Published Article for a literary journal on fine art photographer Michael Levin
My first magazine cover story. Sub-Terrain wanted to feature Michael Levin’s photography and I was brought in to write the feaure. The result was a wry travelogue that tries to see as Michael sees, not only what he saw. This is an excerpt.
There is no noticeable change to the sky as we cross the border. America begins to roll out ahead of us under the same blue light we left behind in Canada – or are trying to leave behind if the American border guard will let us through. The guard’s questions become more pointed. A yellow sticker is attached to the windshield. We are told to wait in the main office until a second agent can interrogate us further. All of these sharp inquiries aren’t prompted by a found stash of B.C. bud or a well-thumbed copy of the Koran – two potential threats to a nation at war on multiple fronts. Rather, it’s a Hasseblad camera in the back seat that glints in the slick glasses of our border guard. Though we’re coming to America simply to view the old posts, weathered pilings and common objects in Port Townsend, Washington – not airport terminals or subway stations or other “target” sites – still we might see too much. Seeing things can now be an act of subversion. Despite his designation as International Photographer of the Year, Michael Levin is under suspicion.
Once we’ve explained our way through Customs, Michael picks up the pace, chasing the fading light. Whenever he travels, he carries charts on sunsets and tide levels – so many hard calculations about fleeting moments. Summer is at a high pitch but when we get out of the car at Deception Pass, it’s cool and damp between the trees and there is a heaviness in the air. A big load of clouds thud across the sky and a brisk wind filled with moisture squalls in off the water. A rare midsummer’s fog will move in later but Michael already has a taste for it. The promise of a good night shoot pricks his skin.
Travelling from Canada, the quickest way to reach Port Townsend is the ferry from Whidbey Island. Otherwise you must go down through the snarl of traffic in Seattle and then back up to the floating bridge over the Hood Canal. Michael made the longer journey several times before realising a shorter route existed. But now we are looking for a shortcut through the shortcut, a backroad beeline to the ferry terminal at Keystone. We are trying to get ahead of the weather and Michael is sensitive to the wasting light.
We stop to ask directions from a young woman waiting for an overdue local bus to take her to the terminal. After pointing us to the correct road, she accepts our offer for a ride. The car quickly fills up with words. Settled in next to Michael’s camera bag, she nestles her paperback with its pretty pink scroll of a title into her lap and pushes her sunglases off her face. We’ll ride out the next two miles on a colourful ribbon of words about her life, the island, her boyfriend and how her boyfriend make her life on the island a living hell. She has a lot to say. A ragged tumble of thoughts as green as the surrounding landscape. When Michael asks her about a different route to the ferry she replies that she’s never “tooken” it before. Michael catches hold of the word.
Once our guest has got out to walk onto the ferry, Michael repeats the word. Tooken. He’ll come back to it several more times during our trip, not in criticism but curiousity. He likes the odd shape of common words. The way we impose our personalities into verbal space through a twist of ordinary language. So one word caught the wind of his attention and carried us to a place familiar but new.
We stop for a snack at a seaside cafe in Keystone while waiting for the ferry. Michael eats a heaping plate of french fries drenched in malt vinegar. The place is obviously a popular spot for local photographers. The wormwood walls are covered in thumbtacked photos of sunsets and watery panoramas, each trying to outbid each other on nature’s grand and garish beauty. The walls look like a cattle call for a tourist brochure. Every rainbow ends here. Michael spies the ferry before I do and is out the door faster than a bulb flash.
