A modernist photo-essay consisting of five totally random snapshots uploaded from my iPhoto storage.
Clockwise from top-left (all photos copyright Clifton Bertram):
The breezeway of a the University Hotel Lodge on Route 66 in New Mexico. I was meant to stay just down the road in the only slightly more funky Hiway House Hotel, but unfortunately the management there proved to be more than a little more prick-tastic. The owners of the University Lodge were fantastic, room was fine and the Nob Hill location is absolutely premiere, smack dab in the middle of one of the best vintage scenescapes in the southwest.
My single and only example of Blue Mountain Pottery. While not blue in this particular case, the green with which this piece is painted is certainly an authentic 1960s colour. Its shape, that of a pituitarily challenged art glass genie bottle, would make it very much at home in Maxwell Smart's apartment.
A modernist church in Red Deer, Alberta. Given the degree to which churches are one of the most single-minded reprentatives of a certain conservatism (and I mean that in the best sense of the word), isn't it intriguing how, architecturally, many of the most Modernist buildings we see in most towns are, in fact, places of worship? This pic is a bit of a teaser for an upcoming photo-essay I plan to do solely on Modernism in Church Architecture.
Eastown Bowling in London, Ontario. The utterly awesome vintage bowling alley sign juxtaposed with the much less artistically inspired Rent-to-Own sign sums it all up concerning this part of London - despite signs of impending gentrification, it's still very much a threadbare, "wrong-side-of-the-tracks" kind of place where a cold October wind seems to barrel down the sidewalks all year round. The kind of place where a barbershop with a 30-year-clientele and a revolving candy-striped pole is joined at the hip with a Value Village, and the Dundas Street traffic sings the blues in the background.
Dashboard of a '51 Pontiac. While it's a couple of years older, and a slightly different model than the first car I remember riding in, the interior is the same - especially that borderline-gaudy dashboard: a literal expression of the ebullience and confidence of the 50s, dripping with chrome and flaunting the latest (for 1951) high-tech gadget, a dashboard clock the size of coconut. The perfect ride to Club Morocco on a Saturday night.
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