Archive for the Baltimore Category

The History of Photography Part V or Parents Day Two

Posted in baby photography, Baltimore, Mayfield, Photography, Uncategorized on March 24, 2012 by smpiv

May 5, 2001.

Nothing particularly historic happened on this day.  The history would happen in September.

For many it was another Cinco de Mayo; for most another sunny spring day; this being Baltimore, probably a sad day for a family being informed that their son had died, tragically, from a gunshot wound.  For me it was my second day of fatherhood and the last day for my 4×5 camera.

Min had arrived the day before at Gate 2A at BWI.  It was an event witnessed by a number of people, including a gaggle of nuns, who had heard why Lisa, myself and several other couples were waiting there.  We were couples waiting to be parents.

It was a moment that had arrived after two plus years of emotional peaks and valleys.  After interminable parenting classes, inspections of our house by the Fire Department, a building inspector and a class on baby CPR–we still weren’t ready.

We had all the stuff.  I had finished his room the week before.  The house had been repainted to be sure that lead paint wouldn’t poison our boy.  The roll playing with the adoption agency was over and we, along with our neighbors, were beyond excited.

We still weren’t ready.

When the skyway door opened Min was in the lead, strapped papoose style to a diminutive Korean doctor, who, for a minor monetary reward, had carried Min from Seoul to Tokyo, from Tokyo to Los Angeles, from LA to Chicago and finally from Chicago to BWI.

There was no doubt that this was Min.  We had seen his picture and his hair stood on end, practically a Mohawk.  His eyes darted around the concourse, looking.  Looking for us?  I doubt it, but the doctor was definitely looking for us. 

When our two paths finally crossed the doctor said, “Good flight. Good baby. Good luck.”  And he disappeared.  We were no longer a couple, but parents.

Ready or not.

The image attached to this blog, taken following that fateful day in May, is the last picture I would take with my 4×5 camera.  Hardly by design, but it just happened that way.

Finely etched on Kodak Ektachrome it has all the detail and tonal range large negs are known for and the prints from the neg are luscious–this is my Madonna and Child.

A wonderful beginning and a wonderful end—thank you Korea and thank you Kodak.


The History of Song Part I or The Glee Factor

Posted in Autobiographical, Baltimore, billy elliot, elvis costello, glee, jim jarmusch, Photography, tom waits on December 7, 2010 by smpiv

My background in entertainment is limited at best.

As a second grader on the mean streets of Virginia Beach I dreamed, like Billy Elliot, of dancing—ballet was it for me.  Why?  No clue, but it was the early sixties and my father was a fighter pilot.  A non-starter……at best.

As a fifth grader at Arnold Elementary School in Maryland I confidently tried out for the school choir.  I was told in no uncertain terms that I had no singing talent—no fuzzy, feel good let down here from a program that, up to that point, took anyone.  It was the mid sixties and corporal punishment was still a valid form of persuasion, I couldn’t expect more.

I did have my successes.  In the first grade at Little Flower Catholic School in Pax River I was constantly making noises—birds, machine guns, motor boats, etc. much to the joy of my classmates and to the consternation of Sister Anne Marie. 

What was her solution?  I was to entertain the Second Graders with my talents.  I was over the moon.  I thought this was the best thing ever.  It took me years to realize that Sister was trying to embarrass me.  Didn’t work—she gave up after that, my noises continued and I continued to go through the window instead of the door for recess.  Ah, the small joys.

I did, much later, have an opportunity, like most frustrated entertainers, to work backstage.  In this case to open the curtain at the ballet portion of collection of performances to raise money for the Arts Center I worked for in Annapolis.

I stood determined to do my part for the show and open that curtain like no curtain had ever been opened before.  I had planned on a subtle and nuanced pull that would start the curtain off with flourish that would look like Barbara Morgan’s famous picture of Martha Graham and then just sweep open the rest of the way of its own accord.

Well just before my moment my headphones crackled with the instruction, “Open it slowly.”  Well slow means many things to many people.  To me, someone who had only opened shower curtains, that night, it meant very slow. 

“Curtain, go!”

My cue and with the determination of a turtle I inched that fire treated beast of a blue velvet curtain open. 

Two things made me realize my error.

One was a large company of ballet dancers lurching forward—I don’t think there is a pretty French term for lurch that would make lurch seem any more elegant than it isn’t—off toe and then trying to elegantly get back on toe, give me the evil eye, and then to sweat out the slowest curtain ever.

Secondly was the stage manager yelling at me through the headphones to open the curtain faster.  Well I did and of course it was then way too fast.  Thank God for the-show-must-go-on attitude instilled in us from our early parts as trees in kindergarten (I’m fairly certain I was some form of shrubbery in my kindergarten play, not even a tree) for those dancers moved on from my ineptitude and performed beautifully.  And they never spoke of it to me when they saw me in the halls later.

Twice in my adult life I’ve been elevated to another consciousness through what can best be described as primal movement and dance.

The first time was at an afterhour’s club in Baltimore.  I recognized it once many years later while driving through Baltimore and it was in a dodgy section of Greenmount Avenue, but that night it might as well have been the Taj Mahal. 

It was a collection of gay and straight patrons flying around the biggest dance floor I’ve ever been on.  The Cure, Jimmy Sommerville, Bronski Beat, Abba all at top volume—dance-mixes of just about everything.  Fruit juice poured freely from the bar while the bathroom was where one found their high of choice—lines, alcohol, whippets, new friends.

My girl friend (in this case, just a friend) and I spent the night dancing, flying, spinning, watching two pretty gay young bucks doing one whippet after another, laughing and just leaving this planet. 

At six am it all shut down, the sun was coming up.  We wove our way through the trash to our car and went back to our little lives in Annapolis, having forgotten it all for four short hours—it was liberating.

The second time was in Richmond at a friend’s house on Monument Avenue.

We were all in or recently out of art school, most single, and the others with spouses that didn’t quite get it.  The beauty of art school, particularly at the graduate level, is that it’s an extended version of those mind altered, all night rap sessions—with REM’s Murmur playing over and over in the background–you had as a Freshman that you thought someone should have recorded because of all the amazing, world changing thoughts you had.

Well at the graduate level you move onto Tom Waits, Jim Jarmusch and any combination of both as an initial stimulant and go from there.  Other stimulants would be introduced as you talked about all those lame all night Freshman rap sessions you had and how much more mature you were now.  And then the drums came out.

Seriously, drums.  Big ones, little ones, ones you thumped, ones you hit with sticks and lots of them.  There were at least fifteen of us and we all had a drum.  At first it seemed a bit lame to me, but as I hit my drum and everyone else did as well, all to a beat, on a beat, it became infectious.  It lasted for hours and the sun was coming up when it ended.  I was somewhere else, and happier than I had ever been to that point.

And now, fast forward to today.

I sing in the car with the best of them.  I’ll sing to anything and get the words wrong to everything.  I hum unknowingly; I keep the beat to anything and everything—I’m a human metronome.  I have theme music running in my head at all times.  When I ski I sing “Feliz Navidad” or “Boy with a Problem” from Elvis Costello’s “Imperial Bedroom”.  And just to be clear I will have a song list for my funeral prepared and ready to go before that day. 

Just in case I drop dead soon after this blog, I would like “Kashmir” playing as the pall bearers take my casket to the hearse and I hope it’s a long aisle because I want to hear all eight plus minutes of it before they slam that tailgate shut.

This brings me to what got me started on this whole thing in the first place—“Glee”.  All of my frustrated desires to sing, act, and dance is wrapped up in this show. 

Of all the characters it is Kurt that I relate to the most.  This is not an outing moment, there is nothing to out—it’s his general problem with figuring out who he is and how he fits in.  His desire to stand out and disappear all at the same time defines my High School experience to a tee.

Until the seventh grade I was an outgoing, popular kid.  In the seventh grade I began to act out, start fights with kids who would then pound me.  I was such a poor fighter that my science teacher took pity on me and began to teach me how to box in the basement of the science building.  It didn’t help, with my new found skills I began to take on kids even bigger than before and was pummeled even worse than before.  I was acting out so much that I had the dubious honor of being the first seventh grader at this private school, which had been founded in 1914, to get weekend detention.  I had the pleasure of painting the bleachers for two days.

So when it came time for my family to move again—this time back to the West coast and Thousand Oaks—I decided I would make no waves, fly low and avoid the radar.  This would be my MO through high school until soon after I graduated from college.  Oddly it would be as an entertainer that I would finally blossom.

My first significant job following my eight day stint in the Navy (a story in itself) was as a baby photographer.  For a shy, ill defined and somewhat gangly twenty something it probably wasn’t the best career choice, but it was photography.

It was a job that required me to first, entertain a baby—that’s easy, believe it or not and as long as you could make the baby smile, you could sell the picture.  The harder part was keeping the long line of mothers and babies waiting their turn entertained.  I quickly developed a patter, shuck and jive that worked very well and unbeknownst to me allowed me later to talk to anyone and to any size group of people.  It was the only thing I took away from that six months of hell (see my earlier blog The History of Photography Part II–or How Every Picture Tells a Story).

So, anyway, back to Glee.  Well you know I just reread this and it’s not really about Glee at all is it?  It was just the kernel for other things.  Oh, John Mellencamps’ “Jack and Diane” just came on my Zep station on Pandora—right up there with “Pink Houses” and a sure sign to bring this all to an end.

Good night and all the best.

The History of Justice Part I or the Law In Three Parts

Posted in Autobiographical, Baltimore, Homicide Life on the Street, Mayfield, The Wire on November 30, 2010 by smpiv

Part I

“Homicide; Life on the Street”

This is a show I couldn’t get enough of at the time it was aired and now as I work my way through it again on DVD I’m amazed at how riveting it still is.

I was living in Baltimore at the time it was being shot and several times began, but never finished, application to be a dead body in an episode.  Several episodes were filmed close by with one being filmed two houses down from ours.   It was fascinating to watch the hours of preparation go into a scene that wouldn’t last more than a few minutes on screen.  Even more shocking was seeing my elderly next door neighbor being back lit by an elevated Klieg light, her house coat evaporating to outline two spindly stick legs holding up an amorphous upper body.  I think my retinas were thoroughly burned that night.

It was a show that was embraced by the City.  It was so stitched into the City as a prop that it felt more like a documentary than a fictional show.  Andre Braugher who played Frank Pembleton lived in Baltimore during shooting and seemed to be everywhere.  We ran into him at Egyptian Pizza one night and like John Waters he was just “one of the guys”—noted but quickly forgotten as we waited for our meal.

Although some of the dialogue was so choreographed it almost tapped, for the most part, it all rang true.  An early episode had Balis and Pembleton interviewing an Arraber , played brilliantly by Moses Gunn, about his part in a murder for the entire show—you couldn’t look away.

Like most of my legal education this part was done “on-line” through the truncated lens of the TV.  It felt right.  The actors were all average in looks with more foibles than a Christmas tree—bright in spots, very dark in others.  Munch was practically a cartoon, but it all seemed true.  Cases weren’t solved; mistakes were made and never undone.  That big white board filled with names as the year progressed.  Baltimore, after all, was good for at least one murder per day.

Our neighborhood—Mayfield—was surrounded by a reservoir to the North, a golf course to the West and a park to the East.  It was a peninsula that for the most part let us be from the encroaching disintegration of the urban fabric.  It wasn’t sound proof though.  In the summer when we had our windows open and the humidity sat just right the roar of gunfire sounded as if it were right next door.  It was so disconcerting that the first time I heard it that way that I dropped to the floor. 

Some nights it was so intense that it fought with the crickets for attention.  And the next day the papers were silent, nothing to report.

Part II

“The Wire”

Again a show that used Baltimore as a very large character and again a show that was being filmed while we lived there.  This time I was working in Fells Point at an architectural firm that was on Key Highway.  I would set out for lunch and the actors trailers would be lining the streets as they prepared to shoot.

This was a show that I would come to later through the magic of Netflix and take down in great gulps as I sat mesmerized late into the night, one episode at a time.  It was then that I realized that a number of the people I had walked past on my way to lunch were the stars of the show, not the help.

The drug trade in Baltimore was what set off the gun fire every night in the city–one begat the other.  You couldn’t go into Herring Run Park after dusk for fear that you would walk into an exchange.

But, and this is a big but, it made for brilliant TV.  One episode has a street level dealer explaining the intricacies and beauty of chess using the drug trade hierarchy as a foil for the various pieces and the power each piece exerts.  The Machiavellian machination of characters, good and bad, and sometimes hard to tell apart, is a macabre dance that usually ends in gun fire–gun fire that echoed all the way to Mayfield.

Does this television exercise give me inroads and insights into the seedy side of Baltimore—a little, not much, but when it was reported that police calls dropped off to near zero whenever the “The Wire” aired it makes you think.

Part III

Juror Number 672

Somehow or another as a responsible voter in the City of Baltimore I was called for jury duty three times in two years.  Unlike a lot of people I welcomed the opportunity to be a juror.

My first time as a juror my number was in the eight- hundreds, so I thought I didn’t stand a chance to be called.  I sat quietly in the jurors room watching a movie that would be interrupted every once in a while as they called entire blocks of jurors to make their way to one courtroom or another.  And then, bam, my number was called.

I was surprised and excited.  This was my big chance to see justice done; to watch Baltimore’s version of Perry Mason brilliantly work a case through the system; to see a Matlock use his homey charm to disarm a perpetrator, but alas as we filed to our courtroom the Bailiff told us to turn around, the case had been settled without a trial.

Six months later I was called again—juror 672.  Again I waited patiently with my peers another movie playing dutifully on the closed circuit TV.

This time I was quickly called and as we filed to our courtroom no Bailiff turned us around, but simply opened the big door to the courtroom.  In we went.

The courtroom was beautiful, truly beautiful.  The wood was dark and oiled, the trims carved, ornate and bulky.  Painted scenes from around the state worked their way above our heads with a stained glass skylight providing the light.  I took my seat, looked at the judge and suddenly realized that he, and the courtroom I was sitting in had been used in “Homicide”—I was sitting in a stage set, but this was real.  It moved along as each tried and true piece that had been carried out time and again as an introduction to justice was mumbled by each participant.

It was a tired procession as each player literally mumbled, stumbled, ummed, and said “What?”  The jury pool was quickly whittled down as the opposing councils dismissed or accepted a juror.  When they got to me, they didn’t even ask me a question; the prosecutor said I looked fine as did the defense.  I was through the first cut.

The selection process took quite some time, but we were finally seated by about two pm.  One final cut had worked its way around me and I took my place in the front row of what had been the original spectator sport—courtroom drama.

It was at this point that I got a good look at the Defense lawyer—a dead ringer for Booger from the “Revenge of the Nerds” movie franchise.  He must have been court appointed, because who in their right mind would hire Booger.  He even came on like Hollywood—his opening sounded like it had come from a made-for-TV movie, “I will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that my client wasn’t even at the scene of the crime!”  The lawyer himself would later say that his client in fact was at the scene of the crime.

The prosecutor was prosecuting his first case.  He was so excited that he had invited his family to watch.  His mother kept doing that overjoyed scrunchy smile with the inaudible clapping every time he seemed to make a point.  She looked on concerned, every time he tried to put up his carefully prepared diagram of the crime scene and it kept falling down.

The Crime—I almost forgot the crime.  A young man was accused of being in possession of drugs with the intent to sell.  Stock and trade for the Baltimore jurisprudence.

Having been thoroughly imbibed on “Perry Mason” and “Law and Order” I was sure that one side or the other would make such a compelling case that it would be easy to see the guilt or innocence of the accused.   Far from it, by the time Booger and the Baby Prosecutor had finished their cases I was never so confused.

As we filed into the Jury Room I got a good look at my peers.  Forties and up, mostly women, mostly African American.  This was going to be interesting.

Whoever said that justice is blind was blind.  These eleven people I was seated with all had an agenda, for the most part unbeknownst to them.  We had all been socialized differently, raised differently, in this case, from two distinct races, and from two different sexes.  As the jury foreman (in this case “-man”) took a quick vote just to see where we were, it was obvious that we were evenly split—not by race, most of the jury was African American and not by sex, because most of us were women.  So now we went around the table to give our view on the case.  Mine?

Well the accused had been seen by cops in an unmarked take off when he spotted the cops and throw something in the weeds.  When they arrived at the spot they found a baggie of drugs.  As the cops pointed out this was a known drug area (this could be almost anywhere in Baltimore) so they assumed he was dealing as well.  The accused said they were not his drugs and that he had been framed.  My take was that he was probably dealing, but the police had not witnessed him dealing, so he was guilty of possession.  I was in the middle.

As each juror spoke the far right was voiced as well as the far left.  But it seemed as if most people were coming to the middle, my middle.  We took another vote and there was one hold out, an elderly African American gentleman, who had said little when he initially had a chance to speak. 

This time with twenty two eyes bearing down on him, he explained his position.  What he saw was a young black boy (his words) who had gotten down on his luck and taken a couple of bad turns and deserved a second chance. 

“You dumb, old fool!” blurted a very strident, throw-the-book-at-him, African American woman.

The Bailiff came in to ask if we were near a decision as it was getting late and the judge had tickets for the O’s game.  We were at an impasse and the Bailiff reported as much.  The judge brought us back into the courtroom and told us to be back the next morning to continue our deliberations.   Enjoy the evening, don’t talk about the case and he was off to his baseball game.

 I wanted to tell Lisa everything that had happened but I couldn’t.  It was like having the greatest gift ever and you couldn’t wait for the person to open it.  Lisa also wanted to talk to me about the case because she had sat in the courtroom and overheard any number of things from the defense team.  We both managed to hold it all in.

The next day promised to be more of the same, at least that’s what I came in thinking.  After we had all arrived and taken our seats the elderly man who had passionately defended the defendant asked to be heard first.  The air left the room as I think everyone thought he was going to state his conviction of this young man’s need for a free pass.

Instead he noted that after leaving the courtroom the night before he had realized that the young defendant was alone in the courtroom—even the prosecutor’s Mom was there, but no one to worry about the fate of the defendant.  It made him think that perhaps this young man had been in trouble many times before and past the redemption of even his family (Lisa would later tell me this was in fact true).  Guilty of possession.

And that was it—guilty of possession and not guilty of intent to distribute.  We walked back into the courtroom and just like on TV the judge asked us if we had reached a verdict after peaking at the paper that in fact said as much and the foreman said, “Yes your honor we have.”  Guilty of the one and not guilty of the other; gavel bangs down and the judge thanks us for our time.

Time—not more than twelve hours as a juror, but an education that rights every injustice I’ve perceived from the hundreds of hours of watching the police, courts, judges and lawyers on TV.  Brilliant TV yes, an accurate portrayal of justice—somewhat.

Twelve people seeing and hearing a case twelve different ways, even a seemingly innocuous case as I’ve described, yet not one of us shirked our duty to parse out justice to a young man (Lisa later told me that he was well into his thirties despite looking no more than eighteen) in a very precarious position. 

I left that dysfunctional, yet beautiful courtroom, feeling much better about our judicial system.  And, I suggest the next time you are called for jury duty not to shirk you responsibility.

Oh and I recommend watching “Twelve Angry Men” before you go.