brunettesrule, ratbol,
I'm glad y'all are enjoying the repost of these photos. When I first posted them 3 years ago I had digitized them with a low-resolution point-and-shoot camera set on close-up mode. The results were disappointing. Now, digitized with a 14MP slide scanner, they look better than ever, especially this series.
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During college, instead of taking off for the summer like most students, I remained in town to work and help pay for school. For those 3 months I became a townie. Weather permitting, weekdays after work I pedaled my bicycle out to the quarries (10 minute ride) and enjoyed tranquil evenings with my growing circle of friends. It was during those times I came to understand how Sundown Quarry got its name. As the sun sank low in the west, radiance reflecting off the long fetch of water washed the eastern cliffs with shimmering patterns, ebbing, flowing, morphing through deepening shades of rose, mauve and magenta until, at last, when the final glimmer of twilight vanished over the horizon, starlight alone shined down on the ancient stone.
I didn't spend all my time skulking in the woods with my Minolta SLR; most of the time my bare butt was parked on the rocks with my fellow skinny-dippers. Oh sure, in doing so I missed hundreds of photo opportunities* but I didn't care. Capturing candid images of human wildlife in its natural habitat was pleasing but I derived far greater gratification from schmoozing with the ladies up-close-and-personal.
The crowd at Packinghouse was a microcosm of society; all personality types were represented; those who preferred peace and quiet and solitude, pot-smoking party animals and everything in between. Those who sought to put the 'social' in social nudity gathered in the eastern slag pile at Sundown. On sultry summer weekends, scores of nudists spread their towels and shoehorned themselves onto every available semi-flat surface. Because of the helter-skelter arrangement of rocks, people sat and reclined at odd angles and at different elevations. And if you were lucky, you were treated to a view ordinarily reserved for gynecologists.
Acquaintances galore I made during my years at Packinghouse -students, townies, men, women- but true friends I could count on one hand. Kate, an IU student, spent her summers in town, attending summer school and hanging out at the quarries. And by the end of each season she wore a seamless tan of rich dark chocolate. Had she not been romantically involved, very easily I could have fallen for Kate. She was the kind of girl any man would covet: intelligent, witty, sensitive, spontaneous, playful, and, to top it off, very easy on the eyes.
Second semester of my sophomore year I had a class with Kate, journalism 212. Course requirements included writing assignments and photographic projects. Her forte was English composition and mine, black & white photo processing. That first week of class after New Year's we forged a partnership; we agreed to help each other strengthen our weak points. During group study sessions, Kate was brutally honest in critiquing my writing and diligently edited my mistakes. From her, I learned much. And I gave her the benefit of my years of darkroom experience, demonstrating the myriad techniques one could employ to transform marginal negatives into prints worthy of framing. The result of our academic mutual aid: we aced our midterms.
As winter melted into spring and opening day at the quarries drew near, I asked Kate if she would pose for my final photographic project. Over lunch one Friday at the student union building, I outlined my vision: a photo documentary of Packinghouse, featuring her smiling face and lean, toned, tanned body reclining on the rocks, walking through the woods, diving off cliffs and swimming in the deep clear waters, things I had the pleasure of watching her do countless times. I was stoked at the prospect of snapping up-close photos (and lots of them) of this nude nymph with the baddest tan in all of quarryland.
However, she declined my request and her reason was valid; photo projects were always placed on exhibit in Ernie Pyle Hall, the journalism building. She wasn't squeamish about public nudity but she drew the line at having her personal and academic lives intersect; she didn't care to have her classmates and professors see her naked.
And so, I was compelled to photograph from afar. Kate, dark tan, oiled, and her friend Julie at water's edge in the eastern slag pile, Sundown Quarry.
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*All the photos in this entire collection represents a tiny fraction of the people who patronized the Packinghouse quarries during the years I went there.
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