Start somewhere. Suck at it. Keep going. Feel better.
Start somewhere. Suck at it. Keep going. Feel better.
A little story about how this all began.
The sprawling facility in front of me had been left for dead. And I felt the same. I had uncovered one more lie [of far too many] that put my already tumultuous relationship in dire straits. I was angry and cold. It was late. While everyone else was out indulging in copious libations to ring in the new year, here I stood all alone in front of Milwaukee’s abandoned Solvay Coke plant—well, me, a few night creatures, and one very tall fence, the top ensconced in barbed wire. I was running on adrenaline I’d never felt before (intense considering I used to play pro hockey).
It was now or never. Climb over triumphantly or sulk home in defeat? Without thinking, I peeled back a small, loose part of the fencing and rolled my photography gear—my camera, lights, flashlights, and tripod—far enough away that it’d be unretrievable unless I climbed up and over. While not overly expensive it was all I had at the time. My mind ran wild. My pulse throbbed in my ears. And my treasured belongings sat there on the other side of the fence in a pile glaring at me, taunting me!
Climb over, you fucking chicken!
How did I get here?
Back when the portfolio website Flickr was one of the few ways to share your photography with the internet, I had amassed a following that was solely based on my innate interest in everyday walkabouts, travel, and Americana. I loved the vibrant texture and weird oddities along old highways like Route 66, Highway 41, and Highway 12 here in the midwest.
I never passed up a chance to go out and capture the old roadside attractions, diners, gas stations, and motels with their Googie style, especially if they were abandoned. Eventually, though, basic point-and-click in the daylight hours became way too mundane for me. Something was missing. I needed a challenge.
On Flickr, I stumbled into what I’ll dub a West Coast phenomenon: the night photography technique that paired long exposure and light painting. I discovered and befriended several talented artists at the time: Jeff Morris aka It Was the Light It Was The Angle, and now quite famous Darren Pearson, aka Darius Twin, and Todd Hido. They all had something unique that stimulated my appetite for a challenge. But the leader of this innovative pack at the time was clear—and his work ticked all the boxes—night, Americana, and color, VIBRANT color. Troy Paiva, aka Lost America. He’d been up to the task since 1989.
I sought out his website. At the time, he featured a “Get This Gear” section to inspire others to start their night photography journey. Now, this was the mid-2000s, and while eBay and Amazon were most certainly a thing, it wasn’t as easy to buy exactly what you needed back then. This is where my thrifting experience came into play.
Gathering my tools
Like I said, I love old Americana, so after exploring rummage and estate sales, antique stores, and second-hand shops all over the country, I considered myself an expert thrifter. One thing I knew well was camera gear. With my list of supplies in hand, I walked through a small church thrift outlet and found a few Vivitar 283s: the strobe flash workhorse for light painting. Naturally I grabbed all three of them. Naturally, only one worked.
Next on the list: color theater gels. Back before LEDs took over the lighting industry, theater productions and concerts had to use heat-resistant plastic filters over stage lights. We have a local treasure here in the Wisconsin/Illinois area called American Science & Surplus—the place to go to find all your random odds and ends—and precisely where I found a motherload of gels. I bought $25 worth of every color I could imagine for my experiments.
Then I battled the challenge of fitting said gels to my Vivitar and other small flashlights so that they stayed put during use but were also easily interchangeable (especially in the dark!). I tried a DIY approach, but it had so many flaws. I hit the internet and eventually stumbled upon a contraption that would hold gels in place.
Finally, I had everything I needed.
Or so I thought.
Every beginner runs into the same challenge: after the rush of collecting tools, you eventually have to get down to business and use them.
I needed courage.
Just do the thing.
I did some quick experiments with my Canon Rebel XT and cheap, wobbly-ass tripod in the dark in my house. The images were comically bad.
I needed to get out of the safety and comfort of my house. I needed to go to the same places that had inspired me during the daylight hours. The more abandoned the better.
Right about this time, my old emotional ghosts were taking their toll. A ten-year relationship that began in high school had exploded in a hellacious fiery blaze and left another decade of scar tissue. I lost my father. A new life in California was thwarted when my mom got cancer and I moved back home. I lost her too. I had relationships that went nowhere, with the current one in shambles. I was in massive debt from Art School. My career didn’t go as planned. And I was only now coming to terms with the weight of all this baggage.
But the cold New Year’s Eve night in 2007 snapped me out of my daze. I remembered how creativity would often pull me out of my depression. Determined to not let my anger ruin me, I chose the Solvay plant for my first attempt at real light painting. Years ago, I had explored the place with my Art School buddies back when it was an active recycling facility. We’d hop the fence, wander around all the buildings, admire their history, and inevitably get chased out.
Back on the other side of the fence—with that sense of thrill at the edges of my memory—I stared down the pile of gear and said to myself, fuck it, let’s go.
Up and over, I tried so hard to mind the barbed wire, but in one last effort to keep me honest, the wire ripped the crotch of my jeans and grazed my skin enough to draw blood. My adrenaline was on overdrive, and I didn’t even notice until I got home.
I gathered my gear and scurried across a fairly wide open field to get out of plain sight. I ran like someone was chasing me until I reached the mammoth compound. Now what? What building do I go in? With like ten to choose from, I frantically scanned the big hulking piles of rotting wood and rusting metal. Why not the biggest one?! Out of breath from the run and the cold, in a panic, I searched for a way in. There it was. A wide open, unlocked door! Is it a trap?
I entered gasping for air, the cold had zapped all I had. The warehouse was pitch dark and all I had was just a tiny flashlight to lead the way. Am I safe? Are there others inside with me? Random animals?
I could see ruins of windows and pipes and pools that looked like mini ice rinks with metal protruding from them like something had exploded inside and frozen over. The winter wind played tricks on my mind; every clanking pipe felt like something was about to rush me. I carried on despite every hair on my neck telling me to get the hell out of there.
I mustered enough courage to set up right next to the door. At least I could hear intruders and make a quick getaway. I put down my backpack, extended my tripod, and fumbled for way too long trying to attach the camera with my frozen fingers. My mind was racing. I could barely concentrate on what I was supposed to do next. How do I even focus in this blackness? My tutorials started to materialize back into memory. I set the focus to infinity, opened my shutter, and turned on my Vivitar. With a yellow filter tucked inside the plastic adaptor, I gave it my all. In other words—as any noob does—spray and pray.
I popped the yellow flash at the corner of the building. I guessed at the exposure time, closed the shutter on my camera, and held my breath for the results to appear on my LCD screen.
The image blew me away. Sure it was amateur, but the light made the dark come to life! It made the history glow. And it was all under my control. It was surreal! I took dozens of shots all over the inside of that building. While I physically felt frozen, all of my troubles melted away once I focused on the here and now. I felt alive!
At this point, I knew that I needed to keep this momentum going. It was the best “free” therapy one could ask for: the adrenaline mixed with the act of transforming the darkness into light—it was a force that was honestly life-saving for me.
I spent the following year or two battling my demons. For better or worse, though, I always came back to night photography and light painting as a source of therapy. I experimented on my own and with various friends I met through Flickr. My adventures took me from northern Wisconsin down to Chicago and east to Gary and Detroit.
I quickly built up my portfolio and, with a wealth of experience under my belt, I naturally grew into the role of teacher and mentor to others. This includes Katie, my now wife and business partner (sometimes, somewhat literally, in crime). We met in mid-2009, and on one of our first few dates, I took her to a local train yard (the thrill of trespassing can be very romantic!) and showed her the ropes. She was a natural from day one.
The lesson here is painfully clear. Trust that art is therapy. Trust that you can stare your fear in the face (or on the other side of that barbed wire fence). Trust yourself. And trust the process. As a beginner, don’t get dragged down by the endless possibilities of gear, tools, computer programs, or even YouTube tutorials. Just get the fuck out there and do the thing. Marvel at the results, as amateur as they might be. YOU created it. Pat yourself on the back, but then keep going.
Truth be told, I’ve replaced all of this gear with a single Protomachines Flashlight (again, thank you LED). But before that, I literally carried all of this with me (and more!!) on my light-painting trips. From upper left and clockwise:
DIY gel-covers to place over flashlights, made out of PVC pipe.
Epic collection of soft theater gels and hard plastic filters specific for Vivitar.
Vivitar 285HV
The giant red circular gel went over my big, bulky “deer spotter/buck light” (not pictured) that measured at 3 million candle power (the grandfather of lumens!). I would use it to light lofty warehouses and theaters. We’ve come a long way; thank you LED!
Plastic ziplock baggie that contained every color in the rainbow. Not necessarily user-friendly. Many a gel has been lost to the winds of the prairies and buried in the rubble of factories all over country.
Light wands, not just for raves anymore! These came in handy for tight spaces like the insides of ancient television sets and old Chevy truck grills.
Back in those days, you could never have too many flashlights for white fills.
Vivitar adaptor for 283 with orange filter.
Vivitar 283, always have a backup!
Your turn! Do you have a hobby or even livelihood right now that you once completely sucked at? Or is there something you won’t try because you’re afraid of being terrible at it? Tell me all about it! Better yet, pass this along to a friend who could use a nudge in the go on get it direction.
Before you go, don’t forget to give our heart a squeeze. And maybe exit through the gift shop. Or read the next adventure…everyone’s favorite: CAR TROUBLE!
It was really cool hearing your story Chris! And super relatable from the art-as-therapy point of view.