “Your mum’s planned the trip. I just showed up.” This should have been a big clue about his state of mind, but I didn’t catch on. He’d never been great at risk-taking or being outside his comfort zone. A creature of habit. I’ve definitely inherited some of this attitude. I love a routine. Loss of control was probably his worst nightmare. Leaving work, flying across the Atlantic, then flying on to Texas, the heat, driving on the ‘wrong’ side and sleeping in a strange bed, not to mention the unusual food, clearly stressed him out.2
I should have seen it coming. Our discussion about taking the trip to New Orleans quickly degenerated into a tense stand-off. Harsh words were exchanged and my dad stormed out of the house to ‘cool off’ in the 90 degree Texas heat.
On reflection, he was probably concerned about the money, the extra expense of another trip on top of the flight to see us. I should have been more sensitive. It wasn’t pleasant and I regret making him feel uncomfortable. He obviously felt backed into a corner. Having not had much involvement in the planning, perhaps he felt this was the only way he could assert himself.
Eventually, everyone calmed down. We made a plan to take two cars, breaking the journey in Galveston, before heading to New Orleans. It will be worth it, I reassured him.
We chose Galveston for its musical associations. Houston might have been more sensible, but the opportunity to visit the town that inspired one of the greatest songs ever was too good to miss. Plus, driving for nine hours straight would have done nothing to calm the nerves.
By the time we reached New Orleans, tempers were less frayed and we began exploring the delights of the city.
It was on this trip that I first encountered the work of E. J. Bellocq and the biggest Eggleston print I’ve ever seen, recently sold for a half a million dollars. I can’t be sure, but I think the Bellocq print (made by Lee Friedlander from salvaged glass plates) was about $3000. I wish I’d had the money to buy it then, or even the presence of mind to just taken a picture of it in the gallery.
Some of my favourite photographs from our year in the States were made in New Orleans. It’s such a fascinating city. We were young(ish), free as birds and loving life. The city seemed to throb with energy but also with something vaguely dangerous; hard to identify, but palpable. You could cut the air with a knife. Ten years later this beautiful, complex, enigmatic city would be devastated by Hurricane Katrina.
The picture at the top of this post was made one evening, walking along Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. I had a flash on my second hand Nikon FM, hoping for some pictures of night-time revellers. I’d been experimenting with slow sync flash at high school football matches in Texas. I really liked the ghosting effect of combining a blast of light with a longer shutter speed. I knew it was risky. No-one likes a flash going off in their faces.
Sure enough, this is the only time anyone has ever objected to me taking their photograph.
I’m not sure what I saw. Perhaps it was the fancy straw hat. Maybe the Hawaiian shirt, the rakish beard, the plastic Mickey Mouse nose or blue velour bum bag.3 Possibly the balloons themselves. I was walking next to my dad, appreciating his obvious joy in the music and party-like atmosphere - he seemed to be finally in his element - but also keeping an eye out for suitable subjects. Whatever it was that called out to me, I zone-focused (not that difficult with a wide angled lens), swivelled round and released the shutter.
I felt the flash pop almost viscerally, like releasing a rancid fart.
Immediately, I heard the shouted complaint, clearly articulated, above the chattering crowd. I don’t remember exactly what was said, but it wasn’t polite. “Pithy and degenerate”, as Woody Allen might say.
I winced and kept walking.
Was the balloon seller following us? What if a verbal confrontation became physical? What would my dad say and do? Surely, this would confirm all his worst fears about visiting New Orleans … and me?
These posts will always be free but, if you enjoy reading them, you can support my analogue photography habit by contributing to the film fund. All donations of whatever size are very gratefully received.
On one overnight leg, we were roused by the smell of liquid excrement rolling down the aisle. Greyhound bus stations are generally located in the most disadvantaged parts of town. Leaving the bus, after a long journey, often entailed running the gauntlet of dodgy characters, quick to spot a couple of greenhorns.
My dad was a meat and two veg person. During our trip to New Orleans, we spent a whole morning attempting to find a café that served egg and chips.
Or fanny pack, as Americans prefer to call it.
The picture of your future wife feels very Egglestonian to me.