CHRISTOPHER LANGE
Photographer
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917 • 558 • 0476
chrisplange@gmail.com
MY WEBSITE
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SUMMER THUNDER by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
I made this photograph last summer, standing on Vesey St. in Battery Park. The light had been incredible that afternoon, a mixture of hazy sun and dark skies. Eventually the clouds reached their breaking point and the torrent began.
The business day was coming to a close and all the suit-and-ties leaving work darted about like confused cats, hoping to stay dry at all costs. I constantly wiped the eyepiece of my viewfinder, which seemed to fog up again the instant I put my eye to it.
The water rushed over the curbs , ousting the businessmen from their hiding spot as another gust stole an umbrella. I shoved my camera inside my bag, stepped into the downpour from the cover of my awning, and walked to the corner of North End.
My shirt soaked through in the 20 seconds it took me to get there.
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WALKING HOME, 2:30 AM by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
“Yet who has not clasped a skeleton in his arms,
Who has not fed upon what belongs to the grave?
What matters the perfume, the costume or the dress?
He who shows disgust believes that he is handsome.”
from The Dance Of Death, by Charles Baudelaire
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Occasionally you find yourself roaming the streets at 3 in the morning, soaked to the bone in a torrent that seems as though it will never stop.
Flickering lights pierce the foggy windows of restaurants and bars, tempting you with their warm embrace. Before you can make up your mind you find yourself halfway down the block, and its too late to turn back.
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It poured that night, but thanks to the scaffolding I escaped the torrent.
The district was finally back to normal, after the frigid Winter months, and the strange transitory period that always comes with the Spring, as well as the slow onset of Summer.
I hadn’t been waiting long, when, surely enough, I began to receive the usual barrage of questions.
“WHAT ARE YOU FILMING?”
“WHAT MOVIE IS THIS FOR?”
“IS THIS FOR A MAGAZINE?”
“ARE YOU A PAPARAZZI?”
Believe me lady, if I was a paparazzo, the last camera I would be shooting would be a Hasselblad mounted on a tripod. Don’t worry, you’re not that famous.
Anyway, I let the comments roll off my shoulders, and started scouting for subjects. I generally enjoy photographing women, and girls, more than men, because I feel like I have more of a natural rapport with them, but all the same, I find that I can talk men into standing for my camera longer than I can the women.
When it comes down to it, time is the key to a good photograph, a simple “smile and stand there” just doesn’t cut it, you’ve got to whittle away at their predisposition to simply say “cheese” and walk away.
Anyway, I usually think of a rainy night as a wash (no pun intended) as far as portraiture goes, because, simply enough, nobody wants to stand in the goddamn pouring rain and have their picture taken.
As I said, thank goodness for the scaffolding.
I framed up and photographed his lady-friend. She pulled the usual smile and cheese pose, and I burned a frame just to get her out of the way. I was much more interested in the slightly impatient expression and rain-drop ridden shirt. He was almost surprised when I told him to step in front of them camera, as if assuming that the only thing I wanted was a picture of the girl. Not the case, but it’s understandable.
I focused, locked the mirror, and told him not to smile.
*slap*
The shutter went off and I took my thumb off the cable.
It was a good one.
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*Shwip*
Her umbrella blossomed into a canopy, shielding us from the downpour.
The sky was the color of rotten pea-soup, with clouds swirling around as if the apocalypse were on deck, watching the rapture hit a home-run during its at bat.
Rain battered the skin of the transparent plastic, each drop sounding like a gunshot, deflected by the shield of some warrior from ancient times.
I glanced down the street, watching for the headlights of any oncoming cars through the fog and rain; the coast was clear, so we crossed, 6th and 11th, watching the little old lady who lived next door barely clear the top step of the stoop.
A clunk emits from the lock as my door opens, and we hurry inside, shaking off the shards of rain as if they were drops of glass, although that might be better in reverse.
We collapse onto the sofa, listening to the staccato beat provided by the torrent against my windows.
Our shoes are drenched.
It’s fine.
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