CONTEMPORARY EXPLORER

  A good parking garage can make the day, especially if they are well designed and close to popular venues. Many though are dark places, often ill planned and underused. Every crime drama seems to have one, the infamous garage scene. Candy Man, Fargo, Death Sentence, Terminator and Furious 7.  While your in them, you can imagine most anything. Shapes and sounds pull at your mind. Shopping center garages often sit largely empty for most of the year, only to fill to the edges during Xmas shopping season, adding to the uneasiness of them. Few have the smoothness and finery of the building they serve. The contractor leaving rough marks, the architect making it the last thing they design. Over the years, some become blights on the city, no longer serving any purpose. Still the ones that do still work are indispensable.  Developers are always cautioned to not pay the contractor until the garage is finished. Good advice, as many look like they are not. The darkness is not a frie...

  They call it “autophenophobia,” the fear of car washes. More people have it than you think. And can you blame them. You pay a fee, really a chance at making it through. The attendant guides you to the automated lanes. Then you give up complete control. Your car and life are dragged into the beast with whirly brushes. All among the splashes of soap and water that blind your vision. Some say its the claustrophobia nature of the enclosure, others the sensory overload of the machine noise, the fear of damage and always the loss of control.  The car is pushed side to side by the powerful equipment. You look out the window to see if everything is still there or if any parts of other cars are beside the rails. You know there must be scary things in there, machinery or parts you don’t know about all jumping out of every side it seems. You reassure yourself remembering that these dragons of clean first appeared way back in the 1950’s. Called Rub a Dub, Elephant Car Wash and other fri...

  The recent Vanity Fair article “Banksy Unmasked”’ claimed the graffiti artist’s name was finally determined. It peaked my interest as a follower of Graffiti art. Well, it turns out that the mystery of him remains. So does the meaning of his images and sayings such as the question he poses, “Does Graffiti change anything?” At least with his art, there is something to consider not like most graffiti efforts. Shapes that best look like badly done scrambled eggs and colors bold enough to blind you. There are various names for different graffiti styles including throw ups, pieces, Angels, heaven spots, back to back, roller and devil spots. There are good reasons why Banksy and others want to remain anonymous. The law with handcuffs are never far behind. Graffiti has a short life, usually ending up repainted by another artist or washed away by city workers. The most interesting effect is when a desperate building owner simply paints over graffiti. These often take the form of blocks of...

  It’s easy to feel lost and unaccomplished in the age we live in. There seems to be billionaires everywhere, yachts float in the harbors, multiple mansions bought and $100,000 cars fly by on the road. You start to question your worth and even your view of the world, not believing what your eyes and senses are telling you. Where do I fit anymore? If its not enough to hear about the happenings of the 900 powerful billionaires in the country and a new millionaire created each day. The media and advertising are always telling us the things we should want and the way the rich live. Some have called it “the blur of the new Gilded Age.” There has never been a more important time to keep you own counsel and build faith in yourself. It’s the means by which you can survive and grow. Not to do so risks making bad decisions, more anxiety and life limitations.  There are some great books and articles on this subject including the article “How to Deal with Feeling Unaccomplished” by Chelsy...

  It’s a modern marvel that Amazon and other packages find their way to our door. Passing through numerous shipping, warehousing, handling and delivery systems. They all gather marks along the way, some intentional and others not. Everything from the smudge from the loading dock to stickers designating a sorting order or contents. Bar codes that keep it on track. There are the hands of the driver and the unseen ones of pilots in flight. They all make for colorful packages at our door each with their own travel tale. None of this would be possible or as low cost without the invent of the shipping container that allowed for the efficient handling of freight. Affording space for thousands of different packages versus the bulk shipping of the past. The container was Invented by Malcom McLean in 1951 rapidly growing to worldwide adoption. McLean only had one truck in his small freight company, but quickly gleaned on to idea of using containers when he started hauling empty tobacco barre...

Like a place people only whispered about, a Greyhound Bus Depot. A poster child of the past. A small rectangular building with a temporary lot in front, emblazoned by the Greyhound logo over the door. The Dog beckoned. There was no party slaps or small children running about. These were solo travelers all weighted down it seemed with their struggles. You could read their faces often blank just staring. Only a few words were shared mostly by a few who ventured outside for a smoke. A gold cab sat waiting for a fare, the driver leaning against the station wall. Everyone waited for the call of next arriving bus, few as they were. You wondered about the name of the city they were all going to. It did not matter, the reason probably more important. Maybe a last chance at a future, a soul that needed healing, a scrap of life. Two attendants kept the place clean and issues fare tickets. The overhead florescent lights reflected off the floor and robbed any joy to be found. You wanted to reach o...

  It’s hard to find now, wedged between the giant roads 485, 85 and 77. Once the only way to forge the Catawba, boats now only a memory. The rail line still runs here tracing its way through this hard scrabble place of stone freight boxes, giant oil tank fields and trucks. Work days are long, played with blue collar rules. They gather every noon. Hungry men take their place at the Stockyard Restaurant. Long tables, hot meals and respect shared, but no talk of the hard day…

  When you embark on a journey to peace of mind, it changes you. The world begins to look different along with your place in it. This is especially true if you are a photographer. Suddenly you find yourself taking photos of scenes and objects that just are. It may be a hint of color or pattern. They tell no story and often are not related to anything, they just exist. You find them important to your being though. Perhaps it’s that they take you away from the chaotic world, giving you a moment of calm. Thomasz in his article  “I Am Learning to Photograph Things” in Frame Magazine discusses this elegantly. The photo you take may not draw any likes or width on social media, but they mean something to you. You may not be able to put the photos into words, but you feel them and that is enough…. David Young P.s. Thanks to Maurice Lauher for sharing Thomasz article with me

  The South is dotted with small towns. Many mere shadows of the past, having been abandoned by once flourishing manufacturing. They seemingly exist on the edges of what remains with store fronts boarded up, streets empty and hopes gone.  The one remaining business is the local hardware store. Each town seems to have one. Names like China Grove Hardware, Woodman’s, Ruffs, Little Parts Hardware, Cedar Lane, Beatles Ford Ferry, Goodman. Each one is a time capsule of parts and pieces. A voyage into the past and what once was. The very reason they exist is that the town and its buildings are old. You can’t find repair parts at Walmart or home depot. Only these small stores have them. Even when foot traffic dies in a town, people still beat a path to the local hardware.  Ezells Hardware in Chester is a classic example. Deep in one of the corners of the store is a book the owner calls “The Pipe Bible.” Its actually a combination of several books documenting different pipes and ...

  Jennifer Wallace in her recent WSJ article on retirement wrote about how important mattering is to well being. It’s rooted in our ancestors when making a contribution kept you in the tribe and safe. The article spurred numerous conversations on the subject. So the question is does mattering really matter? The answer is yes, but maybe in a different way than discussed. When we retire, we leave behind a portfolio of skills and experiences we used to make a difference and help people. It’s only natural you want to use them to continue helping others. To remain part of the action.  You go to the local food bank thinking they will want you to help manage or at least be on the board. But, you find they want you to restock shelves or carry out carts of groceries to waiting clients. Not what you imagined. The lack of opportunity to matter in a major way can lead to depression, a major problem for seniors. You begin to loose a sense of self. You can change all of this over time. You ...

  You could almost here it say, I am still here. The entrance and  Hallways kept clean by what seemed Like an army of workers, I wondered Who paid them?  The mall dying fast, weighed down by  A post xMas rush of shops leaving. Even the chicken burger fast food was gone, Replaced by a couple of fledgling taco kiosks. Names no one ever heard of or ever will. Only Belk and a discounter Roses held sway in  The caverns of the place. What shops were left  Stayed close to them, hoping for fall- off clients. A giant furniture discounter now rented an old  Anchor store space. The vulture type that Circles these failing places seeking low rent and Low price buyers. There staff trained to dress black And sell, just sell.  All but a few of the hallway kiosks were gone. The owners Of the ones remaining sitting close to the cash register hoping It would ring. A barber sat in a salon with no heads. The massage Technician long ago giving up on customers slept on ...

  Sometimes it’s just the pattern of things. Boards placed over windows in an abandoned building showing weathered streaks and patterns over time. Their color muted, blending into the being of the place left. You take a photo, not fully knowing the full art there. Overtime you happen upon it in your albums, with a few art tools you think it could become art. You think about painting, but they have not created brushes small enough for my big hands. The colors are so definite, the detail suffering. There is the wonder of colored pencils. Especially Derwent ones. The new series they have, Intense Ink, so perfect. They are watercolor pencils that become painting with lines wetted by brush or even finger. These combined with their portrait pencil set creates lay on layer of color blends.  No matter what the tools you use, the full art in the piece is never quite found. Perhaps this is a good thing, allowing a retelling over time…