 I was taught, by my parents, by my friends and other family, by the art I've consumed, by films and books and stories– to contend with life. To engage, wrestle with, work through. To relish the totality of things head-on, and accept the gift of experience, be it joy or sorrow. I was taught to marvel. Because life, and especially human nature, contain such fascination for me, such mystery. At no point was I ever taught to hide from life. I look around and notice a change in the times. How long does it take to discover you're alone? I see my fellow sisters and brothers on the streets, in their cars, on the trains and buses and airplanes, at restaurants and libraries and cafes and everywhere else you see people, and I see they have found something else, something different. Present life seems uninteresting to them. Reality, and the people who exist in reality, have become things to hide from. This confuses me. I watch my fellow humans, not with judgement but befuddlement, as they do everything they can to escape the present. If they're on drugs, they do it with drugs. Or alcohol, cigarettes, pot, coffee– anything but unvarnished existence. If they're not on stimulants, they escape using phones, earbuds, podcasts, scrolling. Endless scrolling. They obsess not over life but depictions of life, commentary on life, appearances. Simulations. As long as it's not the real thing… we're riveted. Why do my fellow neighbors prefer being distracted to being focused? Why do we suppress our capacity for abstract thought? For connecting with others? Are these not pleasant, even crucial skills? Do people imagine these muscles stay alive without use? Nearly always I'll be the only person on the train not looking at my phone. At best it'll be just me, the seniors, and the homeless people. One night I heard a man next to me speaking in a clipped accent to his friend. “Only that guy right there, and that little girl over there with her picture book, sitting with her mom. They are the only two. Everyone else on this train is looking at their phone.” I looked up. Of course he was referring to me. I agreed and he smiled, that no one reads books anymore but I still do, it makes me feel good. “To do something real,” he said in his husky voice. "Exactly! I like to turn the pages.” "What is it about?” I was reading Henry James’ Portrait of a Lady. How to explain it to two young men who were clearly not readers, and for whom English was a second language? "It's uh, it's about this lady who's trying to decide which guy to marry. It's old, written like a hundred years ago, but they talk about the same stuff we talk about now, should I get with them should I not, what kind of life do I want to live. You know!” "Cool. I thought it was a Bible.” "I know, it looks like it. I have to have a book with me though. Because this will never run out of battery, never gonna freeze up on me–” "And it's actually real." Picture his hand gestures, clarifying his passion. “The phone, it's like junk food. You cannot trust anything on the internet. You can find one website that say vegetables are good for you, then another one say vegetables are bad for you.” "Exactly! People just read whatever they already think.” We reiterated the main points together. You've heard it all before. How this drives people apart, how it otherizes, prevents people from thinking for themselves. The speaker was a young man who grew up raising chickens in West Africa. He chided his friend, who was less introspectively inclined, for looking at his phone like everyone else. “What you looking at right now, bro? What's so important that you are looking at it?” Defensively: "ESPN highlights!” The first man shook his head, smiling ruefully. He and I commiserated for the rest of the ride. I'm guessing he hasn't seen Terrence Malick’s 2015 avante-garde experimental film Knight of Cups, in which a character presciently says, “Nobody cares about reality anymore," but he sure was familiar with the observation. Why do people wish for all experience to be secondary? Maybe I'm no different. My nose is often in a book, mentally somewhere far away. I'm often too shy to engage with strangers, giving in to that oft-untrue assumption that I'll be a nuisance if I speak up. When I sit still on the train, without a book, my mind is not present. It wanders aimlessly, without focus. I think back to Pascal, who in his 1670 Pensées wrote, We never keep to the present. We recall the past; we anticipate the future as if we found it too slow in coming and were trying to hurry it up, or we recall the past as if to stay its too rapid flight. We are so unwise that we wander about in times that do not belong to us, and do not think of the only one that does; so vain that we dream of times that are not and blindly flee the only one that is. The fact is that the present usually hurts. We thrust it out of sight because it distresses us, and if we find it enjoyable, we are sorry to see it slip away. We try to give it the support of the future, and think how we are going to arrange things over which we have no control for a time we can never be sure of reaching. Sounds like another smartphone-infested day of the human condition. Maybe things aren't so much different now as they are more extreme. We have better– or should I say more addictive– tools now. We used to hide from the present by considering our past and future; maybe all that's happened is that we've found a third place to hide, the virtual.
And the virtual world is different because it prioritizes not authenticity but the appearance of authenticity, where the goal isn't achievement in real life but the depiction of that achievement in a digital space, a space where quality is measured by the only thing 2000s-era brogrammers could come up with: popularity. But metrics based on popularity encourage us to conflate adulation with value. In the midst of today's messaging, have we forgotten that those are not the same? Do we still possess the insight we used to have, the recognition that all of this smells funny? That our best self knows better? For me, those moments I spend on the train letting my mind drift, with no phone or book to guide me, are valuable. Books (unlike headlines and news feeds) develop our capacity for sustained focus and abstract thought, skills which enrich my life. Even daydreaming helps me: it forces me to generate my own thoughts. Creativity requires boredom to exist. How will I know what I think, what I can create, if I'm only ever intaking other people's thoughts? How will I develop my own opinions, if I only read those of others? I don't want to just repeat others’ opinions. I don't want to just read about life, or simulate it. I want to live. I want to hear the sound of birds, traffic, strangers, neighbors, wind. I want to dwell in the place where all experience– happiness, pleasure, pain, sorrow, regret, triumph, discovery– is real. I do not know why this is. But I must not be the only one out there. -- How I Live Now: 2019 edition.
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 Many thanks to Jane Hu, who first interviewed me for Slate during the dark days of COVID, for hosting me on this episode of City Cast Seattle. I love talking with her, as you can probably tell– check out our conversation, which is the first segment of the podcast below!
City Cast Seattle: Affordable Eats at T-Mobile Park, Amazon Lawsuits, and Building Community on the Bus More about Jane Hu, who's written for every worthwhile major publication you can think of, here.  Originally written 7.29.2018. Every word still rings true:
Yes, they vary wildly in temperament, outlook, attitude... but isn't that what you want in a group of people? Look at them. There are so many reasons to become an operator, and accordingly you really do have all walks working here. There was a time when most any trade or service job paid enough to raise a family with; those days are long gone, and with them much of the middle class. Bus driving remains a unique anomaly (to the point that saying thank God for unions, as I do, is less a political statement than a practical one). Some of them are authors, musicians, pastors, comedians, teachers, here so they can afford to live their passion. There are students, morticians, sports coaches, sneaking in for a few hours before heading off to the rest of their lives. Some of us have doctorates and MFAs (when the bus drivers in a city have four year-plus degrees, you know there's something wrong with the job market...). For others, this is highest-paying job they've ever had. The gateway to a new life in a new country, a job that actually pays enough to make the dream real. Others are single parents raising children, or homebuyers, or here because the benefits will cover procedures and operations that are important to them, their families, paths to having agency over their lives. Or it's a second career, something you always wanted to do for a few hours a day. Some of us just like to drive. The heady mental rush of stimuli. Some of us appreciate the faux-military nature of the outfit, perhaps familiar from earlier days. Others enjoy having coworkers who speak their language, who pray in their tongue and that of their forbears. And some of us really, really like the people, forwarding the tradition of being on this Earth to serve others. You know how it feels better to help others than to be helped, better to give than to receive? What all of Metro's drivers have in common is an remarkable amount of aptitude and responsibility. By any reasonable yardstick of measurement, it is difficult to get hired here. Every driver you see succeeded in jumping through hoop after hoop of licensing certification, written tests, appointments, aptitude tests, equipment knowledge, intensive customer service and operations training, driving tests... they showed up early to class every day for a month, because they knew if you're one minute late, you're gone. They stayed up nights studying for the CDL walkaround test, memorizing all the different parts of the bus and what to look for when inspecting each one, so they could recite it and demonstrate their knowledge with no notes and no mistakes, as required. They prepared for the infamous air brake test, the one so many of my friends have failed, which involves verbalizing and executing a series of fairly complex actions in a specific order. They tried their hand at the even more infamous driving test, where you're thrown out onto the streets of Southcenter, with the full knowledge that if you run over even one curb, you're toast, and it's six months of waiting before you can reapply. It's six months of waiting with no guarantees if you fail at any of the above. All of my colleagues set themselves up for that challenge, applied themselves, knowing the stakes, and managed to succeed, every step of the way. I find that impressive. They show up to work now in uniform, every day, signing in within a grace period that's measured in seconds. I imagine each operator is probably the most time-aware person in their respective friend/family groups. I know I am.... When I wave at my colleagues driving past, I wave out of solidarity. Only they know, truly, what it feels like to be behind that wheel. The particular aches in our shoulders. The way you can process the entirety of the city's demographic and traffic flow geography instantaneously, on a micro and macro level. How we can roll our eyes together at the zany and ridiculous chaos of these multitudinous streets, together knowing the weird safety in not expecting people to be reasonable or do things that make sense. We've learned the weird bliss of not asking too many questions, of exchanging logic for humor. I love you all, my fellow brothers and sisters in arms. I love the lively chatter at Atlantic Base, and I love the mellow rhythms of North. I love you when you're happy, resilient, healthy in mind and body. When you help a blind customer cross the street... and when you succumb to the pressure and abandon your better selves. When you're insecure, standoffish and angry. It has its challenges, this gig; but we do it together. I even love you when you're watching that awful news channel on the North Base TV set. (Meanwhile, somebody please grab the remote....) But most of all, during every moment you inspire me by trying to be a good person. Jack, Jesse, Patricia, Kristina, Paul, Abiyu, Ibrahim, Catherine, Michael, Mitch, Mandeep, Mohammed, Greg, Dawna, Abdi, Brian, Tyler... the way they love the people. The way they keep an even keel, through all this ridiculous madness. Apathy is easy; they put in the discipline for something greater. Siret and I, both running late today, planning out a way to share the load using two buses leaving at the same time. The Control Center won't help us now, at the height of rush hour; we figure it out ourselves, with aplomb. Our combined efforts result in him getting a break at the terminal he wouldn't have gotten otherwise– and he spends part of it with me, sharing food from his home country by way of thanks, in brotherhood. The way we breathed a grin of exhausted relief at the end of the busy trip. No one else can understand the unique multitude of things contained in that grin. That's the swagger I'm honored to be a part of, and excited to share on this blog with you. --- Things I've learned from other operators. Jonathan Evison, the NYT bestselling author and recipient of numerous literary awards, has been called "the most honest white man alive." Read more about Evison here. I feel lucky to be the inaugural guest for the 2026 year of his long-running podcast, "A Fresh Face in Hell," which is billed as "a podcast that challenges its audience to find inspiration and creative renewal in a challenging time." Hopefully the interview below gets within at least shouting distance of that. Thank you, Jonathan!  A year and change after Shawn Yim’s passing (read my essay on him here), I find myself having thoughts.
I notice that where there should be answers, there remain only questions. In 2024 I wondered if this event might finally be the one to galvanize our elected officials into taking action and cleaning up our city (remember, it's not Metro but our local governments we should be looking to: it isn't buses that are unsafe, but Seattle at large). Unfortunately such hope has thus far gone unrewarded. Nothing, not even fentanyl, is as addictive as maintaining the status quo. And the status quo bothers me because it favors the few over the needs of the many. It isn't just that people like Richard, Shawn's murderer, are suffering; it's that folks like Shawn, and Richard’s murdered roommate, and all their friends and family, have to suffer too. People who are a danger to themselves and others should not be left to rot in public, nor to act out as they please, with no regard for their neighbors. We naively believed people would obey laws even if there were no consequences for breaking them. We hoped people with problems would proactively self-select their own healthy solutions. What beauty there is in this optimism. I wish we lived in that world. We do not. Apathy is simply too easy, too tempting a thing to enact, especially if it's dished out to you daily. My friends on the street feel abandoned, ignored, and despised, and they accordingly respond with their own version of the same. As long as securing a job that pays for rent remains nigh-impossible; as long as basic needs and mental health solutions hide behind a forest of bureaucracy; as long as society works to make each person feel isolated, unheard and alone– violence will remain what it always has been: a voice for the oppressed. An opportunity to feel liberation, power, however briefly. A way of finally being seen. I see the satisfaction some of them take in annoying or scaring normies like me, they, who have a degree of struggle, and a degree of freedom, the rest of us will likely never know. Recently my entire bus was harassed by a screaming person with schizophrenic tendencies who refused to leave my bus, resisting every polite, respectful, cajoling, and finally firm attempt by me, even after I was out of service. No help responded, and no security was in sight. All I could do was sit there as he ranted, myself a prisoner to his whims and his schedule, forced to watch as he declared he had COVID and commenced coughing on me, reaching up over the shield. I noticed I was shaking afterwards. We live in a city where such behaviors go largely unchecked. If you've never been a victim of street crime, this is easier to tolerate. If you have, it becomes harder to remember that systemic oppression enables and causes these behaviors. You notice what is also true, which is that Jeffrey (that was his name) in no way felt oppressed. He felt what he paradoxically also was: free. Jeffrey can be himself however his brain dictates, acting out against whomever and wherever he chooses, without consequences. What problem? I saw genuine joy as he toyed with me, and the others, a brain running on profane and gleeful overdrive. Any student of anthropology knows that societies cannot function without restrictions on individual freedoms; but how much freedom is too much? In my recent Elliott Bay talk I was asked how one would solve Seattle’s homelessness/safety/mental health/drugs problem. At the time I fumbled for an answer. If I were answering now I think I'd say that I don't think our elected officials or other power brokers will ever succeed in fixing the crisis... unless they can be convinced that it's a for-profit venture. I'm terribly sorry to sound so cynical but in our capitalistic society, I unfortunately think that's the only thing that will provide liftoff. Sort of like how the environmental movement didn't meaningfully get going until they figured out how to turn it into an excuse for people to buy stuff– cars, light bulbs, and so on. The crisis needs to be presented either as an opportunity to make tons of money, or a scenario that is currently preventing the making of tons of money. And the thing is, it is possible to make that argument, with reference to declining property values vis-a-vis real crime and perceived crime, all of our closed storefronts, Seattle’s growing reputation as a dangerous place, etc. But this argument would have to compete with the current state of affairs: not solving homelessness is clearly very lucrative for somebody. I’ll let others do the finger-pointing here. Whenever this eventually gets solved, it will be too late. For now, more years will pass, and my friends on the street will continue to thrive within the confines they're given. As people rendered invisible by the system, some of them will continue to treat those around them with corresponding inhumanity. My colleagues and I will still be harassed, intimidated and maybe killed. My female friends– drivers, passengers, commuters– will continue to tell me the horrors they've suffered on buses and sidewalks, horrors which leave scars that never go away. My street peeps will tell me of the stunning inhumanity only they know, how it continues casually, a tide you can hardly fight against, the barrage of constant messaging telling you you’re worthless. We wonder why they walk into the middle of the street. I think of Delillo’s line from Underworld every time: “If you [believe] your life is worth nothing, only a gamble with death can gratify your vanity.” They will continue wandering out there, hoping for contact, and I will continue to deny them the pleasure. They may not value their lives, but I do. My passengers will go on telling me how they're investing in weapons, cars, tasers, e-bikes, plans to move away, plans to change their hours– anything but this. As the only person on the bus not allowed to carry a weapon, the only person not allowed to leave a dangerous situation, I listen politely, trying to remember the difference between real solutions and mere Band-Aids. And the systems in power will sing their considerate song while ultimately doing nothing for either side. Loneliness, the disease of every epoch but especially ours, will continue seeping into our blood, spreading, raising the walls between us until we forget that we are made of the same clay and have most of the same experiences. We will also continue to have hope. We will imagine better worlds and wonder why our leaders aren't similarly interested. It will still feel electrifying to connect, commune, assist, contribute. The buzzing altruistic rush we feel when we connect with another, when we bring someone joy and belonging; who could forget how much better it feels to give, than to receive? What I hope most for in writing this despairing essay is to be proven wrong. I want our city's exciting new leadership to quickly render the above problems dated and obsolete. I dream of a day when the selfish apathy of our time reveals itself as a facade. When all our basic needs are met, and for that to be evident to us, because only then can we begin caring for those around us. Only then can empathy blossom on a large scale. We will survive, meanwhile, and we will hope. We will take small steps toward goodness. It is what we can do, and what we have to do.  Better late than never– here's the full video of this very special event. I'm so honored to have been invited to that hallowed stage, upon which so many inspirational luminaries of mine have trod, and to be privileged enough to share the stage with the great Tom Eykemans. That it was Elliott Bay, and not just Elliott Bay but a standing-room only, sold-out event at Elliott Bay humbles me beyond words. I know I don't deserve this. Thanks to everyone who came– and to those who tried (afterwards, I was told of someone who tried to attend and rode the 8 to get there… but true to form, the 8 was so “L8” that she missed the entire event!! Big virtual hug to whoever you are, for making the effort!). I also wanted to use this blog space to expand upon some of my replies in the Q&A. It's hard to come up with something in the moment, in front of an audience, in a way that you feel represents your views well enough to withstand the perpetuity of internet-land. As you can see, I fumble for what to say when the estimable Ryan Packer asks his question about what the solution is for Seattle's homelessness crisis. It really is the million-dollar question of our city. My answer, upon further reflection, is a big one, though I'm reluctant to share it right this second– it involves Shawn Yim, who's on my mind after passing almost exactly a year ago. Give me more time to find the right words. (For now, click for my essay and NPR interview from the time of his death.) I also fail to give a straight answer when answering another great question– how to reduce the distance between management and operations, a distance which is the cause of so much inefficacy and strife not just at King County Metro but pretty much every other bureaucratic or corporate space. Thankfully the solution for that question is simple, even if I couldn't come up with it on the spot: hire internally. Enjoy the full event below! More on the book, including many more videos and other press, here.  It isn’t just nostalgia. Or the indisputable fact that we already have the infrastructure in place. Or how quiet they are, how good they are at going up Seattle’s hills, or how they qualify for different funding streams. It’s all of that and a lot more. I know battery-electric buses are all the rage right now, because we’ve been conditioned to get excited about what is new. But sometimes oldies remain goodies.
Trolley buses remain financially competitive as a zero-emissions alternative in comparison to Battery Electric Buses (BEBs) for several reasons. I won’t regurgitate the excellent research done by others, but I will link to and summarize it so you have a solid starting point if you ever need ammunition for this argument in your work groups and meetings. The three best technical sources I’ve found are this July 2023 report done for MUNI (here), this UTM cost comparison of trolley vs battery infrastructure installation, and this January 2025 report done for Poland. Although there's a lot more in the above links, here are a few points that stood out to me:
Our current BEB fleet bears out these observations, particularly in that they’ve historically been unreliable for use on all-day runs. There are also plenty of YouTube videos detailing why trolleys surpass battery vehicles, especially as borne out by data in the last several years. The second half of this video is useful in breaking down some of the electrical engineering problems that may bite us in the future. The above points speak for themselves, from the standpoints of both fiscal and environmental responsibility. I’m totally ignoring the additional fact that driving trolleys is just plain more fun. It’s like driving a manual transmission: more challenging, sure, but also more involving, more present, and ultimately more enjoyable; like any sports or art or other craft, trolleys are a skill that feels good to finally master. They ask for more from us, and in turn reveal and concretize more of our abilities, the way playing chess is more fun than playing checkers. They also represent a unique asset in defining Seattle’s multimodal dimensions, those linguistically, culturally and civically multitudinous qualities which cause us to be the rare American city that feels about as European as one of our cities can be. History is not often allowed to breathe or show its face in West Coast America, but trolleys carry that quality we feel when we cross the Atlantic or visit the Eastern seaboard, the tangible reminder that generations existed before we did, and they knew a thing or two we can still learn from. The challenge of living in a society focused on short-term gains instead of long-term benefits is that obviously good things are sometimes destroyed at a lasting loss to everyone. We use the term “capitalism” as shorthand for describing this problem, but the best example of this when it comes to trolley buses is Moscow, who recently dismantled their trolley network, formerly the world’s largest, in what today is almost universally recognized as a colossal mistake. The official reasons given at the time now read as obviously false (they even tried to suggest that diesel fumes would be more environmentally friendly than electrical output!), and we now know the decision had to do with lucrative contracts with BEB manufacturers, redistribution of routes among operating companies, and the erroneous assumption that they’d save electricity. Embarrassingly, the BEB and diesel replacements are now unable to efficiently heat themselves, and demand even more energy consumption than the previous system, which was tried and true since 1933. Meanwhile, Budapest and numerous other cities are expanding their trolley bus lines (also click here for fleet breakdown info), investing in new overhead and equipment– including, eventually, our own Seattle! These lists do not include other thriving locations, from the massive network in nearby Vancouver, B.C. to far-flung Chelyabinsk, which I’m told has a very good deputy minister of road management and transport, unusual for Russia. In the Clean Technica article linked in the bibliography below, Michael Barnard writes about Nancy as a useful counterexample to Moscow: “Similarly, the French city of Nancy offers a cautionary and instructive tale of urban transit innovation. In 2000, Nancy replaced its traditional trolleybuses with an experimental guided-bus system called TVR, which proved unreliable and costly over two decades. After finally scrapping the TVR in 2023, Nancy returned to trolleybus technology, deploying bi-articulated IMC trolleybuses on its busiest urban corridors. This return was not nostalgic but rather pragmatic, leveraging partial re-use of existing overhead wiring while employing off-wire battery operation to maintain aesthetics in the historic city center. Early public feedback in Nancy has been strongly positive, citing improved reliability, comfort, and environmental performance.” I know BEBs are more politically popular at the moment, but trolleys represent a more stable, proven, efficient, and fiscally responsible choice. Thankfully we don’t have to choose between one or the other, of course, but if we prioritize expanding our trolley network, I think future generations will be thanking us. Links & Further Reading: Reports:
Articles/Videos Problems with BEBs vs Trolleys
Trolley expansion internationally
Just nerding out:
 I never look at accidents. You end up slowing everything down and risking a second accident through your distraction (yes, this does happen). But most of all, I avoid looking because, well, if I was over there in that wreckage and these were my last moments on earth, I wouldn't want a bunch of distracted strangers gawking at me like a zoo animal. Death is too significant, too intimate, for such callous ignominy.
So when I saw the other side of 5th and Jackson stacked with ambulances, police, a fire truck, and more, I didn't bother looking over. I concentrated on getting through safely, thankful I was on the side of the street that was still open. At the zone a middle-aged woman boarded who happened to be Black. Her energy seemed receptive to conversation. I said, “What happened over there?” “A stabbing,” she replied. “A Samoan guy stabbed a Black guy.” “Oh no!” “Wa’n’t his fault though, the Black guy was actin’ up, runnin’ his mouth you know. They be drinkin’ together everyday.” “Yeah, they're out there for sure.” “He ain't gon’ die though. They stopped the bleeding. He gon’ pull through.” “That's good. Stabbing’s no joke!” “No it ain't. I got my finger cut off once, uh accident wit’ a fryer, but they got to it in time, they done sewed it up back together, now it work just fine. I can't feel this part though, right along the edge.” “That's scary. That's beautiful too though.” What did I mean by that? “I got my legs busted up once too, doctor done told me I wasn't gon’ walk again–” “But here you are!” “Here I am!” “I'm so glad it worked out that way with your hand, I mean that it wasn't worse! I'm so glad they got to it in time!” “Me too. We got to be thankful, always. And loving, not like these fools out here. It's about love. Gotta love ‘em no matter what they do to us.” What bold phrasing, I thought. “Ooh, that's good. Yeah.” “No matter how they do. Sometime you gotta love ‘em from a distance though!” “Ha, you got that right! Give ‘em a lil’ bit o’ space!” “Takin’ care a yoself, but you can still love ‘em.” “No matter what they do to us, wow,” I said, reflecting. “I so appreciate you for puttin’ it in those words. I need that reminder!” “‘Cause sometimes you wanna do that other thing.” “That can be real tempting.” “But it gots to be love instead, else those cycles of badness don't never stop.” You've heard love your enemies before, but her phrasing rebirthed the concept as fresh, new, immediate. In her words I heard the acknowledgement of how hard it can be to do, as well as how necessary. Before, when we were wronged, we were taught to put up with it. Now, we're taught to speak up. Sometimes, we're taught to get angry about it. All that is fine, but I've noticed on a longer timeline the latter approach doesn't work for me. And I don't mean in the euphemistic sense of it not being my preference, but that it doesn't actually accomplish anything for me. I've been wronged, as you no doubt have too, in ways that cannot be fixed. But staying angry eventually proves to be little more than a waiting game, and a pointless one at that. On a long enough timeline all angry people would eventually have the thought: Wait a second. Being mad isn't making me happier. It just perpetuates a lousy mood, which I don't have time for. While I'm busy stewing how I never deserved this and I hope they burn in hell and so on and so forth, my aggressors have moved on. It'll be me that gets the ulcer in this scenario, not them. Two things can both be true: a hunger for justice, and the need for sanity. There's no one right way to react to being wronged or slighted. If there was, recovery would be a cakewalk. But her way, her nimble, big-hearted, endlessly giving way… I shook my head in admiration and respect. Talk about taking life as it comes and making the best of it. I wonder what the wronged man across the street would make of this discussion– not now, not tomorrow, but a year or two from now. Five years. Distance helps. Somewhere deep inside, our best self knows the words, and the calm that comes with them. I struggle mightily at it, as I imagine that man over there will too, but her outlook was the reminder I needed to hear. It is the sentence I'd like to imagine I know, but am so far from actually embodying. The harder thing, and the right thing, are often the same.  Above: "Mike Bencich, Dan Ashberger, coal miners, Somerset, Colorado, 8/29/80," by Richard Avedon Two months ago I rhapsodized about Richard Avedon's In The American West, which I consider the greatest American photographic contribution since WWII. I talked about how rare the images are and the unique circumstances in which I came to find them. I was happy to share that the images would finally become easily accessible, in the form of a reissued book. Alas. I had a chance to look over the new Abrams release myself, and my heart sunk as soon as I opened the pages. The pictures are there, but their essence, their life and sparkle and indomitable presence– have been removed. How? Why? The short version: 1) I love these images. And 2) Don’t buy this book. Here’s the breakdown: As a professional photographer familiar with darkroom practice and the difference between various printing methods I recommend avoiding this release. Printing costs for art books have risen dramatically in the last 20 years, and publishers cut corners more than they used to in order to maximize profit. Sadly, the latest reissue of this monumental series is a victim of this approach. I own the 1985 first edition, and a side-by-side comparison with the 2025 release is a heartbreaker: the 40th anniversary book features noticeably less dynamic range, uses a non-lustre paper type that has too much texture to represent fine detail, an ink/paper combo that resists full blacks, and an overall lack of fidelity when compared to the original images. As fans of the photos know, Avedon was meticulous and supervised the original book. This publication differs wildly, and although things like tonal range and resolution sound like technical details, they do have an emotional impact. The 1985 book grabs you by the throat; this one leaves you indifferent. Which is really saying something, considering how striking Avedon's original images are. [Because digital cameras are inferior to film on precisely the areas we're comparing, and because uncalibrated computer monitors have subtle differences of their own, the best method of highlighting the problems is to use words instead of photographs.] Thus: These examples are all taken from images early in the book for your convenience in comparing, but the problems exist throughout the whole book:
In summary, the new book appears to have been taken from a third-generation source, most likely digital scans of pages of the old book, rather than first or second-generation sources like proof prints or negs. There's a reason the high online price for the 1985 and 2005 editions has not gone down, despite the availability and low price of this 2025 book; it's simply not the same experience. I encourage seeking out the earlier editions– both the 1985 and 2005 contain a line on the front matter page that reads, "printed and bound in Japan." That's how you know you're getting the good stuff. If you've seen the prints in person, as I have, or own the 1985 book, this printing will be a massive disappointment. For Abrams and Italy's Conti Typocolor (where this book was printed, unlike all previous editions), this is an embarrassment that's offensive to Avedon's legacy and the legacy of his most significant and essential body of work. Should we be surprised, then, that this reissue is nowhere to be found on either the Avedon Foundation website nor that of Conti Typocolor? In one important way, Abrams’ catastrophic cash grab of a blunder actually continues Avedon's wishes. The pictures were never meant to be widely available. They have always been hard to find, something you have to search for, travel far to see, not unlike Avedon himself driving for hours and days to stay in touch with the friends he found in making this series. In our day nothing is sacred because everything is accessible, repeatable, duplicable. Scarcity is the new currency of value. And Avedon's climactic, most talked-about, most influential photographic contribution has unexpectedly remained exactly that: scarce, elusive, rare. It is rare no longer by design but by the incompetence and greed of publishing bureaucracies, but maybe that's neither here nor there. What really matters is that the pictures, like the people in them, continue to live mostly hidden lives, far from the limelight, available to be appreciated only by those with eyes to see.  Janet Tobler, housewife, and her husband Randy, insulator, Glenrock, Wyoming, 9/4/83
 Better late than never– here's a recent interview with me at the Washington Talking Book and Braille Library, which by the way is a Seattle treasure I can't recommend enough– a library that's open to all, sighted or otherwise, and inside a historic former auto dealership to boot! We discuss both my books and everything in between.
Listen here! Enjoy! Photo by Miriam Kolker. |
Nathan
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