Grainy, Blurry, Yet Good
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This is the lock on a wooden tool box. It's one of the first toolboxes I acquired when I started working as a machinist. An old fellow that was retiring offered to sell it to me at a price I could afford. It was old and shop-worn then as it is even more so now after 40 years in my care. It didn't come with a key so I've never locked it. The image is about 70mm top to bottom. HMM and thank you all for any views, faves and comments.
...Wanting to become an artist will not make me a Velasquez!
Ma boîte à outils... N'est pas Velasquez qui veut!
ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ sᴡɪᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ sʜᴀʀᴋs? ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙʟᴇᴇᴅ.
She leans against the side of an old, abandoned wooden boat pulled up on the pebbled shore. A cigarette dangles between her fingers, its thin smoke curling into the salt-tinged air. Her gaze is distant, fixed somewhere between the horizon and the curling waves. The air smells of salt and seaweed, and the rising sun casts a pale gold light across the water.
For weeks now, she’s sought solace in this secluded spot by the sea. The boat, half-buried in sand, has become a familiar companion - a quiet witness to her contemplations.
This morning, however, the peace she’s grown accustomed to is disrupted by the sound of footsteps crunching over the pebbles. A man appears, carrying a small toolbox, his silhouette hazy in the sea mist. His beard is thick and neatly kept, framing his face with a rugged charm. His man-bun, tied high, gleams in the soft morning light, and his light brown eyes seem to hold the glow of the rising sun, warm and searching, like they’ve seen the world and found poetry in its chaos.
He pauses when he sees her, tilting his head in mild surprise.
“You’re sitting on my project,” he says, his tone light but teasing.
She raises an eyebrow, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Your project? Looks more like a relic.”
He grins, the movement softening the edges of his face. “It’s both. Been fixing it up for weeks now.” He sets his toolbox down and gestures toward the boat. “Mind if I get to work?”
She hesitates but shifts to the side, still leaning against the boat. “Didn’t think anyone cared about this thing anymore.”
He shrugs as he kneels by the hull, pulling out sandpaper and tools. “Most people don’t. But I’ve got a soft spot for things that seem... forgotten.”
Their conversation is sparse at first, carried by the rhythm of the waves and the occasional scrape of his tools against the wood. She watches him work, intrigued by his quiet focus. Eventually, she flicks her cigarette into the sand and says, “Why bother? Boats like this don’t belong on the water anymore.”
He looks up, his hands pausing. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s about giving something a second chance, even if it’s just for show.”
His words linger in the air between them, carrying more weight than either of them intended. She deflects with a smirk, suddenly self-conscious. “So, you’re a poet and a carpenter?”
He laughs softly, the sound deep and unhurried. “Just a guy who likes the sea. And maybe fixing things.”
As the tide creeps closer, they keep talking. He shares stories of his childhood by the coast, of how he’s always been drawn to the water and the stories it seems to whisper. She, against her usual instincts, finds herself admitting things she rarely says aloud - about her wandering life, her habit of leaving places before they can leave her.
When he invites her to help with the boat - just to hold a plank in place or test the balance - she surprises herself by saying yes. For the first time in a long while, she feels grounded, her restless energy softened by the steady rhythm of his work and the murmuring sea.
As the morning fades into the afternoon, the boat begins to look less like a relic and more like something alive again. And as they sit together on its edge, their hands smudged with sawdust and salt, she realizes that sometimes, it’s not the destination or the grand gestures that matter - it’s the fleeting, unexpected moments where strangers meet and something intangible shifts, like the tide.
Rolleicord Vb, Xenar 75mm f/3.5, Kodak Gold 200
Negative scanned using Fujifilm X-T5 with Fujinon XF 60mm f/2.4 Macro.
Processed with Analogue Toolbox for Capture One.
(Schneider-Kreuznach Componon-S 1:2,8/50mm + bellows)
Tiny screws and nut for phono cartridges on a wooden ruler (0-1cm).
I’ve got a Husky toolbox for my wrenches and other tools but it seemed a crime to put wood tools in it. So I decided to build my dream toolbox. To keep with the wood theme, every component is wooden, the box, hinges, latches, and handle. The wood is honduran mahogany and the finish is lacquer.
I’ve got a Husky toolbox for my wrenches and other tools but it seemed a crime to put wood tools in it. So I decided to build my dream toolbox. To keep with the wood theme, every component is wooden, the box, hinges, latches, and handle. The wood is honduran mahogany and the finish is lacquer.
Caja de Herramientas
Hotel Bosques de la Alhambra, 1910 “Hotel Reuma” por la humedad y Torre de Comares
Popularly ‘Hotel Rheuma’ due to humidity
Taken on my bed, I am rich, I have a studio in my bedroom... :)
Please view large if you would, it looks pretty bad in the smaller version... :)
The passenger floorboard of my vehicle cast a nice deep shadow around this toolbox. I thought it gave this a great monochrome character.
Strobist info:
1 LumoPro LP180R Off Camera Flash w/ hot shoe cord
shoot through white umbrella
1/1 @70mm zoom 7' right of camera
Nikon D7200
AF-S NIKKOR 50mm 1:1.8G
Got this cool old toolbox that's completely rusted all over from one of our employees brother who's moving. She was going to paint it and I told no way! I love all the rust and dings. It tells you the thing has a history.