Category Archives: Photography

Lock

An unusual use for a carabiner…

By Johna Till Johnson

Both clever and absurd: The carabiner fits perfectly, but does nothing to secure the contents of the locker.

I took this outside the restroom at Serra, the rooftop restaurant at Eataly. There was a row of lockers where the waitstaff apparently stored their belongings. Some were locked, others were unlocked (I peeked inside one to confirm it was in use). And one was secured insecurely with a carabiner…

Vlad Photos

Yellow Submarine Paddle 24

Satisfied with our visit… a great blue heron keeps watch on top of the wreck behind (photo by Johna)’

By Johna Till Johnson

As the season fades towards winter, I find myself combing through memories, both physical documents and online.

I don’t know why I started a post called “Vlad Photos” or what I meant to say when I created this draft in early 2017.

There were no words, just photographs.

So here they are, with words added.

The 2015 kayaking photos were from our penultimate paddle, New Jersey Weird and Wonderful.  (The last paddle was a circumnavigation of Manhattan in November 2015. Fortunately neither of us had any idea it would be the last!)

New Jersey Weird and Wonderful 24

24. Time to paddle on (photo by Johna)

This is Halloween 2015. He was taking photos at the Carnegie Hill Halloween Spooktacular; the photos are here.

Vlad making faces

This was Christmas 2015/New Year 2016, our last Christmas together. By then we had some inkling of the difficulties to come, but you can see how happy we were nonetheless…

DSC_0033

And then there were the photos from earlier, even happier times.

I can’t recall when the photo below was taken, but I want to say it was a springtime camping trip on Long Island Sound in either 2011 or 2012.

I can tell it’s a camping trip because of the gear on Vlad’s back deck; his boat is capacious enough that under ordinary circumstances during a day trip he would never have needed the back deck. And he’s wearing a jacket, which means the weather was cool. Also the thermos on top was for hot tea—a staple for our cold-weather paddles.

I don’t know why the caption reads “more or less intact”; the conditions are so calm. Perhaps there was a storm earlier?

In any event, his tolerant half-smile says, as it often did, “Oh all right, go ahead and take my picture!”

I loved the way his expressions and body language telegraphed his mood.  I could tell from a quarter-mile away whether he was enjoying a paddle (usually the case) or feeling out of sorts. Here he was having a splendid time, except for having to stop paddling while I took the shot!

Vlad (photo by Johna)

Vlad still more or less intact (photo by Johna)

And this is one of my all-time favorite photos of him.We were on Egmont Key during our first shakedown cruise for the Everglades Challenge. I don’t remember why, but he looked at me with such sweetness as I took this…

IMGP1503 cropped small

Under the cabbage palms at Egmont Key

Halloween 2018

Black roses

By Johna Till Johnson

Vlad loved Halloween.

He enjoyed the sense of manic festivity, the candy, the preparations…but most of all the opportunity  for taking dramatic, colorful photographs.

It used to be my favorite holiday, but last year I couldn’t bring myself to go out—too many memories. This year, I was ready: A friend and I went to the Carnegie Hill “Spooktacular” block party, which Vlad and I had attended almost since its inception.

“This is what Halloween is supposed to be like!” she exclaimed as she watched the whirl of trick-or-treating children, set to the booming beat of the party’s DJ.

Ghoul

Holding Hands

Littlest Angel

M14

Masque

NYPD 2

Portrait

Rainbow Dancer 1

Rainbow Dancer 2

Rainbow Dancer 3

Skeleton trio

Sweetie

Treats for all

 

Rebirth: Amaryllis


By Johna Till Johnson

Vlad had an amaryllis that he loved.

It was a constant source of surprise and delight to him. He chronicled its astonishing growth. And he often used it as a photographic subject.  He loved its extravagant color and brilliance, strange voluptuous shape, and the way it always chose its own time to surprise us.

After he died, I treasured and cared for it, along with all the other plants we’d shared.

Then came the Great Fungus Gnat Plague.

If you don’t know about fungus gnats… you’re lucky. True to the name, they’re little gnats whose larvae can damage or kill houseplants by attacking their roots.

Every plant got infested. I spent a couple of weekends treating soil (one way to kill fungus gnats is to bake the soil; another is to spray with toxic chemicals) and repotting plants. When the dust settled, every plant was safely repotted in dry, gnat-free soil—except one.

For whatever reason, the amaryllis had gotten the brunt of the attack.

The outer layers of its bulb had rotted, and the bulb itself seemed dead. I mourned, and prepared to throw it out.

But a friend advised cleaning it off and putting it in the refrigerator.  She told me the cool darkness sometimes helped them to recover.

I took her advice and promptly forgot about it. Well, not entirely: occasionally I would notice it as I reached down for something-or-other, and think, “I’ve got to do something about the amaryllis.” But it made me too sad to think about, so I did nothing.

Then one day I reached down… and saw the amaryllis had grown a stalk!

It was pale, like albino asparagus, and bent, forced sideways by the refrigerator shelving.

But it was recognizably a flower stalk, and…

… was that a tiny bulb at the tip?

Barely able to contain my excitement, I repotted the amaryllis in clean, dry soil, watered it thoroughly, and placed it in the sun.

I didn’t have long to wait.

Within a couple of days the stalk had turned a vibrant green, and the bulb began to open. And here she is, back to her full glory, with two brilliant flowers glowing crimson in the early-autumn sun!

 

 

Mosque at Sunset: Manhattan

Mosque at sunset

By Johna Till Johnson

Sometimes beauty just hits you like a punch in the stomach.

I was running late for dinner when I saw sunset-tinged clouds behind the neighborhood mosque. I just had to stop and take the picture.

On Fridays the haunting tones of the jumu’ah call to prayer at 1 PM reminds me the week is almost over.

This time, it was a reminder that the day was almost over.

Another summer day drawing to a close…

An Unexpected Sunday in Los Angeles

Evening Shoes, 1927, by Edward Steichen


By Johna Till Johnson

Photos by Johna Till Johnson and Daniel Kalman (and assorted artists)

I never intended to be at the Getty Center in Los Angeles on a sunny Sunday in July.

But as luck would have it, I was in town for a business trip, and I got a text from my friend Dan: His mother had just died (not unexpectedly). I postponed my flight home, rented a car, and headed for Dan’s mother’s house.

People grieve differently. Dan is a scientist with the soul of an artist, and throughout his life, art museums and galleries have been his places of worship. He and Vlad shared many happy hours soaking in art all over the world.  Dan had happy memories of visiting the great art galleries in London with Vlad (who initially studied art history at Cambridge before changing his career to focus on science).

Baroness de Meyer in a Hat by Reboux, 1929, by Baron Adolf de Meyer

So when Dan suggested a trip to the Getty that same weekend,  I was enthusiastic about accompanying him, his sons, his brother-in-law, and his eight-year-old niece.

My experience of museums had been limited to Europe and European-inflected cities like New York and Boston. So I guess subconsciously I was expecting a tall, dark, imposing building.

The Getty is imposing, all right, but in a classic California way.

Cacti at the Getty, by Johna Till Johnson

Designed by Richard Meier, the Getty looks exactly like the mental image many of us have of Heaven: White columns, lush green foliage, flowers, fountains, mountains, and sea.

It’s a campus of beautifully designed  buildings, interspersed with gorgeous landscapes, perched on the top of a hill with a breathtaking view of Los Angeles, the Pacific, and Catalina Island. It’s so sprawling that the buildings are interconnected by a cable-pulled tram (which we eschewed in favor of a walk up the hill).

Trees at the Getty, by Johna Till Johnson

Dan, like Vlad, loves photography, so we went to the current photography exhibition: Icons of Style .

None of us were really that into fashion (unless it’s made by Kokotat or sold at REI). But Vlad had introduced me to Edward Steichen many years ago, and Steichen’s photographs were among those featured.

Model on Ship, about 1946, by Bill Brandt

In fact, Steichen’s 1927 photograph “Evening Shoes” was one of the first we saw.   I leaned in closer to study the angles and edges of the shadows.

“Look at that!” said the woman next to me. I glanced over. She was older than I, bejeweled and made up, and her voice had a familiar intonation… Sure enough, she mentioned she was from New York.

We both admired the photo out loud, pointing out the features we liked best.
“And those are two different shoes!” she commented triumphantly. Indeed they were—and I’d missed it! (Take a closer look at the photo up top). I wasn’t the only one. Later on, I found out that a friend who had studied photography and was very familiar with the photo had also missed the fact that the shoes were from different pairs.

Kelly Stewart, New York, 2011 by Hiro

Dan and I wandered through the rest of the exhibit, both agreeing that the Chinese-born photographer Hiro had an unusually striking eye. Then we rejoined Dan’s family outside, and meandered through the grounds, enjoying the sunshine, gardens, and architecture.

On that unexpected Sunday, we reminded ourselves of something important: Art, like nature, heals.

Detail: Fountain at the Getty, by Daniel Kalman

Note: In the photos of photos, I’ve done my best to edit out extraneous reflections (including that of the photographer). But if you look carefully, you can see them… 

Mitsuwa…And More

Sunset at Pier 84

By Johna Till Johnson

Maybe this isn’t such a great idea.

I’m sitting on the dock at Pier 84 on a sunny—but cold—Sunday afternoon in early spring.

I’m wearing a drysuit, and my feet are in the seat of my kayak, which is bobbing up and down with the wake-driven waves.

The dock is around18 inches above the waterline, and I’ve just remembered that I’ve never been able to get into my boat from the dock unaided before.

It’s a tricky launch. The boat has a habit of getting caught under the dock’s overhang and slammed into it by the waves (there’s a nasty crack on the hull that I think resulted from such a crunch). Between the height and the waves, there’s a good risk of unbalancing and landing in the water. Every other time there’s been someone around to steady the boat for me—and I’ve needed it.

A further thought occurs to me: I’ve never actually paddled solo in winter weather before.

I’ve done an 8-day solo kayak camping trip in Florida’s 10,000 islands. I’ve solo-circumnavigated Manhattan. But it’s always been in warm water.

Right now, despite the wetsuit and several layers of insulation, I have maybe an hour or two of survival after capsizing in the 40-degree water.

More importantly, my hands, which are uncovered, will go numb after about four minutes—which makes getting back into the boat a challenge unless I manage a flawless roll.

And climbing back up onto the dock could be a nonstarter if I happen to fall in while getting into the boat.

To Mitsuwa and back (est 9 nautical miles)

Yeah. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

But at the back of my mind the knowledge gnaws at me: If I don’t launch now, I will probably give up on solo winter launches from this pier. It’s too easy to find excuses for what you’re afraid of.

And that’s not something I’m willing to give up on. Not just yet.

So I’m sitting with my feet in the boat, feeling it bob up and down, waiting for my heart rate to drop and my hands to stop sweating. I have time. All the time in the world. I just need to relax and think things through.

After a bit, I realize: Why do I never have trouble getting out of the boat onto the dock?

Instantaneously, the answer comes: Because I keep my weight low and throw my body belly-down on the dock. I look ridiculous and ungainly, like seal flopping up onto land, but it works.

And if it works for getting out… it should work for getting in!

I roll the idea around in my head.

Yeah.  Yeah. I can do this!

So I flip over onto my stomach and slide my feet into the cockpit, keeping as balanced as possible, with my weight on my hands on the dock. When I feel my center of gravity move out over the water, I slide into the boat, as neatly as a knife going into its sheath. The boat barely wobbles.

Elation. I did it!

I push off from the dock and begin tucking my storm cag over the coaming.

Just then, my radio crackles to life, announcing the Norwegian Breakaway, the cruise ship that usually launches from Pier 88 on Sunday afternoons.

At Pier 84, right next to the Intrepid, I’m going to be in a prime location to watch it go by. I paddle slowly forward in the embayment, and take several pictures as the Breakaway slowly appears, colorful and majestic, flanked by a NYPD vessel. To complete the photo opportunity, a NY Waterways taxi arrives on the scene.

The Norwegian Breakaway… and companions!

An auspicious sendoff, I decide, and paddle out into the Hudson.

Earlier, I’d encountered a group of hardy kayakers and paddleboarders, who warned there was tug-and-barge activity just north of me on the Manhattan side. So I decide to cross over to the New Jersey side and paddle north.

My notional destination is Mitsuwa, the Japanese grocery store located a few miles up on the Jersey shore. It has a convenient beach and is known to be paddler-friendly, with spacious restrooms and a plethora of tasty groceries and restaurant options.

But I’m not sure I’ll make it that far, and I’m not sure I’ll even bother to get out if I do. The goal today is simply to launch, paddle for a bit, and get back onto the pier in one piece. If I accomplish that, I’ll have proven to myself that I’m able to solo paddle in winter.

I’m traveling with the current, but the flood is never strong in the spring—the snowmelt from upstate overpowers it. There’s also a strong and steady northern wind—about 15 knots, I calculate. Enough to create a little wind-against-current chop, and to slow down my progress.

Bicycles and blooming forsythia

I slowly wend my way up the New Jersey shore, mourning a bit for the wreck of the Binghamton,  which left this world just after Vlad did. It’s strange how attached you can get to an inanimate object with which you have no direct connection. And it’s hard to escape the sense of loss as I think of the many things that now live on only in my memory…

But it’s a new spring day, and the sunlight sparkles cheerfully on the waves. The forsythia’s out, I realize, and stop to snap a photo of a bush in bloom, appearing to lead a parade of bicycles. Across the river, the buildings are awash with light.

After a couple of hours of paddling, I arrive at Mitsuwa. Bobbing just off the little beach, I think to myself that there’s no reason to disembark. I’m not particularly hungry, and getting in and out of the boat just seems a bother.

But curiosity nibbles at my mind. It’s been years since I stopped here.

The last time might have been with Vlad, who refused to get out (the beach can be muddy). We had a small spat, and I left him floating in the river while I went inside for a pit stop and supplies. When I returned, we ate sushi and drank sake in the boats while the current carried us downstream. I remember how we laughed, the argument forgotten.

That was years ago, four or five at least. Was it still the same? And… I have a vague memory of tempura. My stomach rumbles. I’m decided. I paddle the boat up on the beach, threading gingerly between the pilings. I pull off my spray skirt, tuck it into the cockpit, and climb over the fence into the parking lot.

Small boat, big city

Inside, the supermarket is as clean and spacious as I remember, filled with (mostly) Japanese shoppers. But something’s different… I finally realize a row of food stalls has replaced what used to be the restroom area (temporary bathrooms are port-o-potties out front while construction finishes).

And one of the food stalls features… tempura! I place my order and wait patiently in line, making faces with the baby and his young parents in front of me. Finally it arrives, hot and fragrant.

Tempura!

I take my order outside where there are low stone tables and chairs. From here I can see the beach where my boat rests, and look at the steak house that sits out over the water. It’s not paddler-friendly, I’ve been told: Too upscale to tolerate muddy boots and smelly drysuits.

The food is delicious. As I eat, I notice the buds are out on the trees. The steakhouse has flowers in its flowerbeds. Spring is really going to arrive!

Lunch (or rather “linner”, as Vlad called that late-afternoon meal that’s neither lunch nor dinner) complete, I pack up and launch. As anticipated, the current has turned, and I’m traveling with the wind and current. I cross over to the Manhattan side and watch the shoreline ripple by. It takes me less than half the time to return that it did paddling out—about 45 minutes, compared with two hours on the trip up.

Japanese flowers

Just as I get close to Pier 84, I remember the tugs and barges the other paddlers warned me about. I assume they’ve called off work by now—it’s late on a Sunday afternoon. But what’s that ahead?

Sure enough, two turquoise tugs appear, each maneuvering a barge. They look like the Megan Ann and one of her sisters (see some footage of the Megan Ann in action here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkBjlRkwMP8)

One steams north upriver, but the other appears to be turning. Towards me? Yikes!

Fortunately it’s not—it’s heading into the embayment just in front of me.
I pull up, and wait for the tug to pull her barge out of the way.

I peek out cautiously. The tug-and-barge seem to be anchored. So I cross the embayment and continue on towards home.

I  turn into Pier 84 just under the bow of the anchored Intrepid (which never fails to thrill me—how many paddlers come home to a famous air craft carrier?). I pull up to the dock.

There’s no one in sight as I start to clamber out of the kayak. I’ve got this—getting out of the boat is easy, right?

Not so fast. I lose my balance and nearly capsize. The boat rights itself, but it’s carrying water—several inches at least, making it less stable. Slowly, cautiously, I pull myself forward onto my stomach on the dock. My heart pounds. Close call.

I’m up… but can I get the boat up, full of water as it is, without breaking it?

I pump some water out, then give up. There’s just too much. I grab the bow, and give it a pull. The boat slides up on the dock, in one piece. I flip it over and watch as it drains.

I’ve done it. Launched and landed, and made it up the river and back. In winter conditions.

I will do this again, I realize.

I stand up and look out over the water… just in time to capture a photo of the setting sun.

This turned out to be a great idea!

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