Archive for the 'narrative photography' Category

The ethereal Pam Lostracco.

A week or so ago, I experienced a moment of synchronicity.

I’ve had this idea for a photo project floating around for awhile and, for whatever reason, now seems to be the perfect time to get started.  The idea, not to get it all crazy hyped-up or anything, is to take portraits of artists in their living and/or working spaces.  Very original, I know.  But whatever!

So, as I was wondering who I’d target ask first, my lovely friend Pam Lostracco came to mind.

She’s an artist/graphic designer/illustrator and lives in a sweet spot, just 5-minutes from mine.  Perfect.

Now.  This is the part where I check my phone and see that Pam just emailed.  She’s about to be profiled on this super cool website and would I mind writing a little paragraph about her?

Of course, I jumped at the chance because I:

(a) fancy myself to be a very accomplished wannabe writer, and

(b) would love to write something nice for someone nice.

Oh and since we’re talking, I’ve been thinking about starting this thing and how would she feel if I were to come over and take her portrait as well as some snaps around her home?  Oh em gee, she was already thinking of asking me!  Obviously there were plenty more exclamation marks in the ensuing rapid-fire exchange of emails but anyhow.

It was pretty cool.


Anyway, if you wanna see just one more reason why Toronto is Awesome, go on and check out their profile on my dear and talented friend Pam Lostracco.




The night is dark.

Greg, March 14, 2010.

Stepping towards the future.

95 days and counting.

Not sure where I’ll be 96 days from now but thank goodness I’ve got some time to figure it out.  So let’s just hope for something exciting, shall we?

At this very moment, I am happy.




I love Wong Kar Wai.  I love Gong Li.  And I love Christopher Doyle.

A story with three men.



I went to the library tonight.  Rushed over and made it with 15 to spare.  Tonight is the perfect night to be introduced to Chuck Palahniuk.  I have his book, Snuff, on hold.

The librarian is one that I recognized.  He was there last week.

He’s an older man, with grey hair.  Thin like silk.  I’ve never seen him smile.

He scans my books with smooth efficiency: lift, swipe, return, lower.

Last week, he didn’t ask if I wanted pay my late fines, like all the other librarians do.

He didn’t this week either.



On my way home, I walked through a park.  It was wide, open and grassy, with people playing tennis at the courts in the distance.   Off in the other far corner of the park are dogs.  Maybe six or a dozen.  Running running running, over the grass, around each other.  Their people chatting in attendance.  I want to walk over and join them but I don’t have a dog.

I spot a cute Daschund.  I won’t say that word aloud because I don’t know how to pronounce it.  I thought it was one way but recently have been hearing people say it another.  And they say it with a confidence I can’t fake.

This particular Daschund is smallish and caramel.  I saw him earlier, playing with a Jack Russell.  They ripped around in circles so fast they were running diagonal.

I sat down in the opposite corner of the park, on top of a picnic table.  The surface was rough, scuffed by keys carving initials.  Dark green paint peeling.

The Daschund’s owner is a man, 30s?  Looks tallish in the distance.  Brown hair, navy sweater.  Jeans.  He’s holding a red leash.

The clouds are turning pink and my face is tilted up to the sky, watching.

It takes them a long time to walk by.  I keep turning to look but it’s the dog I’m interested in.



My phone rings and it’s a number I don’t recognize.  I think it might be my friend Stephanie, I just sent her a text from the park.


It’s a telemarketer.  He’s conducting… research… that’s… on behalf… of.  I can’t remember.  I wait for him to ask me a question so that I could answer with: No thank you, I’m not interested.

But he doesn’t.  Not in the first two paragraphs of his script, anyway.  He paused in-between but I was still waiting for the question he didn’t ask.  He continued.

I’m having a good day so I ask if he could just.  Call me some other time.

He drops.  Like, tom…orrow?

Yeah okay sure, I say.

His voice drifts away as if lost in another thought.  He sounds like a real person now.

Okay thanks.  Bye.

If only someone was there.


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