#nicephore

Famous Last Words - Good Omens 2 Animatic - by Nicephore

mcr + very very good emotional animation

22 April 2024 - Camera Obscura

I am building a mid-1800s camera. A camera obscura, to be accurate. I hope to recreate the methods by which the earliest known photographic images were created by Joseph Nicéphore Niépce in the late 1820s. We are approaching the 200th anniversary of his oldest known camera photograph.

The camera is built by hand - no power tools. As I figure out the structure, I temporarily tape the pieces in place. If they work, I'll glue them in place.

Today, I set my focusing window in place. It works! I took it onto my porch, pointed it across my yard, then took photos of what I saw on the focusing window. I flipped the images so you can see them right-side up.

The cemetary was cold and misty as Nice stood alongside the deep rectangular hole that had been carved into the earth. He had been waiting only ten minutes but it felt like ages. He felt as though his body had stiffened and rooted in place. He was no longer alive. He was just another decorative headstone for a dearly departed someone-or-other. If he willed it hard enough he could stand there forever, solid stone, unfeeling and weathered. But the gray misted breaths that left his mouth betrayed the truth. He was still very much alive.

The cold air chilled his teeth and his tongue as he focused on breathing and not crying. He had been crying so much that he could no longer breathe through his nose. His eyes felt hot and itchy. He blinked them rapidly and sighed out a huge cloud of condensed air. “You could have waited in the car.” Nice chided himself, “You don’t have to be so dramatic and stand out here by this hole in the ground.” It was equal parts martyrdom and duty. If he wasn’t going to be allowed to attend Anstas’ funeral service, he would damned well stand at attention beside his gravesite until every last person had paid their respects. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” Nice muttered. A fresh pang of grief drove itself painfully into his chest. His knees nearly buckled. “No, no, no….get a hold of yourself, don’t cry.” Nice willed himself to remain stoic. He would shed his tears privately, just as he had that morning, in the shower, later while he ironed his dress shirt, after breakfast, and on the drive to the cemetary gates. He looked down at the pit at his feet. The moist, newly upturned dirt had caught a white sheen of frost. Nice swallowed thickly and felt his throat constrict. If Anstas had been there; alive, not about to be put in the ground, he would have wrapped his arm around Nice’s waist. He would have touched his hands and warmed them with his own breath. They would have stood silently together. There was so little that could be said at times like these. Anstas always spoke volumes with touch and action instead of speech. Nice indulged himself in the fantasy of Anstas’ body standing next to his; a warm support, steady and quiet but so attentive, so present and focused on him that Nice felt his cheeks heat up just from the thought alone.

It made the pain worse to imagine him there. He knew how stupid it was. But he indulged just the same. He kept deeply imaginging Anstas was with him, dressed in his dark gray suit jacket and slacks. It was someone else’s funeral today. If he thought hard enough he could make out Anstas’ voice muttering something about how hard it must have been to dig the grave out with the ground being nearly frozen.

Nice felt himself about to reply when a voice from behind him shattered the fantasy. “Nice, you’re here already?” It was Anstas’ best friend, JR.

“Yes, just waiting now. Is the procession on it’s way?”

JR’s smile was strained as he stood alongside him, “Yeah, I took a shortcut.. I didn’t think you would be out here yet. It’s freezing.” He cupped his hands near his face and blew on them lightly before shoving them in his pockets.

“I guess I’m being a bit of a martyr.” Nice’s voice lilted as though he might laugh.

JR didn’t say anything in reply. The pair stared down at the frosted pit. After a while, cars began to appear on the curved, dirt road that wound through the cemetary. JR looked up to see. “Here come the trolls.”

“That’s not nice, JR.” Nice replied dimly.

“What’s not nice, is the fact that you were with him for nearly three fucking years and they wouldn’t even let you sit in the church with the rest of us.” JR’s anger flared hot and bitter. He scowled.

Nice took a measured breath. He would have the energy for anger later. He knew at some point the howling cavity inside him would make room for anger. But he couldn’t squeeze a drop of it today. “Please, JR. We can get mad about it later...after...all this, you know?” He patted the shorter man on the shoulder lightly. His voice was tired.

“Sorry, Nice.” JR replied,  “I don’t know what else to do with myself other than get pissed about it... he would have been.”

“He would have.” Nice said hollowly. He felt nausea curling unpleasantly in his stomach as Anstas’ relatives began emerging from their cars and making their way to the gravesite. His hands trembled and he rubbed his palms absent-mindedly on his thighs. “I should...give them space…” He muttered, moving to walk a bit farther off.

“No, Nice. Just stay. Stay right here. With me.” JR said, quietly intense.

“They won’t like that.”

“Who gives a fuck what they won’t like? I’ll stand here with you, c’mon.”

Nice assented, anxiously, trying not to look at the people who were steadily building in number, flanking the small patch of icy grass surrounding the grave. He felt sick, like he wanted to run, to cry, to scream at all of them to go away. JR’s presence beside him came as a small comfort. Nice was grateful for him. But nothing could quell the ache in his chest, the churning sensation in his guts. Words were spoken in hushed tones. The pallbearers were coming, carrying the casket. Their faces were drawn in discomfort, touched with red from the cold.

Nice felt someone take his hand and for one insane moment he thought it was Anstas. He turned, wide-eyed to see Anstas’ friend Georgia. She mouthed an “I’m sorry” to which he nodded and struggled out a thankyou. Two more of his and Anstas’ mutual friends appeared beside him and they huddled close to the grave’s edge as the priest came forward to speak. Nice couldn’t recall what was said. He felt like there was a roaring sound in his head as the casket was lowered down. The rushing, deafening noise coalesced into a headache behind his eyes.

This was the end. Time had run out for Anstas, for their love. He hated it. He hated the solemn faces staring own at the ugly polished surface of the casket. He hated the way they tossed down flowers and dirt into the grave. His hands clenched tightly. A jealous thought surprised him when it sprung to mind. Many of these people had someone to go home with. Even Anstas’ unpleasant Great Aunt had a husband hovering submissively at her side. Why? Why did these people get to have someone? Why were their mates alive and warm when his was now cold and dead? Nice hated himself for thinking it. It was a childish, squirming jealousy. Anstas would have hated it too. It was not the question to ask at a funeral. Everyone here had lost. Nice lifted his gaze to Anstas’ mother. The woman’s face was strained and pale. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She had just lost her only son. Nice felt fresh nausea coil in his guts. The priest was still droning on about something. Heaven? Human Frailty? Nice couldn’t be sure. He kept staring at Anstas’ mother and wishing, yearning to to see her look back at him with something other than contempt. His jealousy slowly ebbed away. All that was left was a cold ache. Heads bowed as the priest said a prayer.

He gritted his teeth as the crowd of Anstas’ relatives began to disperse. It was finally over.

“Nice, are you ok?” Georgia asked. She touched his arm gently.

"Nicéphore, cahier de photographies" is a new publication, issued from Galerie Vivienne (Paris), owned by Serge Plantureux.

The first issue is fascinating. "Gustave Le Gray - Rue Vivienne : Un atelier d'héliographie pendant la Révolution de 1848" tells the story of forgotten/lost pictures and how they were identified.

The publication is available online in French and in English.