My
father's workshop was fascinating. There were whole drawers of
mysterious items, tools of unknown use and stacks of things, the
order of which made no sense to me, but make perfect sense to
him. He could remember the location of anything in this place
- even hidden three or four layers deep and beyond easy survey
of the room.
My
early memories of the place center around two areas - his desk
and the workbench. I loved them for their lack of order and the
surprise that they held. The desk drawers were marvels to explore.
One, about five inches deep and as long as the desk, was full
of pencils. Sorted at one time to graphite and colored leads,
but now hopelessly confused, it was possible to sink your hands
into wrist level and let pencils fall through your fingers, as
a miner would play with gold.
The
surface of the workbench was full of tools, sawdust and projects
in various stages of completion. It was (as was the desktop) also
full of things that, once repaired, would be reason enough why
there was no need for a new one. Things with their innards exposed
- especially electronic and kitchen items - waited new parts or
a renewal of interest.
There
were lots of small drawers under the workbench that were labeled
as to their contents. They were made from old wood boxes with
wooden knobs as pulls. They were my earliest memory I have of
the basement. I would pull one out and look at what was in it.
I suppose that, like the pencil drawer, they held the same fascination
- lots of nails, bolts or screws all in the same place. As long
as I promised to put them back, I was allowed to take one drawer
out and dump the contents out on the concrete floor. I would sort
through that pile, the way kids look at shells at the beach.
Labeled
drawers of nails not withstanding, my father's filing system consisted
of a good memory of where he had put things down last. As a child
I would be sent for this or that in the workshop with directions
as vague as "It's on the workbench near the grinder." After several
fruitless attempts on my part he would personally escort me to
the basement, and with a flourish, produce the hidden instrument.
My protests that the device was hidden four layers deep were to
no avail.
As
I grew and used the workshop myself, the system broke down. I
could never find anything I wanted to use, and he could never
find anything I had used. I became very cynical about finding
anything in the basement, and used the basement workshop only
as a last resort. My mother kept a set of tools in the kitchen.
Whether she kept them there for convenience or avoid looking at
the chaos in the basement, I was never quite sure.
Once
Dad retired, he expanded his activities to another room in the
basement, in which he made an office. In this room he placed his
objects of business and items that were part of his of his life
as a designer and modelmaker for McDonnell-Douglas. This room,
with its models and pictures, had much more sense of decoration
than the workshop. This room was in former life, a rathskeller
- a basement bar and entertainment area - but now it began to
share another function with his need for storage and workspace.
Soon models began to cohabit shelves with bar glasses and liquor
bottles, and the Formica surface of the bar became full of projects
to be finished.
As
time went on, he sued the basement more and more. I had TV, running
water and a bathroom. As his health began to fail him, he spent
most of his time there. In his last years, with the exception
of sleeping and eating his meals upstairs, the rest of his time
was spent in the basement. It became "his place".
In 1986, one year before his death, I started to photograph
both rooms. His first reaction was to offer to clean up the
place. I don't know if he understood my desire to make pictures
of the basement the way it was. I'm not sure at the time that
I knew why I wanted to make pictures of the basement the way
it was. It was a place that was always there and had looked
like it did for a long time. Maybe with his failing health,
I felt that it wouldn't be there that much longer. Perhaps I
felt that other people should see these things that I saw. I
do know that after he died, and I continued to work to finish
this portfolio, I realized that I was making a portrait.
Technical
Stuff:
All
the photographs were made on a Toyo 4x5 Field Camera. With the
exception of three images, they are all in black and white. Prints
for the exhibition are on 16" x 20" Illford Multi-Grade fiber
based paper and are matted & framed to 22" x 28".
Lighting
was done with one white umbrella and two halogen lights. None
of the objects were moved or "arranged" by me for the photographs.
None of the objects in the photographs are for sale.
©
1988 D. Younger/ArtStuff