Great Black and White Photographers Part 3

1) The hazy look that comes from shooting with film cameras is what caught my eye. I shoot with film myself sometimes, so I really enjoy looking at his work. The use of geometric patterns and the double/layered effect in some most of his images is also unique and appealing. Because I like to travel, I originally decided to research some of these images because they were taken in places I have been or want to go.

2. 

I see the hustle of the city streets and the boats on the water. The dirty men reach land and celebrate. Boxes are being thrown from the ships onto the deck and vice versa. Ropes, anchors, fish, and tarps are thrown about. The water around me is teaming with small fish, insects, and debris.

I hear the crash of the waves, people yelling, and boxes being moved. Wood splits and glass breaks. The wind whips through my ears and the tarps dance through it. The water splashes against the wood of the dock. 

I taste my dry mouth, absent of saliva. The hard day's work leaves the permanent taste of salt and fish in my mouth. When I return home form work, I will indulge in the bread, fish, rum, and carrots that my wife has prepared for me.   

I smell the  musty air of the stale river and the old, rotting wood. I inhale the humid air, the aftermath of London rains. The sweat of the boaters and dock workers hangs low in the fog.  The rotten stench of fish permeates the air. 

I touch the creaky wood of the dock below me, the rotten wood would leave splinters in my toes if it wasn't for the hardy leather work boots snugging to my feet. Water splashes on my boots, already ruined from water exposure, but we lack to the money to replenish them. I can feel the salt on my skin, the aftermath of the splashes evaporating off of my face, as the wind adds more.

I see the view out of the window and the solemn face of the man. He stares off in the distance and strokes his chin, the skin too old for such a young man. The clouds loom over the city streets, normally bustling but empty now. He adjusts his glasses and stares into the darkened sky. 

I hear his theories spill out of his mouth, as well as the words he reads from his paper. The rain beats against the window, a rough pitter-patter. The tea kettle screams, breaking his concentration. 

I taste the tea I sip as I listen to him speak. The warm chamomile slides down my throat. I add a sugar cube, a certain delight and rare morsel in this household. 

I smell the comfy air of candle smoke and a meal cooking in our home. The smell of rain wafts in, even though the doors and windows are closed. The smoke of the other man's cigar hangs low in the air.

I touch the worn fabric of the chair, my feet rubbing against the smooth wood of the floorboards, a blanket pulled up to my chin as the storm rages against the window. The hot cup of tea wars my hands through the glass as I hand him the mug.