Hello all,

Stop by TOAST, the new coffeeshop in Ballard for a relaxed, informal showing of Nathan's film photography work. This is a Closing Show rather than an opening- the work is coming down shortly afterwards! As always, these are handmade darkroom prints, made entirely with analog processes from start to finish. 

Drinks will be happy hour prices! Photos are for sale! Chatting & catching up is all free!

Toast Ballard is at 5615 24th Ave NW (24th just north of Market St). The event is Saturday, January 25th from 2pm to 6pm.

I'd love to see you there. 

Warmly,
Nathan

PS- This is not to be confused with my current show at Kate Alkarni Gallery in Georgetown; details on that one here. There's no overlap of work between the two shows, so please feel free to stop by both! 

I'm pulling out of 130th and Aurora outbound when a man stands up and staggers forward from the back. He'd boarded downtown about  forty minutes ago; heavy, skin glistening and grizzly pink, toppling against the stanchions with an unsteady slur. 
"Hey," he had said at Pine Street, making eye contact. "How's it going?" Haasighuing?

Usually I'm the one who initiates greetings. His acknowledgement excited me, and was a welcome change of pace from the no-eye-contact commuters I encountered earlier in the day. His presence was unusual, looking like a hodgepodge of disparate clothing items and body parts, awkwardly flowing together, united by a liquiform alcoholic stench. One of the friendly drunks. I was happy to have him on board. 

Now we're at 130th. The passengers wishing to exit have done so, and I'm starting to close the doors. There he is, shuffling forward with his best sea legs, doing the midnight creep.
"Did you want this one?" I ask, referring to the stop.
"Uuuuunnhhh."
I take that as a no, and close the doors. "I'm gonna roll up the street for a second."
"Yeah yeah." Deep, booming voice.
"Hang on." 
"I'm hanging on. You drive like a baaeeee....you know."

I don't know, actually. Was he about to say "bat out of hell" or "bitch?" I'll never know. I suppose I would have preferred "bitch," with its vague implications of safe and conscientious driving. That's what I aspire toward, after all!

"I'm gonna sit up here, away from the naked guy," he informs those next to him. "I'm gonna sit away from the naked person, sit next to all you guys WITH CLOTHES ON, huuummm." 

I look at the crowd up front. There are routes where this fellow would be out of place, and the commuters around him would be shifting uncomfortably in their seats, avoiding eye contact. Such situations are more awkward, and cry out a little louder for intervention, whether actually needed or not. But this is the 358, and he's right at home. Filling out the front seats are a gallery of earthy, lived-in faces, framed by laugh lines and soot, the burgeoning immediacy you find in the storied margins. No soft hands or designer suits here.

Our friend expounds for a moment about exposed male anatomy. There's no naked man anywhere to be seen. I don't recount the dialogue here unless I'm confident I can remember exactly what was said, but suffice to say he has the attention of those around him. I turn off the air conditioning- no need for that tonight anyway- to better understand the man. Then, very loudly, I hear him offer new information:

"THERE'S ONLY ONE NAKED GUY ON THIS BUS!"
I'm curious as to his thoughts on the matter. I ask, "is that too many or too little?"
"Only one ball-swingin' asshole on this whole thing."

The bearded African-American man next to him arranges his milk carton, filled with handyman's tools. "You're scaring the model citizens," he says.
"You mean the yuppies?"
"Them's peeps too."
"They can go back to yuppieville."
Comcast cable is expensive. My bus is only two and half dollars.
"Hey," says the drunk to me without looking over. I'm aware he's addressing me only by the increased volume of his amiable roar. "You go up to one five five?"
"I be happy to!"
He meanders up to me as we coast in smoothly, waiting out the red light at 155th.
"And I'll take that transfer," he says. I'd placated his request for one earlier by telling him I'd give it when he stepped out. He comprehends me in silence for a time, then says, "hey, you're pretty cool, bus driver."
"Thanks, man!" 

I look into his craggy eyes and see his genuineness. There's a color to his voice that slices through the booze. 
"It's good to see a young guy driving a bus."
"You know, I love it. I love talkin' to people, helping people,"
Then, loudly: "hey, why don't you gimme all the transfers! I could make money off that thing!"
"Oh, that's only on special occasions!" The gallery laughs along. "Yeah, that's just on Christmas and Christmas Eve!"
"Hey, I'm just playin' around. You're a good guy."
Green light; I pull forward, approaching the zone.
"I'll get out here." He turns back to the crowd and announces, "THE CRAZY GUY'S GETTING OFF!"
"Oh, you don't have to leave!"
"The wacko's leaving, everything's okay!"
"You can ride my bus any day!" I mean it. I'm getting to like this guy.

"Don't be lookin' at my ass now," he reminds the passengers, attempting a coy wiggle. "I know it looks good."
"Happy New Year!" I call after him. 
He hears me, half-turning, switching back into truthful mode for a moment: "You too, happy New Year!"

It's been another fabulous calendar year. I'm thankful to have spent it in the company of so many towering greats, and to have had the opportunity to learn from the multitude of immensely capable people around me, whose prodigious talent in life I struggle to keep up with. Not to mention the rare luck of getting to participate in the sublime, ongoing project of life in the modern age. 

Thank you for reading these stories, and for sharing in their perception of what we can find everywhere. When I started this blog I never imagined it would never take off in any way remotely approaching the success it's experienced. That's thanks entirely to you. I'm deeply humbled. And deeply thrilled!

You may notice a mild slowdown in the rate of posts these weeks; that's temporary! No slacking is taking place, I promise. I'm not watching television and eating cheetos in bed. Those extra days in between are being spent on turning this blog into a book. I'll keep you updated as developments occur!

Happy New Year,
Nathan

She's dark-skinned, speaking your language, American, with eyes both glazed over and defiantly present. 

"I'ma pay when I get off," she says in a scratchy mezzo-soprano. Perhaps the most interesting thing about her is her voice, impossible to imitate- all at once nasal, childish, and gravelly. It carries the evidence of history, of use and abuse, and it sounds more aged than her thirty-odd years. 

Here she is now, not quite toothless, with a black rag tied tight around her skull, billowing pants, and nondescript heavy coat. Unwashed stains fade under the mercy of passing time. She always tells me it's a war zone, and as she's leaving today, transfer in hand, I decide to preempt her.

"Is it a war zone?"
"Oh, iss a war zone out here! Gah be careful. They out to get me, all uh dem."
"Uh oh. That's not cool."
"Hey, mista bus driver."
"Hey."
"I jus' wanna let you know. Tha' guy in the back he been pullin' on my chest with a magnetic imagery machine."
"Oh, that's definitely not cool. We don't like that."
"Yeah he been tryna take my images with his big magnet, using his magnetic imagery machine on me. Could you report it for me?"
"I'm 'onna get on that. Keep lookin out for ya."
"Thank you."
"See you next week!"
"You too!"
 
Sometimes I wish we could have subtitles emanating from our midsections, explaining what we really mean. In this instance our subtitles would have said, "Do you feel safe?" "No, that man makes me feel uncomfortable." "Don't worry. Your safety's important to me." "Thanks." "You're always welcome on my bus." 

Her weary frame seemed grateful for my acknowledgement. It may have sounded like superfluous nonsense, but real communication was happening there. I considered her slurred delivery, her (mis)understanding of the docile passenger in the back, and her mode of decorum: genial, addressing me as "mister," paying the fare but in her own way. I mulled over my unmeditated decision to engage her on her own terms, my choice of tone and words- an amalgam of cities I've lived in, attitudes and people who have lingered. 

To think that such a brief intersection of gestures was borne out of all the passing time, decades of thought and action in her life and mine, a myriad of different echoing choices we've separately made, leading finally to this exchange- to be made aware of the sheer interconnected density of life... this is to be amazed at existence, alternately vast and stunningly minute. 

What memories will she continue to build? Will this scattershot interaction be among her recollections, a glimmer of déjà vu years from now? There could be value in that. I'm glad we crossed paths.

Third Thursday is nigh! Did you miss my November 21st opening at Kate Alkarni Gallery in Georgetown? Have no fear- the show is still going, with new odds and ends! Stop by for a chat if you have a moment, and take in some art. 

Unlike last third Thursday, this time I'll actually be there! That's a promise. The opening is from 6pm-9; due to 358 commitments, I'll be there from 7-9. 

Details, directions, and location here; 

Further information about this month's opening here.

A small moment~

A middle-aged woman boards my 4 and sits up front, watching me for a while. She seems to be appraising something she hasn't seen before. Finally, she says,
"Look at you, you little cutie. You have no business driving this bus!" She breaks down laughing. "What are you doing here?"
"Actually, I love this job! I love driving buses!"
Sputtering: "what??"
"It's all true! We're doing this only for the sheer enjoyment of it all!"

She looks around with new eyes. "What?" Passengers who know me look on, grinning.
I want to affirm the sentiment by saying "strictly volunteer!" but I hesitate. I don't want her to think my earlier statements were sarcastic. Instead I simply look over and give her a big smile.