Kansas City Zombie Walk For Hunger

On Saturday I had the pleasure of attending the Kansas City Zombie Walk. The Kansas City Zombie Walk for Hunger is in its forth year and has helped many people in the Kansas City Metropolitan Community who suffer from hunger or homelessness. I did not 'go zombie' myself, but I showed my support and made several photographs which they are more than welcome use to publicize their events.

These are some of the photographs I made that day. Eventually they will be edited then used as a kind of punctuation for a series I am working on with Pogo Books, a publisher and gallery based in Berlin, who have kindly invited me to make a book of my American pictures with them which is presently being slowly edited under the title 'Resident Alien'.

POGO BOOKS:

http://www.pogobooks.de/

More images from Zombie Walks past can be found here at 'Get the Picture':

http://getthepicture.fr/En/Photographes/Kossoff/zombiewalk.html

Remains to be Seen. Book now available.

For the last 2 months I have been working on producing a book based on my photo-series 'Remains to be Seen'. After several hitches the book is now published and I finally picked it up from the printers on Friday. It was a huge learning experience for me and it was my first venture into self publishing a portfolio of my photographic work. It contains two poems and 60 photographs over 70 pages and printed in a limited edition of 100 copies which are all signed and numbered. This book is now available to order via the link below using Paypal:

To order a copy please follow this link, thank you:

http://www.jp127.com/Remains/Remainstobeseen.html

‘Remains to be Seen’ is a personal work which explores grief, loss and memory and the emotional impact these experiences have had on the way I have come to perceive the world here in the present. It’s a book of clues, keys, symbols, echoes and traces. Like latent fingerprints lifted from the psyche - made thousands of miles away from the graves of which it speaks of and recorded several years ‘after the facts’. Because of a lack of direct access to perhaps more concrete ‘evidence’ which still remains stored in a barn in England, a basement in Norway and a spare bedroom in Wales, this book has become very much a history of the present. Because of this, my only resources for making this work have been internal in nature - accompanied by a certain awareness, like a frequency that was tuned into and the series as a whole has been, to some extent, something of a ghost hunt. The sad events which have silently surrounded this project have consequently altered who I am today in ways which I am still discovering and has been part of the secret drive behind the books creation. It is not an exorcism because the possession (if this is what it is to be called) is permanent - dissolved into the self and is present more as an evolution in progress. There are seven stages of grief and this book, I believe, marks for me its final stage; Acceptance.

Follow this link to view a slideshow to the complete series:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/simonpaulkossoff/sets/72157624605701906/show/

ST ALBANS & WEST VIRGINIA. SOME PSYCHO-GEOGRAPHICAL FIELD NOTES (II)

We pull over into the first Motel we see in St Albans. It was dark and the scattered streetlights had flickered on with a low sodium glow. In the office I was met by a friendly but slightly suspicious desk clerk of faded beauty and the first question she asks was if we were local or from out of town. This question stuck me as odd and when I asked her about it she picked her words carefully telling me she always liked to keep the locals and visitors separated and it was with this information she would use to choose our room. She was obviously hiding something and though she was genuinely glad to see us, her smile was nervous. Outside I began to understand why the clerk asked us this question as I started to see a few of these locals shuffling around in the darkness just beyond the streetlights dim illumination, half shrouded in the shadow, with wild unkempt beards, wearing dirty disheveled clothes and flashing their dark but fearful eyes in our direction “like Zombies” my brother whispered as we got back into the car.

Our rooms were located on the far side of the motel, detached from the main block and were comfortable clean and ordinary and we were happy to find them this way. After unpacking my brother and I left in search of food leaving my wife and mother in the room to settle in. Instead of backtracking on the Charleston road we decided to dive on further into the darkness of St Albans on route 60 and on a five mile drive found nothing open, but a long scattered line of neon-lit ‘Gentleman’s Clubs’, Adult Video stores and a biker bar which advertised it’s latest act on the roadside verge outside, simply as ‘Toothless Ruth’. All these dubious establishments had beat up cars and trucks parked untidily outside, all with their front wheels turned tightly inwards, as though they had swung in off the main road and parked in a hurry. There was not a soul to be seen anywhere. After driving some distance deeper into the dense forest darkness we rounded a corner and slowed down to take a closer look at what was called the ‘Playboy Motel’ which was a clap trap two story place, lit with buzzing neon, with a balcony which ran it’s length between the floors where bulging MILF’s in lingerie leaned over languidly blowing smoke into the insect infected night. On the ground floor the main entrance was guarded by a heavy man in a dark suit sitting in a chair, who surveyed the road like a machine and clocked us as we passed with hooded eyebrows. The place looked busy and I was instantly put in mind of ‘Ben’s Place’ from the David Lynch movie classic Blue Velvet. My brother and I looked at one another smiling in disbelief. “Where in god’s name are we?” he said.

After another stretch of darkness we eventually saw that unmistakable sign for McDonalds ahead of us, high up on a long pole above the tree line, ‘The Golden Arches’ as I have heard them referred to here with hideous affection. As we turned left into the shadowy strip mall where the ‘restaurant’ was located, I noticed that to our right, sitting on the river bank was some kind of military monument in the form a great cruse missile on a large stone plinth. It stood against the clear star filled night sky like some great erect penis, with its swollen bulbous war-head. This was a grotesquely fitting sight to behold after the drive we had just taken and the sights we had seen along the way.

Pulling into McDonald's, scantly dressed toothless teens chased each other around parked cars hissing at each other and cackling and inside we were met by a friendly waitress with a soft southern accent, who, recognizing our own accents, asked us lots of questions about where we were from and where it was we were heading, welcoming us to St Albans West Virginia with an almost poker face, which afterwards broke into a smile of long yellow teeth. We told her about our journey from the motel in search of food, this time with our own questions, and she began to tell us of the altogether more sinister town of Nitro which was located close by in what she referred to as ‘Chemical Valley’ and that Nitro was the true local den of iniquity which made St Albans look like nothing at all in comparison. Nitro was named after the nitro-glycerin powder and other explosives which it was the leading producer of during both world wars. Nitro, I later discovered, was also, strangely, the location of several sightings of the infamous and mysterious ‘Mothman’, a West Virginian legend who was said to be a tall and metallic looking supernatural or alien creature with shining red eyes and a giant 10 foot wingspan. The origin of this creature still remains obscure for me, but over the years has become the subject and inspiration for at least two Hollywood movies and the city is said to boast an impressive monument to it, based on its few eye witness accounts.

Part one of this account can be found here: http://simonkossoff.blogspot.com/2011/08/st-albans-west-virginia-some-psycho.html

ST ALBANS & WEST VIRGINIA. SOME PSYCHO-GEOGRAPHICAL FIELD NOTES (I)

St Albans West Virginia is a small town about 8 miles south of Charleston and is in many ways connected by a continuous line of roadside homes, strip malls and other local business’s which did not appear to separate the two towns in any discernible way and which made our eventual arrival there an accident. Thinking we were still in Charleston, our intention was to search for a cheap motel on its outskirts, but with each mile driven beyond Charleston’s invisible city limits, we became uneasy as the settlements became noticeably more ramshackle in appearance.

On our approach the atmosphere of St Alban’s began to assert its own distinctive and grubby fingerprint with a long string of ominous billboards advertising Quick Credit Debt Relief, Narcotics Anonymous, Religious Fire and Brimstone, Military Recruitment and the dangers of Crystal Meth.

Arriving at sundown in long shadow I had the strangest feeling we were entering a forgotten place, isolated and carved out of the thick forest which surrounded it and in many ways, the forest was indeed in the process of reclaiming it, as dripping vines threaded across the power lines above the road and were slowly beginning to suffocate any structure that had been left unattended for more than a few months. With the wide green and slow moving murk of the Amazon-like Kanawha River on one side and the ever closing forest on the other, it seemed like St Albans didn’t have a chance and the road which passed between both was the only thing which kept an open pathway, holding nature at bay.

Our arrival in St Albans came after a days driving south from Pittsburgh Pennsylvania on interstate 79 which at the West Virginia State line seemed to slice it’s way through this same dense landscape of thick forest on either side of the roadside. A forest which was dark, beautiful, oppressive and seemingly endless - layering away like a giant green steaming ocean to every horizon in every direction, rising up into the distant Appalachian mountains to the east and disappearing into a hazy almost tropical heat, obscured by low cloud and singing with a vast chorus of insects which never stopped. Apart from the beautiful empty asphalt ribbon of the road, the whole West Virginia landscape appeared empty of any visible human footprint and I was stunned again by the unspoiled vastness and beauty of the America beyond the city. It was only on our regular detours from the interstate that we came into contact with the existence of humans where narrow meandering roads wound through peeks and valleys which were littered with homesteads, farms, mills and sometimes coal mines which were all connected by the rail road; the main lifeline for these remote business’s and it’s mournful call could be heard like some huge prehistoric animal deep in the seemingly impenetrable forest.

Part (II) of these notes will be posted shortly.

Related posts from this road trip can be found here:

5 Postcards from Pittsburgh

http://simonkossoff.blogspot.com/2011/07/pittsburgh-pa-5-photographs.html

Niagara Falls, NY

http://simonkossoff.blogspot.com/2011/07/niagara-falls-ny.html

New York City (ASA Postcards)

http://simonkossoff.blogspot.com/2011/06/new-york-city.html

Preparations for the journey

http://simonkossoff.blogspot.com/2011/05/road-trip-nyc-niagara-falls-west.html