About Bygones
No Regrets
Roads not taken
I am a writer. I always wanted to be a writer. Specifically, a journalist, which is sadly no longer a viable choice as a pay-the-bills profession. But, from age: high school through age: 28, give or take, I was also a photographer.
Brilliant Writer+Photographer Combo = the greatest asset any publication would be lucky enough to have, and my fame and fortune was practically guaranteed. That was The Plan — it was a GREAT plan — and the Bygone archive is what came of this (early 80’s through early 90’s) past life of mine.
There are 3 primary reasons why I abandoned The Plan:
"Grunge": sh*t got bonkers around here right around ’92, and not all in the good ways or all in the bad ways — but in other difficult, sometimes shocking, and mostly in less dramatic but absolutely disillusioning and wearying ways.
My Eyes: It became apparent I was on a trajectory to do irreversible damage to my vision. Sometimes I listen when smart people, like eye doctors, tell me to not do stupid things, like keep shooting photos in basically the dark for hours and days on end.
Priorities: Having accidentally tripped and landed on a different career path (whoops), I sorta had to play that out. Which I did for the next 2 decades and it turned out ok... [Coming soon - way more words about all this. You can't WAIT]
Negative Talk
All the technical stuff you didn't ask about...
…but I’m going to write about any way. I’ve been asked “why” the Bygone Photos have been locked up in boxes for decades, and there’s a few reasons. One of the main reasons being: an archive of film photography, of this vintage – plus the style and circumstances in which the photos were taken, PLUS the sheer enormity of them (10,000 images and counting) — is a technical preservation challenge of the highest order. [Coming soon: such a great blog post about this]
VENI VIDI VICI
I came, I saw, I conquered
Bygones is dedicated to my father, Lt. Col. EJ Andersen - Marine Corps fighter pilot and all-around tough guy. Not particularly fond of, or nice about, much besides very fast flying war planes, he did love two things: Music and Photography. After he retired from defending democracy with loud planes, and relocating his irritating family (three boisterous females and a cat) to Bellevue, WA and commencing to largely ignore them — he managed a small photo shop and to the best of anyone's knowledge, was reasonably content albeit very grumpy for the rest of his days.
From my first, freshman high school photography class, all the way through my photography "career", my imperfect father pretty much unconditionally supported my work, specifically by covering my film processing and printing bills post-high-school darkroom. Granted, he got a great employee discount, but it was still a cash outlay that, because of the sheer volume of the work, I'm assuming put a small dent in the household budget. I'm SURE I promised to pay him back, I'm equally sure more times than not, I didn't. It's not like the Rocket or the Weekly paid HUGE DOLLARS to the freelance writers or photographers, and the fanzines sure didn't.
So, HAHA Rockers, we kinda owe this entire affair to a cranky retired Marine and his forbearance of his wild but determined "journalist" daughter. None of these photos would exist if my Father hadn't paid for their inception (from cameras, to film, to prints, to more prints) out of the tiny goodness of his "Stone-cold, steely-eyed, professional killer(Ret.)" heart.
PS: Credit where credit is due, Saint $andy Andersen, aka the wife and mother, deserves quite a bit of gratitude for putting up with it all, then and now. Credit also to Michelle Andersen-Norsen, the bio-sister, who likes to remind me that our father was really a piece-of-work. She's not wrong — I'll give her credit for that.