Jeff Palmer - Photography

jeff palmer | black and white: selected works | 1987-2003

The photographs below are a collection of snapshots taken on 35mm film.

In the fall of 1996, I worked as a production assistant on an independent film in Salisbury, Massachusetts.
During down time, I’d snap a few ‘behind the scenes’ shots of the cast and crew. Naja (left) and Brian
made a formidable sound unit worthy of celluloid, even if they weren’t characters in the movie itself.

Some towns have ducks, others geese... Dover, New Hampshire has Binx the Goat. Owned by two residents,
their pet goat—or pet ‘bloat’ as his swollen sides would suggest—waddled the sidewalks and streets
with his proud owners Bill and Judy, always turning heads of passers-by and forever munching on whatever
snacks were offered; peanuts (shell on, thank you), hard candy (wrapper on, thank you), apples, donuts
and anything else in your hand. I don’t know if he’s getting any bigger these days.
In fact, I don’t know if he could get any bigger.

The desolate world of homelessness inevitably provides a backdrop of melancholy and despair for those
in the arts. Whether its prose writing, motion pictures, or folk music, the subject [subjects] is typically
looked at from afar, behind a camera lens or note tablet. I learned from a local employee that the man in the
foreground had a wife at one point. Probably a job, too. Watching him inspect the discarded pizza
for bugs (or anchovies) made me realize that dignity, and the pursuit of such things,
undoubtedly rests somewhere on life’s invisible sliding scale.

AMERICAN LEBANESE CLUB claims the sign above the scabby, rusty door. Situated across a parking lot
next to the covered bridge in Dover, New Hampshire, this ramshackle building was once home-base for local
Lebanese and their friends (and friends of friends I’m sure). Although my great-grandmother on my father’s side
was 100% Lebanese, by the time I was of drinking age, membership at this sad outpost was reduced
to a community of pigeons and mice. Even if it were still in business today, I think I’d pass.
Looks more like a bunker to me.

Steinfest International. Kathy Sanborn’s basement. Circa 1987. Death and Destruction, in a Happy Sort
of Way. Or so the slogan goes... We were young, we were crazy, we smashed appliances with sledgehammers
and axes while listening to disco. We dressed in Gyno-Gear, we chanted ‘Stein! Stein! Stein!’ while basking in the
twisted waist-high carnage, then bagged up what was left, tossed the wreckage in the nearest dumpster and
disbanded, scattering into the night like a renegade Special Forces unit. All this without a drop of booze.
A more in-depth explanation would take pages, volumes even.

When they say ‘You had to be there’… they ain’t kidding.

Cocheco Falls, Dover, New Hampshire. Mid February? Early March? Beats me. It’s so damn
cold after Christmas all you’re really concerned with is keeping your boots dry, your ears
warm and enough tissues in your pockets to keep the sniffles at bay.

I decided to wander the deserted streets late one night with hopes of capturing the city sleeping on its
bed of ice. Here, the waters of Cocheco River are very much awake, gushing over the falls and under the
central mill building in town, spilling down into the Piscataqua River then onto Great Bay and eventually
entering the Atlantic. Apparently, after decades of neglect, the city is moving forward with dredging
the river down to its original depth. This will allow larger commercial vessels into the old port and
create new growth for commerce and local businesses. Could my hometown again
become the busy port and social hub it was long ago?

To sleep, perchance to dream...

Yet another Dover, New Hampshire landmark that is no more. Of all the downtown businesses on
the main strip, I think I’ll miss Wigland the most. A true Dover original. I’m thankful I took this shot
before the owner went and painted the sign canary yellow. Maybe it did need a touch up, but it
certainly didn’t require an entirely new color scheme!

Despite the final cosmetic hurrah, it didn’t help save the store. With new property owners come new
rental agreements and, in turn, a new lease on life. When Wigland’s proprietor suddenly died—poof!—
the kitschy window dressings and dated mannequins were gone. Not slowly disappearing like a
receding hairline, but more like a buzz-cut, down to the scalp, after losing a bet from a night of heavy drinking.
Gone. Adios. Goodbye.

Behold! A New Year’s Kiss! The Millennium Mooch! I snapped this photo of my wife and I as fireworks
peppered the sky in the background, but luckily the flash decided what was more important to capture.
This was taken in Portland, Maine on New Year’s Eve 2000—the big one! Or so they thought... It wasn’t
too cold, but the countdown event dragged on long enough for us to find a warm bar in haste.
We met friends at an Irish pub and celebrated with “car bombs” and beer.

And the world didn’t come to an end after all.

I am not a religious man. Spiritual, perhaps. A devout churchgoer? Absolutely not. As a kid, I was
dragged to church by my mom and was baptized an Episcopalian. Looking back, I think my favorite
part of Sunday service was eating donuts and drinking coffee with creamer and sugar at the Hale House
after mass let out. Hyped up on caffeine and sweets was my ‘higher power’ and still is to this day, in fact.

This picture, however, is not of the church I attended in my youth. It is of St. Charles Catholic Church
on Main Street in Dover, New Hampshire and the view is from my apartment window at the time.
Even if one doesn’t appreciate religious dogma, the grandeur of religious architecture is
difficult to deny. The snapshot hints that even through the veils of nature,
a foreboding presence looms somewhere in the distance.

This roadside attraction is no longer in service, at least not in this form. In the summer of 2003, this
stand-alone sub shop was uprooted and moved just around the corner, making way for more parking.
Fortunately, the business itself is still going strong. Roland’s Sandwiches now resides as a
booth inside Sullivan Tire station just next door [inside the white wall behind the bushes].

I’m pleased to hear they didn’t go under, but I’m always saddened to see an active and unique
establishment of Americana pushed aside for the sake of pavement. I guess it’s true that you can’t
stop progress. Let’s hope people can’t stop eating Roland’s subs, either.

Camping is one of those simple pleasures in life, especially when the weather cooperates.
My brother Jay and his wife Jill are enjoying a classic camping moment—sitting quietly, reading a book,
perusing the paper, taking in the calm of the lake and the peacefulness of the woods in the company of
one other. At once you are alone with nature yet sharing the tranquility with fellow
campers, away from work and the routine of the daily grind.

A simple pleasure for certain and, now that I think of it, a simple necessity as well.

Cats just want to cuddle and Midway was no exception. Although he definitely enjoyed his freedom,
come bedtime, he was always looking for some attention. He was a Manx (no tail) which I suspect
added to his independent attitude. He acquired his name from the car dealership my
step-father Dennis was working at when we got him—Midway Pontiac and Buick.

At one point Midway had a full leg cast after Dennis accidentally stepped on him getting out of bed. For weeks
we’d hear the gentle thumping of his cast hitting the floor as he walked around the house. It was amusing
to know just when he’d turn the corner, since cats instinctively pride themselves on the element
of surprise. Sadly, both Midway and Dennis are no longer alive, but I’m pleased the
connection between both is easily recalled when glancing at this photo.