Leading Lines, Sweaty Finds, and A Brilliant Beard.
There is something about the sweltering heat that can just make you want to call it a day and pack it in. the sweltering summer sun showers you in an endless barrage of melanin-altering rays that slowly stew you in your own sweat.
Its the kind of heat you can only find on a july summer day that is practically kissing the first day of august. No clouds are to be seen for miles and any hope of the sun backing down can easily be dismissed as fanciful thinking. However, its the exact kind of thinking you slip into when you are being irradiated by a giant ball of fire that just hangs in the sky.
To make matters worse, that summer heat that we all look forward to on those snow-filled winter nights cooks everything it touches. The memes that are scattered across the ones and zeros of the interwebs depicting people cooking eggs on the sidewalk and baking cookies in their cars are not fanciful fiction.
Rather they are a humorous reminder that summertime at the end of July is unrelenting, and it seeks to claim its gallon of sweat from anyone that braves the outdoors from 10 am till 7 pm. Even more, woe be unto those that do so in the city.
The concrete jungle is a maniacal hoarder of the heat that our star lavishes upon us. Its asphalt fields and towering oblisques of stone and steel retain this heat and slowly keep cooking its residents even after the sun disappeared below the horizon.
It was on a day just like this one that I chose to cart my happy ass into the abyss of our local people cooker. You may know it as Denver, Colorado, but for those of us that live here summer after summer, we refer to it as the 6th layer of hell where we are punished for our blasphemies against the frigid winter.
My goal was rather simple. I was going to make my way through the shiniest portion of our fair downtown and focus on the composition and leading lines that our skyscrapers created. My camera had beckoned to me to help it create what would no doubt be stellar imagery of these marvels of modern engineering.
As it called to me, I agreed to sell my soul to the sun and transport my ever-nagging magic canon box into the wilds of sultry Denver, if only to calm my own gnawing addiction to take photos of pretty, shiny things.
To hell with what my damn canon camera wanted. I was in control of this adventure and it was going to have to be my side-kick on what was no doubt going to be a spirit-stirring adventure.
“We’re not doing this by ourselves,” I said aloud while reaching for my GoPro knock-off of an action camera.
The intention was to bring you, my audience, with me. Over the last few months, I had taken a passing fancy to the multitudes of POV street photography videos that youtube’s mysterious algorithm had seen fit to plaster across my screen. All the while thinking to myself that this endeavor would be a piece of cake to a seasoned video veteran such as myself.
Of course, I couldn’t speak for the Canon. That fucker has always had a mind of his own. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he blew the whole thing just to mess with my head and send me into further photo fiending fit. He knows how much I need my fix, and that bastard loves to rub it into my face.
One short drive and a Chinese version of a GoPro chest mount later, I was in the heart of downtown. The true center of downtown is the capitol building. Sitting there in all of its massively underutilized glory with its golden dome and Greek-like steps it pales in comparison to what the Denver population considers the real center of downtown.
The Denver Pavilions.
A hodgepodge of major chain stores tightly packed in with various entertainment-based businesses and a few whore houses, or bars as they like to refer to themselves. Honestly, coyotes really aren’t that ugly.
As usual, I designated this place to be a great kick-off point for my photographic adventure as it would give me access to all the juicy parts of downtown, and the parking wouldn’t require all the money in my ever-dwindling bank account.
There is always a pleasant mixture of people here. The pavilions sit on a locally famous strip of land called “the 16th street mall” Think of it as a much larger version of the aforementioned hodgepodge of businesses and whore houses. On this mall, you can find just about anything you want with the exception of a germ-free surface or a family-friendly experience.
To those of us that are familiar with this area, we know that at any moment you could find anything from a loving couple with millions in the bank to a junkie tying off in an alley. It’s really all just a matter of which direction you’re looking, and what you have chosen to delete from your vision.
As per protocol, my head was on a swivel while I darted through the freshly covid free crowds in search of a few warm-up shots. That damn canon needs to be lubed up prior to taking sexy images. It refuses to shoot anything worth a damn until you have twidled its dials and put it intimately close to your face for at least 20 minutes.
Immediately I was drawn towards the dingy alleys and hidden pockets of trash and grunge to begin my quest for leading lines. I had to resist this urge to shoot the same old drivel that I have slathered my sensor with in the past. This was a journey to shoot something fresh. Something New. Something that only a few million photographers had shot before me. I wanted to give my audience and this adorable little action camera the benevolent gift of elegant imagery coupled with thoughtful commentary on what I was shooting and why.
Instead I proceeded to walk around in the blistering midday, half blind from the glare of said sun on the shimmering towers of glass and metal. My witty commentary was reduced to mindless drivel at best due to my lack of experience at producing dialogue on the fly based directly on what I was doing at the moment.
I must say that going into this I fancied myself as a cross between David Attenborough and Will Ferrel. A hybrid of elegance and knowledge that was brilliantly offset by charm and humor. Unfortunately, I realized that the further I hauled my sweaty ass down the street I was little more than a verbal mixture of foghorn leghorn and Bobcat Goldthwait. Seldom did anything other than mindless drivel flow from my lips as I forced myself to take mediocre pictures of even more mediocre buildings.
This journey into new and uncharted waters of architectural was rapidly turning out to be a bust. Dismal conditions matched with an abysmal drive to execute what was turning into a mechanical performance of mundane proportions. To make matters worse That damn camera decided it wanted to give aperture priority a whirl.
Instead aperture priority sent us both into a tailspin where we lacked any real control. I told the magic canon box that we had better stick with manual mode because we are good at it. Of course, that damn thing just stared blankly at me as if I were stupid. Its blank expression mocked me as if to say “all the other photographers on YouTube are doing it….why can’t we?”
Smug bastard.
I needed to reset. I needed to find my bearings photographically speaking.
This adventure should have come with a warning label that said in bright, neon letters, “Don’t waste your time, fool”
I decided to make my way to a much more familiar side of town via the free transportation provided by the local government to those of us that shop on the 16th street mall and those of us that don’t. None is better than the other by any means. We are all trash for the burning to a sun that loves to roast people like marshmallows. However, standing next to the gutter punks and addicts that had been searching for a fix all day in the exhausting heat makes for a noxious aroma in a closed tin can on wheels.
I stayed on the free mall ride for as long as my nostrils could handle and departed a few blocks from my intended destination. My hopes were to have some miraculously inspiring photo thrust itself upon me. To my dismay, such a moment refused to present itself to me. Though I was not graced with this unicorn of a photo moment, the photo taking brick strapped to my wrist like a handcuffed suitcase finally decided to begin cooperating with me. After the hours I had spent toiling in the sun The leading lines I was so desperately searching for presented themselves to me and that damn Canon Camera allowed me to capture them. Of course it needed to be caressed and coaxed to do so. I found myself twiddling its dials just enough for it to give in to manual mode.
Ah. glorious, reliable manual mode. It was like that breath of air you get after being under the water for just a moment too long.
Refreshing.
Invigorating.
A reminder that life will keep you around for just a bit longer.
The leading lines that I found were on a brand new building called “McGregor.” An impressive piece of construction located directly next to colorado’s home for America’s past time. The portions that face the stadium are 2 wedge shapes that explode into the sky. Its towering columns look down on you from at least 8 stories or more. The geometrical constitution of this behemoth disappeared into the wash of sunlight that overexposed everything...even to the human eye. I however never walk into such a sexy situation without the proper protection. Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m referring to my variable ND. Passing underneath this building’s impressive canopy, you can’t help but look up.
You are drawn to its lines.
Your mind is easily hypnotized by the architect’s genius.
Both the canon and I stood in awe for a moment.
The ease at wich the building creates shot composition for you makes you feel like you may actually know what you are doing while staring through the tiny viewfinder. Heaven forbid you have an EVF. That kind of technology may lead you to believe you are a professional in a situation like this.
To the satisfaction of that fucking lightbox, I don’t believe I pulled the canon more than an inch or 2 from my face. I was so dumbfounded by what I was documenting that I almost stumbled over myself a few times. However, it wasn’t till I swapped to Monochrome that the true beauty of this location was revealed. The sun was past its noon o’clock position and it created a highly dramatic contrast of blistering white and rich blacks. I was certain that I would need to do little in post-production to deliver a stunning image.
As my compadre Rudy Meadows would say, “Bangers for sure.”
It is actually quite difficult to move on from a location like this. You practically have to be your own bouncer and violently tear yourself away. After all, you want to save some of this glory for the other photographers, right?
Yeah, fuck that. Me neither. But I do like to leave something for myself to come back to and at that moment in time, I was still roasting in the sun. In the interest of self-preservation, I left the McGregor behind and sought refuge in the shade of another familiar destination. Union Station.
For a photographer, Union Station is no doubt one of the most beautiful locations that Denver has to offer. The central hub for the station is a somewhat dated, yet still beautiful exterior that is accented by sharp angles and grey stone. Atop its many sharp edges sits a sign that glows with the location’s title in a subtle and soothing orange.
Rudy has been trying to capture the perfect image of it for years. I believe he is still trying.
The hub, however, is not the draw of this entrancing location. It is the multiple platforms located behind the hub that makes this station a must photograph for those with a pixel addiction like mine. The entire area is enveloped in a massive white canopy stretched across impressive curving tubes that provide support for the thick vinyl cover. This thing is easily 50 feet tall at its apex and covers an area about the size of a football field.
It is difficult to fuck up a shoot in a location like this, though the canon attempts to make me falter occasionally. The white covering itself is a thing of beauty to point your lens at due to it not being a solid piece. The designers were very clever as to how they allowed light to pass through. The entire structure is layered like gills, allowing light to enter the space while keeping the entire area cooler than the city that surrounds it. Any image shot is almost instantly beautiful as the overhead structure acts as a giant softbox. Almost every bit of light in this space is diffused save for a few streaks of glorious light to add just the right amount of shadow to whatever it is you choose to point your camera at.
I have shot here at least a dozen times.
I could easily shoot here a dozen more.
There is so much magic in this place.
I didn’t even tell you about the trains.
I was just happy to have a break from the damn sun. After taking a few more shots that would instantly make their way into my portfolio, I shoved the fucking light catcher into my bag and took a small break. Even a junkie knows when to pull the needle out of his arm.
The 2 crisp bottles of water and time spent in the shade were just enough to bring refreshment to my parched mouth and allow the sweat stains on my shirt to fade away.
I felt good about how the day was turning out. Though my gallant quest to capture the most amazing leading lines was mostly a failure, I felt confident that I had redeemed myself with the striking images I captured of McGregor and this station. But something else was missing. Something wasn’t right. I used this break to review the footage I caught on my slightly shitty GoPro imposter. The first 45 minutes were absolute garbage. It bounced and wiggled. Jostling itself with each and every step. The tiny speaker hinted that the audio was also complete garbage. It peaked and clipped on almost every word. I found this to be true when I reviewed the footage on my computer at home.
I might as well have been recording on a potato.
The 45-year-old man that had just spent multiple hours walking around in the 100-degree sun was ready to call it quits, but the photo junkie in me wasn’t satisfied. I knew I could find that one image that would help me round out the day with satisfaction. I believed I could walk away from this day with a sense of confidence that the day wasn’t a waste.
Besides, the fucking picture goblin in my bag was rustling and wiggling like a damn mogwai that had just gotten wet. I was almost certain it was going to chew a hole in my bag if I didn’t take it out and keep shooting.
Reluctantly, I rose to my feet and finished chugging the last of my water. With a quick nod to a slacker that was no doubt eyeing the expensive chunk of metal, plastic, and glass that was now secured to my wrist, I set out back into the sunlight. I knew that I would eventually find the image I was looking for, though unbeknownst to me, it would not be one that I sought out to capture.
Close to the station is an old haunt of mine. One that fills me with dread and remorse for decisions that were poorly made and a life that was almost lost in a hair-brained attempt to fill my system with adrenaline and dopamine.
Don’t worry, It will make sense in a second.
For 16 of my years on this godforsaken rock we call earth, I was a Traceur. Right now there are approximately 2 of you that kinda know what that is and a whole bunch of you that are googling it with a weird spelling of a word you probably can’t pronounce. It means I was a person that practiced parkour. A sport that was considered a discipline in its infancy and has since been turned into a pile of shit wrapped in tinfoil by a bunch of self-righteous, know it all, assholes who think they have unlocked the secrets of the fucking universe.
Essentially it was about getting from point A to Point B in the fastest way possible with some hair raising tricks thrown in to keep it fun and exciting. Now its just a bunch of poorly executed flips being thrown by people that are afraid of a real days work. While I do still know some absolute bad asses, the rest of the culture has really gone to hell.
One of the most amazing rushes one could acquire from parkour was the roof gap. An all out ballsy jump from one roof top to another. Generally there was a risk of injury or death if you didn’t get it right, hence the rush.
On one of those hot summer days, much like this one, I carried some friends to a roof gap and they were excited to do this heroic feat of lobbing yourself from the edge. Needless to say no one died that day however shit got very serious for a few moments.
To connect this back to the original story, this old haunt is often revisited for the sake of reminding myself about my impressively stupid mistakes in the past, but today I was here to look upon the leading lines stretching up to that rook gap. I couldn’t stay long because my camera didn’t agree with the yuppy patio bar that had opened at the bottom of this memorable site.
Destiny, as it often does, found me in a very unique way. The alley that connected this site back to the 16th street mall pointed me directly into another less grungy alley. This one was much more pleasant than its predecessor due to the number of shops that had entryway doors located in the alley.
It was somewhat reminiscent of an alley in Tokyo. It utilized every bit of space it could to cater to various merchants. This days destiny was waiting for me at the other end. I as I strolled through this strip of space between two condo complexes, my curiosity was peaked by a group of cyclists that were loitering at the other end. I would soon find out they had been riding and stopped at one of this alley’s purveyors of alcoholic beverages to no doubt quince a very particular thirst. As I drew closer to this group of very hipsterly fellows, I introduced myself.
“Hey, guys. I am a photographer. Do you mind if I grab a few pictures?”
Obviously, I knew they were going to say yes. While I am somewhat of a walking fucktard, that damn canon is a mighty persuasive fellow. It took a moment to show off some of the day’s accomplishments and proudly commanded me to point its lens at these intriguing fellows and start twiddling its dials to keep it happy while it was busy snapping pictures of this motley group of riders.
It was at this moment that I found what I had been looking for. Unbeknownst to myself or the subject of this picture, I managed to click off the shot that would be the day’s crowning achievement. It was a portrait. Impromptu, not scripted or posed, just randomly magnificent. My subject matter for this image had a luscious, yet wiry beard that he had no doubt been growing for a few years. Uncut, untrimmed, and probably groomed a couple of times a year at best.
The tone of his skin showed me that he had spent many days in the sun pushing down the pedals of his 2 wheeled speed demon. There were a number of attributes that clued me in to the overall personality of this scraggly speedster. The way his glasses were flipped up on his bike helmet, the can of super-niche beer loosely clenched in his right hand and the way he stabbed the lens with his confident smile that only came from the corner of his mouth. He was no model, but this man was a master at posing.
After clicking off a few shots of this gentleman, I pulled that damn canon away from my eye and reviewed the image. It was such a banger. The image that was radiating from the pixels behind the plastic screen was shining with all the brilliance that anyone could expect from a masterful photo of a fantastic subject.
This was the win I was looking for. I could at last retire my need for artistic fullfilment for the day. I was satisfied. That fucking light box was satisfied. Everything was right with the world...if only for today.
Now if only I hadn’t parked so damn far away.
