Get ‘em while the fix’ still smells fresh.  Each is limited to an edition of 25 and when they’re gone, there will be no more.

While perusing my prints available at MilkMade make sure to take a moment and check out all the other amazing work from the MGU photographers that is currently available.

Three pieces from “the piece of me I left behind at the desert center” which I showed for the first time in the US at the Spring 2011 MGU are now on display through 20 December in Los Angeles.  Prints are available through Milk Gallery.

If you are hanging out at the beach, or need an excuse to hang out at the beach, swing by my old hood and check the show out at Kana Manglapus Projects, 1346 Abbot Kinney in Venice.  It’s just right down from my favorite coffee spot in LA, Abbot’s Habit (at California) just in case you want to get extra caffeinated before checking out the exhibition.

Also, big thank you to the folks over at Milk Made for the feature about the current work I have up here in NYC which runs through the end of the month.

There is a place you can go to try to find the way out of the spot inside yourself that sheltered your retreat.

There is a place where everyone thought it would be ok.

There is a place where they got it for free.

And in that place it cost them everything to leave it behind.

In the welcoming arms of their devastation lies an invitation to free yourself from yours.

If you look through obliquely canted eyes, in the shadows of having invested everything you were into nothing, you can find a place to leave your bags.

And its right there, shattered out in wonder valley, that you can start again.

Nestled in with all the other broken dreams, you’ll realize you aren’t the most alone.  I did.

It’s slow coming, but you’ll get it figured out.  Out in Wonder Valley.

I had shown in the Spring show and couldn’t have had a better experience, it was THAT good.  Gave it some very long thought and elected to stay for the show.  That left me with something like 48 hours to find my negatives, make some scans and get everything printed.

There are these zen moments in life, which maybe some people can relate to one way or another.  Lately for me it’s been breaking the tenth mile on the daily run, hitting 4000 RPM in sixth gear, or laying behind a target rifle.  But it takes the strong blast of fixer to remember that first situation in life where the mind is just truly free to wander, where you get that semi- out of body type of perspective on life; the place where you got your first lesson in patience: leaning on the Colex waiting, waiting, waiting for the print to make its way out between the rollers.  That was my original escape for most of my twenties.

The hours of my life spent in that position, high up in a Tribecca loft, leaning hard on a Colex, or pacing absent mindedly in circles around it, to add them up, that would be interesting…  Major life decisions have been made listening to the whir whilst waiting for a test print.

And so it went, with a bed of traffic on the street below seeping through the windows rattling in their frames, Im not going to Japan so I can exhibit in NYC, how things can change at the very last minute.  Not quite a John Paul Jones “That’s tomorrow” but close enough.  I stood there for probably way too long, pondering this and with a smile, thought back to some other decisions I had made in front of that very machine.  This was not the most radical travel decision I had ever made, that’s for certain.

The idea of hanging back in NYC stung a bit, but as the registration on the first prints slowly crept out of the machine, with it came the take your face off excitement that can only come from somebody wanting you, or in this case, my work.  There is likely no drug that is more euphoric in my world than that.  Yes.  Definitely.  Made.  The.  Right. Decision.

So, exactly how awesome is it to be showing at Milk this week?  All things considered, about the most awesome possible.

Milk is absolutely my favorite space in NYC to see an exhibition.  I met my favorite photographer of all time in this gallery a few years ago, so being able to show here has a pretty special place for me.  The staff that runs the gallery is amazing and the panel of people that curate the MGU shows have thus far put together truly amazing group shows.

They are also expert level when it comes to throwing a memorable opening party.

For me, the big underlying stress of showing is that incessant vibration of wondering if that ONE person will show up, and no matter what you are showing or where, there is always that ONE person.  Thats the person who’s presence usually makes any evening, is the root of the smile that has no end and of course can also inspire the longest walk home anyone has ever had when they skip out on your gig.  Despite my silent passion, I knew my person wasnt going to come.  I had allowed myself to get totally distracted by this until there was this guy standing in front of me saying my name, a little louder each time:

Dave!  It’s me, Seth.

WTF, Seth Markowitz.  Seth played drums with me in the first band I was in when I was 13.  We performed for the first time in our lives in front of people together.  The last time I can remember seeing this guy Im almost positive I didnt even have a drivers license, positively teen age.

Talk about blast from the past…  Best part is that he didnt even know I was showing this evening.   A purely random reunion and an absolute mind fuck.

Bumped into some other people I knew and met a whole host of incredible new folks, notably a bunch of people from Copenhagen in NYC for a month.

Of all the things I expected to be chatting about this evening, the political climate in Christiania and jamming Communication Breakdown for an auditorium full of 8th graders was critically at the end of that list…

My two favorites that stood out  were ironically right next to each other, Billy Yarbrough’s Untitled:

and Steve Stone’s exceptionally printed “Dead Man’s Dog”:

These are mine:

These two trip’s are an excerpt from the first chapter of a long form work Ive been working on for the last few years.  With much excitement, this is my first public showing of material from the project entitled “Girl That Loved Me Last”.  Im currently seeking a publisher now that Im nearing the end of my production schedule on the photography for the book.  Nothing is better than the light at the end of the tunnel, thats for sure.

Godzilla can wait, MGU Autumn 2011 however will not, get out to Milk Gallery this week to check out the show, it’s up until the 28th.  It’s a really great honor to be part of another great show, every single last photo on the walls in this show is amazing.  How many group shows have you been to where you walk out saying that?

Milk Gallery is on 15th Street in Manhattan, right next to the High Line at 10th Ave.  If you are driving, there is a parking garage directly next door.

All of the prints in this show will be available for purchase through MilkMade, Milk Gallery’s online portal.  Please check in the coming weeks!

Ive been absolutely buried under a new project for the last several months and havent had much time to dedicate to the usual flow of photographs I like to post up here.  Ive got some exciting stuff up my sleeve, but for now this is a great opportunity to see some brand new work.  This show is also an excellent indicator of the pulse of photography here in NYC, plan to stop in if you can!

]]> http://daveraphael.com/blog/new-work-showing-at-milk-gallery-this-week/feed/ 0 http://daveraphael.com/blog/day-ride/ http://daveraphael.com/blog/day-ride/#comments Tue, 27 Sep 2011 18:03:27 +0000 dave http://daveraphael.com/blog/?p=3197

Night Ride.

Big thanks to Catapult Art Mag for the feature in their first issue.

It’s a treat to be one of the few photographers among a super great collection of artists.

The above pieces were from an exhibition I had last year in Amsterdam and as soon as life slows down a little (what fun would that be) hope to get up here with a big revamp to my site.

If you’d like to say hi, see three X’s on red flying atop an RV, maybe you’ve found me.  Holler.

FLYING IN A SKYDIVING PLANE FUCKING RULES ! !! ! !! ! (but Im getting ahead of myself)

A brisk walk, (or as brisk as the noonward sun over the playa allows for race), brought us to Burning Sky where as luck would have it, a pull up tool was located

and before long, John was cinched, we made the roster

and climbed into the art car for the anxiety building 5 mile per hour scream to the black rock city spaceport.  The sound of the polymer wheels attached to the rear plywood door/loading ramp (which is always down) bumping all along the way particularly marks these rides in my memory.

Rigged up, safety briefed, the terrifying possibility of last year became this year’s trebuchet of excitement.  Standing still became less and less possible with the heart beating faster and faster and that slow numbing of the face that the anxiety tends to bring.  But then there is that moment of truth, the assembly of the flight group and that last look out onto the dusty runway, the last chance to chicken out, the guarantee of a big pussy tattoo across your shoulder blades.

pssh.  we’re in.  and there’s no turning back now.

It was a delight to mount the creaky ladder and see George in the cockpit of the plane.  Immediately I greeted him with, “George!  You are the person who scared the most shit out of me in 2009!!!”.

Hindsight being 20/20, this was a mistake to share in a plane full of sky divers…

The ignition of the turbo prop brought that oscillating vibration through the plane which has defined flying over BRC for me.  Its about this point where the total fear, panic and excitement just makes everything go numb.  Adrenaline is without question, the ultimate drug.  Why would you ever doubt Raoul Duke?

Few hundred meters down the playa, George pulls down and latches the canopy, gives as much throttle as the engine will allow and seconds later we are up with a cheer.

Knowing what to expect makes all the difference in the world.  There’s things, like, kissing a girl, not kissing the girl you should have kissed, firing a gun, driving 140mph on a California freeway, playing the first guitar chord out of the tube amp you just built, having your passport stamped, breaking a bone, you can only do these things for the first time once.  With experience, perspective changes and you can become slightly expert, if only in your own world.

With so much of the high speed panic out of the way, some little steps towards expert allowed for a breathe to enjoy the beauty up there, in slow motion.  And just about when Im realizing this, John jabs me on not freaking out and the jumper in front of me on the left there turns and ponders “What did George do that freaked you out so badly last year?”

Fuck me.  “The banking turn on the final, thats the most G’s Ive ever felt”

“You hear that George?  You gotta do a wingstand for this guy, he’s worried he wasnt going to get completely freaked out this year”.

Fuck me.

Now, by this point, the jump door is open, its fucking LOUD in that plane, all engine, all velocity, all the time with the ringing undercurrent of fear and survival.  Yet, over the din, there were two words critically communicated: Wing Stand.

Somewhere, ducky Josh, the other Misfit in the plane, has some video of what would come next, I sure dont have any pictures, sorry, too busy freaking the fuck out.  Because thats what happens when your pitch changes 90 degrees in one second and your face gets smooshed against the side window of the plane under the weight of your parachute and yer looking directly at the ground.  Yes, wingstand.  Thank you George.

There’s nothing that will quite compare to bumping along the air 12,000 feet above Black Rock City.  There isnt *anything* about this experience that isnt *entirely* unique.  It also only lasts for just a few moments.  The 18 minute steep climb, straight up is only met with a moments pause of level flight so the lucky can jump.  And then, as a passenger (who knows whats coming next) there’s that real moment of truth.  A moment to toy with extending on a time line where split seconds feel like minutes.

“Are all the jumpers out?”, the moment where I thought I knew what was coming next, but really had not half a fucking clue…

And there you go folks, the best photo I took of the flight.  Wingstand.  Full Freak out.  Tim Paige, Henri Huet, Larry Burrows and Eddie Adams all going up a notch ’cause I clearly can’t shoot shit under duress…

Around 3,000 feet I half got my shit together.  Eighteen minutes to jump altitude, two and a half minutes to wheels back on the playa.  George provided, once again, the ride of a lifetime.  Challenge now is topping it again…

Man’s gonna burn in (!!!) thirty days.

The first time I ever played this guitar it was propped up against a kitchenette table that routinely folds up into a bed, you know, the kind that most recreation vehicles have.  That was the road, the sunset on THE desert’s seminal rock, eons before anyone put the S – word in front of the rock.  That was also a long, long, long time ago.  I think I might have been twenty.  But who can remember those days.

I hadnt been out to the Rancho in a few years and walking in, it was nice to see that guitar again.  It was one of the first things I noticed and instantly triggered that grin that only tends to manifest when you are feeling at home.  An old memory, straight back to foundation bricks of the stuff that a lifetime of good vibes and smiling friendship is based upon.

There were some of the regular faces in attendance when I dropped in on Dave and everyone was in high spirits.

This type of scene is almost mandatory around Dave, all these years, through too many states to remember and so many different countries never to forget, where ever this guy planted his feet, in whatever capacity, people were smiling around him and having a good time.

Not a parade.  But just a low key, slowly rolled, barrel of smiles.

Ever have any magical people like that in your life?

It’s a motherfucker.

If you are not careful, exposure to really amazing people like this on any kind of regular basis could almost spoil the return to the mediocre masses when the scheduled fun is concluded, a visa expires, a plane is almost missed or when the circus just flat out leaves town.

My trip out was sort of last minute, not exactly one of those where you stand at the ticket counter at the airport and flip a coin, but certainly close enough.  Fantastically, Dave was around and we were able to catch up on the few years it had been since we last saw each other.

In addition to us having two of the same names, I remember us also having close birthdays.

Dude, Im going to be FIFTY.

Fuck.  I was feeling pretty over torqued with my birthday on the horizon but that just leveled the field.  One of my closest friends was having a 50th birthday that week.  One of my other closest friends turned 50 this year.  And now I was about to have three friends survive the half century mark, providing roger daltrey with a properly raised finger in celebration.

Three good, old school friends in their 50′s.  In an instant, desperately lonely, hopelessly single and wandering with purpose in the high desert felt right: Im not quite yet forty.  Im not counting however, and with good reason:

I dont know how many old fucks get to say stuff like this, but we’ve talked about it at great length, and I still feel like Im nineteen.  Well, I still feel like Im living like Im nineteen.

Maybe we all had this growing old thing all wrong the whole time.  Sure, we’re all older, but picking up Dave’s danelectro, we picked up right where we left off, or could remember leaving off.

In the end, we are still a bunch of rock and roll kids.  Maybe smarter.  Maybe wealthier.  Possibly more famous.  Definitely more experienced.  Absolutely more awesome.

But the same guys.  Same heart.  Same hand outreached extending the same type of love we always have.

So what is growing old?  I’ll say one thing, it sure as fuck is a world of difference between growing up.  And thank god none of us ever did that shit.  But then again, that’s why our friendships have persisted, its why its all so valuable.

Not too much had changed at the Rancho when you consider how much time can change things.  Not too much had changed with us when you consider how life can twist people.  One thing I did not know about Mister Dave Catching however, is his expert snake handling ability.

I mean, I had heard the whispers, they followed him everywhere, but when you are in the basement of a club with an opening band roaring above your head, or in that alley between tour buses with generators humming, or in the after hours darkness where nothing is as it seems, sometimes its hard to decipher the message above the din.

But now its clear.  See that guy there?  He’s a charmer.

Snake charmer, maybe.

The sun was setting, and while we waited for the moonrise, all the stuff that moves in a desert started moving and this critter cruised over to check us out.  Clearly, he had not been privy to the whispers and he was swiftly handled.  Snakes are pretty, but you dont want them in your house…  Luckily there are the occasional snake charmers to deliver you back to the safety of the desert.

The afternoon’s excitement brought the high desert evening cool and some time was spent reminiscing around the rock-ola 460.

Dave’s still driving this amazing Olds.

Car talk brought us back outside so I could get drool on his wheels.  Dave offered to let me take it up to the monument for a spin.

Up to the monument.  Old school.  Old, Old, Old school.  Been out here for a long time…  I declined.  I regret it, but seriously, where do you find people this good?

Soon enough, we had the sunset on our hands and a brief, “awesome to see you” high five which brought on the night.

Little bit of time to reflect on the awesome people in this life.  How lucky we are to have shared adventures together and ultimately how much brighter all of our lives are together.

One thing is for certain, Dave has the most brilliantly positive effect on just about everyone.  All the friends we share, all the people we’ve met and hung out with together along the way, all the strangers Ive met that are eight degrees removed but  have that “oh yeah, you know that guitar player that used to have a restaurant in New Orleans too” discussion with a sparkle in their eye…  We’ve all never met a better host, never met a better bringer together of the amazing, never met a better harvester of the eclectic, random and purely perfectly bizarre.  The warmest guy, with the biggest heart whom we all, at some point could learn a good lesson from.

Happy birthday Dave.  Hope you are having the best one ever.