Three Weeks Later...

I am finally finished with my new website. Finished is a completely relative term because i will be constantly updating and modifying the site content and appearance. Either way here's the new site and the business that will be going by the same name.

You wouldn’t think it by the simple design of the site but building it has been an exhausting experience (I am not a web designer and i used a very simple program to build this site with). I must say a huge thanks to Tim Thomas, for his tireless patience, expertise and constant encouragement throughout this whole process. You are most definitely the man Tim.

So please, check out the new site at Coreyhauphotography.com and let me know what you think. All feedback is very much appreciated.



I should be growing up by now.

Instead, I just stare out the window and watch as people walk by with insulated paper cups glued to their hands, some dark brew waking them up to the grey world they’ve stepped into.

A train whistle, one lonely report piercing through the late night quiet, has been floating through this neighborhood as if it were some long forgotten station. Then of course there’s the low, window-shaking rumble of articulating buses carrying people on a South-North route from downtown to out of town and many points in between.


He strides through the kitchen with a hurried and anxious gait. Always somewhere to be going, something that needs doing with him being the doer who must get it done.

I know too many who live in this way, if it can be called living at all. What kind of monstrous generation is this that takes no notice of the cracks in the sidewalk much less the cracks that lie within?

We are always looking forward. Forward to the day we are complete, the day we have enough money, the day we meet someone who can take us away from the present moment and place us safely within some chick flick storyline where we are running hand in hand down a grass covered hill with colorful homemade kites flying high above us.

So we live in this way and often view the present as nothing more than a dull waiting room in which we are listening for the door to creak open and our names to be read from a list of “those about to really start living”. You rise from the worn out chair, walk through the door and then your dreams begin to come true.

The present is not enough and therefore the future must hold something more. More satisfying, more movie like, more self-gratifying.

The present you is a more damnable and imperfect version of the future you. At least that’s what we are taught to believe.

And believe we do.


Soul Work

I was reading through some thoughts I’d written in personal journals over the last year and stumbled upon the following sentences,

This is deep spirit work, deep soul work. This is no ‘if I can just read the right book, watch the right movie, or meet the right person then everything will be alright’ work. No, this is a dark journey, through the dark places of a life that isn’t afraid to venture into the night.

The last few weeks have found me feeling thin. Thin in spirit, thin in patience, thin in love. Sometimes I feel so thin it seems as if I might disappear, evaporate into the night and become the wind that scatters leaves down the alleyway.

And then there are these moments when I settle into the thinness and begin to appreciate it, begin to listen to my soul and what it might be attempting to tell me.

To talk about spirit and soul is risky business for me, its even riskier to publish it online for all to read. There are many that will read these words and have no way to view them besides through the religious lens they see the world through. Perhaps for them spirit can only mean “Holy Spirit”, the third entity of a triune god (the other two being Father and Son). Maybe soul can only be a part of us that is either going to heaven or hell.

While I have not, and am not sure if in the near or distant future will have, formulated my own definitions for what spirit and soul mean to me, I do know that they are very real and very “there” somewhere inside of me.

I could carry on about this topic at length but I will stop myself there.

Below you will find a completely unrelated self-portrait I took today while in the Bauhaus coffee shop toilet on Capital Hill.


Photo Contest

It was New Years Eve and I wanted at least one image to remember the night by. Nathan invited me to a mobster themed party and I was excited to attend. So the night came, great costumes and celebration commenced and I snapped off one image that summed it all up for me.

The photo eventually made its way into a contest and after a few weeks of deliberation the Metro Blogging Seattle staff announced my photo as the winner of their first annual New Years Eve Photo Contest.

I don't know why I didn't post this photo on here earlier. Must have slipped my mind. Anyways, here is the scene as I saw it. Enjoy.

Players seated around a card table wait for the midnight hour to arrive while Salvatore "The Knife" Brusca flings out kings, queens, aces and jokers. The winner takes all and the loser, well the loser is taken out back never to be seen again.


Ballard: The City That Once Was

Just another day in Ballard. Another day coasting on my borrowed two wheeled transportation through the old fishing town. Remnants of this bygone era still cling to its shores, the broke down and rusted docks jutting out into the canal, waiting patiently to receive the cod laden ghost ships that once chugged in from Alaska’s frigid waters.

The seasonally reclusive star came out today. In a city where winters are predominately dark, wet and dreary you learn to cherish any ray of direct sunlight that may happen to fall upon your grey little corner of the world. This is the second Sunday in a row where the day lived up to its given name. Thank god for sunny Sundays.

I needed out. Out of my room, out of the apartment and out of the neighborhood. Months of constant traveling have left me a restless wanderer. I want stability, predictability but then once found I want change and something different. My mind can’t make up its mind.

So while I couldn’t bum around a different country I decided I could at least spend time bumming around different parts of Ballard. Ballard is a strange place in that technically it is part of the city of Seattle but beyond that technicality its nothing like it. Ballard lies on the far outskirts of Seattle, down a large hill and eventually ending on the shores of Puget Sound.

It’s a blue collar, 9 to 5, industrial town. The people are friendly; involved in their community and love to talk of the rich Scandinavian history Ballard is built upon. Actually they love their Nordic roots so much that they celebrate Norwegian Constitution Day, complete with a parade down the main street. They also have a museum dedicated to their Nordic history. A museum at which I paid 6 dollars and spent a couple of hours walking around learning about Scandinavian immigration to America and eventually Ballard.

For 17 years Ballard was a city all its own. That came to an abrupt halt in 1907 when it was annexed to the city of Seattle. Many of the residents at the time were not happy with this annexation proclamation. Even today you can still see cars with bumper stickers that read “Free Ballard”. Guess I’m not the only who doesn’t deal well with change.

I ended my day with a stop at the Maritime brewery. Sitting at the bar with strangers around me I drank pints of Nightwatch dark ale and talked with Bruce and Dave, two regulars, about films, football and the once great city that lay just beyond the doors of the Jolly Roger Taproom.


No. 200

Perhaps cities and me don’t mix. Or maybe its just me and American cities, I don’t know yet. Living in Seattle is my first go at city life. And it’s been great, until recently. This city is nice. It’s got a lot to offer, great climate (once you get used to the rainy season), stunning location (you can see a giant volcano looming over the city on clear days) and interesting culture. I like it here.

It's only been three years (not even) since moving here and the one thing I have struggled with on an almost daily basis is the change that happens here. I remember watching this documentary on New York City a few summers ago and how in that documentary one of the narrators talked about how cities were all about change. That nothing ever stayed the same for long. Buildings were torn down and news ones built in their place at what seemed a maddening pace. And I understood that when talking about a city like New York.

But not Seattle. I’ve been observing the systematic destruction of all things old, all things affordable and all things character filled being replaced with soulless, characterless and expensive (to rent) but cheaply built buildings. I hate this.

It makes me want to do all of the following at once: weep, abandon the city, grab developers by their greedy little capitalist necks and toss ‘em out on the street, scream out loud on a street corner soapbox about how shallow and rootless our culture is and how we value nothing unless it produces large sums of money, how we destroy lives, how we destroy what little culture we have left and don’t give two shits about the kind of world we are creating for our kids to grow up in and eventually inherit.

Seattle is the perfect example of what capitalism does to a vibrant, art filled, community oriented city: kills it dead.

Allow me to rant for only a minute or two about what it means to be an artist in a capitalist society. It means being torn between “getting a real job” and staying broke because you love to create. It means turning your art into a product and in turn selling your crazy, passionate, unique and beautiful perspective of the world for a few bucks to buy some groceries or pay the rent. Its means fighting everyday to validate your existence as an artist in a culture that doesn’t know how to love art and those who create it.

How do you quantify art? How do you quantify something that comes from some unknown place within you and drives you along like some demon-possessed madman? A madman that must create or die trying. I’ll tell you how you quantify it; you let capitalism tell you how to view everything in life (including life itself) through the lens of “what can I sell this for on the open market?” You reduce life to nothing more than monetary units and economic terms. You sell your soul simply because someone was willing to buy it and you needed the cash.

Two minutes are up.

I don’t know, maybe I just don’t deal well with change. Or maybe I just don’t deal well with the kind of change that I see all too often. The kind of change that benefits no one except a small handful of investors, realtors and developers. The kind of change that regards history as an obstacle to be plowed over and character as something to be manufactured.

Is there a city in America that cares for all of its citizens (not just the ones with the most money)? Is there even an America that cares for all of its citizens?

Two months back in the States and I'm already disgusted.


Slingshot Nights

You get tired. That’s what happens after a late night of bluegrass debauchery. Crashing parties at houses you’ve never been to. It’s Seattle on a Friday night, Saturday night, Sunday-Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday-night. People are always looking for opportunities to connect with others.

You try to pull away and instead are hurled like a stone from a slingshot into the fray of late nights and even later days. This isn't my life, at least not all of the time.

This is “get stuff done” week. Don’t look for it on your calendar, its not there because its on mine. Get pictures edited, get pictures printed, get pictures framed. Get wall time, get a new website, get business cards made. In the end maybe get paid to do what you love. But probably not.

Americans don’t buy art. We admire it, talk about it, look at it. But we don’t buy it. We buy things that everyone else can have (and does for that matter). We buy pictures from Ikea, the ones that were re-printed in the thousands. The ones that are made by people in countries far away and under conditions that are foreign to me. Countries where they cant afford to buy art even if they want to.

Here are a couple of pictures that aren’t for sale (yet). Bus rides through the city.


Tired Twilight Poem

Drips fall from the tips of these green fingers,
I'm safe beneath these boughs and close to the heart
Of this old fir tree.

Thor, wet, covered in black fur and alive
On only a wing and prayer,
Licks my hands.

Some good beer, dark and strong,
sits next to me on a bench made of wood.
Way, way off, in the distance beyond my sight
A dull orange glow
Hums quietly into the coming night.

Hands, back, feet and heart
All are aching
All are tired.

But for now this rain is enough.
This daylight turning quickly to night,
This dog and this beer,
This tree and this bench.
This me sitting still
Taking all of it in.
And letting all of it go.


Fence Building

My back is as tired as my eyes were this morning. Today was a mixed bag of good music (Phish live from some herb infused venue), spotty sunshine and frustrating fence building. I was asked by my now friends the Mora’s if I could come out to their farm for a couple of days to help set fence posts. They want to build a deer fence around what will soon be an orchard full of blueberries and hazelnut trees; they want me to set the posts. So yesterday I hopped on a bus and two ferries and eventually arrived at the farm.

I’ve never built a fence and today I was left on my own to work it out. I worked it out, but it took me nearly half a day to do so. Tomorrow will be better. I now know what I am doing, at least I think I do.

My back still aches.


Late Bus

I'm on the 44 again and it's late. The sun set long ago and the dark of night waits patiently just outside the bus window. Inside this metal box it's warm and smells faintly of urine and body odor. The 44 always smells like this. This route uses some of the oldest buses in the city. The seats hold the scent of previous occupants like a sponge soaks up spilled coffee. Only this sponge has yet to be wrung out and replaced.

I watch people and notice that no one is watching anyone else. They look straight ahead, look down, play with their phones, their ipods, read books or magazines. I look at them not looking at me and wonder who they are and what their lives hold for them.

I wonder when they are going to lay these old, rickety steal boxes to rest.


Head For The Hills

There are many words I could use to try and convey just how enthralling today was. But I am not in the mood for words, so I'll let this video and a few pictures tell the story for me.


Another Room

A new room, a new space to share with others and new others to share space with. Big, bright windows, two that fling wide open and give me a view of the courtyard below, take up one wall. Its beautiful, southeast facing light that bounces around this tiny white walled room. Who knows how long I’ll be here. No, not in that existential way. Not in that “how long do I have upon this earth” way. This apartment is full of transient artist types and as a result people come and go at a manic pace. Two guys that make and produce music share the apartment with me. No one signs contracts to live here. You just talk to the right guy, pay some money and bam! you’ve got a place to crash. A place to create.

This room is the first space since March that I've been able to call my own. I've slept in caravans, on couch's, beds and floors. The hospitality that has been extended to me as I've bummed around has been more than amazing, its been humbling. I say let the humbling continue.

So here I am. The sometimes writer, sometimes photographer, sometimes traveler living in the cold and drafty well-lit back room of an old two story brick building. I need to find a desk, a curtain and a place to hang my hat.



Its raining hard as I board my flight from Atlanta back to Seattle. A fog has settled in and there are delays. The captain’s voice comes on over the intercom and announces that we are 16th in line for take off. I love Hartsfield.

After 45 minutes of sitting on the tarmac the engines roar to life and we speed down the runway, lifting off into the fog and leaving the South far below. Flight attendants make the rounds with “complimentary” beverages (the definition of complimentary is as follows: given free as a gift or courtesy. I believe I paid 300 plus dollars for a one way ticket across the U.S. and I'm pretty sure that a drink was included in that price. Which would mean that it’s not complimentary, it receiving what I paid for).

I unlatch the unsuspecting tray table from the seatback in front of me and become immediately angered at what I see. An advertisement is plastered across the entirety of the surface I will be using to place my drink on. Most of you know by now where I stand on advertising in general but this takes the cake. The urge to hit the stewardess call button and ask if this company that is advertising in my personal space is also paying for my in flight meal (yeah, you fly all the way across America and you have to buy a meal for $7 bucks) comes over me. I refrain.

So I did what I knew I had the power to do; took pictures of this hyper capitalist advertising crap fest and talked to people about it. Now I'm sharing it with you. I typed, “tray table advertising” into a search engine and the first hit that came up was the company that controls the advertising. This quote was on the front page of the companies website, “New…Inescapable…Dominant”. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Thus far I have only seen U.S. Airways using this form of “inescapable” advertising. I'm sure other airlines will soon follow suit.

Who benefits from this advertising? Not me. I still pay the same price for my ticket, still have to buy a meal and still have to sit in my seat and debate whether or not its worth even using the tray table I paid to use because the advert on in it gives me a headache.

I hate airline companies.

A mapkin.

Ah yes, your friendly sky high tray table. You can count on its flat grey surface to hold your food and provide a comfortable, clutter free background for you to rest your book on.

Oh wait, what is this?! My space has been invaded by the hyper capitilist advertising machine. Those bastards!

Yet another example of this "makes-me-want-to-throw-up-in-my-mouth-and-move-
to-Venezula-to-become-drinking-buddies-with-Hugo-Chavez" advertising.