Over the Moon
Many years ago I made a mental agreement with myself that while shooting on location I would continuously try to find at least one simple curio from wherever I happen to be. Whether I am conveniently close to home or thousands of kilometers away I still search for the city’s treasures to call my own. These days the trinkets are more geared towards the children, but I must say that I have found some rather amazing gems in antiquity, one including my most cherished possession. Through my various stages of obsession I have always come back to this particular story, proud to share it with anyone who would lend their ear.
While on assignment in Big Sur, nearly ten years ago, I encountered a back alley art show for local talents. Most of the sponsorship went to an artist by the name of Lorena Del Campo, who to this day specializes in painting the landscape surrounding her home, as well as taking a stab at jewelry. I wasn’t particularly interested in any of her creations. The other featured artist, I later came to find was one Hans Apelqvist, who has a deep affection for bronze sculptured wildlife. I missed his exhibit because I became rather enthralled by the last makeshift booth on the block.
I waved past the other artists slowly, keeping my eye on the final enclosure. There was an antediluvian man with amazing dreadlocks, the bottom half dark black, and the top silver with age, and he was swaying back and forth on top of an exquisite dark cherry red club style chair. As I drew closer I took in his appearance more acutely. He had headphones in his ears and was humming imprecisely to what sounded suspiciously like the Ethiopians ‘Contention’. The only other part I can remember vividly is his ancient Birkenstocks with silver buckles, and toenails at least 3 centimeters in length.
As he saw me walking over, he stood about a meter off his chair, outstretching his hand. I took it cordially and gave my name when asked, and he addressed himself as Vernon Mirian photographer. As Vernon sat back down, drawing his bony legs up, he proceeded to ask my view on Fidel Castro. Without being able to get a word in he explained his deep affection for the fascist, and expressed how much he adored communism. I perused his work; mostly portraits of people that looked exactly like him, while he jabbered on about being the first to take a boat the other direction. To be perfectly above board it wasn’t the art or conversation I was interested in.
After an arousing tale of how Cubans have the wrong idea, and noticing that despite his rustic appearance he had the most amazing white teeth I had ever seen, I promptly told him I would buy his entire stock of photos if he would give me his club chair. He paused for a moment, I assume to consider the offer, and said that it came complete with ottoman. I explained that it was only the chair I was after, he nodded once and stood up, walking into a oddity store I hadn’t noticed previously directly behind him. While he was gone I took a tentative first sit. The chair was a perfect 57.15 centimeters, and fit my personal ergonomics in a fashion I could only dream of.
Vernon returned curiously enough, with a large board on wheels. After paying him a grand total of 514.32 American, I pushed my chair, spilling over with back and white photographs of Rastafarian's, happily through the art fair certain, to this day, that I purchased the best piece available. My chair follows me to wherever in the world I have to be, set in front of a specifically plotted out window. This has been my Valentine’s love story, but now I have other loved ones to attend to.
While on assignment in Big Sur, nearly ten years ago, I encountered a back alley art show for local talents. Most of the sponsorship went to an artist by the name of Lorena Del Campo, who to this day specializes in painting the landscape surrounding her home, as well as taking a stab at jewelry. I wasn’t particularly interested in any of her creations. The other featured artist, I later came to find was one Hans Apelqvist, who has a deep affection for bronze sculptured wildlife. I missed his exhibit because I became rather enthralled by the last makeshift booth on the block.
I waved past the other artists slowly, keeping my eye on the final enclosure. There was an antediluvian man with amazing dreadlocks, the bottom half dark black, and the top silver with age, and he was swaying back and forth on top of an exquisite dark cherry red club style chair. As I drew closer I took in his appearance more acutely. He had headphones in his ears and was humming imprecisely to what sounded suspiciously like the Ethiopians ‘Contention’. The only other part I can remember vividly is his ancient Birkenstocks with silver buckles, and toenails at least 3 centimeters in length.
As he saw me walking over, he stood about a meter off his chair, outstretching his hand. I took it cordially and gave my name when asked, and he addressed himself as Vernon Mirian photographer. As Vernon sat back down, drawing his bony legs up, he proceeded to ask my view on Fidel Castro. Without being able to get a word in he explained his deep affection for the fascist, and expressed how much he adored communism. I perused his work; mostly portraits of people that looked exactly like him, while he jabbered on about being the first to take a boat the other direction. To be perfectly above board it wasn’t the art or conversation I was interested in.
After an arousing tale of how Cubans have the wrong idea, and noticing that despite his rustic appearance he had the most amazing white teeth I had ever seen, I promptly told him I would buy his entire stock of photos if he would give me his club chair. He paused for a moment, I assume to consider the offer, and said that it came complete with ottoman. I explained that it was only the chair I was after, he nodded once and stood up, walking into a oddity store I hadn’t noticed previously directly behind him. While he was gone I took a tentative first sit. The chair was a perfect 57.15 centimeters, and fit my personal ergonomics in a fashion I could only dream of.
Vernon returned curiously enough, with a large board on wheels. After paying him a grand total of 514.32 American, I pushed my chair, spilling over with back and white photographs of Rastafarian's, happily through the art fair certain, to this day, that I purchased the best piece available. My chair follows me to wherever in the world I have to be, set in front of a specifically plotted out window. This has been my Valentine’s love story, but now I have other loved ones to attend to.
