In less than eight hours I'm boarding a flight from JFK to Dulles, en route to Cape Town (via Dakar and Johannesburg). While I leave Saturday at 6 in the morning, I won't be arriving in Cape Town until 9:30pm Sunday, local time. I'll be in transit for longer than I want to calculate at the moment. I'll be travelling through South Africa for four weeks. So, while I haven't been updating this site as frequently as I'd like, the next post will have to wait until I return in late July.

The above photo I took in Nukkus, as I boarded a local flight to return to Tashkent. I had wanted to take the overnight bus, but was running out of time. The flight allowed me also to spend a day touring the Bekka valley on a marathon share taxi sprint. My hosts at the guesthouse were amazed I was able to see what I did, knowing how share taxis can be unreliable (or at least not the fastest form of transport, as passengers may ask to stop to buy bread or souvenirs en route).

I'm excited to visit South Africa. It'll be my second trip to sub-Saharan Africa, after a trip to Ethiopa some years back. I'm hoping to catch a game while in Cape Town (one of the round of 16 games will be played while I'm there), but am excited just to be in the host country during the World Cup. I'm hoping the ticket situation will be easier to suss out while in the country, rather than via the FIFA website.

I'll be returning with photos, some of which will end up on this blog, and some of which will be featured on the main site. I'm curious what I'll see, and eager to share.

Have a great summer everyone!

In a few weeks I'm leaving for South Africa. I'll be there in the midst of the World Cup, staying for a little bit after. I'm excited, if a little apprehensive due to the various stories and warnings one hears about the country, but I'm looking forward to touring the countryside and visiting the cities. I'm not sure what to expect; I've done little research beyond securing a place to stay in Cape Town for the first few days I'll be visiting. If there's another thing that concerns me a little it's finding lodgings as I tour around, though that should become easier after the games.

My itinerary is loose. I arrive in Cape Town and depart from Johannesburg. In between, there are a series of places I want to visit along the eastern edges of the country; if I have time and money, I plan to visit Kruger for safari. When in Cape Town, I'll be overlapping with a friend who lives in Korea, and we'll spend a few days in the wine country. I'm also hoping to see penguins.

I took the above in Khiva. The children were playing a game of some sort and they were running joyously towards me as I was heading back to my guesthouse. I'm not sure if the boys were trying to outrun the girls, but there's something about how the children have separated into two lines that somehow makes this image for me.

More images from Uzbekistan can be found here.

Each day I walked east through the city, towards the Ark, I would pass rows upon rows of ceramics laid out on the street to sell. In the morning I would see them slowly set up, arranging their dishes and plates to best present their intricate patterns. In the afternoons i would see them gathered together, waiting out the day, waiting for tourists to express interest in their wares.

One morning, a woman stopped me. She had seen me walk back and forth and stopped to ask after me. She asked if I were interested in tablecloths or ceramics. I told her I admired the ceramics, but was afraid to purchase any as I had many days of travel ahead and little no way to ensure that I could transport the brittle plates unharmed. I told her I couldn't see myself buying tablecloths. She eyed me up and down and, satisfied, relaxed her salesmanship and asked after my life.

She asked me if I were married, and I told her no. Girlfriend? I told her I had been seeing someone but we were no longer together. Ah! she exclaimed. That's life. She asked after my age. I told her to guess. She aimed low, then had me guess hers. She told me she was born the year of Independence. I guessed high, way too high, and she chided me for thinking her so old, for not knowing my history. I chided myself for not having finished reading up on it myself.

She asked me again if I would not come to her house to look at linens and tablecloths. I told her maybe. Maybe means no, she said. I apologized. She shrugged and asked where I was going. I pointed to the west, and she rattled off the attractions in the area. I nodded. She told me to hold a moment. She picked up a small teacup and pressed it into my hands. For you, she said, then bid me a good day.

I remembered a similar exchange in Burma, the exchange of pleasantries, the entreaties to purchase wares, and then the gift of a ceramic teacup. At my guest house, I packed the teacup carefully into my bags, first placing it into the pocket of a pair of pants and then rolling it so that the material would buffer it. The day I left for home, I checked it again to make sure it was safe.

That first week back in the states, I did laundry, forgetting to check my pockets. I fished out the broken bits from out of the dryer. Ah, I thought. That's life. I saved the pieces and have kept them scattered about on my shelves.

Friday it was my birthday. I spent the day alone, touring various galleries of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I took an hour on the roof, to look out over the city from the shade of a bamboo installation and to eat a sandwich. That evening, I hosted a dinner for a group of friends I have met at various times during my life in the city. I wondered at our various shared pasts and at how we have grown and matured. At one point, my oldest group of friends retired to a small pool room, and I remembered them as when we first met and played pool. The space of time collapsed, and in my thoughts I was again first arriving in the city, optimistic and scared and excited, while the life I have built—am still building—hummed around me.

It took me some time to find the Saifuddin Bukharzi Mausoleum. I walked east from the old quarter, out and into the modern city. I walked along a wide street, the sun hot against my back. I paused at a small convenience store for directions and a bottle of water. I watched as small vans and buses passed me on the left. I thought about flaging one down, but I wasn't sure where I would alight. I looked at the map; I kept walking.

At one small store by the side of the road, I was told to walk two or three intersections more, but before I reached the final intersection there would be a road to the right. If I took that road, I would find the mausoleum. I thanked the woman and walked on. A few intersections on, I felt I had walked too far and stopped for directions again. I was told to walk back the way I came, but I could use a side street, which would take me to an unused road that would lead to the mausoleum. I had noticed a walled-off street earlier, and realized that that was the street I had wanted. I thanked the shopkeeper and turned to face the sun.

As I walked a quiet back street, I came across this slide. It seemed out of place. It sat too silently on the side of the dirt road. I paused to remember the moment, then walked on.

More photos from Uzbekistan can be found here.

Many people ask why I went to Uzbekistan. The answer? The mellons.

The year before, I had gone to visit a friend in Moscow. She had me taste the most delicious mellons I had ever had. She told me that Uzbeks would drive them up to the city in vans whne they were ripe. They would then sleep in the vans and sell the mellons until they were sold out. They would then return to Uzbekistan and bring more.

Almost every afternoon, I would spend some time at her kitchen table, snacking on mellons and caviar and black bread. It became a ritual of sorts, a moment in the day between touring the city and welcoming her home; a moment before heading back into the city to explore its evenings.

When I was looking for a place to go for three weeks from Beijing, my friend mentioned the mellons in Uzbekistan were in season. Right then and there it was decided where I was to go next.

The above photo was taken in the Chorsu bazaar in Tashkent. It took me a while to find this man. A group of Japanese tourists told me about the man selling slices of mellon that were too sweet. This after I had brought home a mellon they said tasted like a vegetable, it lacked sweetness so. The next morning I found the fruit seller and ate slice after slice, forking over my money like I was paying him to extend my life.

A series of photos I took in Uzbekistan can be found here.

Continuing with the series of wedding photographs, here is one of a wedding party departing Khiva. One afternoon, a series of wedding parties entered the main gates and paused between the mosques and minarets to dance and celebrate the nuptuals. A small booth selling Uzbek dance music would play a few chosen tracks while the guests danced around the bride. As quickly as the wedding parties would appear, they would disappear to be followed by another.

I first heard a party arrive as I was eating lunch. The town had been quiet up until then. Suddenly dance music bounced off the ancient stones, and I could see men in suits and women in dresses gathered in one of the main thoroughfares. I went out to watch, afraid I would miss the spectacle. I needn't have worried, as a parade of parties would arrive throughout the day.

To see more photos of Uzbekistan please click here.

On the subject of weddings, I stumbled upon a couple having their wedding photographs taken on the steps of the Alisher Navoi Opera and Ballet Theatre in Tashkent. I had gone in search of tickets for the evening, hoping for a ballet or opera. That night, there was to be a performance of traditional Uzbek song and dance. I walked away from the ticket booth disappointed. And then I turned around. I was in Uzbekistan. Of course I wanted to hear traditional Uzbek music! I bought a ticket for that night.

The theater was almost empty when the concert began. The program featured a mix of dancing and music, and occasionally members of the audience would dance in the aisles. It felt a little like the traditional performances put on for tourists in China, but the headliner was fantastic. His voice was far better than any that had come before and he controlled the stage. The audience went away sated. I went back to my guesthouse and planned my final day in the country.

The next night featured a performance of The Nutcracker. I had thought to attend, but couldn't make it back to Tashkent in time. I had spent the day on a marathon trip to and from the Fergana Valley, surprising my guesthouse owners that I had returned. That night I met a woman who had gone to the ballet. We sat at raised dining platform in the courtyard. She said the theater was packed. I told her about the night before and we considered the different audiences and the country itself as the wind grew cold around us.

Wedding season seems to be upon us once again. I've received two invitations in the past week (well, one formal invitation and one gentle prod from another bride who is asking if I'll be heading to her nuptuals in Hawaiii). August seems to be the main month this year, as the two weddings are about a week apart.

Every year I think I'm done attending weddings, and every year another invitation appears in the mail. The greatest number of weddings I've attended in one summer is five, which proved exhausting. I think I ended up backing out on one that year from sheer exhaustion.

I took this photo in Shakhrisabz, under a statue of Tamerlane. It's a popular spot with wedding parties, who come to offer flowers to Temur, and circumambulate the plaza. No sooner had one party left than another appeared.

The city itself is the birthplace of Temur, and where he built his Summer Palace. Only part of the monumental front gate of the palace remains, but it's easy to imagine how vast it once was when you stand upon the grounds. Sitting in the shade of the ruins, I shut my eyes to the bustle around us and imagined the cool confines of the once great hall.

I spent a few quiet nights in Khiva, staying in a small guesthouse in the northeast corner of the city. Others had warned me of its overly-sanitized state, but I found it surprisingly charming. After the bus tours had left and the shops had packed up for the night, the city would settle into a somnambulant state, the buildings lit with colored lights, the streets devoid of life.

Late one afternoon, I walked the city walls. The sun sank slowly towards the horizon and I watched from the ramparts as couples walked home and children responded slowly to calls for supper. The night before I had watched the sun set from atop the Kukhana Ark. That evening, I watched from small openings in the city's defenses.

The building in the foreground is the Mohammed Rakhim Khan Medressa, with the Juma minaret to the right. The wall in the foreground are the ramparts of the Kukhana Ark.

I've finally finished editing and posting a set of photos from my three weeks in Uzbekistan. Over the next few days I'll be posting outtakes and stories from my time there. Of the outtakes, this is one of my favorite images. I was certain that it would be included in the final set, but as I edited and sequenced the series, this image no longer seemed to fit. It was with heavy heart that I cut it.

I arrived in Uzbekistan the night of the 21st, at 11:15. By the time I cleared customs and collected my bags it was the next day. In Urumqi I had walked from one terminal to another, through a parking lot, to make my connection. Even then, I had to wait for the terminal to open. In Tashkent, a driver met at the airport and drove me through the quiet streets of the capital to my guesthouse. There, Gulnara greeted me and showed me my room. She took my passport and bade me to rest. I would have breakfast in the morning.

The next morning I ate and ran errands, first to the train station to buy a ticket to Samarkand and then to the apartment of the travel agent who arranged me letter of invitation. Near the train station, I was stopped by the police in the metro. He asked to see my passport and asked where I was staying. I showed him and told him the name of my guesthouse. I had tried to take a photo of the ticket kiosks, just outside the metro. The policeman handed me back my documents and told me not to take photos. I apologized and he smiled.

I waked up the Sharat Rashidova, past the adminstration buildings of the Mustaqillik Maydoni, admiring the shaded broad yet not too broad avenues of the capital and the laid back atmosphere of a not-too populous city. Near the Panorama theater I stopped for lunch and then asked if there was a bus I could take to the Khast Imom, the official religious center of Uzbekistan. I was told it was close. Just street, street, street, and I was there. It wasn't quite so easy. I found it with the help of a few more individuals. I toured the 16th century medressas and, with the help of a student at the Islamic Institute, found the small museum housing the 7th century Osman Quran, said to be the world's oldest. Inside the musuem, women recited the Quran in small alcoves amongst many other historical books and manuscripts.

Coming back from the Khast Imom, I wandered the back streets of the old city. I heard music and turned a corner to see two horn players and a man with a tambourine before an open door. One horn was as long as the man was tall and then again by half. A man told me they were welcoming a baby into the home. A black Mercedes crept down the narrow street, a videographer stood before it filming its approach. A man emerged with the baby; his wife carried roses. They entered, walking over a golden carpet while their mother threw flower petals. The musicians gathered in the courtyard of the house and began to play as a woman danced. A man noded to me, inviting me to enter, but I demurred.

Back on the main street, I paid a woman 200 sum to allow me to climb a circular staircase on the exterior of a round building to its roof. There I had views over the Chorsu bazaar and out to the Khast Imom. Schoolgirls hung out and tossed paper airplanes into the wind. One girl stood alone and I wondered about her until a man appeared and they stood close together. Walking down I saw more couples crouched in small alcoves.

In the bazaar I bought a mellon and brought it back to the house. I invited a group of Japanese tourists to join me. They brought beer and Japanese snacks. We chatted and ate on a raised platform, over a low table. One woman said the mellon was like a vegetable: not sweet. She told me of a man in the market who sold slices of the sweetest mellon you've tasted for 200 sum a slice. I resolved to find him the next morning.

Last week I made my way back into the darkroom. It's been months, and I was surprised to learn that Selectol was no longer in production. It's been a while since I've printed with just Dektol.

The darkroom was quiet. There were but three or four people printing, and the halls felt empty. I was making a few prints for friends, in addition to adding one more print to my Labrang series. The hours passed; images appeared within the developer bath. I washed and toned the prints. I washed them again and then put them in the dryer and set to wait. Time passed.

I left the darkroom mid-afternoon. There were a few hours left in the day, and I looked forward to spending some time outside. I took this picture as I was leaving, just outside the door.

A few weeks ago, I attended the Marina Abramović retrospective at MoMA with Allen. We stood in line to be present with the artist, but our time was limited, and we could not measure the stamina of those who stood before us. We watched; we waited; we moved on to the sixth floor galleries where a number of her pieces were recreated.

The show was revelatory. Art so often is viewed as a result: a painting, a sculpture, a photograph. At the Abramović retrospective (and the Tino Seghal show at the Guggenheim), art was ever being created and re-created before us. The process and the art were revealed simultaneously (if not the spark of creation itself) and we as observers were complicit in its creation.

Wednesday, I attended a performance of Red, again in the company of Allen. While the play is ostensibly about Rothko, at heart it is a play about ideas: how art is created; how art is viewed by differing generations; how each generation must lay claim to art itself. Molina and Redmayne were in fine form, but it wasn't until the curtain call, when Molina broke character, that I realized once again we were witnessing art (or at least, well-honed craft). I had taken the acting for granted, and let myself slip into the intellectual questions of the play; the performances had disappeared. I didn't realize until later how good Molina was, and how he had given himself over so fully in the service of the play.

I shot this photo from the floor above the atrium, down onto the piece. I had taken a number of frames from various levels. Most showed the artist and her wordless interlocutor. As I looked through the contact sheet, I realized that this captured best the sense of the work. The artist is present, even if she is seemingly absent from the frame.

An aside, photographer Marco Anelli was invited by MoMA to photograph the participants in Abramović's piece in the atrium. He's posting the images here.

A month or so ago, I went home to Connecticut to visit my parents for Chinese New Year. It had been some time since I had gone to Connecticut, and some time since I've been to Grand Central. I went mid-morning, and the light coming through the windows was beautiful. It made me wonder how much brighter it had been before skyscrapers surrounded the building. I was a little early for the train and paused in the vast expanse of the hall to watch as people rushed to their trains or waited patiently by the clock that marks the center of the space. I took this photograph as I waited.

As often as I've been by the Highline, I have yet to ascend. The weekend it opened, I had thought to go. It was late, and I tried to convince my friend to go, but she wasn't sure it would be open. We ended up not going. Since then, it fades in and out of my memory. For a while, I was in Chelsea every weekend seeing one show or another, but it never coincided with the desire to walk the line.

I took this photo on my way to this year's Armory show. I had met a friend downtown and we walked through Chelsea en route to the piers. Passing the Highline, I paused to take this shot. Once on the west side highway, we hailed a cab. The show was packed. We may have had a more enjoyable afternoon outdoors. My thoughts drifted back towards Chelsea and ascended the elevated park we had passed not too long ago.

A few weeks ago I walked south through the park from the Cooper Hewitt design museum to Carnegie Hall. It was the tail end of a weekend drenched in rain, but that afternoon the rain held. Kronos Quartet were finishing a four night run and I wanted to see if last minute tickets were available at the box office.

Near the hall, I looked to my right to see a sliver of space between two buildings. I've seen the space before, but the light between the towers seemed brighter on this overcast day. I stood still and took this photo. And then I considered buying caviar from Petrossian.