Frank Campagna is one of the owners of Kettle Gallery and is one of the earliest artists and supporters of Deep Ellum’s latest renaissance. I took a mural tour of Deep Ellum once, lead by Frank, and it was really fun. Not only did I learn some of the philosophy of urban murals – he and I are approximately the same age and his tales of Deep Ellum in one of its earlier heydays in the 1980’s were parallel to some of my more hazy memories.
(click to enlarge) Frank Campagna mural, Hickory Street, Dallas, Texas
“Kids must spend half their lives throwing things at the ducks in Regent’s Park. How come he managed to pick a duck that pathetic?”
― Nick Hornby, About a Boy
Huffhines Park Richardsion, Texas (click to enlarge)
I have a list of goals that I work towards. One of those goals was to buy a new camera. My old one was good, but getting long in the tooth. There have been a lot of advances in sensor technology in the last few years. I have been saving since the middle of 2015 and finally crabbed together enough to buy a Nikon D3300 (thanks to everyone that helped).
Learning to use a new camera, especially a new DSLR, is more of a daunting task than you would think. Everything becomes so instinctive it’s like starting out all over again. The sharper images in the new camera are a lot less forgiving – every error is magnified.
So I take bags of old moldy bread out to the ponds and creek behind my house to attract the semi-wild life there and practice. I’ll have more than a few photos of ducks for a while.
“…as the slow sea sucked at the shore and then withdrew, leaving the strip of seaweed bare and the shingle churned, the sea birds raced and ran upon the beaches. Then that same impulse to flight seized upon them too. Crying, whistling, calling, they skimmed the placid sea and left the shore. Make haste, make speed, hurry and begone; yet where, and to what purpose? The restless urge of autumn, unsatisfying, sad, had put a spell upon them and they must flock, and wheel, and cry; they must spill themselves of motion before winter came.”
― Daphne du Maurier, The Birds and Other Stories
“Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.”
― Stephen King, Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption: A Story from Different Seasons
Charles Umlauf Spirit of Flight Love Field Dallas, Texas
For some reason, it has been dry for quite some time. Finally, late this summer, a thin layer of water has reappeared. I went down for another free concert – but was tired and only attracted to some stray birds bathing in the liquid.
“The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.”
― Willie Nelson
Mural, Deep Ellum, Dallas, Texas
It is late in the day – later than I thought – too late… though I have no idea what it is too late for. I am on my bicycle and worn out – long since dropped down into my emergency gear so I can get home alive. Everyone else has given up and I should be waiting on my train, but I am anxious and can’t help finding some murals and taking some pictures.
Close to our bows, strange forms in the water darted hither and thither before us; while thick in our rear flew the inscrutable sea-ravens. And every morning, perched on our stays, rows of these birds were seen; and spite of our hootings, for a long time obstinately clung to the hemp, as though they deemed our ship some drifting, uninhabited craft; a thing appointed to desolation, and therefore fit roosting-place for their homeless selves. And heaved and heaved, still unrestingly heaved the black sea, as if its vast tides were a conscience; and the great mundane soul were in anguish and remorse for the long sin and suffering it had bred.
Detal, Mural, Deep Ellum, Dallas, Texas
The reality is in this head. Mine. I’m the projector at the planetarium, all the closed little universe visible in the circle of that stage is coming out of my mouth, eyes, and sometimes other orifices also.
–Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49