This is the largest print I’ve ever made—17 by 22 inches of pure, unrelenting grain - not too bad for a 35mm negative. And for once, I’ll admit it: I actually like the damn thing. That’s rare for me. Normally, I pick apart my own shit like a buzzard on roadkill, but something about this—maybe the image, maybe the process, maybe just the sheer scale of it—hits just right. A miracle, really. But sweet mother of hell, has this printing game gotten expensive. I’ve used up every last sheet of paper I had, so I went online to restock, thinking it’d be a quick and painless transaction. Wrong. I burned through $200 before I’d even finished my second cup of coffee this morning without even realizing it. This isn’t a hobby; it’s a goddamned money pit disguised as art. And yet, I keep going. Because what else is there?
"Money has no true value, unless it's spent" "You have spent your money very well " Granted, the realm of photography and especially the old school but intriguing world of dark room technique and mastering the making of a print that, comes close to what you are chasing, has its monetary cost's that just can't be avoided! You have always known that from the beginning. You are one of those fortunate individuals that can wake up at 3:00 AM, and chase perfection, while avoiding the sound of a cash register, ringing in your ears while going for it! Thanks for sharing your experience with the HAMB Universe that you have created! Thanks from Dennis.
Bonneville again. That endless alien expanse of salt—a place that feels more like the surface of Mars than Earth. When Joyo and I first rolled onto it, we were gearing up for the whole “taste the salt” tradition, that rite of passage every fool feels obligated to perform. But before my tongue hit the ground, I was stopped cold by the sight of a sedan. It wasn’t just a car—it was a revelation. Something about it hit me like a freight train, a jolt of pure inspiration straight to the gut. A month later, I was the proud owner of my own ’39. Drove it every damn day for five years, like some kind of love affair you know can’t last but you dive into headfirst anyway. Portra through a Leica M7 and a '35 Lux.
This composition isn’t special. Hell, there’s nothing about the photo that’s special—just another shot of cars and characters frozen in time. But the period? That was something else entirely. This was the second running of the HAMB Drags, a wild and untamed era when the salt of the earth gathered to settle scores the only way we knew how: in the quarter mile. These guys rolled in from the West Coast, dressed head-to-toe in white like they were the righteous ones, some holy crusade of speed and purity. The nerve of it. I’ve always thought of myself as the villain in this story—a dark horse in a dirty game—so naturally, my ’38 felt like the perfect weapon for redemption from the shadows. And redemption came swiftly. I lined up, throttled that beast, and smoked them clean. Handily. No contest. Watching their holy-white egos shrivel in the rearview felt better than it should’ve. Sometimes, being the bad guy has its perks. Nikon F3. Who knows what lens... Tri-X.
Great shots man. FYI, we are going back to the Salt in 2029. Jeff @hiboy32 and Troy @Greezy and me. It will have been 20 years. Damn.
The Jalopy Journal
