Two Leicas and a Funeral Part #2

Looking back now, I'm not sure how I would have preferred to be notified of my father's death. But at the time, the voicemail was just a terrible way to learn. Alone and not sure what the next few days would hold, I immediately telephoned my friend; I need a ride back to Chester County.
     Never, in my years of being in hospitals, have I seen a hospital room so packed. It seemed the everyone who had once known the great man who was my father had showed up to pay their respects or perhaps hoping that they would arrive before he had passed. I was so rattled, so beside myself that night, uncharacteristically I did not have a camera by my side.

     At that time my Leicas M3 and MP were constant companions.  I would shoot Provia 400 processed to 3200 or 6400, or tmax 3200 processed and shot at 6400. It was a grainy, contrasty look that is definitely  an acquired taste, one I share with what seems to be an ever smaller group of people.

     By the time the funeral rolled around, I did have my 35mm equipment ready to go. My sister had specifically requested that I take some photos at the funeral, a request that, to this day could have been either just to occupy me or to actually make recordings for posterity. Needless to say, the emotions I was feeling on that day got in the way of my photography and my output was even lower quality and quantity than one would normally expect from me. The only shots that were exposed and focused correctly are these three, and I'm sure it's just me, but they still haunt me every time I see them.

Two Leicas and a Funeral Part #1

     It's been a few years now since my father died. His health had been failing but, perhaps as an extension of my own youthful feelings of immortality, his passing came completely unexpected. It hit me like the proverbial and cliche ton of bricks. I don't think I'll ever forget the balmy hot evening when I got the phone call.
      My apartment in South Philadelphia looked typical for a young man living alone. Mattress on the floor, bare windows, record player in the corner with large round pieces of vinyl, splayed about in different degrees of undress. I had just come home from a run in the city. 8 miles of pounding the black top, weaving block to block through some of Philly's grittiest and most violent neighborhoods. Happy to be home, I collapsed into bed not even bothering to shower. I had fallen into a deep sleep for an hour or so when the harsh sound of a cell phone vibrating against hardwood woke me up. Looking at the screen I realized it was Julian calling me. Just my brother Julian; probably inviting me to dinner. I ignored the call.
      My eyes finally opened around 9PM, when the last rays of light had already retreated from the western window in my bedroom. The room was much colder and the only connection I felt to the outside world were the voices and smells that wafted up from South Street, an area that was just hitting it's stride that night, just getting ready to see what collective trouble it could involve itself in.
      It was hard to pry my eyes away from my ceiling, the relfection and shadows of light shifting through the windows as each car passed by. Suddenly, my mine shifted to my cell phone and I remembered the missed call. There was a voice mail too. At 23 years old I rarely ever listened to my voicemail messages, it wasn't uncommon for there to be 15 of them, unopened in the mailbox on my cell phone.
       This was family however, so I listened. The message was short and sweet.
Julian : "James, It's your brother: Julian. Dad's dead. Call me back.