South Pulaski Road: putting the “art” in “auto parts.”
Last month I drove to Indianapolis to photograph 14-year-old genius Jacob Barnett, for a feature that ran in last Sunday’s London Times Magazine. The pictures accompanied an article by Louise Carpenter titled Is Jacob Barnett the next Einstein?, which profiles Jacob and his mom Kristine, who just published a memoir about raising him called The Spark: A Mother’s Story of Nurturing Genius.
You can witness his charm, wit and intelligence for yourself as he discusses creativity and quantum mechanics at this 2012 TEDx talk.
I shot bassist Harrison Bankhead earlier this month at the Hideout, as part of my improv portrait series. Harrison was warming up before a gig with Hamid Drake, Dave Rempis, and Mars Williams.
Jason Molina died on Saturday. I was lucky to meet him in 2006, when he came to my studio for a photo session. (One of the shots was used for the cover of his album, Let Me Go, Let Me Go, Let Me Go, above). We only spent a couple hours together, but hit it off right away. I found him to be a sweet, authentic, substantive guy; a mensch. Be sure to check out his gorgeously poignant music if you haven’t already. Here are 9 songs you should know by Jason Molina.
DJ Mr.Voice killing it at Dr. J’s Place. In case you were wondering if he has Mable John’s version of “Your Good Thing (Is About To End),” he does, but it might take a bit of digging.
Seventy-one year old photographer Fred Burkhart’s first gallery exhibit opened last month at Alibi Fine Art (where I took the picture above). The photographs were shot over several decades, starting in the 60s, and usually include people living outside the mainstream, including hippies, LGBT activists, KKK members (who Burkhart documented until they beat him up after he told them “I’d join the Girl Scouts before I joined you clowns”), S&M enthusiasts, and indigent street people.
Although Burkhart’s photographs are always humanistic, he seems to seek out the strange–his portrait of neurosurgeon Estelle Toby Goldstein is eerily lit and her head is cocked unnaturally; she glares at the camera with winged eyeliner, cluthcing a disembodied brain. There’s a shot of Jack Kevorkian leaning over to say something to a young girl–tenderly holding her arm–with his comically gruesome paintings in the background (one shows a freshly beheaded figure, blood oozing from the neck). In his portrait of filmmaker Usama Alshaibi, in front of Chicago’s Biograph Theater, a naked woman (Alshaibi’s wife and collaborator Kristie Alshaibi) reclines gracefully atop the box office booth.