"..What God-Fearing People Do On Sundays..."

When I was first approached by the Tricycle Dance Company to do shots for the promotion of their first show, I stood by the philosophy that I think most photographers tend to stick by: Say “yes”, and ask questions later.

Shooting for “promotional purposes” seemed vague to me, and I rarely turn my camera on without knowing some kind of background and such about my subject. So, I asked Crissy and Carrie (who also run the Dover Yoga Studio www.doveryoga.com ) to tell me a bit more about the purpose of the shoot, and the concept behind it all. Crissy’s email reply is best summed up by one phrase she included: “…Think 1950’s pinup”. Naturally after reading this, I ‘pumped the brakes’ a touch, and then continued on reading. What I had signed up for was the following:

The Tricycle Dance Company was preparing to put on its first show, in which it would combine Modern and Burlesque Dance. Now, Burlesque is not dormant, per se, in the world of performance arts, but for all intents and purposes this would be a revival of the genre here in New Hampshire. The goal of the Dance Company's performance is to have fun, put on an entertaining show, and to raise as much money as possible for Save The Ta-Tas (a breast cancer coalition). Now that I had the gist,next came my own research into the Burlesque genre of performance art; my creative process was underway...

It wasn’t until I started researching the origin and history of Burlesque dancing that I understood exactly what I was up against as the photographer. Remember what I mentioned about saying “yes”? Well, feel free to live by that philosophy, but just make sure you’ve got the guts to photograph 12 beautiful and talented women who are extremely comfortable with their bodies. Burlesque Dance is defined generally as "a humorous and provocative stage show featuring slapstick humor, comic skits, bawdy songs, striptease acts, and a scantily clad female chorus" (thanks, dictionary.com!).

It turns out that Burlesque has quite a history. As I delved into researching the genre, I began drawing all sorts of parallels between the Tricycle Dance Co. show and the women’s movement which some would say is ongoing. As I usually do, I found myself wondering if I was just over-analyzing things, but I kept gravitating toward this idea:

The 1900s was a big century for women – after centuries of being objectified, women’s identities began to take form (mind you, Burlesque has roots that reach further back in time, as does the women's movement). There was rebellion, fun and relative freedom (think of flappers, voting, and the hula-hoop). Women were also becoming more in touch with their bodies and identities. Enter: Burlesque. Burlesque Dancers, women who were at times more nude than clothed, performed by taking off their outfits dancing provocatively for audiences made up of mostly men. The word Burlesque can be translated to turning something upside- down, as these shows tended to do with certain cultural norms of the day. The shows also included some saucy parody. Girls would put on skits in which they would pretended to be flakey, clumsy, naïve, and corny. The Burlesque dances themselves were sexy, somewhat objectifying, and overtly playful. A good deal of the performances tended to poke fun at the Aristocracy of the times. With all of these thoughts whirling about in my head, I asked myself why else would women objectify themselves in this way, especially after spending so many years being objectified by men? Ever heard the phrase, “Thumbing your nose at the system”? Well, if you think about it this phrase applies perfectly. What could be a more stylish way to break free then to make mockery of the shackles that once bound you? These women were acquiescing with the past, subliming from object to subject, and finally coming to rest at an identity that was smart, comfortable, fun and free - causing ruckus and entertainment all the while!

By and large, there is also something is to be said about Tricycle Dance Co putting on a burlesque show to raise money for breast cancer prevention, treatment and research. Breast cancer is, in many ways, a sort of new oppressor for women - and as they have done in the past, women are finding all sorts of ways to thumb their nose at this new detriment; the Tricycle Dance Company is a great example of such.

So if anyone thinks I’ve over analyzed this, picture my wife shaking her head and saying, "Well, that means that everything in the universe is completely normal." It's a tendancy I suppose i have.

In terms of the photo shoot, it was such a blast. These women did all of the hard work. I mean, holding a pose is certainly tough, but holding it while performing an areal fabric dance redefines the very meaning of ‘tough’. These women handled it though, and they made the shoot a complete success, and a lot of fun. I think it was Heidi who came to me at the begining of the second shoot and said, "So...I guess this is what God-fearing people do on Sundays, huh?" ...seriously, these ladies had me laughing more than once!

My closing remarks are simple: mark February 14th on your calendar, and plan on getting to the Ioka Theater in Exeter, New Hampshire, the stage of their first performance. You’ll get a little of everything: dancing and music, stilt performances, and great theater … all done in fishnet stockings and scarlet high heels by some of New Hampshire’s most talented and remarkable women! Visit their website for more information: http://tricycledancecompany.com/index.html !

Many sincere thanks go out to the Tricycle Dance Company for inviting me on as their photographer, and for making the shoot so much fun. You're all amazing! Special thanks also to Joanne McDonough at Joya Beauty in Dover for an absolutely remarkable job on makeup! Visit her site at http://www.joyabeauty.com/ !

Cheers!

http://www.summitphotographynh.com

A Day To Reach The Top

Sept 7, 2008



Without things to reach for, life can have a serious lack of meaning. I would argue that despite this axiom, a majority of our time on this earth is spent meandering…grappling with daily minutia…worrying about one trivial thing to the next. When my brother and I left Wakefield on the morning of September 7, I felt the anxiety of being very close to accomplishing something meaningful. We were heading for the Lincoln Woods Trailhead on scenic Route 112 to make an attempt on Owl’s Head.

Owl’s head is one of forty-eight four thousand foot mountains in New Hampshire. Its location nine miles into the middle of a desolate wilderness makes it a peak that is sought by few; usually those who are attempting to summit each of the 48, also known as peak baggers. I didn’t start off as a peak bagger when I started hiking a long time ago. I hiked for the solitude, the challenge, and the reward of a remarkable view from the top. But before I knew it, I had hiked nearly half of the mountains on the list and I thought it would be a fine idea to reach for the other half. I thought that by the end of my journey, I would have a lot of really remarkable experiences and photographs to look back on, as well as a keen idea of which mountains were worth a return visit. We left at 6am on the 80 mile journey to Lincoln. We arrived by 7:30, and were on the trail by about 7:40. The weather was nice for hiking, with the temperature hanging around 60 and a very slight breeze. Clouds were in the sky as a tropical depression was dissipating, but not before it had dumped a good deal of rain overnight. We had a total of 18.2 miles to hike, and so far things were looking good. The hike was rumored to be quite a mixed bag since it included river crossings, 8 miles of railroad grade walking, and a 1.1 mile unmarked trail to the summit. Within the first 3 hours, everything was holding true. We forded the first river with our boots tied together hanging over our necks, socks stuffed deep inside. The rain had given the river a good deal of strength, the rocks were rough on the bottoms of our feet, and the water was cold against our shins. But it was not too much of a task. Two more times we crossed the river without incident. We kept on the trail, looking for the mysterious cairn that was rumored to mark the start of the unofficially named “Owl’s Head Path”. By the time we reached the cairn, we’d gone about 40 minutes without speaking a word to one another – not because our conversation fizzled out, but because I think we were both focused on tearing through the first 8 miles quickly. We did those first 8 in less than 3 hours.

Reaching that cairn was important. Just about every hike I’ve ever done has been guided by a map, a compass, and trail signs or makers. The wilderness that Owl’s Head is located is regulated for protection and conservation, and therefore does not allow for the mounting of most signs. We were depending on finding the trailhead by estimating our pace and by hoping that the cairn had not been dismantled by anyone. The sight of the cairn reassured us that we had arrived properly at a benchmark on our journey – we were 1.1 miles from the summit of Owl’s Head. I was just about 1 hour from reaching my goal of summiting all 48 of New Hampshire’s 4000 footers. All that was left to do was climb a rockslide and find our way through an non-maintained footpath. When talking to fellow travelers about Owl’s Head, most said “bring a machete and your GPS." I didn’t own either item, nor did I plan to procure them. I was excited to be at the cairn even without those two things.

The rockslide was tough. Going from relatively flat terrain (8 miles of it) to a steady climb that gains over 1000 feet in just over a mile can really play with the body’s response to exercise. Aerobic movement turns more anaerobic, and everything starts to ache. The rain made the rockslide a bit slick and its individual pieces very lose. Neither of us mentioned it on the way up, but afterwards we both remarked at how scary a prospect the rockslide would be on our descent. The view back toward the Franconia Ridge was sitting in a cap cloud from about 3000 feet up, and soon the rockslide disappeared behind us. The push to the top of the mountain was a blur at first. The trail was so grown in that it was hard to keep. In my excitement to reach the summit I practically fought the wet vegetation that overtook just about all signs of human activity. The moisture saturated my nylon pants, then my wool socks, and then my boots. My pack barely fit through some of the gaps between immature pines and other sturdy trees and it too was soaked completely. The amount of water that can be simply picked up by brushing against trees is remarkable. There were several points where the trail seemed to end, but a closer look revealed a possible continuation. As we pressed on, the unofficial tail started to look as though it had less official sister paths. These detours told me that there had certainly been some folks up on the mountain with those machetes. Finally, we reached the terminus of the trail – another small cairn and a small sign made with pine and a wood burning kit that simply said “Owl’s Head”. It felt good to arrive at the top, and although our hike was only halfway done, the accomplishment warranted a handshake and celebratory lunch.

The walk back was swift and without incident. My brother and I talked reflectively about our childhood, mixing together the good components and the bad into the kind of analysis that happens when you spend time isolated together in a wilderness. We talked about political theory since neither of us cares about the who’s who conversation. We talked about our lives. Since I began hiking a long time ago, the way I hike has changed. I used to always hike with a friend named Ben, who was great for an intelligent conversation or a challenging political debate. Eventually, we hiked together less and less and I began to hike a lot on my own. Talking to myself, singing, and whistling off-tempo versions of random songs became the norm. Then, my camera became an essential (and decidedly heavy) piece of equipment, and using it slowed my pace significantly. I had feared that I’d end up hiking number 48 on my own, humming a song while trying to take a self portrait at the summit. I was so thankful that Josh was with me. We spent our childhood building forts and adventuring together, and I was more than grateful that he was there to help find the trailhead in the middle of nowhere, to push up the rockslide, and to keep the trail when it was convoluted and nearly untraceable. In the course of a lucky man’s life, his brother is often a beacon. Life certainly does not lack meaning in moments like ours at the top that day – and we were so very thrilled to arrive safely back at the car at 4:30 that evening. We drove into Lincoln to get energy drinks and food to have over more conversation on the ride home. And even though the weather didn't permit any great photo opportunities, it was an occasion that is as clear as any picture in my memory.



Visit Me Online at http://www.summitphotographynh.com/ !