Travel Journal
Middlebury, Vermont, Monday, March 10, 1997
Photography hurts, Small, sepia-toned morgues. In bed and on
the bus, by MOJE and on the subway I read Krishnamurti's The School of Understanding. I
try ... How little do I really know about photography... Tell
me, what else do you want to hear. Perhaps that I am perpetually late,
that I still listen to Saluzzi, that I sometimes get lost, that (as it turns
out after years of laborious research) Uqbar is no fiction at all, that I don't
like metal ballads anymore, that new Supernovas exist, that last month I saw
a few of Atget's 1926 originals. My large table and tea from Kenya. Great
escapes. Isolation and loneliness, which is alluring.
"Nighthawks" by Edward Hopper, all too familiar to me. I know, you
will later say that these are passions, that I shouldn't, that these are exaltations,
utopias, nonchalance and imagination, introversive manipulations! I live
this way.
New York, New York, Tuesday, September 23, 1997
It is nearly two in the afternoon (that is 14.00 for you). Canal Street
Station below Manhattan. The subway. The city is rushing somewhere restlessly.
Now, 9th Street Station. It drizzles above the ground. A well-dressed Black
man is sitting next to me. In front of me, a young Asian girl whose blue panties
are showing from under her dress, which is too short. The combination of her
skin tone and blue looks great. There is a lot to be seen, even though my eyesight
is failing. Someone is eating soup, someone else is talking to himself. I just
keep traveling and that's that.
Jersey City, New Jersey, Friday, October 3, 1997
I attended an exhibition yesterday, a presentation done by a few galleries
from New York, Los Angeles and London. The Gramercy International Contemporary
Photography Fair. There were some Swiss there, some gallery from Atlanta
and one from San Francisco. There was not much real photography
there. Instead, lots of large-scale indoor group sex. Everything in hyper-color,
everything skillfully prepared and served. Staged photography, if you pardon
the expression.
Jersey City, New Jersey, Tuesday, February 24, 1998
A few days ago, I was taking pictures of exceptionally beautiful and demonic
African masks for the Museu de Arte Moderna da Bahia in Brasil. And I
still read Satan in Goraj by Isaac Bashevis Singer,
a book suffocatingly full of ghosts, I listen to the moving Nina Simone and
to Gorecki's Symphony No.3, and I sing a sad song about Coney Island with Van
Morrison.
It is almost four in the morning. Silence, which hurts like loneliness.
Coney Island, New York, Tuesday, January 13, 1998
This place is poor now and it longs for the long-gone days of prosperity. A kind of medieval fair. The atmosphere of a circus, of an amusement
park, of a Gypsy camp. At a sideshow performance in some tent, I saw a
bearded woman, albino snakes, 10-inch tall dwarves, Siamese sisters with only
two breasts, a dog with no paws, a gigantic man and a boy with 12 fingers in
one hand. The entrance fee was five dollars. After leaving, I quickly
ran to the subway, because there was lots of great dry red wine waiting for
me in my studio.
"Samotnia" Mountain Hostel, Poland, Saturday, October 21, 1985
It is already after breakfast. Kielbasa, tomatoes, terribly sweet
tea. And now, good coffee, cigarettes and lots of sunshine outside. Room
17. Today, I will take pictures with my camera, which I dropped on the
pavement a few weeks ago. Idid not eat the kielbasa.
"Samotnia" Mountain Hostel, Poland, Sunday, October 22, 1985
"Human interventions in photographs (framing, distance, exposure, focus,
shutter time) belong to the level of connotation, as if at the beginning (even
if at a utopian one only) existed a brutal, naked photography (upfront and sharp),
on which man, with the aid of various techniques, imposes signs borrowed from
cultural codes. Only the juxtaposition of the cultural code and the natural
un-code seems to be able to account for the specific nature of a photograph
and to allow for the assessment of the anthropological revolution, which the
photograph represents in the history of mankind." This is what I'm
reading today (Roland Barthes). Iam drinking coffee, taking new pictures
for you and preparing to leave.
"Samotnia" Mountain Hostel, Poland, Monday, October 23, 1985
I went to photograph after breakfast. My thought were with the wandering
photographers of the past. Irecalled Chagall, Weston, Chopin Park, tea
and Russian pierogis, Paris and Amsterdam, Kutno and Suwalki, some small galleries
"somewhere out there," the drunken Modigliani, Jakub the Dog, trains
and train stations, wind and rain, and Sirius Beta.
Montreal, Quebec, Saturday, November 1, 1997
In Poland All Saints' Day is being celebrated. Tomorrow is All Souls'
Day. The smell of candles, Polish Autumn, leaves in cemeteries, the graves
of loved ones. At home, tea, crumb plum cake. Now, pain. I
lost my brother this year, my mom died a few months later.
Jersey City, New Jersey, Monday, December 22, 1997
Two day left to Christmas Eve. Ibought a small, beautiful Christmas tree
in a pot. And, imagine, the tree has fallen out of the window. We
don't even know when. We don't know why, either. Iwonder where it is now,
with whom and if it is happy. It was exceptionally shapely, richly green and
it smelled wonderfully.
Port Henry, New York, Tuesday, November 4, 1997
Interstate Highway 87. Istill have five hours of travel, give or
take, until I reach New York. It is pouring. We are passing trucks
carrying lumber, old villages, abandoned farms. Diamont Point, a tiny
town on a lake with a beautiful view of the mountains. Ithink on the
Karkonosze Mountains. Saratoga Springs. Immediately, Evan's photograph
("Main Street, Saratoga Springs, 1931") comes to my mind. We
are driving along the Hudson River.
New York, New York, Tuesday, October 28, 1997
Early afternoon. My studio in Manhattan. Paintings, old and
new photographs, some drawings and large stretchers surround me. There
is a store window in front of me which reflects the yellow sign "Chelsea
Art Supplies. Custom Framing and Stretching." A small table
and a large coffee. Ihave had the same view since April 1997. Iam in this insane
place because I have really superb thoughts about photography here. Poland at
the end of 1996 and the beginning of 1997. 106 days. Gdansk, Jelenia
Gora, Opole, Lodz, Warsaw, my home town of Wroclaw. But at the beginning,
the little town of Jagniatkow, completely unknown to me. The meeting with
Wojtek. It's been ten years since I left Poland. Old smells and
climates. Memories. And around me, so many new and different things which are
not mine. And I am, of course, different, new and not my own as well.
Warsaw, Poland, Wednesday, October 15, 1997
Wojtek, the "Wild Boar" Restaurant (right next to the Warsaw Central
Station). Noon. "Mocne Okocim" beer, two scrambled eggs
with one mushroom. And white does in the woods. We will be in Gdansk-Oliwa
in a few hours. Yesterday, it was Wroclaw and Opole. The day before
yesterday, it was Opole, Wroclaw and Opole again. Saj, the Puchalas, my
mom, brother, Magda's sister. On Saturday, Jedlina Zdroj and Ewa and Piotr.
In Warsaw, the meeting with Mirka, in Opole, the charming visit to Mark's and
Slawoj's homes. The Central Station, somewhat small and empty. And
Warsaw looks different as well. I feel sad. Maybe I now lack the
good (meaning appropriately large) distance from it all. On the radio Stan
Borys is singing "A Walk on the Wild Beach."
New York, New York, Wednesday, December 24, 1997
Christmas Eve. B.M.W. Bar. Early Afternoon. Iam drinking
coffee, smoking a cigarette and staring pointlessly on my photographs, which
have been hanging in this place for the past few days. There is no snow,
but outside on the street and inside of me it is very Christmassy. Manhattan. It is already evening where you are. Where are you, what are doing
when I write my writings to you.
Jersey City, New Jersey, Sunday, January 4, 1998
It is almost ten in the morning. Iam sitting in a small restaurant
on the Hudson. Ican see the Empire State Building and its surroundings. It's gray and partly cloudy outside. The light is photogenic, just
the way I like it.
Champlain, New York, Tuesday, November 4, 1997
New York State. The border crossing. It is 11:15 AM, we are
already in the USA. After the passport control, a beautiful black dog
sniffed our baggage. On the bus, and on we go. This is a gorgeous
travel route. picturesque, winding through mountains and old abandoned settlements.
Interstate 87. Iam going back home.
Jersey City, New Jersey, Friday, November 7, 1997
I reminisce everything at this point. Now, Montreal. Autumn,
yellow and red leaves on the streets, the sun and St. Lawrence River, enormous
ocean liners, space. Icannot describe what I see very well. And
it always goes like this. maybe it is photography? Longing. Longing
for a great journey, longing for the unknown, longing for the known and for
what is beyond the horizon.
Jersey City, New Jersey, Saturday, December 19, 1998
I just finished decorating a beautiful and extraordinarily large dracaena
which stands next to the window. Ihung two hundred blinking Christmas
lights on it. The composition looks impressive. Ifed Ewka the Dog
in a pre-Christmas manner. "You Are My Special Angel" is playing on
the radio. It is exactly the way I like it. The mood is cozy, full
of longing, perhaps even nostalgic. Does this sound too serious? On
the shelf, next to the books, stand a few photographs from the trip to
Canada. Ewa sleeps. Magda is at work, my older daughter Agnieszka is reading
Dostoyevski, my younger one, Ania, is making fresh carrot juice in Manhattan,
Marcelo is falling asleep with Andrew in his studio near the World Trade Center,
Jakub is trying to recall my last name, Wojtek in Jelenia Gora is falling asleep
by his guitar, Jacek and Agnieszka are lighting a fire in the stove and listening
to the latest Clapton, Andrzej from Canada inhales an unnecessary cigarette
and coughs, someone else is planning the last and final judgment on Polish photography,
Bogdan has succeeded again, sepia toner for new prints "ferments"
in my photographic sink. And I am writing this travel journal for you. As you can see, the photographs which are now in Paris, on your huge desk,
which is covered with grease stains left there by old butter, are connected
with the journal. They are, as I call them, fragments of the Milky Way. How nice that sounds. And how pathetic!
Jersey City, New Jersey, Monday, December 21, 1998
Max, the carpenter, and his carpenter wife are cutting new boards. The
Black man, in the studio next to mine, is again torturing me with music, which
I do not want to hear anymore. The deaf and mute sculptor from upstairs
is throwing his unsuccessful constructs of wood and metal on his floor, which
is my ceiling. Slava, a charming Jew from Moscow, is frying yet another pseudo-kosher
steak. The band downstairs is rehearsing for a New Year's Eve party. And
I am writing here and am sometimes fed up with everything.
Enterprice, Ontario, Saturday, December 5, 1998
The full moon is already gone, but its light is still rather strong. When
I turn the lamp above the bed off, I can see the distant trees and the road
in this light. Andrzej's car and the pinhole camera's box.
In my mind, I am taking some one total photograph outside. Iturn the lamp on. Next to me, a beautiful book about Kieslowski. And
once again, the disgusting, large fly, its buzz low and loud, becomes active. Ifeel terrible, my throat hurts, my kidneys hurt
a little and my nose is running. It is cold. Ihave the lingering memory of my conversation with Andrzej, we spoke about
my first experiences as an immigrant in New York. This conversation left
us with a feeling of disgust and exhaustion. Ifeel like going outside and taking a picture with my Horsman camera. Ithink I'll do it. Ihave been exposing a new negative for five minutes now. It is rather
dark. Idetermined the focus and the frame of the picture with the help
of a small flashlight. Burek, Andrzej's enormous dog, is standing like
set in concrete between the car, the moon and my camera. This bear-like
creature trampled into my frame.
Five minutes have passed.
It is almost 6:20 AM. Iam finishing yet another coffee.
The dog went somewhere. In a few minutes, I will finish the exposure.
It was a mystical night, despite the fact that nothing special has happened
(aperture 16, time 50 minutes).
Jersey City, New Jersey, Thursday, December 24, 1998
The year's first snow is falling. Christmas Eve. Irecall all
the Christmas Eves past, at my parents' house in Wroclaw. Iremember so
well the tin fire engine with a mobile ladder which my cousin from Inowroclaw
received. Ireceived a similar fire engine, but its ladder did not move. Iwas extremely envious of his present.
Yonkers, New York, Saturday, November 28, 1998
It's nice and comfortable. The train is traveling fast. On the
left side of the tracks, I still see the Hudson River. On the left, we
are passing a town. The town is so-so, but the river is beautiful. The
sun is shining. Iam chewing gum, I feel like smoking and I miss you. Ihear the silence
of this river, I hear the silence of the small towns which we pass. The
woods, bent phone poles.
A pretty Black woman just bought herself a coffee. Iwant a coffee as
well.
There are many abandoned houses and towns right by the train tracks. Even
the trees and the dried-out lakes look like they have been abandoned for good. Iam kind of sad.
The City Hall in Albany and the surrounding buildings remind me the "Gothic"
Ottawa. Ipass the capital of New York State with no regrets. Idon't really know why am I thinking about the little hotel in the Warsaw's
Bemowo. Later, the Forum Hotel, phone calls to Canada. It was really
like that! Before that, a night in Legionowo and, right after the wedding,
a night at the Lech Hotel in Poznan.
We will reach Saratoga Springs in a few minutes. Here, Walker Evans took
a few good "frames." Some kid is wailing in the back, he probably
fell. Serves him right, but why is he screaming so loud?
The Black woman next to me is probably around 30.
Saratoga Springs. The ugliest train station I have ever seen. Iwonder where Evans stayed the night.
And the train keeps going. The sun is still shining, but I see quite a
few rain clouds ahead. Isee cows, lean horses, deteriorating barns and
extremely poor farms. Fort Edward - Glens Falls. Some houses, ghosts
by a ghostly river. It saddens me to see all this...
The moon is out already. The mountains are getting bare. Port Henry. Isee a great deal of natural destruction. Withered trees, wrecks of cars
and boats. It looks depressing.
It is already after the sunset. Beautiful views of the Hudson. The
landscape looks threatening and majestic. We will be crossing the Canadian border
in a few minutes.
New York, New York, Tuesday, November 25, 1997
Philip Glass and The Photographer. Do you know it? A
very unsettling and extraordinary tale. Eadweard Muybridge and his story. With music, Glass tells about a great and renowned photographer who, on
October 17, 1874, shot his wife Flora's lover, Colonel Larkyns, near San
Francisco. It was a once internationally celebrated court case. Muybridge
was acquitted in the end and took the upbringing of the child born out of this
unlucky and extramarital relationship upon himself.
New Orleans, Louisiana, Thursday, April 16, 1998
I saw the new, exceptional, very "photographic" film by Sally
Porter, starring Sally Porter, The Tango Lesson. Watch it if you get
the chance.
Photography, its might, its strength, its power and mystery.
And you simply have to see the erotic, obsessive, dense and perhaps dangerous
film by Peter Greenaway, The Pillow Book.
Will we see each other again?
New York, New York, Friday, October 31, 1997
On the way to Andrzej from Canada. The bus, softly and comfortably
(and in the dark), is bringing me to Montreal. Later, another one will bring
me to Kingston. Andrzej will be waiting there.
Coffee, cigarette. Next to me, on the other side of the isle, a young
Canadian woman sleeps. She is French-speaking. Ilike that. She's
pretty. She blew up a large pillow, drank two cups of coffee from a thermos,
smiled erotically at me and went to sleep. Behind us, Manhattan. The
quiet highway. And there is Porth Authority on my mind with Magda, who
always sees me off when I go on a journey. Now I carry her image through
a small piece of a large America.
Jelenia Gora, Poland, Sunday, January 4, 1998
You know, I am writing this only for you. With toil and stage fright,
because I do not want to be misunderstood. "Take" it please. And here, huge winds blow, and the end of the world seems to be near.
From letters/travel journals of Andrzej Lech (a photographer from New York)
to Roberto Michael (a translator from Paris).
New York, New York, January 1999