Just the other day, I was rummaging through a box of old photographs – literally an old shoebox full of snapshots – looking for pictures I can use in a new project.
My sophomore year in college, my maternal grandfather died. He lived out in Ohio, where my mom grew up. He came out to Denver to die, to be with family (my grandmother died about 18-24 months earlier). I made the mistake of reading Sartre while he was dieing, Nasea.
When he finally died, my mom flew out to Ohio to help clean out his house. My grandfather was an avid amateur photographer, really a child of the Kodak revolution. He traveled a great for work, and liked to shoot color slides while away from home.
My mom came home from Ohio, and gave me his camera equipment. This was my first gear. My girlfriend at the time was really into photography. She made money for college making fake id’s. Once I had his camera, we’d go to the wastelands around Denver to photograph. I was kind of involved in an industrial art scene that populated the Denver underground, going to the broken places of the city seemed like the right choice for making photographs.
This photograph of the graffiti was on the first roll of film I ever shot. Not sure where all the rest of the pictures are now, but I am beginning to think this picture might make into my new project on Denver – an attempt to photograph my roots in the city.