DARIN HAYTON

Tag: Vienna

  • Making Zines

    Making Zines

    I like making things. Little things. Big things. Lately, I’ve been having fun with an 8-page zine. Printed from one piece of paper, folded, and cut, it is to me the ideal format for a short outing, or for a case study of a place. Or, I can look back through photographs I’ve taken to find a group of 8 that make a good theme.

    A color photograph of zines I have made recently.
    Some of the zines I have been making lately.

    They are easy and relatively quick to print and to fold. I use 11″x17″ sheets of paper, so that each page is about 4″x5″, large enough to showcase the photographs but not so large as to be bulky. I tweaked the layout a bit so that the cover image wraps around the front and back covers.

    Color photograph of the “Vienna at Night” zine, before I folded and cut it.
    The “Vienna at Night” zine before I folded and cut it.

    This format also gives a place to print a large photograph on the back side. It’s sort of a surprise for the person looking at the zine, and a puzzle — it seems unfolding and refolding the zine presents something of a challenge for people, which I didn’t expect.

    A color picture of the Glorietta in Vienna, which is the central image in my zine.
    A picture of the Glorietta that is the central image of the zine “Vienna at Night”

    When it is all done, trimmed, folded, and cut, the zine is the perfect size for my guerrilla art projects. I have given them to friends and handed them to people I don’t know, left them on tables and shelves in coffeeshops, stuffed them between books in libraries and bookstores, and left them on seats in buses.

    Color photograph of the cover of the “Vienna at Night” zine, showing half of the Hofburg.
    The cover of the “Vienna at Night” zine.

    I don’t know what happens to those I abandon in the world. And I don’t really care. The point, for me, is in the making and giving away (not, I stress, “sharing” which has become an essential part of the economy of likes, has become entirely transactional, and depends on knowing what happens to whatever you make).

    Color photograph of two pages in the “Vienna at Night” zine, after I folded and cut it.
    Two of the pages in the “Vienna at Night” zine, after I folded, cut, and pressed it flat.

    Sometimes I leave the house, camera in hand, looking for a coherent set of images that work well together. That was the case with the “Walking in Sacramento” or the “Alone in Philadelphia” zines — I knew an afternoon’s walk would produce at least 8 scenes I could cobble together into a zine. Other times, I draw from a few trips out and about, as in the “Vienna at Night” zines (there are two of these zines, gathering together the photographs from a few nights wandering the city late at night). In other cases, a zine emerges when I’m looking back through photos I’ve taken over a number of trips out. “Alone in Jefferson” is that type — the central image is part of a collection of photographs I’ve taken usually in Jefferson Station that highlight the loneliness of the modern world.

    Color photograph of the central image in the “Alone in Jefferson” zine. A man stands alone against a blue tiled wall. He looks towards his feet.
    The central image for the “Alone in Jefferson” zine.

    Any group of 8 photographs that cohere can become one of these little zines. Inspired by Alexey Titarenko, I took a bunch of photographs of people in a local cafe (see Ghosts in the Cafe). Turns out I have 8 that work well together, so I printed them as a zine. Seems appropriate that I left a handful in that cafe.

    Black and white photograph of a spread from the “Ephemeral” zine, showing ghost like figures is a cafe.
    A spread from the “Ephemeral” zine.

    Like all of my projects, this one will last as long as I find it amusing or interesting. I will continue to print copies of these zines, and cast them into the world. If you’d like to receive a few, send me $10 and your address. I will send you three random zines. Or, offer something in exchange.

  • My Sandbox

    My Sandbox

    I make things. I often use tools other people have developed, e.g., hammers (some people forge their own hammers, I don’t) and screwdrivers and saws; cameras (some people make their own cameras, I don’t) and printers and developing tanks; ovens and baking pans and measuring cups. But in the end, I use those tools to make things. I make things because I enjoy making (I also enjoy taking things apart, but that’s a different story). Sometimes the things I make are lovely and work well, sometimes they aren’t and don’t. It doesn’t matter. What matters to me (and I’m the only one who matters in this story) is I made them.

    I don’t assemble things (unless I have to).

    Urban #240309.1. A dark photograph of a corner of a courtyard, one light and a door.
    Urban #240309.1.

    Perhaps that is why I don’t have a social media presence, why I don’t write on the many very beautiful and shiny platforms that encourage writing, why I don’t share my thoughts in 280 characters, why I don’t collect images I find online into a virtual scrapbook. Such fora are not tools for making something, at least not in the way I like to make things. They might let me assemble something, and that something might be slick and look remarkably like millions of other things people have assembled — the internet is a monotonous wasteland of polished similarity, like some vast 1990s housing development that’s not going to age well or, apparently, any coffee shop anywhere.

    Urban #240309.2. A dark photograph of a doorway, two lights on either side and some cobblestones in front.
    Urban #240309.2.

    Instead, I have my little sandbox, where I build the things I want to build in the way I want to build them (to be sure, the tools I have chosen constrain what I can make — when that becomes a problem for me, I’ll find new tools). I don’t need anybody’s approval or disapproval, and I am not looking to start a “discussion” — if you want to chat, send me an email so we can meet for coffee. I don’t need anybody’s validation through comments or trackbacks. I take this position not because I have aversion to “someone else’s platform” or a fear of an algorithm or urge to be/build my own platform or worry about being the fodder for some other platform’s monetization scheme or worry my stuff will disappear. Those old chestnuts are still legitimate, I guess, but seem to privilege monetizing over making.

    I just kinda like making things.

  • Longing

    Longing

    I find the world unknowable and therefore fascinating, unfamiliar and therefore irresistible. I long for that space where life seems uncertain, where I have to revise or reject the comfortable assumptions and convictions that have structured my life.

    Urban #240311.1 Color photo of a man walking in front of a large, beige-colored building
    Urban #240311.1.

    I used to frequent a local coffee shop where I often saw a particular woman. Whenever she saw me, she would move to the table next to mine and start writing on whatever piece of paper she had available. After a few minutes, she would hand me the piece of paper covered in rapid scrawlings and signed AST, smile, and then sit silently. I don’t recall her ever speaking to me. I don’t see her any longer — the coffee shop has closed. I miss our encounters. I learned a lot from watching her and trying to understand her world, which was very different from mine. Now and then, when I’m feeling smug, I pull out those sheets of paper and look back over them.

    Urban #240311.2 Color photo of a man standing in front of a large, beige-colored building.
    Urban #240311.2.

    A few years back, an incarcerated man sent me a couple letters outlining his critique of society. Pages filled with carefully hand-written words, each letter almost typewriter perfect. Diagrams drawn with draftsman like precision. In the upper left corner, in place of a staple, an orange thread pierced the pages and stitched them together. Another encounter with a world that is very different from mine. Those letters are in the drawer with the pages from AST.

    Urban #240311.3 Color photo of a man throwing his arms up to hug a woman, who is also throwing up her arms, in front of a large, beige-colored building.
    Urban #240311.3.

    These encounters with the absurdity of life give me energy. Some unanswered and probably unanswerable longing for the unknown drives me. That longing is the wellspring of all my creativity, which might turn out to be ravings of a lunatic, but what higher purpose can there be for creativity.

  • Celebrating Imperfect

    Celebrating Imperfect

    The patterns created by the stairs and shadows intrigued me, as did the contrast between the parallels of light and dark, on the right, and the smooth, evenly lit surface on the left. I like the photograph I made that summer afternoon, I like it because it reminds me of the afternoon wandering the gardens, and I like it because I think the two halves present an interesting contrast. But somehow the photo doesn’t capture what I saw in my mind when I took it. It falls short of my imagined picture and include aspects that distract. But I still like this photograph.

    #170825

    My dissatisfaction with this photo has nothing to do with the picture itself and everything to do with how the picture fails to compel the real world to conform to the image in my head. A translation error prevents me from mapping the ideal world onto the physical world, the world in which I live. I am reminded of Plato’s story about the Demiurge, his quasi-divine, omniscient but far from omnipotent creator. This Demiurge was burdened with creating the messy, flawed world we humans inhabit out of some ideal, eternal, and immaterial world of forms. In every instance, however, the Demiurge was thwarted by the recalcitrant matter that refused in random and unpredictable ways to conform to the plan. We are left with the flawed, decaying real world filled with things that only approximate their ideal models. With every photograph I am enacting in some limited, two-dimensional way the Demiurge’s struggles. I have access to an ideal photograph that exists only in my imagination, but my efforts to realize that photograph always fall short because the world refuses to conform to my ideas.

    #191207

    The contrasting halves, the crooked lines converging at the top, the tooling marks on the steps, the eroded stone captured my attention. I took a dozen photos of this scene, and although I like this one most, it too fails to capture what I saw. Within the self-help and motivational cottage industry there is a sector devoted to the pursuit of perfection. On the one hand, somebody with a fancy wireless mic pacing around a stages for three to ten minutes urges us to stop letting the idea of perfection paralyze us. The self-help language stretches and distends the aphoristic: “Perfect is the enemy of the good.” On the other hand, somebody, often on the same stage with the same fancy wireless mic and for the same three to ten minutes, reminds us that by striving for perfection we can achieve greatness. The motivational language expands and dilates the aphoristic: “…if we chase perfection we can catch excellence.” The messages are honest, earnest, and affirmational.

    #210111

    The fractured steps, the weeds, and the graffiti all attest to the impermanence and imperfections of human creation. Plato’s Demiurge never stopped creating imperfect, flawed, degenerate and degenerating things. The goal was not to produce perfect but to produce imperfect. For by considering the limitless series of imperfect humans might glimpse the perfect, or at least imagine it. The imperfect encourages us to reflect, to contemplate, and to imagine. So celebrate the imperfect for it is the only way to bridge the gap between the real and the imagined.

  • Look closely

    Look closely

    Linger for a moment to look closely at the shell in the display case. It has been there, the label claims, for more than a century. The curator who first selected it for display along with how many of the other workers who have tended to it over the years are now dead. Yet the shell continues to sit there, silently beckoning to occasional museum visitor. How many stop to appreciate its form?

    Just a shell.

    Perhaps only those who might also stop in a portico to admire the form of a staircase.

  • 52 / 3 Available

    52 / 3 Available

    The latest issue of 52 arrived yesterday. They look great. I had them printed locally, at Fireball Printing in Philadelphia. They did an excellent job. The print quality is superb. The paper has a nice, rich, substantial feel, making it a pleasure to sit and look through while enjoying a cup of coffee.

    I’ve started distributing them. So let me know if you want a copy.

  • 52 / 3

    52 / 3

    I just received the proof for the next issue of 52. This issue collects together black and white photographs documenting some effects of the current pandemic — the vacant streets and empty businesses — as well as some photographs of the city at night.

    As with the previous issues, I enjoy the way the printed photograph encourages a different engagement with the image. There is no scrolling, no share-on-social-media button (no buttons at all, in fact), no likes. Just a series of photographs that would complement a morning coffee and croissant.

    I should receive the final version in the next few days. Let me know if you would like to receive a copy.

  • If on a Winter’s Afternoon…

    If on a Winter’s Afternoon…

    You had been wandering the streets for a few hours looking for some scene, some storefront, courtyard, or back alley. Now and then you sought shelter from the drizzle, ducking into a café or standing in a doorway. The dreary sky and glistening cobblestones suited the city, which somehow seems to glow with its own internal light. Although you started in the center amongst the cacophony of shoppers and strollers, you prefer the surrounding districts with their distinct personalities. Your path wound further and further out into the less trafficked neighborhoods. Then, when the snow started to fall, you left the streets behind and wandered into ….

    Alone in a garden with snow-covered fountains.

    A heavy snow had been falling for a couple hours by the time I passed through the gates. It was a lovely evening, I thought, to linger in the imperial gardens. As I wound my way deeper into the gardens I passed the occasional visitor walking back along the pathways toward the exit and the city beyond the walls. We exchanged nods or fleeting pleasantries about the weather. At some point I realized that I had stopped seeing other people. Even their footprints were disappearing gathering darkness. Wandering amongst the trees and past the empty fountains, their sculptures blanketed in snow, I felt as if I had the place to myself.

    Soon even their footprints would disappear.

    Oh shit, I thought, I do have the place to myself. I haven’t seen anybody for at least 30 minutes. It is unmistakably dark now. And although it is not cold, a heavy, wet snow continues to fall from the leaden sky. It’s 7:00 now. What time do they lock the gates? I had only glanced at the sign as I entered, but I seem to recall 5:30. Surely that was just a suggestion, or when they stopped letting people into the gardens.

    Fifteen minutes later, standing in front of the really tall, really locked gates, I am rethinking my decision not to pay attention to the time. There is no one-way turnstile to let people out, as I had vaguely hoped there might be. There is no guard in the guardhouse to save absent-minded visitors from themselves. No. There is just a formidable gate, topped with spikes that are clearly more than just aesthetic embellishments. I have a perverse appreciation for the symmetry of these gates. Originally designed to project an image of strength and authority outwards to the masses, and to keep those people out, these gates and the walls surrounding the gardens work equally well to trap people inside. Just to be sure, I push on the gates. They neither move nor even make a sound. Standing there in the dark silence of the garden, I can hear cars accelerate from the intersection just 50 yards and a 10-foot wall from me.

    Worth every minute of effort.

    After checking various other gates to confirm that they too are locked for the night, I begin looking for the section of wall I can most easily scale, importantly a section without the big, sharp spikes along the top. And I’m wondering what the penalty will be should I get caught. Surely I can talk my way out of a night in jail, but given the local preference for fines, I suspect it will cost me.

    Speaking of fines, isn’t there a police station by one of the entrances? Not, of course, the one close to me. In fact, given the direction I wandered the perimeter, that entrance is rather far from me. Did I mention the snow, which an hour ago was lovely but is now considerably less so? As I trudge back through the snow, I think: I might be spending the night under the stairs behind the palace. At least that’ll be a story.

    Oh good, there’s the station. And I see somebody inside.

    From there the evening got kinda boring.