Ghost Stuck To My Elbow

Stroked By The Brush

Xmas break takes over everything and puts me in my place.

I've never really been as deep into this role of The Dad as I am at this time. There are no jobs to escape to, no co-workers to spend time with, no important phone calls to engage in. Everyone knows that the world of art and commerce is shut down. The kids know it better than anyone. I'm here and I'm present, there is no juggling of anything for two weeks. I just have one role and one set of things to think about.

The doors will be closing. Please stand clear of the doors.

The doors will be closing. Please stand clear of the doors.

The phrase is repeated obsessively whenever we encounter a moving door. At the library, on a bus, at the supermarket. It comes from deep within and interrupts common conversation. It's stated as an impulse, a reaction, not as a collection of thoughts expressed. It is repeated in exact tone and rhythm without meaning. This is echolilia.

The memorization of subway schedules. The tracking of buses and their schedules in real time. The affected style of speech, with a sing song up and down pattern. The focused attention on complex mechanical gears: bus doors, elevator doors, sliding doors, multi-plane doors that fit into each other. The lack of interest in physical affection...he never needs to be hugged, it just doesn't make him feel better.

A mainstream book on autism came into the house. We laughed at it at first...we really kind of had forgotten the whole diagnosis we got last year and have come to think of these characteristics as part of his personality that we just embrace. This book had 'em all, like a check list: yes, yes, no on that, not that one, yes, kind of, yes.

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The book had one concept that really was the keeper: some kids get clobbered by this autism thing and it takes over their entire being while other kids just get gently stroked by the brush. Some of these compulsions stick like pollen, others don't, and all other qualities stay the same. During this break it was clear that what we got was the gentle brushing... that is what has made it so confusing to pin point and figure out.

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Having an answer to the riddle feels always very different than simply having the riddle.

Ranch Thatchmo: One Year Old and Dying

Thatcher Keats started Rancho Thatchmo a year ago, published a photograph everyday, and has closed shop. The experiment is over, but it certainly was addictive...I tuned in every day.

Who is TK? Looks like he is a Dad and it looks like he savors his role in life. He claims to live in NYC, but all his images depict a childhood on permanent vacation: tall grasses and wild weeds to run thru, natural pools to swim in, oceans to get absorbed in and everything looks like it is illustrating a mythological childhood...the one that exists only in fables.

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I don't know TK, we've corresponded cryptically, but I always imagined he had some missing years...the big chunks of time that allowed him to learn the secrets.

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Here are some favorites from the first and last year of the Rancho. Enjoy:

all photographs by Thatcher Keats

Transmissions From The Holiday

Firewood 12/08

3 Staples, Paper, Ink and A Sticker

Kids, Bechtle, and Commercial Photography

The images from this project are getting close to done, so I thought I'd better post some before everyone logged off for the holidays. Here are some, but more to come....they are all so far away by design that you may want to click them to see'em big. Read here and here about the process. Post production on this by Laura Johnston here in SF.