the writing and photography of Neil Kramer
On the night before my wedding, my soon-to-be father-in-law, a conservative businessman from a prominent family in Seoul, took me out to a private bar to give me some marital advice.
“If you want a happy woman, you don’t bring your work back home with you,” he said.
“I’m still joining the force. Â Here in New York. Â It’s what I want to do,” I replied.
And my father-in-law hasn’t spoken to me since.
“It’s pouring outside. Do you have to go to work?”
“Of course I have to go to work. I need to make money.”
“Just stay a little longer,” she said, putting her head on his chest.
It wasn’t the first time he had heard the rain pounding against the window, relentless, as if crying for help, demanding entry into the warmth of the interior, but it was the first time he had ever felt it in his blood.
“He told me that I should meet him on 53rd and we would drive to the Island to see the Belmont Stakes. He told me to buy a hat, like those ones they were at the Kentucky Derby, all fancy and stuff. He told me that it was going to be a historical day – that we were going to see the first Triple Crown winner in decades. He told me a lot of things. He told me that he thought I was beautiful. He told me that I should meet him on 53rd Street with a hat in my hand. It was all lies.”
“I don’t see the rainbow after the rain anymore. Since meeting her, all of life has becomes the most colorful rainbow of them all.”
“Don’t do it,” said her friend. “You don’t know him. He’s too blue collar. You make more money. He’s not well-read. He’s too old.”
But Sandra didn’t listen, and stepped right onto the bright yellow tape that screamed “caution,” smashing it with her clean white sneaker.
In October, I opened up a “store” on my blog to sell photos. Thank you to everyone who checked out the gallery.
Today I’m adding 80 new photos to the store — all of them taking over the last year, mostly in New York City, but also in Washington D.C., Virginia, Los Angeles, London, Paris, and New Zealand.
Here is a little video showing all of the new photos that have been added.
If you know me, you know how hard it was for me to put up that revolving banner advertisement that was on my sidebar for the last two months. It was a good experience though, because it forced me to go I beyond my comfort zone.
The last straw that broke the camel’s back, like they say, is that after I pressed publish on my last post, a gentle tale titled “My Friend in McDonald’s, I immediately saw my own advertising server hawking back at me a personalized ad from Ronald McDonald himself, “Hey there, wouldn’t you enjoy having a juicy Quarter Pounder with Cheese right now?!”
Maybe if I was making $10,000 a month in advertising, I could compromise more, but for the $2 a month I was receiving for my banner, it felt humiliating.
But it was a good experience, like a teenage virgin having awkward sex for the first time and getting it over with.
This entire preamble is an anxious introduction to telling you that I am going to sell prints of my photos.
My Photo Store is Open for Business.
I’m going to start slow, because I’m a newbie at this. Â So, to begin, I’m just going to offer seven photos taken in New York City. Â Imagine it is a limited edition selection available just for my closest friends. Â I tested each photo myself to make sure they printed well, so I feel confident that they will look good as 8″x 8″ prints, despite their humble origins as iphone photos.
If you want a print of a another photo in my instagram gallery, just contact me. Â I will test it to make sure it prints well. Â As I test other photos, I will add new photos for sale.
For now, I’m going to charge $20, no tax. I’ll make the print at a local lab, using the best resolution digital image, then mail you the print in a sturdy envelope. I’ll use the profit to either buy a nicer winter coat, or buy drinks for some chick at a bar and then try to go to bed with her. It all depends on how many prints I sell.
I know I’m not a big time photographer, so for added value, I will sign the back of the photo for you, and even include a personal message if you ask politely.
Email me if there are any problems with the shopping card or dealing with Paypal.
Again, my photo store is here.
Thank you for you inspiring me to do this, and giving me the confidence to believe in myself.
I hope you enjoyed my Instagram Video Trilogy this weekend, consisting of my first three fifteen second Instagram videos. It was quite cathartic, a personal passive-aggressive nod at how much I dislike the inclusion of video into the previously photo-only Instagram app. Â Sadly, only I will truly understand my own joke.
Why am I so against it? Â I know, I know. Â I can shut off the auto-play of the videos in the stream. Â But it has less to do with YOUR dull videos, than with my own temptation to use video for MY own nefarious purposes.
I could write you a long thesis, with quotes from famous authors such as Susan Sontag and Roland Barthes, explaining the differences between photography and “motion pictures,” but I’d rather be as concise as possible — in my opinion, photography and video go together as well as a corned beef sandwich and mayonnaise. A photo captures a moment in time. A video is about movement in time. What strikes me as interesting as a photo — a street scene, a skyline, a person smoking a cigarette on a park bench — is not what I look for in a video. Â In one swoop, Instagram ruined the gentle creative flow of the photo stream.
What am I talking about? Â Why do I care so much about this shit? Â Am I just weird?
Yes, I am weird. Â Case in point — the completely unexpected Instagram discussion on the first video about my life-long technique of taking a shower.
lilyhollow —
Great video but one question. Â Who gets into a shower without turning it on first!neilochka —
Really, @lillyhollow? I had to fake the washing a little so the iPhone didn’t get wet, but I ALWAYS go into the shower and then turn it on. Have I been doing it wrong all my life? I adjust the temperature from inside.elisacp —
Yes @neilochka that’s wrong 🙂 In fact I hate hotels where the door is such that you have to get in to turn it on.
Others then jumped in, calling my shower technique a “troubling one.”
Yes, I am so WEIRD that I even take my showers WRONG.
That said, I will probably delete these videos from Instagram tomorrow.  The style of humor in the videos doesn’t blend in with what I have created on Instagram during the past few years.  I have been proud of finding a place online where I can be less a personality driven narcissist — always about me, me, me  — and focus on observing the outside world, like a bystander.  It’s been a very enriching experience that I would rather not destroy.
Call me old-fashioned, but I was convinced that she would be the first to crack. Blokes like myself believe women are the sentimental creatures, so I was surprised that, on my arrival at LAX, the first text I received from her read simply, “Going camping with my son for two days.”
Camping in NZ also means “non internet access,” so this also meant that our communication channels were down. So, on this historic day when President Obama was sworn in as President, barriers fell throughout the land. We now have our first two-term African-American President. Gay rights were mentioned in an inaugural speech. And — for the first time ever, smashing centuries of gender roles — a man cracked first, turning to his blog, sentimentality in his heart, while the woman went camping in the wild, a pocketknife in her purse. Who’s the weaker sex? My heart sinks faster than that US Navy landing craft that was swamped by a wave near Paekakariki, NZ ’s during that infamous tragedy in June 1943.
J and I first went camping after Christmas. Her son stayed with his father. I had not gone camping since I was twelve years old. As an adult, I found it fun, but exhausting. One of my Facebook friends touted camping as “sexy.” Uh, no. But if you get your kicks sleeping in cramped tents without bathrooms, who am I to question your alternative lifestyle?
I’m surprised that I enjoyed it as much as I did. The scenery certainly helped. It was amazing to wake up in the morning and look at greenery so lush you felt like you just rented a room in the Hobbit’s Shire.
Still, after a week sleeping on an air mattress, I suggested (well, insisted) that we spend two nights in a motel in Napier, a Hawkes’ Bay town famous for its art deco architecture.
Our room in Napier — at the appropriately named Art Deco Motel — was nothing fancy; it was a motel room that looked out into a parking lot. But after a week camping, it felt like the Four Seasons. We each took a long hot shower. It was the best shower of my life. J prepared lunch in the motel kitchenette, using leftovers in the cooler or the “chilly bin” as called by the Kiwis. J was wearing a towel from the bathroom, but as she fried up some eggs, the white cotton towel slipped off, sliding to the carpeted floor.
I took a photo of her with my iPhone.
In the photo, J was in the shadows, the light in the background flowing in from the large window leading to the patio. I fiddled around with some apps on my iphone until the subject was anonymous. I created a blurry photo of a naked, curvy, beautiful woman standing in front of a burst of light.
“Can I put this on Instagram?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “It’s your artwork.”
Wow. My artwork?! How can you not fall for a woman who considers your dopey and salacious photo of her losing her towel while frying some eggs as “artwork?”
The next day, she changed my mind.
“I forgot about my mother.” she said. She’s looking at your instagram feed.”
It’s a fine line between sharing and keeping things private.
“Can you take it down before she sees it?” she asked.
I deleted it from Instagram. And Flickr. And Facebook.
I’m in Los Angeles now. For now. It’s too bad that I can’t reach J. I want to tell her about my night in Melbourne, Australia. I met two Aussie bloggers and we went to a famous local restaurant.
Melbourne is a world-class city with culture and excitement. There are hipsters drinking coffee in converted warehouse districts. The Kapiti Coast of New Zealand — where J lives — is sleepyville. Bars close early. Local excitement is a sheep shearing and bringing home some fish and chips. But never have I seen so much greenery. And as a Pisces, I am drawn to the oceans and rivers and lakes. And then, there is J herself. She is in New Zealand.
I slide my finger along the screen of my iphone, touching the blurred photo of J. The one from the motel. The one that I deleted. It is a tame photo. J is shadowy and heavily filtered. But I understand why she asked me to delete it from public view. I know and adore every curve of her body, even in the dark. And that is very obvious to anyone looking at this blurry photo, despite my attempts to hide it.
I’m not a fan of the ocean. Â It is too big, vast, dark, and scary. Â The tide will come in and swallow you up like a shark. Â But I am a Pisces. Â Two fishes swimming in opposite directions. Â I am drawn to the water. Â The grubby little pier in Redondo Harbor is so small that it feels like it belongs in some run-down New England seaside resort that has seen better days. Â Hollywood is far away. Â The celebrities go to Malibu, the tourists to Santa Monica. Â I like to watch the lazy fisherman, who spend the day dreaming of nothing, and catching even less, waiting for the sun to set.
© 2025 Citizen of the Month
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
