Memories are short

I respect your right and belief to “Black out Tuesday”. Use that time to commit to CHANGE. Have a plan for Wednesday. So far those that have come before you have not done well; their memories are short.

It was a blessing to have met Charles Moore and the Reverend CT Vivian around the same time. I feel blessed.

moore

THE BENCH AND LOST ROLL

memories

IT ALL STARTS WITH A BENCH…LOST ROLL OF FILM AND SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION. MAYBE LESS NOW.

I’ll blame Clint Eastwood’s new movie “Richard Jewell” for this trip back memory lane.

I think that there is all forms of PTSD and journalist are not immune from the results of the news they have spent a career covering. 

As much as we hear “Fake News” it was; and I think still is an honorable profession. 

The old-school thought is you just place thoughts in boxes; never to be opened or retrieved from the mental closet shelf.

As a small-town photographer you want to cover the big stories.  You want to be a war correspondent. The truth is, if you spend enough time in a small town you will cover every disaster; shootings and accidents in the region. 

There is nothing tragic to the human spirit, and body that you won’t see.

Intersections remind you of fatal accidents you’ve rolled on.  Family trips to the mountains are roadways where you’ve covered families who lost their lives in fiery head-on’s. It may just take longer…but you see it all. You’ll develop a need for gallows humor.

I arrived in Atlanta around July 15th, several days before the opening ceremony as a photo editor for Gannett News Service and USA Today. 

I was excited at the opportunity of working with some of the best photographers; word and photo editors in the industry.

My bosses were USAT Director of Photography Paul Whyte and Director of Visuals, Richard Curtis.

“ You’re NEVER to be without a camera! It does not matter if your here as a photographer or not.” Paul directed in a round-table meeting.  He scared me in a good way.

The afternoon of July 27th I took a rare lunch break and went for a walk a block away or so from office.

We had a large area on the second floor that housed both television and print.  A small television studio in front to interview athletes and dignitaries. In the rear a very large darkroom with WingLynch film processors and a digital area to download images from cards.  Digital images were new technology in 1996 and we were using it for testing and to hit tight deadlines for the first time at a large event.

I’d been blessed meeting some sports heroes and many photography heroes; Howard Bingham was one of those photo heroes .  I knew Howard from working near LA and trading emails. He came over to the photo department to say hello and tell me he had someone he wanted me to meet…Muhammad Ali who was there for a television interview.  

Howard was Muhammad’s good friend and personal photographer. I still can’t stop beaming at the thought of shaking his hand, not to mention the status in the newsroom it elevated me to…at least in my own mind.

Centennial Olympic Park was really not busy in the afternoon. Plenty of room and a bit of time to find a place on a bench and enjoy the sun. It  turned out later that it was not THE bench but close enough to have felt the shrapnel.

When you’re working these types of events you’re all in. 

You have one focus.

I’m not proud that the first week went past and I had not called home once.  This was before cell phones and I had no personal computer.

It’s an understatement that Anne was unhappy and I sold two Leica bodies and three lenses to have a computer soon after I returned home.

The hours are very long and the stakes are high on an event that the entire world is watching daily.

The Waffle House was about 20 minutes from downtown. Just across the street from the motel that Gannett had taken over to house their employees whom arrived from all over the country for the team coverage both print and television.

We filled the restaurant  and it had already been a very long day.  We were in various stages of ordering; being served and paying bills.

The terror of the bombing was just being broadcast live on the restaurant televisions. Everyone was moving toward the door. 

“Just go, just go.” is all I remember yelling as the team was trying to get their checks. “Put those four tables on this.” my new hardly used American Express card….”God I hope the accountants approve this!” I remember thinking.

I almost closed the white van’s door on my leg I still remember a bit of a pinch and watching the speedometer reaching 90mph as we made our way to the park.

The van slammed to a stop as the streets were being closed in all directions.

It was a pile out!  Everyone going in six different directions.

I found myself in a small culdesac surround by the night’s mayhem.

No strobe; doing the best I can with street lights. Bloody faces; arms; many legs injured; ripped clothing.  A young woman holding a shirt to a man’s head; nothing but red.

I don’t know that I took more than 10 frames on one roll.  I had to get moving back to the office.

Running up the street I run into a wall of police marching  in riot gear.  With military precision they place barricades closing off the street as they pass.

I try to pass across the street and I’m pushed back.

I can see the building; I see people on the other side.

“Anne, Anne I start yelling and waving my arms.” Looks like I’m going to get another shove.  “It’s my wife, I need to get to my wife.” The women look at me strangely now.

“ Go now and leave!” the officer yells as he allows me to cross towards the small group of people near the office building.

I just enter the parking level at ground level.  It’s empty just one other photographer looking around like he lost something near the stairs.  Just then the aluminum and chain security gates come crashing down.

In broken english he says the doors are locked and there is no access to the elevators. He was looking for a way out to get to the front door.

It’s one of those moments when the light comes on for two people at the same time and we started to run towards the freight elevator….cartoon characters in motion.

I still remember the eyes of one of the cooks when we came out into the kitchen. I thought they were going to explode.

We ran through the dinning room which was empty and into the bar towards the main entrance where there were still a few folks holding down stools. They were told not to leave by security.

My new French friend headed one direction and I start running up the escalator that had been stopped. 

As I turn the corner on the first floor looking towards the main entrance I see my editors and some photographers pressed against the locked door.  As I’m running up 3-4 security guards are running down yelling for me to stop in slow motion.

Another flight and into the almost empty office. Two reporters still woking were trapped while working on stories and it seemed like every phone in the office was ringing.

Heading with my roll of film in hand towards the darkroom I powered up the processor. Between high school and newspapers I had processed tens of thousands of rolls.  I was shaking so hard I found it hard to load the film on the reels and fit them into the plastic tube.

There is pounding on the darkroom door.  “The desk needs to talk to you NOW!” said the reporter.

I jammed the roll in, checked the dam in the trough; and flip the toggle for power.

“Gary we understand your the only one in the department. How can we help.?”

I gulped.

“Gary slow down, just get us something as soon as you can.”  I just remember the very calming words from the main desk as I took a breath in this river of emotion.

Watching over the processor I’m startled by a young photographer running into the darkroom with several rolls. He was a loaner from a small paper, but noted as a top sports shooter.

So here is the awesome part….after pulling my roll and grabbing his rolls and making a fast edit on mine. I see I had only one image worth scanning.  

I’m doing this while starting his film and closing the cover and tossing mine in the dryer. That roll was never to be seen again.

Making a quick edit on his rolls I moved the first image to USA Today.

I’m told I beat AP by five minutes but all I remember is scanning damp film.

The office lights were blinding and there was a thunderous wave of people in the office now.

At some point 22 hours had passed since I had last slept.

“Take a shower; get some sleep; whatever you need. JUST DON’T USE MY TOOTHBRUSH!”  Richard Curtis yelled with a smile while tossing me his room key.

WICKED TWISTED ROAD

Reckless

LYRICS BY WILLY BRAUN
RESTLESS KELLY
My first love was a castle in the sky
I never thought I’d make it till I had the guts to try
Then I sat up in my tower while the whole world passed me by
Yeah, my first love was a castle in the sky
My first love was a fearless driving rain
Scared to death I thought I’d never see her face again
They say God was crying so I guess he felt my pain
My first love was a fearless driving rain
My first love was a wild sinful night
I ran out with the big dogs
Guess I had more bark than bite
I know I won the battle but in the end I lost the fight
Yeah, my first love was a wild sinful night
My first love was an angry painful song
I wanted one so bad I went and did everything wrong
A lesson in reality would come before too long
Yeah, my first love was an angry painful song
My first love was a wicked twisted road
I hit the million mile mark at seventeen years old
I never saw the rainbow, much less a pot of gold
Yeah, my first love was a wicked twisted road
My first love was a wicked twisted road

Stuff-We all have stuff and my stuff is better than your stuff?

stuff

“Actually this is just a place for my stuff, ya know? That’s all, a little place for my stuff. That’s all I want, that’s all you need in life, is a little place for your stuff, ya know? I can see it on your table, everybody’s got a little place for their stuff.

This is my stuff, that’s your stuff, that’ll be his stuff over there. That’s all you need in life, a little place for your stuff. That’s all your house is: a place to keep your stuff. If you didn’t have so much stuff, you wouldn’t need a house. You could just walk around all the time.

A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it. You can see that when you’re taking off in an airplane. You look down, you see everybody’s got a little pile of stuff. All the little piles of stuff. And when you leave your house, you gotta lock it up.

Wouldn’t want somebody to come by and take some of your stuff. They always take the good stuff.

They never bother with that crap you’re saving. All they want is the shiny stuff. That’s what your house is, a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get . . . more stuff! Sometimes you gotta move, gotta get a bigger house. Why? No room for your stuff anymore.”

-George Carlin-

Gun safety practices and fun:

Ran some shooting stages last night after work with my colleagues from both stores.
An awesome opportunity to learn techniques in a simulated, safe environment…what fun.

Thank you to Travis for setting it up, and bosses Jesse, Ross and the rest of the crew for their experience and support. These folks are very good at what they do.

Needless to say my experience level is much higher with wood weapons than with a handgun at this time but working on it.

Unrelated, but may be a blog spot down the road on the store site.

We see a fair share of folks that don’t keep their ammunition separated on the range and shoot handgun calibers that look very much the same. This is an example of a 40 cal. shot in a 45 cal. firearm.
The casing will expand from the gases to the size of the chamber and can be a bit of a challenge to remove. Just a good example of finding a way that works for you to keep your ammunition separated for the firearm being used at any given time.

40cal

A prayer to nature:

Thinking of my time in Nagano today for some strange reason.  Maybe it’s the total reverse of  temperature.  Walking the streets in freezing wet snow; the sounds; the kind people; the distance sounds of monks chanting in the monastery.  The small dojo I passed welcoming me to watch from the window?  I like the idea of offering prayer to nature….a written word to feel the rain, heat and snow.

Buddhism: Contributions to the Martial Arts:

LIFE IS SACRED

DISCIPLINE OF THE MIND

MEDITATION

STRONG INFLUENCE

prayers

 

John Joseph Fasulo (1949-2014)

JohnPortrait

“EVEN DEATH IS NOT TO BE FEARED BY ONE WHO HAS LIVED WISELY.”

  -Buddha-

Five days ago one of the most talented and wonderful photographers I’ve been blessed to know and call a friend passed.  My heart goes out to his wife, Cecile, and daughter, Maya, and for those that called him friend.

John Joseph Fasulo (1949-2014) 

Beacon, NY

Born June 14, 1949 in Cold Spring, NY to the late Anneliese Fasulo (nee Cenker), and John Vincent Fasulo, John Fasulo, loving husband to Cecile Fasulo and beloved father to Maya Fasulo, died May 14, 2014 in Croton, NY.

A lifelong resident of Beacon, NY, John attended South Avenue School and following his graduation from Beacon High School, John attended Goddard College in Vermont. He went on to serve in the United States Coast Guard and was stationed for some time in Rockland, Maine. After the Coast Guard, John studied at the School of Visual Arts in New York City.

John’s principal career was as a broadcast TV cameraman. He spent 25 years in both the field and studio for major TV studios including ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN, WOR and FOX News. John is also known for his role as a producer and videographer of the Hudson Valley Documentary series “On the River”. John had a real passion for photography and often cited David Plowden as an early influence. His extensive portfolio of black-and-white photography evokes a style reminiscent of Plowden’s. John’s photographs have been published in numerous periodicals and magazines, including National Geographic, Trains, Railroad Illustrated Magazine, Modell Eisenbahn, various rail industry publications, and in past issues of Chronogram, and Hudson Valley Magazine. His photographs have been exhibited in many places including The National Railway Museum in Germany, the Center for Railroad Photography and Art, The National Railroad Museum in Steamtown, PA, and Railroadheritage.org.

He cared deeply about his City of Beacon, and contributed his efforts to the Beacon Sloop Club, the Beacon Historical Society, the Incline Railway Society, and the Hudson River Ice Boat Club. John was a lover of all things railroad, which he picked up from his grandfather “Pop” who worked as a machinist on the New York Central Railroad. He was an avid sailor and skier, and passionate about Beacon history, Mount Beacon, the Hudson River, and of course photography.

John is survived by his daughter Maya Fasulo (12 years old), his wife Cecile Fasulo, and countless friends and family, in the Beacon community and beyond.

Visitation will be held on Saturday, May 17th from 2pm-3pm at the DiDonato Funeral Home in Marlboro, NY. A funeral service will follow at the DiDonato Funeral Home at 3pm on Saturday.

A celebration of John’s life and his passion for photography will be planned for a later date.

In lieu of flowers it was John’s wish that donations would benefit the college education of his daughter Maya. A fund has been established for this purpose (linked below).

www.gofundme.com/98ewyc

The Sky is round:

“You have noticed that everything as Indian does is in a circle, and that is because the Power of the World always works in circles, and everything tries to be round….. The Sky is round, and I have heard that the earth is round like a ball, and so are all the stars. The wind, in its greatest power, whirls. Birds make their nest in circles, for theirs is the same religion as ours….

Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing, and always come back again to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves.”

-Crowfoot, Blackfoot warrior and orator-

Fort McDowell, Arizona POW WOW 2014

Fort McDowell, Arizona POW WOW 2014

The musical thread:

thread

 

“Normally, things are viewed in these little segmented boxes. There’s classical, and then there’s jazz; romantic, and then there’s baroque. I find that very dissatisfying. I was trying to find the thread that connects one type of music – one type of musician – to another, and to follow that thread in some kind of natural, evolutionary way.”
-Jerry Lee Lewis-

 

Design as simple; Design as complicated:

” DESIGN IS THE METHOD OF PUTTING FORM AND CONTENT TOGETHER. DESIGN, JUST AS ART, HAS MULTIPLE DEFINITIONS; THERE IS NO SINGLE DEFINITION. DESIGN CAN BE ART. DESIGN CAN BE AESTHETICS. DESIGN IS SO SIMPLE, THAT’S WHY IT IS SO COMPLICATED. “

-Paul Rand-

paper1

paper3

paper4

paper2