Redlights and Redeyes

the man who is going to burn the koran on sept. 11th

chip — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 03:32:14 +0000

This man is planning on burning copies of the Koran on September 11th.

Pastor Terry Jones.

Not sure what else to say beyond that, because to be honest, I’m not even sure where to start. Instead I’ll just pass on this link to Damien Cave’s story in The New York Times I shot this for. It goes into what is sure to be an absolute media circus the evening of Sept. 11th in Gainesville, Fla., when he steps out of his church and lights up a pile of Korans he’s receiving from supporters around the country.

If you want to see more from the shoot, visit me over at Photoshelter…here.

accidental rothko | the book

chip — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 19:56:30 +0000

It is with great pleasure that I get to announce my foray into the self-publishing world with the release of the Accidental Rothko book with over 60 pages of saturated goodness for only $55.00 ($75 hardcover). It is available now in hard and softcover over on Blurb, so go check it out: here.

For those *really* interested, I also have a special offer for my blog readers. I did an initial run of 25 copies of the book – signed and numbered. I’ll package the book with a signed 16×20 print for $175.00. I’m handling these outside of Blurb, so email me at chip@chiplitherland.com for an invoice.

To view the book and order in both hardcover and softcover view the preview: here.

From the introduction to the book:

Through a countless series of u-turns, wrong turns and blinker-less lane changes, came a project which examines the bizarre instances of graffiti cover-ups. The found art photographed in these pages wasn’t meant to be art at all, but served a more conventional purpose – to smother the art of others. In essence, this project reclaims them and shows their transition from one construct to their new, yet temporary form.

Most of these paintings were made by an anonymous, annoyed business owner or hastily-dispatched city worker. The splotches of color and random pigment have been lathered with a careless quickness and force meant to simply delete the spontaneous thought and scribble of another human.

A gang member tag. A graffiti artist’s piece in progress. A bored tween with a can of spray paint that his father won’t miss.

The canvas is temporary. In fact, most of these walls have been already been repainted themselves. The building spaces which once played a role of makeshift gallery have been returned to their even, predictable color. For the time being. Some of the cover-ups have multiple revisions. Some show the passive aggressive war between pre-artist and post-artist. What they all accomplish is a stoppage of time and emotion between two humans who more than likely have no idea who the other is.

The resulting images evoke the late works of Mark Rothko’s large multiform paintings that were completely filled by somewhat errant, yet strictly composed geometric shapes – shapes allowed to flow from their borders into a more organic representation of space. They were meant to overwhelm and swallow up the viewer. These photographs instead allow the room for the viewer to breathe and see the unintended art in their context.

In an alley. On a loading dock. Against a foreclosed home. Along the tracks.

Anywhere.

Just not on my wall.

tipping point

chip — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 12:29:48 +0000

I feel like a Wallenda.

Constantly on a thin wire, tip-toeing along. Trying to make images that my newspaper can run and ones I like. Nik Walleda had another trick last night – balancing atop 70 ft. swaypoles in the middle of St. Armand’s Circle – at one point switching poles while swaying back and forth in that deep blue sky and feathered clouds I’ve come to abuse so much down here in Florida.

While in essence there is an easy correlation to make between what I’m going through right now in my mind about my career, it would be kind of cliche to write about it. But I’m all about cliche, so here goes.

So I’m standing atop this pole and it is swaying back and forth…kidding.

My career as a staff newspaper photojournalist is nearing its end. I have two weeks left here at the Sarasota Herald-Tribune. Starting today. While the comfort and security of a paycheck is what I’ve always held as such – comfortable and secure – I’ve come to a point in my life that I’m ready to actually jump off that pole and see what happens. The little safety cable might catch me, or I might hit the Earth below with a thud. I hope neither happens to be honest. I’d rather switch poles.

New challenges (starting a freelance business). New freedom (shooting what I want). New stresses (failing to feed my daughters).

I’ll miss the newspaper. It has been the place that I’ve been able to learn, develop my vision, and learn how to be a photojournalist. Not just a photographer. It taught me how to love my community and appreciate it and all its quirks. I’ve been successful and made pictures I’ve liked from situations I was forced to go and find something runnable. ”Making chicken salad out of chicken shit” as they say. They being me. I know practically every brightly painted wall in town. I know where to get a feature at 6:00pm. I know how to turn my less-than-mediocre files from the two old-school eroded Nikon cameras I’ve slung around my neck for the past six years into usable, breathable files. I’ll gladly hand those relics over and begin using a new pair of mistresses – the lovely Canon 5D Mark II and Mark IV. Can’t wait for that. I’m not a gearhead at all, but man they are beautiful…

…I digress. Sorry.

What I’ll miss most is events like this. Random stuff happening randomly in my community. I’ll have to search them out and shoot rather than be given a white piece of paper with a time and place to be at. I want to be that dude that shows up and shoots what I want, not get names and just worry about pictures I make. Finding a picture that is no longer marketable just for a 8-inch story, but something that is marketable to a much a larger audience. Something I may need you to sign a release for. I’m excited about the prospect of returning to the unknown and making work that I choose to make. Stories I choose to cover at rates I choose to say yes to. Taking control of my life, my vision, and my future. Finding new sources of income. Editorial, weddings, commercial, sports, advertising. A nice stew of photography I can’t wait to taste.

I know photojournalism isn’t the money-making venture it once was. Wait, I don’t think it ever was. Strike that. Point being, most of do this job because we love it. It’s our passion. We all share a deep addiction to finding layers, hidden pockets of light, random surreal moments missed by the masses, overexposures, weird compositions, saturated color, silhouettes, details, life, love, happiness. All of this tucked inside a very neatly composed rectangle (or square – sorry Allison).

With that, I’m taking my bow and moving on. I’ll let you know where I land.

a call to arms – photojournalism is not dead

chip — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 03:52:54 +0000

It’s not just stuff.

I drive by this house everyday. Every day. They lived a a few blocks over from me. Until they got notice of foreclosure and the locks were being changed. Donald and Teresa Beardsley have lived in this home with the decaying Virgin Mary statue out front for 30 years.

And like that, it’s gone.

It’s not a new story, really. Foreclosures are everywhere. This family is caught up in what is being investigated at a fraudulent foreclosure, but the damage is done. They have to leave. They’re selling off everything because their new apartment is half the size of their home and they can’t bring anything else. They’re leaving behind a crumpled and boxed-up history of their life with yellow post-it notes of 25 cents dotting everything – from their children’s drawings and to diplomas and dolls. This stuff that isn’t just stuff. It’s their life.

What I’m having a hard time understanding is why the trend in photojournalism seems to be the drive-by shooting. It is often forced – a story that is running tomorrow needs art now. I shot this in 20 minutes. That’s less than an episode of SpongeBob Squarepants. That’s the time it took to meet people on the worst possible day of their life, see them cry as they enter the house, photograph the remnants of their ripped-apart life, and leave feeling like I could have spent hours there. It’s hard to gain that trust in 20 minutes. It’s hard. But it has to be done. That’s the way it is to keep calling myself a photojournalist.

It’s not just a newspaper issue, really, as much as I think it is a photography as a whole issue. The rush of cell phone cameras and Flickr feeds have flooded the web with imagery. It has cheapened our collective vision. It has squeezed storytelling into a much tighter schedule with results lacking most of the time. Don’t get me wrong there is quality work out there. Scott Strazzante would be one that doesn’t cave to this notion of immediacy in photojournalism. He has proven without any argument that photojournalism is alive and well – and can be done. His work is beautiful. His work is compassionate. His work is the bar.

A call to arms, not only for myself, but for everyone out there. Ignore the rants preaching photojournalism is dead. It isn’t. It’s changed. It’s what we make of it. Yes, photos need to be shot in 20 minutes sometimes. Make it the best 20 minutes you can. In the end, we’re there to tell a story and even if our little 3-column photo is the only thing that gets a reader to read the eight-inch block of text underneath, our job is done. Onto the next one. In your free time, get off Facebook, find your project, your own path, and make your vision known.

To be honest, these photos below aren’t good. They’re not. I saw something walking around the Beardsley home. I saw remnants of a life they’re grasping to hold onto. Something they’re trying to save. I saw a bit of our profession and what I feel like doing right now. Scraping and salvaging what I love. I’m boxing up what is important and taking it with me.

It’s not just stuff.