The truth is that I enjoy nude photography. To me, it's a form of art, and to do it takes a skill that I'm only slowly learning.
It helps when your subject knows what she's doing, needs little to no direction so that you can focus on the lighting, the depth of field, the composition.
DW doesn't like that I do this genre of photography, but that doesn't stop me because it's a challenge that takes every bit of what I've learned about photography and makes me really concentrate on getting everything right.
I don't think about the fact that my subject is a beautiful, naked woman. That's the last thing on my mind. When I produce a photograph that is more art than anything else, I'm happy.
And shouldn't a hobby bring you happiness?
Happy Friday!
At one time, it was a 1976 Pontiac Trans Am. Black, with gold trim and that iconic flaming chicken on the hood. The one that became famous in the movie Smokey and the Bandit, but I was in love with it before the movie.
My father sold them at the dealership, and I drooled every time I saw one in the showroom.
But I was still a couple of years away from driving on my own, a few years further away from being legally able to do so.
I always liked Porsche and Ferrari, came close to buying the former, but realistically, they were financially out of reach.
Then came my next love: the BMW.
Even to this day, I get excited at the sight of a 2002, but when the 1980 320i came out, I wanted one. "Some day," I told myself, "I'll be behind the wheel of one."
In the early 80s, during a camping weekend at Mosport, my friends and I camped and took in the many races, oggled the high-end sports cars in the VIP area. But it was a car that was parked near our tent that grabbed my attention.
A red 320i.
I stood along it, put my hand on it while a friend took this photo.
"Someday, I would be behind the wheel of one," I whispered.
That dream came true. I've been behind the wheel of a couple of 3-series Bimmers. I've just never owned one. Someday, perhaps, but I'm in no rush.
Happy Thursday!
I don't know why I pay for my TV service, when 90 percent of my television viewing is through Netflix. Only 10 percent of what I watch comes from network television, often from CBC, CTV, or Global, and even that gets watched after the fact.
On demand.
I'm hooked on a couple of shows that I binge-watch; usually, three or four episodes at a time. On a particularly lazy evening, I may watch five or six in one sitting.
It started with Breaking Bad, which I had never seen until after the series had ended and all the hype had died down. But I loved that show, couldn't get enough of it. I started watching the show with DW, but when she became busy and couldn't watch with me, I pulled ahead and, before I knew it, I was more than a season ahead of her.
DD14 and I binge-watched The Walking Dead, are stuck at the end of season six, at a brutal, cliff-hanger ending. We can't wait for Netflix to bring season seven.
Lately, I've begun watching the American adaptation to Shameless, and again, DW and I grew out of sync because we couldn't wait for the other before watching an episode. Or four.
For a while, I was more than a season ahead of her, but then DW would download episodes onto her tablet and watch them while I edited my photos or wrote my blog posts. She's now a season ahead of me.
However we watch shows on Netflix, we both agree that it's eating all of our spare time away, that it's bad for us.
It never stops us from doing it, though.
What shows do you binge-watch?
At first, I had every intention of building a darkroom in my basement.
In high school, my best friend, Stu, and I would take photos for our school yearbook. We had a small darkroom in what was little more than a glorified closet in the science wing of our school. But Stu's dad was a photo buff, from which hobby he earned the nickname, Buff, and he had a darkroom in their basement, and he would allow Stu and I to develop our own black-and-white film and print our own photos.
I learned a lot in that darkroom, learned from mostly Stu, who learned from Buff, but Buff would always critique our work, giving us positive reinforcement for what we did well with our shots and our processing, as well as offer advice on how we could improve our skills.
I learned a lot from Buff, for which I am forever grateful.
As the decades of friendship grew, I felt more and more a part of the family. Indeed, when I went to the hospital, to meet with Stu and his sister, who still lets me call her Suzie, to be with their dying mother, I was stopped by a nurse who warned that only family members were allowed to go in.
Without hesitation, I said, "I am family," my voice showing the nurse that there was no doubt.
But before then, after Buff had passed away, I was offered his darkroom equipment. Stu and Suzie hadn't wanted to keep it, and because it brought fond memories of my early days of photography, I accepted the boxes and stored them in a corner of my basement, where one day, I hoped to create my own place to develop my negatives and prints.
Buff has been gone for a long time. My basement, for which I've had so many plans, still remains unfinished. I have eked out a space for my gym equipment, have opened a corner in which DD14 can play her drums. There's an entertainment cabinet with a sofa and chair for watching TV or playing video games. There is a cool area where I stock my wine and beer. I even have a secondary spot, with a desk and monitor, where I can set up my computer to work, when I need to get away from the rest of the household or another family member is using our primary workspace.
(It's at this secondary station where I wrote this blog post.)
There is no darkroom in my basement and I've come to the realization that there never will be. And so, I came to the decision to let Buff's darkroom equipment go.
I reached out to Stu, let him know that I was going to find a good home for his dad's equipment, and asked him if he or Suzie wanted anything. When Stu got back to me, he said that he was sure that the lens from the enlarger could be adapted to a camera, and could I keep that for him. Everything else could go.
This weekend, I finally brought the boxes upstairs, finally peeled away the packing tape, finally sat down to take an inventory of the contents. I opened the box that contained the enlarger, first, and retrieved the lens. I repacked that box and went to the second one.
The boxes were well-organized and each piece of equipment was packaged in their original boxes, complete with any instructions. There was the film developing tank, the closeup scope, the timer. All perfectly boxed up.
As I dug through the box, I came across a soft case and strap, the word Ricoh emblazoned upon it. It was a camera. I opened the case and pulled out the old viewfinder camera, remarking on how it looked almost like new.
I unscrewed the battery cap, hoping to find it empty, dreading I'd discover a long-ago-corroded cell. While there was a button-cell battery inside, it was intact and there was no corrosion on the contact points. But it was absolutely dead.
I contacted Stu, let him know that I found this little treasure, assured him that I wouldn't ever get rid of it, would send it to him if he wanted it, would keep it safe if he couldn't decide.
I added that I would love to run a roll of film through it.
I packed up the second box after making a list of the items inside and opened the third and final box.
I found some flood lamps and several bulbs, plus a super-8 movie lamp. And then, I saw something that piqued my curiosity.
A small metal box with the word Minolta on the side.
The box was solid and didn't really offer what its contents were, except for a covered lens that stuck out on one side. It looked like it could be a projector, but I couldn't see how to operate it.
There were tiny, silver buttons on bottom corners, on opposite sides from each other, and so I tried pushing them both while pulling up on what seemed to be an outer shell. It gave no resistance. It was a miniature, single-slide projector. Performing a search on Google, it seems to be from the 1950s.
I plugged it in and the lamp shone brightly, directing the beam through the lens. I didn't see a spare bulb in the box, but there were a lot to sort through and if there was one, the chances are that it would be no good if it was outside of a box. Any fingerprints on a projection bulb would cause it to blow in moments.
Everything else has been accounted for and now listed on Kijiji. I can only hope that someone who remembers the great days of producing photos from film takes an interest and gives Buff's equipment a good home.
I found some treasures in these boxes. I hope someone else does, too.
Sometimes, I feel that I betray myself and my photo project. And then, I rationalize it away.
For my Photo of the Day (POTD), I told myself that not only did I have to take a photo every day, process it, and share it on social media, I said that I couldn't take the same photo twice.
And here is the grey area: I've taken more than one photo that includes Parliament Hill, but I've told myself that that's okay because Centre Block hasn't been the focal point in all of the shots. I have a couple of cityscapes that include Parliament Hill; I have a storm front that places Parliament Hill in silhouette; I have a photo of the Byward Market with Parliament Hill in the background; I have a sound-and-light shot that is projected on the Centre Block.
And now, I have fireworks behind Parliament Hill, with the Centre Block featured prominently.
But that's not what bothers me about this POTD.
It resembles another POTD: not shot in Ottawa, not with Parliament Hill.
It's at night, with fireworks. The silhouette of a bridge is lit by the colourful explosion. Though not as visible, there are lots of boats off the port.
I shared a similar photo to that POTD, last week, for Photo Friday.
And now, I'm sharing two more photos of fireworks, because it's that time of the year. And I don't get out to see fireworks that often anymore.
Two POTD shots: different nights, different cities. But strikingly similar.
I don't care. It's my project. I still haven't taken the same photo twice, so I have no real complaints.
Do you?
Happy Friday!
It's not often that one country celebrates another country's anniversary. But because, for Canada, one of its founding fathers and first prime minister originated from another country—we're talking about Scotland—and he was known for his love of drink, it's only fitting that a brewery gives its nod to Canada's 150th anniversary.
Edinburgh brewers, Innis & Gunn, has concocted a limited edition ale that celebrates Canada's confederation, 150 years ago, and ties in the two countries long and happy relationship. Let's take a closer look:
Maple & Thistle Rye Ale (5.9% ABV)
Innis & Gunn Brewing Company
Edinburgh, Scotland
Appearance: deep copper-brown with red tones, and a foamy, beige head that pours thick and remains solid through most of your drinking session.
Nose: somewhat closed to start, though I was enjoying it outdoors and found that even the slightest breeze threw my nose off. I did, however, detect mild oak and trace amounts of burnt rye.
Palate: complex flavours of oak, orange rind, and a smokey maple that finished with a tiny bite. The is absolutely no sweetness; rather, the combination of flavours makes for a rich dryness.
Overall impression: I could see myself drinking this ale at a campfire in one of Canada's national parks. Eating bacon to the sounds of loons, singing on a nearby lake.
Stroking a beaver.
For this release, Innis & Gunn matured this bottle-conditioned ale in 150 oak barrels for 150 days. It's a pretty special ale.
And while it's not my favourite Innis & Gunn brew (and I like them all), as a Canadian who loves Scotland, I have to thank those folks for paying tribute to us.
Sir John A. Macdonald would be proud.
Beer O'Clock rating: 3.5
Cheers!
When I think of various cities, there are clear images in my head that summarize that city, visually.
For Montreal, I think of the cityscape on an autumn afternoon, from atop the mountain, or along Sainte-Catherine Street, or Notre-Dame Cathedral.
For Toronto, there's the CN Tower, from any angle, or the view from Front Street, looking west, from the St.Lawrence Market, toward the Gooderham Building, or the Kensington Market.
London, England, has Parliament and Big Ben. Paris, the Eiffel Tower, Berlin, the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church
You get the idea.
But when I think of my home city of Ottawa, there's one image that dominates my thoughts. And, day or night, it looks amazing.
When you think of Ottawa, what do you see?
I wasted so much time over that past three-and-a-half days. And my long weekend started with so much promise.
I took half a day off on Thursday to attend a model photo shoot, just south of the city, in an abandoned house and barn, near the 416. Even though the weather threatened rain and the mosquitoes were relentless, the photo shoot was a success. For those of you who follow me on Instagram or follow my POTD project, you saw some of my images.
If you want to see them, I have to warn you: they're NSFW. I have more photos to edit from that day, and I meant to take some time, but the rest of my weekend didn't go as planned.
On Friday, I had hopes of traveling to Montreal, to take some photos, possibly visit a friend, and seek out some brew pubs. Unfortunately, I awoke with a headache that turned into a migraine, and I ended up spending the day in bed.
With the exception of editing a handful of photos from Thursday's shoot, my day was a writeoff. I barely remembered to shoot my POTD, hastily grabbing one of my kid's souvenirs from Cuba and my Android phone.
Surprisingly, I liked the last-minute photo.
I was still under the weather on Saturday, managing to only complete a few simple chores around the house. I spent most of the day resting up, recovering enough to fulfill a commitment I made to attend a friend's birthday party and photograph it for her. Luckily, I was there when her partner proposed to her. I captured it on video and snapped some stills of the event (making one of those shots my POTD).
At the party, I refrained from drinking any alcohol, and DW and I left the party relatively early.
On Sunday, we lingered around the house and had a leisurely breakfast that took us nearly to noon. DW, DD14, and I then drove to Westboro, where those two shopped while I captured photos for Daily Photo 225. We then shopped for groceries and returned home, where I rested some more.
I finally felt more like myself by dinner, and managed to take photos and notes for this Thursday's Beer O'Clock review. Stay tuned for that one.
Dinner finished, the kitchen cleaned, I was only in the mood to unwind with a bottle of wine. I asked Google to play some Dire Straits, and mellowed in my family-room chair while the music soothed and DD16 played her Nintendo Switch.
Laziest. Weekend. Ever.
I was going to go to Montreal, today. It would have been my third time in a month.
I booked the day off, at the last minute, yesterday morning. I tried to convince DW to take time off, too. We would strap our bikes to the back of the CR-V, park at the western end of the Lachine Canal, and cycle Vert Route 1 all the way to the Old Port, and back, stopping along the way to capture images on my camera.
Unfortunately, DW is in crunch and can't get away from the office, so we'll have to put that plan on hold.
The last time we were in the Old Port was two weekends ago, when we met with my aunt and uncle to watch the fireworks on Ile Sainte-Helene, with the Jacques-Cartier Bridge casting a silhouette in the foreground.
That was a great day.
Montreal will have to wait, but not for long. There isn't much left of the summer.
Happy Friday!
Every summer, from 1987 to 1991, I went whitewater rafting on the Ottawa River, near Beachburg, Ontario. I was introduced to the adventure by one of my journalism-school buddies, Marc, who had been doing it for a couple of years, prior, with his closest high-school chums.
I felt honoured to be invited into his inner circle of close friends.
Whitewater rafting can be as easy or demanding as you make it, but no matter how hard or how lightly you paddle, no matter where on the 12-person inflated rubber you sit, you have to keep your wits about you. You have to pay attention. One moment of inattentiveness could send you out into the raging rapids, or worse.
On my first trip down the first set of chutes, a person in the raft behind us didn't listen to her instructor. She sat at the back of the raft, paddling, one of her legs outstretched, rather than firmly bent, as required. Her raft, lightly paddled, went over the 10-foot drop and sent a rower from the bow catapulting to the back, landing on that outstretched leg.
We could hear the scream from down the river.
For the first couple of seasons, I paddled at the back, being nervous about leading the raft. I liked to sit at the stern, where I could clearly hear our guide as he steered next to me and shouted commands. In time, though, I learned that where the action was, was right at the bow, where you almost leaned over the raft, risked falling in, but where you attacked the waves head on.
If you reached out, dug into the water with your paddle, and pulled hard, you hit the rapids with explosive power. Water would crash over you and you would feel as though you were on the world's best roller coaster.
Only once, did the rapids throw me out of the boat. It claimed my friend, Andy, who continued to dig, in vain. We lost most of the rafts occupants, but man, what a great ride, on my back, down the raging waters.
For three of those years, I led groups of friends and co-workers; once, filling the raft, and thereby earning myself a free ride.
I never used sunscreen: hated the oily or greasy feeling on my body. Detested having it on my hands, making everything I touched become slippery, slimy. I never wanted to touch my camera after handling suntan lotion.
And every summer, on the Ottawa River, I burned to a crisp.
I earned the nickname Red-Bellied Rossasaurus because, when I wasn't rafting, I would lie on the beach at Wilderness Tours and fry.
I loved rafting, still miss it. Someday, perhaps, when my kids are old enough, DW and I can convince them to join us. The rafts have changed (they seem smaller and are now blue) and it looks like they have a guide at the front and back (we only had one, who steered, at the back).
Today's photo was shot in the summer of 1990. You can see the pinkness of my skin, though I don't think I was quite crispified at that point.
But there's no doubt: my nickname would be used at some point on that trip.
Happy Thursday!
It's been vacant for many years. And to be honest, when I decided to capture images of the building for Where In Ottawa, I didn't know what it had been.
It took some digging, but I learned that the building at 391 Gladstone Avenue, near Bank Street, built in 1911, was once the Salvation Army Citadel for Ottawa.
Congratulations to Christopher Ryan, who shares my love of photography and architectural history, as his blog shows.
Because Chris had solved the challenge so quickly, no clues were necessary. Good thing: I only had a few lined up.
According to Shaker Realty, which had listed the vacant building, it is now sold. It will be interesting to see how this structure evolves into its next incarnation.
Because it's across the street from Dave's Drum Shop, where DD14 buys most of her percussion equipment, I hope to capture images as the new tenants move in.
The next Where In Ottawa is Monday, September 4.
It seems like it hasn't been long since the last Where In Ottawa ran: and, of course it hasn't been that long.
Usually, I run my photo challenge on the first Monday of the month, but I have to admit that in July, I forgot. And so, I ran it a week later.
July's challenge took more than a month to solve, and it was only last Monday that I revealed the solution to the contest.
And here we are, the first Monday of August. Ready to play?
I have to start out by saying that every month, I receive guesses to the location of the photo by Twitter or Facebook; sometimes, by e-mail. Please don't do that.
The only way that I can show everybody who plays this game all the guesses and my responses is through the Comments section of this post. It shows the date and time of everybody's guess. Through this method, the game remains transparent to all players.
Sound fair?
If you're new to Where In Ottawa, here are the rules: below, I've posted a photo that I've shot in Canada's capital. Your job is to state exactly where the location is. Be as specific as possible: for example, last month's location was Heritage House, in the Experimental Farm. Because the Experimental Farm covers a large amount of territory and because there are several buildings on the farm, simply guessing the Experimental Farm is too general to win.
(This month's photo was not shot anywhere on the Experimental Farm.)
The first person to correctly identify the location—by leaving your guess in the Comments section to this post—wins. You can guess as many times as you like. There is no physical prize: you just get bragging rights and your name in an upcoming post that reveals the location.
Are you ready for this month's photo? Here it is:
Think you know Ottawa? Prove it!
I don't know what it is about seeing a photographer in action that captivates me, makes me want to take a photo, too.
But the backdrop was perfect, with its vibrant colours.
The subject was simple: a single person, leaning against a wall.
The assistant was the only one facing me, could see that I had my camera trained on his party. But he was focused on his job at hand and couldn't be bothered with what I was doing.
The photographer was beautiful, could have been a model, herself.
I couldn't resist. My camera was already in hand, I was already photographing the painted, abandoned station house.
I couldn't resist.
Happy Friday!
It's hard to believe that it's been two years since I first walked down those steep, narrow steps and walked past that thick, black door that led into what was little more than a crawlspace beneath a more-than-a-century-old structure, just south of the Byward Market and around the corner from Ottawa's old court house and jail.
Almost a century ago, this small hideaway was a prohibition-era speakeasy. It's easy to believe, given that it's not easily spotted from the street.
It's that character that head brewer and owner of Waller Street Brewing, Marc-André Chainey, has preserved so well. And, I'm happy to say that two years later, his brewery is thriving. More selections, increased staff, and an assistant brewer. If Marc-André gets any more successful, he'll need more space. A lot more space.
To celebrate Waller Street's second anniversary, the folks at the brewery are having a party this Friday, August 4, and you're invited.
Don't worry: they won't expect you to just cram around their small bar (but you can, and wouldn't that be cozy?). As they said in prohibition days, they'll be out on the roof—slang for I'm going out for a drink.
The party starts at 4:00, on the patio at Level One, just next to where you head down to the brewery, on 14 Waller Street. The party will also be held in the brewery, so you can still check out that space and take a step back in time.
The party wraps up at 11:00. In seven hours, expect new brew releases, live Jazz music, and nibblies. Meet the brewers and raise a glass (or two*—it's their second anniversary, after all!). I hope to see you there.
Cheers!
* Please celebrate responsibly.
