Suspended

At work, coffee costs me a mere 25 cents a cup. It's not a lot, but then again, it's not great coffee.

But because it's only 25 cents, I don't mind buying a cup for somebody who finds himself or herself without a quarter. I don't mind paying it forward: that person is sure to do the same for me or someone else in the same situation.

I think it's nice to do that for people that I don't know, too. On rare occasions, I have paid for coffees, up front, for strangers, at Starbucks. And last week, I found that there are participating cafés that let you buy coffee for those who are not fortunate enough to indulge in a good cup of java.

There's a worldwide movement, called Suspended Coffee, where participating stores will let you buy a coffee, in advance. Anyone can redeem that coffee; as the site says, "the homeless man you pass every day on the street, a stressed student in the middle of exams, or a mom who needs a five minute break."

I like that.

In the Ottawa-Gatineau region, there are three cafés that are participating in the Suspended Coffee movement: Café Eddy, in Hull, The West End Well, in Westboro, and Francesco's Coffee Company, in the Glebe.

But the pay-it-forward idea isn't limited to this movement. Bread By Us, a bakery and coffee house in Westboro, also has a suspended plan, and it doesn't extend just to coffee. This local establishment also makes some fantastic artisan bread, and you can suspend a loaf or two for someone less fortunate.

I was at Bread By Us, yesterday, listening to a Sunday Serenade show, featuring the musical talent of my friend, Amanda Cottreau, and other wonderful, local musicians, and I learned that this shop participated in a suspended program.

While I enjoyed the show, I ordered a smoked-meat sandwich and an Americano coffee for myself, and 10 loaves of whole-wheat bread, suspended. I think I enjoyed that sandwich all the more, knowing that I was helping someone less fortunate than myself.

This time of year can be harder on those who struggle to make ends meet. If you can, find a store that participates in such a program and make a difference for others. If you own a café or a sandwich shop, consider enrolling in this worthwhile program. You've got nothing to lose.

Photo Friday: Risqué Business

This post is not safe for work. I just thought that I'd put that up front.

I've been shooting photographs for decades, and for the majority of them, I've focused on social events with friends, attractions and vacation spots, and the photos that I use for this blog.

On the artsy side, I have done some creative photos, those that take some forethought and planning, before I press the shutter release, and are manipulated, later, with my photo-editing software.

I have shot photos in all kinds of weather, from cloudless, sunshine-filled, summer days, to raging winter blizzards. About 90 percent of the time,  I have my camera close by, hopeful that I don't miss a moment that I want to capture forever.

I recently read that the best way to improve your photography is to try different things, to not stick with what is familiar. Different genres of photography will get you to think about different aspects: depth of field, shutter speed, light conditions, and subject matter—still versus moving, posed versus candid.

I have wanted to try so many different styles of photography, and there are so many that I have yet to try. But one of the genres of photography that I have experimented with over the past couple of years is one that I am still a long way from mastering, but I can definitely see improvement with my work.

It's one of the genres that my wife isn't keen on. After all, I'm spending time with someone who is wearing few, if any clothes. Many times, I'm telling this person what to do, how to move, and to stay still while I focus my attention on them, through a camera lens.

It's not the genre that she hates the most: that one still involves a model, and, surprisingly, the model is fully clothed. She doesn't like the model shoots where the model is dressed for a theme, doing overly contrived, clichéd, and, in her opinion, demeaning poses.

After a couple of those shoots, I tend to agree. And so, I've declined invitations to shoots where the model is dressed as a superhero, or in a Hallowe'en costume, or in anything that can be perceived, no matter how remotely, as a form of cultural appropriation.

"I'd rather they wear nothing at all," she said.

I can't believe she said that.

The trouble in pursuing this genre of photography is that it creates its own challenge in that I can't easily share it. It's not safe for work. Some people find it offensive or inappropriate for this sort of blog. I want to keep The Brown Knowser as a blog that is suitable for everyone. I don't want to post anything that I wouldn't want my kids to see.

In the past, I have shared some photos that have shown nudity or implied nudity. In my opinion (and it is my blog, after all), the nude photo was subtle: seemingly, a wisp of smoke. Smoke with a nipple. The implied nude, I think, was playful. The model was covering herself, playing with a camera that another photographer had brought to the shoot.

Both shots were some of my favourite photos that I have taken for a model shoot. I also find that in shooting this type of nude model, it is clearly a form of art and not some sort of perverted fetish.

I like this genre and have no plans to stop. I still have a lot to learn, after all. At all of these events, I have had to borrow lighting equipment, have had help setting the light levels, and have used other photographers' studios or rented settings. Eventually, I would like to own my own equipment and perhaps build my own studio, and have all the knowledge and confidence to use the lighting without help.

The last shoot that I attended, I came close to controlling the lights. The host of the event rented a house in the country and brought a single soft box. She helped me carry the lights into the various rooms and adjust the initial height and angle, and get the initial light-balance settings. Once I took a few test shots, with the model, the host left me alone to work with the model.

In some cases, I adjusted the lights as we shifted in the room—the most-challenging shots were in a bathroom, where I positioned the light so that I could straddle the tub and shoot the model from above.

In a bedroom, I moved and reset the light as my subject moved around the bed. The entire wall, directly behind me, was floor-to-ceiling glass, and as the sun moved in and out of sun, through the leafless trees, other challenges of shadows forced me to think more and adjust the soft box, accordingly.

As our session was closing, and we had moved to the living room, which also had a wall of glass, we abandoned the soft box altogether, and I was back to using natural light.

All of the ideas for location and poses, though, were up to me. I was in the director's chair, so to speak.

It was my favourite model shoot, to date. The model, Olivia Preston, was a pro who needed no direction once I told her what I was looking for. She was accommodating in agreeing to pose in a filled bathtub (who doesn't like a bubble bath?). She chatted with me through the whole shoot, talking about many different subjects, asking as many (or more) questions as I asked her. She had a great sense of humour, wasn't afraid to smile for the camera or even break out in a laugh, and on occasion, make a funny face.

She was great to work with. She travels all over North America for work, but if she ever comes back to Ottawa, I'll definitely sign up for that shoot.

You can see my work with her in my 500px album. Remember, though, that it's not safe for work.

For this Photo Friday, I've decided to share some of my work with Olivia. Though it's still not safe for work, it is only implied nudity.

Meaning, she's showing no naughty bits.

What do you think? Is this sort of photography suitable for The Brown Knowser? Let me know what you think by leaving a comment.

Happy Friday!

Thursday's Throwback

I love history.

In university, I studied Medieval England, including the entire British isles and parts of France, as well as Latin America. But the history that I find myself recently infatuated with is my home city of Ottawa.

I have visited the Web site, Ottawa Past & Present, and I have spent hours looking at photographs of old locations, how they looked decades, even more than a century, ago, compared with how the same spot looks now.

I have to say, there are places in Ottawa that have lost their charm today, such as along the south side of Wellington Street, between Metcalfe and Lyon streets. The quaint shops have been replaced by cold, concrete and glass buildings. Though the cenotaph of the War Memorial is beautiful, I'm intrigued by how Sparks Street once extended beyond Elgin Street, and how we have since lost our old post office and a charming hotel.

Of late, I have returned to these spots and I have photographed them as they stand (or lay open) today.

Here they are.

Rideau Street, at Sussex Dr., looking west

Union Station

The trolleys at Union Station

The back of Union Station, along the Rideau Canal

The Sunnyside branch of the Ottawa Public Library

My thanks to the National Archives for some of these photos. All of them were obtained through a Google image search.

I plan to continue finding old photos and photographing how the locations look today. When time permits, I'll share them.

I love this city.

Il/elle n'a pas la nom

Originally, I was going to reveal the location of the Where In Ottawa photo challenge simply as a Wordless Wednesday post, but then I realized that it needed some explanation.

First, I needed to convey a warm congratulations to Tina Klein Walsh, who correctly identified the sculpture, Il/elle n'a pas la nom, by Québec artist, Marc-Antoine Côté, located near the Alexandra Bridge.

I came upon this metallic object, quite by chance, when I was photographing the sunset from Nepean Point, a few weeks ago. I saw another sculpture, along the bike path that crosses the Ottawa River, into our neighbouring province to the north, and I went down to investigate. It was there, as I looked out towards the river and Parliament Hill, that just below, on another level, this sculpture lay out of sight.

From the street level, you can't see it. Ironic, considering the sign near the sculpture reads, "This public art project aims to increase the visibility of works of art in the urban space of Canada's Capital Region."

No matter: it was no trouble for Tina.

Enough words. Here are more images.

Where In Ottawa will return when The Brown Knowser resumes its regular schedule. Thanks to all of you who have played this challenge in the past.

Inspired

I don't know if it's because the days are getting shorter, whether my illnesses, from flu bugs to head colds, or the stress of losing a friend and now, losing one of our vehicles and being forced to shop for a new one, but I have been incredibly tired of late and have been in no mood to write.

The stress of not wanting to write has weighed heavily on me, too, as I start getting geared up for working on my next novel, putting this blog on hold until it's done.

For a couple of weeks, now, I have been uninspired, and if you're a regular reader of The Brown Knowser, you will have noticed that I'm not keeping to my Monday-to-Friday schedule. Last week, with only one blog post, with no writing, was a bit of a bust.

Perhaps, without trying to, I'm trying to get you used to having no blog post. Doubtful, but who knows what goes on in my head? I sure don't.

It took a good, long walk, to clear my head of all my stress, perhaps, and get me thinking again.

Because our minivan broke down a couple of weeks ago (and is now for sale, as is, for $500 OBO), I have found myself at work a couple of times, last week, without a means of transportation to get home. Luckily, on one evening, a co-worker who lives near me was able to drive me home.

On a second evening, I was meeting with a friend for dinner, and I needed to get to Old Ottawa South. And, luckily again for me, another co-worker was able to get me across the border, back into Ontario, where he let me off in the centre of the Byward Market more than two hours before I had to meet my friend and some five kilometres away.

But I came prepared and I had my camera bag and tripod.

Of late, I have taken a keen interest in Ottawa's history; specifically, in the old architecture and how the city has changed over time. For example, I have always been fascinated about the old train station, across from the Chateau Laurier, and how the trains ran south, along the east side of the Rideau Canal, where Colonel By Drive now lies. But I have also taken interest in the buildings and shops that have disappeared next to the station, how the appearance of Sparks Street has evolved into the glass and concrete pedestrian mall that it is today.

I wandered these parts of downtown, on Thursday, standing on street corners where I have looked at photographs from the 1930s, 40s, and 50s. I snapped photos of how those streets and buildings look today. I wandered Elgin, to Laurier, crossed the bridge, worked my way north, to Mackenzie Bridge, and across again, to the War Memorial, along Sparks, to Bank, and then south.

By the time I reached my rendezvous point for dinner, I must have covered close to seven kilometers. And it wasn't without adventure.

It was the evening rush, lots of people exiting their office buildings and making their way to their cars or to the buses, looking to get home. Others were wandering, looking for places to eat or to shop, to take refuge from the bustle until it died down. A few looked fresh and were, perhaps, on their way to an evening shift.

Everyone was busy, everyone seemed in a rush. Some were preoccupied, with faces in smartphones and tablets. I saw a few, with cables that stretched to ear buds, plugged firmly into their ears.

I stood on a corner, waiting for the light to change. It was, I believe, where Bank came upon Queen, but in the excitement that followed, I lost complete track. By the time I made sense of what happened, where I was didn't seem important, other than one undeniable fact.

It was along a bus route.

It also was one of the few intersections where, when stopped, waiting for the light to turn green, for the Walk sign to come to life, I was alone, away from the crowds. Not for long, though.

I heard her footsteps as she came from behind. Steady, with purpose. The gait was quick but unrushed. I saw her in my peripheral, to my right, and I started to turn my head toward her as she stepped past me. She was tall, with long, straight blond hair, that was covered on top with a purple tam. Her coat was vivid to me at the time, possibly red, but because it happened so quickly, writing it out now, I can't remember. It looked warm, comfortable, and it suited her slim figure perfectly. Dark leggings and high, tan boots.

Yes, it was red.

In her right hand was a smartphone, brightly lit, and she had her headphones on, the white cord standing out in the darkening light. Her head was down as she was reading whatever it was that had her full attention on the screen.

It happened in an instant, and my reaction exceeded my ability to fully comprehend what I was doing. As she extended one of her long legs to step off the curb, to attempt to cross the street, I moved forward, my right arm lashed out and my hand placed a firm grasp on her left arm. My camera, its strap resting on my shoulder, slipped off and came to rest at the inside of my elbow, the camera swinging from the violent jarring.

I pulled her back. I used as much force as I could, not wanting her to slip from my grip. She looked up, in shock, and seemed to swing her right arm back, ready to engage the person who was assaulting her. But before anything else could happen, the bus, that was travelling at speed, making sure that it crossed Bank Street before its light turned red, passed a mere metre or less from us.

No longer angry at being accosted but with a new look of shock on her face, the woman understood what had just happened. A stranger had just prevented her from walking, distractedly, in front of a bus.

I released my hold on her arm. We looked each other in the eye. I nodded, saw that my way was clear, my light was green, and continued, ahead of her, on my journey.

As I continued south, on Bank Street, I noted the many buildings, the old and the new, identifying those that remained from when Ottawa was young and the new structures that had replaced so many parts of our history.

I have to say, I don't like the newer buildings in the downtown core. Too much plain concrete, not enough character. Why could they not have preserved the facades of more old buildings?

I watched people, too, and I was discovering that my head was filling with ideas for writing. The walk—and most likely, the life I had saved—had inspired me. I knew that I was ready to start writing again. I made eye contact with many people I passed and when I did, I smiled and nodded a greeting. It was a lovely evening, with the temperature well above normal for December. Why wouldn't I be in a good mood?

As I neared the Queensway, I could hear the sounds of rush-hour traffic, the grid starting to free up and the cars moving faster. The sound of cars and trucks was all around me. The conversations of groups of people, the sound of a horn, the distant lament of an emergency vehicle.

I spied a young woman, black skinned with massive, curly locks, walking slowly, toward me, eyes looking through a store window. Beyond her, a seemingly homeless person, disheveled, with a dirty winter coat, also walking toward me, coming up behind her.

It was his hand that I noticed above all, down, at his side, but with his hand reversed, outward, held to cup, fingers gesturing as though they were squeezing something the size of a large grapefruit. He was on a trajectory to intercept the unsuspecting woman, his hand in line with her bottom.

I passed her before the grubby man could reach her and I changed my course to intercept his. As I was about to pass him, I leaned in, my shoulder coming to his. We looked into each other's eyes, and in a low voice I said three words to him before continuing on my way.

"Don't do it."

Once past him, I stopped and turned. He had changed his own course, put his errant hand into his jacket pocket, and continued past the window-shopping woman without incident.

I miss walking our city streets. Before I had my car, this is what I did twice a week. It's a shame that I no longer do it. The various neighbourhoods in the downtown core are inspiring, filled with all kinds of stories.

All you have to do is take the time to watch. And, when the situation calls for it, you can take part.