Troy Paiva es original y al parecer se aburre muy poco en las noches. Desde 1989 realiza fotografías del abandonado sudoeste desierto gringo durante las noches de luna llena. Calcula perfectamente los tiempos de obturación, maneja muy bien el flash y su iluminación puntual llega a crear eferctos muy peculiares, su resultado es bastante sugestivo. Troy ha desarrollado y mejorado una técnica que consiste en iluminar, con diferentes colores, la zona a fotografiar. El resultado de esta técnica junto a las largas exposiciones bajo la luz de la luna llena, le dan a las fotografías ese sentimiento de intriga. Es impresionante la cantidad de pensamientos que objetos tan familiares como coches, camiones, latas, gasolineras o aviones nos puede transmitir si son bien iluminados. Dense una vuelta por su flickr o por su página Lost America, hay unas fotos impresionantes y además hay un par de tutoriales muy buenos.

Och han slet sitt hår…

USA ska införa skrotbilspremie på gamla törstiga pickuper om man köper en mindre, bränslesnål historia istället. Men tänk på alla stackars svenska raggare som kommer att muttra sönder i stugorna över alla fiiiinää biiilääär som ska skrotas bara så där, som hade kunnat skeppas över hit och rosta ihop eller gubbputsas upp och förpesta atmosfären några år till.

Och så förutsätter jag så där, helt sonika bara, att alla raggare kommer från Dalarna. För det gör de ju. Och Norrland (för Norrland är också ett landskap, det vet jag…)

Återigen vältrar jag mig i skadeglädje och min egen dumhet (tack för den formuleringen förresten, den är ju faktiskt klockren).

Click on the following link to view some of the work

from today’s Quote of the Day Photographer,

Troy Paiva:

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Additional info on the subject of night photography:

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After midnight is magic time. The old two lane roads and dead, dusty towns are empty and quiet. I can set my tripod up in the middle of the road and make a ten minute exposure without the fear of getting run over. If a car did come, I can hear its engine whispering on the breeze ten minutes before I ever see its lights. The fluttering of bats wings, and the distinct howl of distant coyotes are the only sounds to keep me company. It’s easy to see why the native American culture is so reverent about the power of nature.

Troy Paiva

American Artist & Photographer

Hoy me gustaría recomendar a tod@s l@s amantes de la fotografía nocturna una execlente recopilación de 60 fotografías nocturnas. Aquí os dejo una pequeña recopilación de las que encontraréis en el enlace:

Anthony James

Troy Paiva

Matthías Ásgeirsson

Geoff Coleman

Örvar Atli Þorgeirsson

.

Enlace Smashing Magazine
Vía Backfocus

Véase también 25 macros espectaculares | Luz en la oscuridad | Post aleatorio
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ROY'S 2008 First time I tried to shoot this classic Amboy, California sign in at night, the owner chased me off with a shotgun. This time, there wasn't a soul to be found. - © Troy Paiva

My buddy Alex Richman (Sidewalk Photography) turned me on to Paiva’s remarkable & haunting site Lost America. In correspondence with Paiva, he asked that I mention that his images are now available in the new Chonicle Book (SF)- Night Vision – The Art of Urban Exploration – released July 2008 – can be bought at Amazon.com.

I wish, if I may, to point you in the direction of Jez’s blog, Novemberfive. This time he and his missus, The Pine Martin [sic] have been out on their bikes exploring some Salisbury Plain abandoned buildings. Lovely and haunting photographs on his blog, and probably a few more he’s kept back for himself.

Photograph by Jez Whitworth - Novemberfive

Coincidently, yesterday I briefly caught up with a friend who gave me an amazing book called “Night Vision: The Art of Urban Exploration,“  by Troy Paiva, a superb photographer. He finds abandoned military bases, hotels, towns and takes astonishing night time shots on really long exposures, so atmospheric. The book is an absolute thing of beauty, Chronicle Books clearly knowing how to present these photographs in the best possible manner. Check out Troy Paiva’s Flickr photostream for a taster of the images within.

All this reawakened a memory, jogging it loose from the silt in my mind and sending it bubbling up through my consciousness. Many years ago I used to ride the Wiltshire Historic Churches Trust annual bike ride. The idea was that one would visit as many churches as possible in one day, an attendant at each building would sign your sponsor form (or you would sign the visitors’ book if there was no one there) to prove you had been there. You would be sponsored an amount per church that you visited. In my latter teenage years I took to riding with Dave Mitchinson and George Knighton, who I worked with on Freegrove farm, hauling bales, herding cattle, clearing ditches and, (God preserve me from ever having to do this again) picking potatoes. One summer we set out on the annual church cycle ride along routes often followed by the members of the Highway Cycle Group. Foxham, Spirt Hill, Sutton Benger, seemingly hill after hill after hill, rolling up and down. For long hours the only signs of life were cows lazily chewing up against the hedges and swallows swooping along scant inches above the scorching tarmac. It was a blazing hot day, the distant hills and patchwork fields were laced with haze, micro-mirages of puddles formed in the road ahead of us, rippling in the air before evaporating before our eyes as we laboured up the slopes of the steepest hills North Wiltshire could throw at us. I think it was Dave, who after guiding us into the tiny church at Bradenstoke, took us on a detour down a farm track dusted with powered white clay-soil to the ruins of Bradenstoke Abbey. Approaching the old farm there, we experienced a frisson of excitement. None of us really knew if we were on a public right of way (we weren’t), the tyres seemed unnaturally loud as we freewheeled over the chippings towards a rotted, wooden five bar gate sagging pathetically on its hinges. We hid the bikes in a tangle of weeds behind a low ruined wall before slinking down an avenue of ancient lime trees to where a doorway stood, or at least the stone arch of what was once a doorway. Then we lowered ourselves into what we assumed were the vaults, choked with brickwork and stone piled in the centre of the room. Dust danced in fierce shafts of sunlight that illuminated the ruins, we hardly dared to speak, tense whispers were all we could manage to raise. Then climbing up the rubble and out the other side, nearly falling down a well hidden in the ivy and ground elder on our way to the tower. Dave, being the smallest, but also the most flexible and speedy climbed quite a way into the tower, owl pellets were scattered at the entrance and up above we could hear the beating of wings. Dave came down, pretty quickly. Here and there a collapsed wall revealed a glassless window where we could peer into the stygian darkness below ground, still, quiet, air, reeking of musty stone, disquieting blackness. Out into the long, dry stalks of grass and wild barley. Chirruping grasshoppers leaping out of our path as we struggled back towards the bikes, sunburn prickling on our arms as we wheeled them past the seemingly deserted farmhouse. Then mounting up and riding away down the dusty track in a rattle of mudguards and loose chains, back towards civilization and the prospect of a ice cold bottle of cola from the stores in Lyneham.

Strangely enough, the abbey was not ruined that long ago. American newspaper baron Randolph Hearst had a thing for British historical buildings. He bought the Abbey and had it taken down brick by brick, either to be shipped to America or his castle in Wales depending on which version you hear. Legend has it that a warehouse somewhere still contains unopened crates of the bricks and stone. I’ve found it quite difficult to track down some images. Since I rode to the abbey that summer, it has changed hands and the present owners are doing a lot of work to restore it. It is not on public view though apparently one can walk past on some public rights of way. I visited a few years back and the owners gave permission for me to have a look round. sadly, but also sensibly, the vaults were boarded up with keep out signs everywhere.

A postcard of the Abbey before it was dismantled by Randolph Hearst

The ruins - showing the rubble

The Tower in 2006 after some extensive refurbishment and cutting back since the time we visited.

The tower can be seen on the ridge at the back of Lyneham and Bradenstoke that faces the M4, the trainline from Bristol to Swindon runs even closer.

“All things human hang by a slender thread; and that which seemed to stand strong suddenly falls and sinks in ruins.” - Ovid

Review

Fotógrafo de mão cheia, Troy Paiva combina exposções prolongadas com iluminação direta e artificial em carros abandonados em ferro-velhos nos EUA. Seu trabalho rendeu o interessantíssimo site chamado  Lost America, em que outros temas são abordados. Com o perdão do trocadilho, ele joga uma luz nova sobre as já manjadas fotografias de sucatas. Belo trabalho.

Para los amantes de la fotografía -como el que escribe- les paso el link de esta página intitulada Lost America, en la que se puede apreciar decenas de fotografías que dan testimonio de la Norteamerica perdida, la de los autocines, las cafeterías, las canchas de bowling, las rutas abandonadas, las ciudades fantasma, los autos característicos de décadas pasadas, etc etc.

Al parecer el autor utiliza una iluminación con colores fluor, lo que realmente le da un toque interesante a las fotos. Todas las tomas son nocturnas.

Cada foto tiene su historia, y el fotógrafo, Troy Paiva, las cuenta en el epígrafe de cada imágen.

Acá van algunas de muestra

UPDATE:(por suerte hoy wordpress me dejó agregar el video)

Les dejo el video de una entrevista que le hicieron a Troy para la TV Inglesa en la que se lo ve en acción, contando como se inspiró, cuando comenzó a hacer estas fotos tan particulares, como se involucra en la iluminación y como se atrevió (y sigue atreviendo) a sacar las fotos solo, en el medio de la noche y en el medio del desierto. La entrevista lamentablemente no está subtitulada.