These many photographs are from a trip I took recently to the Alto Plano of Bolivia to visit my sister, Erin, who lives there.
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
photo: © Graeme Mitchell, 2008
You try so hard to displace the place in order to understand it or to make it more an obtuse phenomenon than the ugly actuality it is, that it is so perfectly; you do this in an attempt to justify or excuse it philosophically. But it takes heavy amounts of drink, drugs, regression just to make it bearable let alone excusable, seeing through eyes that won’t focus b/c in this place they don’t need to focus – focus is actually discouraged. It’s the premise of a child’s ball pit in the back of drab and tired fast food restaurant in the middle of the desert; it’s this premise expanded infinitely: padded surfaces, rounded corners, a cattle pen. Just when you attempt approach at clarity, some sort of recognition or disconnection, it dissipates, the clarity that is. It’s like running in a dream: the harder you try the heavier you become in a foggy futility. And there’s not even any redeeming giddiness or hopeful moments of expression, at all.
It is void.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
My brother, his girlfriend, and I recently drove from Washington Heights NYC to Canby, OR. (thus my absence here) on an impromptu trip home to settle some destitute and surreal family matters. Bittersweet, so to speak, as the trips ultimate reason became a faint yet ubiquitous backdrop to the otherwise wonderful time we had. There’s much I’d like to share about the trip, from becoming friends with my brother again to getting intoxicated in every state we passed through, but I feel like this is neither the time nor the place.
Less talk more pictures, right?
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
photo: ©Graeme Mitchell, 2007.
If you’re shooting in NYC and need to rent a studio, consider Avedon’s old studio. It is neither particularly big, nor is the location fun, but neither of these qualms can possibly deter from that auspicious cyc.
I can imagine Avedon brooding around those halls alone, rife with anxiousness, looking at the board of dimly illuminated work prints riddled with his corrections…possibility and history weighing upon him…