Photography

"A picture is worth a thousand words."

Well, maybe. A picture can be worth almost nothing; take a look at 100 random images on Flickr, and you'll see that very few of the site's 6 billion images are worth more than a sentence.

But, when properly applied, a single image can replace thousands of words. I probably read through several thousand words of blog posts, forum posts, and old newspapers to trace the former Green Line branch that once surfaced at what is now Eliot Norton Park in the Theater District. Descriptions of streetcar lines and that "...the right tracks went under the grade of the left tracks and split, with the left branch going to City Point outbound..." are simply insufficient to describe a complex, multilevel three-dimensional track crossover - particularly one that has not been seen in 4 decades and thus no good pictures exist.

If I may toot my own horn a moment, then take a look at this map that I created. I designed it to quickly show a viewer which tracks went where, and in what configuration. In this case, it tells the reader as much as those thousands of words of prose and even more than the few grainy photographs available. It does not replace them; it cannot entirely replace a picture, however poor quality, that shows the actual tunnel rather than simply a schematic. It is helpful, too, to know that the Orange Line connected to the portal between 1901 and 1908, or that the #43 streetcar to Lenox Street was the last route to use the portal. Even when included with the images (as I did with the Orange Line), it still requires text. But the map both elucidates and replaces text, and thus the old maxim holds in this case.

Of course, pictures can replace words without being merely informative. A picture of, perhaps, a lonely pond can show desperation and loneliness just as a poem or story could. Our vision is one of our most powerful senses; like taste and smell, it can have a strong correlation with memory. How else, for example, could my father recognize a cousin that he had not seen in decades? His brain could combine old images with its knowledge of aging and provide a plausible composite which it then compared with each passerby until it found a match.


The human face, in particular, is a subject where image is superior to the written word. One ran write about a person and get a reasonably accurate portrait of their body, their mind, their mannerisms and even their voice. But the face is a masterpiece of subtlety; tiny variations cause huge changes in the way it is perceived. A few millimeters in the symmetry of the features and the relative locations of nose, mouth, and eyes is much of the difference between average and beauty, or especially between merely beautiful and truly gorgeous. Emotion is written almost entirely in our faces: the way the eyes change direction, the separation of the lips, and the minor movement of the eyebrows can signal almost anything. The features are difficult to quantify and even more difficult to describe in a nonvisual medium; the mediocre artist will find themself able to produce a tolerable if slightly lopsided facsimile of the human body, but the face will be downright unrecognizable. Much artistic skill is required even for the most basic outline, and even more if that outline is via prose, yet even the grainiest photograph provides instant recognition.

So a picture can be worth one word, or a thousand, or more than any writing could ever produce. A poor graphic, perhaps on a Powerpoint slide, can do more harm than good: instead of saving words, it requires more to explain it that it would to simply leave it out. When dealing with something complex yet quantifiable an image can disambiguate text and render only a caption necessary - but only if the image is in fact superior to the text. Only when dealing with subtle subjects: the face, or an object of beauty, or simply something beyond the ability of human language to render it - does the printed word fail completely.

But what about something for which there is no equivalent in words? Some photographs are true art; they tell a message which is as clear as if it was spoken. They express ideas and feelings. But others simply exist. They are not high art, even if they are artistic in style. (And by 'artistic' I mean legitimately artistic, with attention paid to exposure, color, and framing - or developed by mere stroke of luck. The trend of 'tilt the camera, vignette the edges, and make it greyscale' is not nearly as artistically interesting as its practitioners would like to believe.)

Some would say that these are not worthy photographs, that they must either be useful or meaningful, and I do not deny that there may be merit in that statement. But I would like to believe that a picture can simply be.

I carry a camera everywhere and I take pictures because I find the subject interesting. The two following are from Albertus Magnus College in New Haven, where a friend attends. The first was a spur-of-the-moment shot; the second I saw in an instant but it took a few moments to align.

This was from my walk on Tuesday, where I followed Massachusetts Avenue to Harvard Square. I will confess to taking a color image here and converting it to greyscale. I did so not because I think it of artistic value, but simply because I wanted the silhouette of the church. Frequently I will use such digital post-processing to improve or modify my photos; it is one of the joys of the digital age. In this case, I actually created several copies and experimented with fill brightness, contrast, and shadows to produce the effect I wanted: a blank church against a mottled background of the incoming storm.

Allston Depot

Two of the most thought-provoking books I've read are Freakonomics and its sequel. Although they focus mostly on economic ideas, they also explore some unintended effects of public policy. Besides my human appreciation of irony, I find it fascinating to see how one thing can cause a chain of events. As a future engineer, it's important for me to see how one decision I make can have effects down the line.

Over the last century, engineering standards for trains have increased in a similar manner to how those for cars have increased. Just as manufacturers can no longer make Pintos that blow up when they get hit from behind, they can no longer make wooden trams or railroad cars that cannot survive a collision with an automobile. Today's modern light rail vehicles (colloquially, trams and trolleys), for example, are significantly heavier than the PCC streetcars that dominated during the 30s to the 70s. (The PCCs weighed just 35,000 to 42,000 pounds; 70s-era Boeing cars weight 67,000, and modern Type 8 trams weigh 85,000 pounds empty - and 130 passengers can add 20,000 more on top of that.)

Although fuel usage is not an issue for electric trams, weight can still be an issue. Should Green Line cars ever use the Pleasant Street Incline in South Boston again, the flyover ramps would have to be rebuild for the heavier modern cars. It is for this reason that the PCCs are still used on the Ashmont-Mattapan Line: the three bridges on the route would have to be rebuilt from scratch to accommodate the newer trams, and they would not be able to get an exemption to use lighter European trams because the line has grade crossings where a tram could conceivably hit a car. There's also no sense in abandoning reliable old cars when there's still a shortage of new cars.

Engineering standards, particularly crashworthiness standards, also affect mainline rail operations. Speeds are limited on many lines because in order to run above 70 miles an hour though grade crossings, the first car must be a locomotive or unoccupied car. FRA (Federal Railroad Administration) rules require certain steel side beams for operation above 125 mph. These side beams are located right where fold-down stairs go, so the high-speed Acela has no stairs - and can only stop at high-level (4 feet high) platforms.

Heavy modern steel railroad cars also require more energy to slow down, and to speed up, than the light wooden cars of years past. Again, this poses little problem with electric locomotives (or self-propelled electric railcars), but only the Northeast Corridor plus (most of) the New York and all of the Philadelphia commuter lines are electrified. When, like Boston, all of your commuter lines are diesel locomotives hauling 4 to 8 cars, it is impractical to have stops less than about 2 miles apart. Although their are some exceptions (Melrose, Needham, and Dedham have 3 stops within 1.5 linear miles, and West Roxbury has a 4-stop cluster), the trend is for fewer, wider-spaced stops, particularly on the newer lines.

During the nadir of rail travel - from about 1950 to 1980 - many lines were abandoned, or service was reduced to starvation levels. To reduce maintenance costs and to save on fuel, many stations were closed even on active lines. The Worcester-Framingham Line, like others, saw a number of its stations closed, particularly in the inner belt. Stations at University (BU), Allston, Brighton, Faneuil, and Newton were closed, leaving the Allston-Brighton area devoid of good transit options and heavily car-dependent.

The Allston depot was built in 1887 by the Boston & Albany Railroad, replacing the 1868 "Cambridge Crossing" depot. Although it closed at an unknown date, it still stands where Cambridge Street crosses the Mass Pike. It was once Sports Depot restaurant; now it's Regina Pizzeria at the Depot. (It housed a steakhouse even when it was still operational.) I took a walk two weeks back, to explore Allston and to photograph the building. With permission from the manager, I took some shots. It's a fairly large building, and the first two are panoramas I stitched together.

Front view from Cambridge Street

Side view from Franklin Street

Side view from the pedestrian bridge over the tracks and Mass Pike. Note how the former platform area is now an enclosed dining area - a brilliant reuse.

The saga of Allston Depot is not yet over, though. CSX is leaving Beacon Park Yard (the large rail yard between BU and Harvard) and moving those operations to Worcester. This will permit the MBTA to run more trains on the Boston-Framingham segment with less freight interference. Harvard is calling for the establishment of a new stop in Allston, and money talks. If the MBTA can purchase the tracks in that area, then they may well remove or relocate one to make room for a platform. The favored site is under the Cambridge Street bridge - exactly where the stop was first located 143 years ago.

Walking through Somerville and the North End

On last Tuesday evening, I went to a public meeting in Somerville. It took me one trolley, two buses, and a lot of walking to get to Somerville High School. That's an indication of the poor state of public transit in the area (I missed a bus at Lechmere, so my options were waiting 30 minutes for the next bus, or a mile's walk), which I'll touch on more later with the Green Line Extension.

The meeting was about the upcoming Lowering McGrath study, which is a really cool thing. They're going to take an ugly concrete viaduct from the 1950s, which carries Route 28 but divides Somerville, and transform it into an at-grade boulevard. It will facilitate pedestrian and bicycle access and unite the two sides of the city.

The meeting got out just past 8. Rather than take a bus, I decided to walk back to Boston. I wasn't sure I wanted to walk four miles (or more) through the unfamiliar street grid of Cambridge, so I headed for the North End. This route took me along a mile of Route 28, including much of the viaduct. It's a monstrosity, and it wasn't the best walking. The sidewalks - where there were sidewalks - were narrow, unlit, and often flooded.

In Somerville, I passed a building with several arched doorways that I though might have once been a trolley barn. The pictures I took were, sadly, dramatically underexposed. It turns out, though, that it is related to the history of the first elevated railway in Boston, a short-lived monorail. I hope to return soon and take pictures.

My journey took me over the Route 28 bridge under the Green Line's Lechmere viaduct. The viaduct is closed for construction at Science Park, but it still provided a fascinating photographic subject. The viaduct, which turns 100 next June, still contains some original catenary (overhead wire) poles:

Any view west from the bridge is blocked by the Museum of Science, but the hundred-foot arches of the viaduct provide wonderful framing for the Bunker Hill Bridge. (The Spaulding Hospital is on the right side of the bridge.)

I played with saturation on the top image. I love the artistic manipulations that digital photography permits.

From the Charles, I walked east on Nashua Street. My camera was still on night setting when I took this shot of a shuttle bus. It's not the quality I was seeking for Wikipedia, but instead I find a little artistic merit:

From much of the North End, the Bunker Hill bridge is visible above trees and buildings. The Big Dig was in many ways a colossal waste, but I love the bridge. Bridges are frequently beautiful - the same curves that make them strong are often aesthetically pleasing - and this is among the best. It is clean and white, resembling a pair of sailboats more than a freeway.

I walked down Causeway Street, behind North Station and TD Garden. The street was for almost a century covered by the Causeway Street elevated, yet just seven years after its removal few traces remain. Its remains, too, are a future photographic target for me.

At Government Center, after 3.3 miles of wandering, I finally gave in and boarded the T. I hoped to photograph the Brattle Loop, once a busy streetcar turnaround for cars from as far as Medford and Chelsea. Now it's usually empty, with the former platform visible to the thousands who pass through the station despite a wall that hides much of it. However, that night, it was occupied by spare Green Line trams.

Walking Boston

I spent the first eighteen years of my life in a smallish neighborhood in a smallish town in a smallish state. My particular subdivision was designed in the late 1950s, when car culture still reigned king. Although the immediate neighborhood is mostly walkable, venturing beyond requires a car. It is impossible to get to the town center by any mode but by vehicle; even to get to the nearer village area would require traveling in the narrow and sometimes absent breakdown lane of a major state road with fifty-five miles per hour traffic. In a town six miles square, there is less than a mile of sidewalk, because most of the faster two-lane roads were upgraded or built, of course, during the Fifties. On the two major roads, there are only two pedestrian crossings, and neither is protected by an adjacent traffic light nor routed onto a dedicated bridge. Even the sole walkable destination from my neighborhood – the junior high school – can only be accessed by crossing a state route less than 50 yards from a blind corner, after crossing (with permission) private property to avoid a section of road with no margin. It’s not a friendly place for alternative modes of transportation.

I like walking, though. If I was the sort to believe in the concept of a soul, I’d say walking is good for said soul. It certainly clears both lungs and brain. But my neighborhood, as mentioned, fits the general description of ‘smallish;’ the longest possible loop barely exceeds a mile. The paths behind my house through the woods are marginally better. Both are also heavily restricted to daytime use. Should I choose to venture outside after dusk, the neighborhood is filled with paranoid folks who would gladly call the police claiming that I’m a burglar (and I’ve gotten strange comments from using a telescope in the privacy of my own yard), and the local skunk population seems to be exhibiting ideal unrestricted exponential growth. In high school, the twin forces of homework and the internet combined their wiles to keep me inside in my easy chair.
Just as I was about to become permanently sedentary, along came college. Instead of a cowtown in Connecticut, I now find myself in Boston, Massachusetts. The BU campus is hardly a campus at all – just one and two rows of buildings lining Commonwealth Avenue (henceforth Comm Ave) and parts of Beacon Street. But I don’t find myself missing the insular grassy feel of similar institutions like Harvard and Northeastern. I like the urban experience, with crowds of students, cars, taxis, buses, and trams sharing the street. I’m now in a city where the locals were strolling around three centuries before Henry Ford.

With the exception of the interstate highways and a few other expressways, every road in the area has sidewalks. Some roads, like Comm Ave east of Kenmore Square, even have the wide, green pedestrian / bicycle dedicated center medians common in Europe (and which I loved in Lima). Boston also has its own quirks: the walk/don’t walk signals have no correlation on whether it’s actually safe to cross, and enough people crossing can bring traffic to a halt even on a green light. I started by just walking to campus events and classes, and I had no plans to walk any further than necessary. But then, on my first day of classes, I found myself done with classes by 12:30, with almost no homework. My realization then has shaped much of my activities since: the realization that I could walk anywhere I wanted, as far as I wanted, almost anytime I wanted. I can find myself in busy Kenmore square in just minutes from leaving my room. Twenty minutes will get me to the middle of the Charles (on Harvard Bridge), or to the peace of the Back Bay Fens.

College gives me a lot of stress, and this freedom to clear my mind and stretch my legs is my saving grace. I am a loner by nature; though I can enjoy social company, sometimes I just need to be alone. Normally such solitary escapism is nearly impossible in a city, but ironically I often find it in the middle of crowds. I can stroll up Mass Ave through Central Square in Cambridge and feel free and easy even with hundreds passing me by.
A few days ago, I found myself leaving West Campus at perhaps eleven at night. I turned right at the BU Bridge and wandered into Brookline, where I don’t know the street grid. A few blocks down the street, I realized that I was in a traditionally “bad” situation: alone in a city at night, on a dark and empty street, not entirely sure of my route, and without a single other sole knowing where I was. Yet, I did not feel the least unsafe. I feared no muggers appearing from behind the oak trees. Instead, I felt very much alive. After half an hour exploring Brookline, I reached familiar streets and made my way back to my dorm. I came back feeling very refreshed.

As much as it is a very modern city, Boston is also full of history. Some of it – Fenway Park and Faneuil Hall, Boston Common to Beacon Hill – is obvious to even the most inattentive onlooker. But much of it is gone or in ruins – and one must search for the ruins. My nerdy obsession is the T (the public transit system) and its predecessors the Boston Electric Railway (BERy), Eastern Massachusetts Street Railway, and the M.T.A. (of Kingston Trio fame), and the city and its suburbs are full of remains just beyond the public consciousness. I make it my business to seek out and photograph these bits – like the concrete wall just east of Kenmore, which was once a busy streetcar portal. Until I have more literary remarks to make later in the semester, much of my blogging will focus on these ruins of the T.
But beyond the trains, there is much for me to walk for. It’s grand exercise – and now that I find myself walking four to six miles a day, I have the inclination to eat four full meals a day. I’m learning the geography and shape of the city from my excursions. But one that pulls me often is the mystery.

As an example, take this stone house. It’s not out of character for the city – except that it’s located in Charlesgate, surrounded by entrance ramps for Storrow Drive and Mass Ave. Why is it there? Is it a fancy maintenance building, or an older construction that never got torn down? I may never find out – but merely knowing the existence of the mystery is a satisfying result. For that, I will be walking Boston.