Meditations on light and space–”Prairie” by Robert Adams

Robert Adam’s “Prairie” is back in print, more than 30 years after its first release.  The original version was a very small, slender volume, with 33 pictures, released by the Denver Art Museum, but sequenced and designed by Robert Adams himself.  His previous three books—“White Churches of the Plains”, “The Architecture and Art of Early Hispanic Colorado” (both published by the University of Colorado Press), and “The New West” (published by Aperture) were the results of not just Robert Adams efforts, but also those of editors and book designers—the way books are usually published.  “Prairie” is a different sort of book—something more akin to an artist book—the essay is very short but beautifully written, the pictures are small but full of stillness, and the sequencing is full of unexpected transitions that jar the reader to pay attention.

Robert Adams, Ramah, 1965

The photographs used in Prairie were made beginning in 1965, before Adams turned 30,  and so are the earliest published examples that we have of his work.  Some of the pictures could have been included in “White Churches of the Plains”, but “Prairie” shows that Adam’s vision was much broader than just the churches, and that his eye was attracted to the sweeping spaces, the light, and the stillness of the high plains of eastern Colorado.  Robert Adams was aware of the work of other photographers, including Ansel Adams, who he purchased a print of “Moonrise” from in 1966, perhaps in part to possess an example of a well printed silver gelatin print to set a standard for his own work.

The translation of a silver gelatin print (the object created by the 20^th century photographer in the darkroom) to the ink of the printed page is considerably less straightforward than the uninitiated might suspect, especially before the advent of digital technology for the making of printing plates.  My first memorable encounter with Robert Adams‘ work was at the Philadelphia Art Museum in 1982 when I saw an exhibit of “The New West” hanging in a small gallery—it was many years before I saw a copy of the book containing the same images—but the quality of the relatively small prints (about 5×5 inches) was striking.  Over the years, I have encountered more than a few photographers who have dismissed the work of Robert Adams as uninteresting—but when queried about how frequently they have viewed his original prints, have admitted to seeing none.

Thankfully, printing technology has improved over the past few decades, and the reprinting of “Prairie” is a wonderful example of how what appear to be very subtle differences in the amount of ink on the page, the selection of the paper and its surface, and the color of the ink and the varnish can nudge the printed image to something more closely resembling the original print created by the photographer.  The inclusion of a dozen new images in the new version add substance to the book, but it still feels modest and precious.

But even more striking about “Prairie” is what it reveals to us about Robert Adams sensibility as a photographer before he began his work in the suburbs around Denver.  He started with light and space, and a deep affection for a landscape created by people living with the land.  Some of the images in “Prairie” edge towards sentimentality (which Robert Adams defines as “giving small consolations more importance than they deserve”), but the republishing of this book argues for the significance of these views.  Forty years after most of these photographs were made, we suspect that many of the scenes he photographed are gone, but the light and the space remain—and have continued to inform and tension his photographs over the decades.

New and worth noting: Koudelka’s Gypsies, Bruce Haley’s Sunder, and Vivian Maier Street Photographer

One of the joys of collecting photo books (which I have been doing for about 30 years)  is that new books can be placed side by side with other books in the collection—a pleasure especially when the new book proves to be “better” than the previous ones.  What makes one book “better” is a judgment based on personal tastes—but , in general, printing quality, the selection and ordering of the photographs, and (occasionally) a well written essay can all add to the experience of a new book.

Unfortunately, I live in Fairbanks, Alaska, far from a good bookstore (by which I mean something on the caliber of the Strand in New York, or Powell’s in Portland—both stores I love to browse in when opportunity allows)—so I mostly acquire books by purchasing them on line based on their descriptions on web site—which means that the book must be purchased before it can be seen.  But the arrival of a package with books is always a bit of an event—a first meeting, always hopeful, but sometimes disappointing.

Yesterday, I arrived home to find an package on my front stoop—it had been there for hours, so the books had chilled to the ambient twenty below—I had to bring them inside and warm them up for several hours before removing the shrink wrapping (otherwise the water from the air would condense and warp the books)—two volumes—the new “Gypsies” by Koudelka, published by Aperture, and Vivian Maier “Street Photographer” published by PowerHouse.

I have a copy of the 1975 version of Gypsies in my collection (softbound, second printing) and might have skipped purchasing the new edition had it not gotten such rave reviews from readers on the Amazon site—which it fully deserves.  The new edition has nearly twice as many pictures, and they are printed larger and with a gritty matt surface.  The energy of the book is more intense—the addition of many of the new pictures adds to my appreciation of the care with which Koudelka framed his pictures, and the love he shows for his subjects.

Josef Koudelka, Gypsies, Romania, 1968

I have also been looking at a new book Sunder by Bruce Haley (who I met in China a few months ago)—this is his first book—he is not nearly as famous as Koudelka—but the images are from Romania and other countries in eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union, and many of them seem to reflect a similar sensibility of the people of eastern Europe.  Koudelka’s Gypsies was shot in the 1960s, Haley’s work was made between 1994 and 2002, but both bodies of work seem to come from a much more distant past.  Koudelka clearly is working with a marginalized segment of society in the east block countries before the fall of the wall, but Haley seems to showing a broader devastation caused by a dysfunctional society.  That so many could be left so far behind seems sad beyond words.

Bruce Haley, Sunder 2011

And while I tend not to read (and especially not re-read) most essays in photographic books (Szarkowski and Robert Adams emphatically excepted), Sunder has a stunning essay by Andrei Codrescu about his life and travels in Romania.  Codrescu’s voice is familiar to me from his stories on NPR, and the essay about the “revolution” (the quotes are his) is chilling.  His voice allows us to feel the repression and fear that runs through the photographs of both Haley and Koudelka.

The Vivian Maier Street Photography book is the product of one of the most successful PR campaigns I have ever witnessed about a photographer—I first heard about her work about a year ago—and the story is amazing.  Maier worked as a nanny for most of her life (the cover photo even makes her look somewhat like Mary Poppins), who spent her free time making photographs on the streets of Chicago, leaving behind an archive of more than 100,000 negatives.

These negatives were discovered by John Maloof, who has worked to scan these images and present them in this book.  Maier died a few days before Maloof attempted to locate her, which adds an odd hook to the work—unrecognized during her lifetime, declared a genius after she dies.

Eight of the images in the book are self-portraits—a proportion Lee Friedlander would be proud of—but whether this represents a true proportion of her effort in self portraits, or an attempt by the editor to present us with a sense of Maier (I suspect the latter) is not clear.  Maier does not appear to be a happy person—perhaps a reflection of her own station in life—she never married—never had children of her own—and was (we suspect) always held responsible for the age appropriate (i.e., terrible)  behavior of the children in her charge—at a time when children were to be seen and not heard.

Vivian Maier, Street Photographer, 2011

My favorite pictures in the book are of children that may have been those in her charge (pages 14 and 15) (what is that girl—oh, no—it’s a boy with a coonskin hat—holding in his hands—it’s not a grenade (as in the Arbus image)—but what the hell is it?)  And I suspect (though of course there is no way to verify this) that the boy grew up to be a hedge fund manger—his look of distain and his carefully arranged escape route (that open car door) make it clear that he is  a lot smarter than the rest of us—born that way, of course.  And the picture opposite—like a Harry Potter scene—a girl hold a Mason Jar with—well, what is it—it obviously can’t be captured by a camera—a frog?

The book feels a little uneven to me—not all the pictures are as strong as the best images—but there are more than enough strong pictures (and details within pictures) to justify the publishing of the work.

All in all, a good evening in looking at books.

Front Street Kotzebue: Looks like we’re in for nasty weather…

When living in Kotzebue, the joke used to be that “this isn’t the end of the earth, but you can see it from here”–and it often felt that way–a place beyond the end of the road, at the end of the north American continent, isolated.  While we lived there, a storm in August 1989 flooded Front Street, destroying the last seaward building along the street, resulting in growing concern about erosion, leading first to placing sandbags and concrete and steel cable mats on the beach, but eventually leading a major effort, now nearly complete, to build a sea wall to protect the town.

New Sea Wall, Front Street, Kotzebue, October 7, 2011

The new sea wall changes the feel of the town–where before the beach along front street was a place where the land and the sea met in a gentle transition, it now feels like the sea is a danger, and the town is pulling back, investing in infrastructure as far away from the sea as possible, building a strong wall to keep the storms at bay.

This morning (November 9, 2011), a storm warning was posted for Western Alaska–including Kotzebue–winds of up to 70 miles per hour, seas of 20 feet, and coastal flooding of 7 to 9 feet–potentially topping the new wall.  This time of year is a bad time for a storm–the sea ice has not yet formed (the ice suppresses the actions of waves), so the waves most likely will smash the shore fast ice, and, depending on the direction of the winds, could drive this ice on shore.   Other villages in Northwest Alaska are also threatened, many of which are less well protected than Kotzebue.   As in all coastal storms, the extent of  damage will most likely depend on the details of the storm–how strong it actually is, the wind direction, and the volume of water driven ashore.

While some argue over the causes of global warming, the data continues to show a long term trend reducing the extent of arctic sea ice, later sea ice formation, and rising sea levels.   Is the sea wall strong enough to protect Kotzebue?  This storm is the first test.

Front Street, October 1990

These trees did not die in vain: Robert Adams and “The Place We Live”

Photographer Robert Adams, in the beginning of his retrospective “The Place We Live”, notes that the “details of one person’s journey through the art world are mostly not worth the trees to tell them”—a comment on both Adam’s love of trees and his antipathy for much of what passes for art.   That his own retrospective, in three volumes (twelve pounds of paper for each copy) has required the lives of so many trees is, we must assume, quite embarrassing to him, but the project is executed with such beauty and grace that it honors not just the trees incorporated into the paper, but all trees.

 

Robert Adams, Harney County, Oregon

 

For the committed readers of this blog (I assume there must be at least a few), my appreciation of the work of Robert Adams is no surprise.  I first became aware of his work in 1982, when I saw an exhibit of “The New West”  photographs at the Philadelphia Museum—a group of about 50 relatively small (5×5 inch) black and white prints simply presented—photographs so straightforward and clear that they seemed to be like life itself—that changed both the way I saw photography and the world around me.  Many of his images referred to the suburbanization  of the west—in the naked landscape of the high plains around Denver—but I had just left the farm in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, after my father, failing to make a living, had sold much of his land for building lots.

 

Robert Adams, El Paso County, Colorado

 

What is most revealing in this retrospective is the depth of the moral and political force behind Adam’s work—from his initial attraction to the ministry, diverted to a career in teaching English, eventually turning to photography—beginning with images of the natural landscape (he purchased a print of “Moonrise” from Ansel Adams in 1966), but turning to the open plains rather than to the mountains—but eventually focusing on the man-made landscape around Denver in 1968—the height of the Vietnam war—in a place being changed by the impact of returning veterans.   Over the years, he has occasionally played an overtly political card—like the essay in “Our Lives, Our Children”—but mostly he has silently played his cards—like the savaged trees in “Turning Back”—images that seem to be intended to invoke the dead in Iraq—now followed by the empty boots of the fallen (though the broken trees remain profoundly more eloquent).    Buried in the chronology section at the back of volume 3 is a group of photographs of the Peetz table, a landscape perforated with intercontinental ballistic missile silos, but a place that remains open and beautiful despite the intrusion.

When “Beauty in Photography” was first published in 1981 (about the time I became aware of his work), Robert Adams was best known for his pictures of the damaged landscape—“The New West”, “The New Topographics”, and “From the Missouri West”—photographs that were not pretty—so his discussion of beauty seemed somehow at odds with his body of work.    But “The Place We Live” is full of images of grace and beauty, in neighborhoods and meadows—a testament to the balance that sometimes survives despite our errors.

China: Things seen are not always what they seem

I arrived in China with many preconceptions, some of which I was aware of, others I was not.  While there, I tried to photograph anything that caught my eye, pretty much without regard to why, which resulted in my accumulating about 6,000 files  on my digital camera—about 1000 images a day—an exhausting heap of pictures to sort through.  But in the weeks since my trip, I’ve discovered that significant parts of what I saw were not what I thought they were.

Ribbon Cutting for Fenglin Gorge Path, Yun Tai Shan Geo Park, August 2011

One of the first issues, and one I still don’t understand, is why I was there.  A group of ten photographers were invited to come to China, most expenses paid, to participate in a forum and a tour of the Yun Tai Shan Mountain Park.  We were told that the topic of our forum was to be “place”, a word that has resonance in the US because of the work of Wendell Berry, Barry Lopez, and Robert Adams—but the topic suddenly morphed into “photography and tourism”—a topic that none of our group were completely comfortable with.   We were also told that we would participate in discussions with Chinese photographers, but the only interactions we had that were translated were our formal talks, and the many toasts at the banquets.   In the end, I think we were there largely to prove to the Chinese public that with some promotion, including the use of photography, western tourists would come to the fine parks the Chinese were creating.  We were paraded in front of several small crowds, told where to stand so we would appear in their press photographs—models of the hordes of western tourists that would follow, once they saw our pictures.   Maybe they are right—the places we saw were beautiful—worth  visiting—and I could find hardly any decent photographs of the park on the web.

Well Known Photographers--Mike Torry and Jamey Stillings--We came, we saw, we photographed

But even though the places were beautiful—mountains towering over small mountain streams with waterfalls and reflecting pools—in retrospect, most of the waterfalls (not all) were actually dams—apparently made of concrete colored and textured to match the surrounding rock—something I think I was somewhat aware of when I was there—but very obvious when looking at the resulting photographs.   In a park booklet, a picture of the “digital control center” for the park showed a bunch of men looking at computer screens—something that seemed incredibly incongruous when I saw it, but now seems like it must have had to do with control of the water flow out of the dams and into the streams.

Walking bridge over artificial waterfall, Yun Tai Shan Park, China

The city of Zhengzhou was even more bizarre—the first night, on the ride from the airport to the hotel about midnight, after thirty hours of flying, I noticed that there were huge apartment complexes that seemed largely dark except for a handful of rooms that had single fluorescent ceiling lights in them—my sense was that the people in the buildings were too poor to pay for the electricity for any more light—

Zhengzhou apartment building, midnight

One of the first things we did as a group was a short tour around the city.  It was raining hard, but we went to the “new city”, a place of tall apartment buildings, wild modern architecture, wide streets—but almost no people.  At the time, we attributed the lack of people to the rain and the fact that it was Sunday.  There were also huge apartment complexes still under construction, so that part of the city seemed to be growing at a tremendous rate.  A few days later, I took a walk in the early morning to the new city—it was a little more than a mile from the hotel—to photograph the new city under construction.  I’ve been around construction sites—mornings are when workers arrive en-mass—along with cement trucks and deliveries of materials—but these sites had almost no activity, even between 7 and 8 in the morning.  It really didn’t make much sense, but I didn’t think too hard about it at the time.  The old parts of the city, full of small shops and street vendors selling vegetables, were vibrant and alive in the morning.

Zhengzhou, New City Apartment buildings

Arts Center, Zhengzhou, China, August 2011

Construction Site, Zhengzhou, China, August 2011

Vegetable sellers and construction site, Zhengzhou, China, August 2011

After returning home, I discovered a story on YouTube discussing the “Ghost Cities” in China, which discusses Zhengzhou as a place where massive neighborhoods have been constructed with almost no one living in them.  Some of the pictures in the story are of places we walked.    My sense in being there was that Zhengzhou was becoming like Hong Kong, where hundreds of large, tall apartment buildings house the middle class residents.   My first impression was wrong–it wasn’t the electricity the people couldn’t afford–it was the apartments.

Some of the changes in China are very real—the people seem much happier than they did the last time I visited six years ago—and some of the illusions they are working at creating seem harmless—the parks are beautiful, even if the waterfalls are not natural—but some of the illusions are more troubling—why create housing for a middle class when so few can afford to live in these places?   What kind of place are they creating?

Traditions in Art and Landscape

When in China, the trip involved participating in “discussion” with Chinese photographers—although direct conversation was difficult because of the language barriers (even with a translator that spoke very good English, some concepts were difficult to convey).    There was an exhibit associated with the event, so the most effective conversation was visual—the western photographers got to look at Chinese photographers work, and they got to look at ours.   One of the most obvious differences between the work was that all of the Chinese photographers were working in color, while about half of the western photographers were working in black and white.   Even in color, the Chinese work was in sharply brighter colors—to my western eye, at least some of the pictures appeared to have the saturation knob turned a little higher than my comfort zone—

Discussion in Zhengzhou, China, August 2011

So the question was asked, why the difference?  And the answer, of course, is one of traditions—I and most of the other western photographers were working in the context of and in response to a landscape tradition defined by American photographers—my own list includes O’Sullivan, Watkins, Muybridge, Weston, Ansel Adams, and Robert Adams—with not a single color image in the bunch.  It seemed to me that the Chinese photographers were working in response to the tradition of Chinese landscape painting—and within the realities of the Chinese landscape—which includes a brash color pallet, which can be seen walking down almost any street in China.

Street Scene, near Zhengzhou, China, August 2011

On Labor Day Weekend, shortly after returning from China, my family and I took a trip out into the landscape.  I took along both my digital camera (right now a Canon G12) and my trusty 8×10, loaded with black and white film.

Liberty Falls, September 4, 2011

Part of the discussion in China had to do with color being closer to nature, and therefore a more accurate representation of the world, as if to say that black and white was useful only before the invention of color.  But a photograph is always something less than nature—a two dimensional representation of what was in front of the lens—and sometimes something more—usually a carefully selected moment in time, sometimes with exposure adjusted in the camera or in the presentation, sometimes parts of the image manipulated to emphasize parts of the image over others.

8-6038 Liberty Falls

So which is better?  Here, the digital color image feels real to life, the green trees and the hint of fall colors add an accent to the image.  In the black and white image, the water and it’s motion lend a sense of stillness to the scene.  The black and white picture appears older—more settled—mostly because of the tradition it refers to—even though the two images were made  a few minutes apart.  I like both images, but probably the black and white will become part of my finished work, while the digital image (and the fifteen other similar exposures I made there) will disappear on my hard drive…

A Different View of Nature and Man: A walk in a Chinese Park

Last week, I traveled to China as part of a photographic tour—I and several others were invited to present our work about “place”—a topic that suddenly changed into “photography and tourism” a few days before the trip began…  While I feel very comfortable discussing “place”, the connection between photography and tourism is a much less comfortable discussion for me.  Obviously, photographs can be used to generate interest in tourism—it’s just a form of advertising—the best example being Ansel Adams, who married into the gift shop at Yosemite—a wonderful marketing tool for both the photographer and the tourism industry.

Americans believe that nature is best experienced as wilderness—defined as the natural world without the influence of man—exemplified by many as the vision of Ansel Adams–and we have created a park system to allow that illusion for visitors.  That millions of people crowd the most well known of these sites is thought of as, at best, an inconvenience, one we try to politely ignore.    I worry that my own photographs of the Alaskan Landscape will attract people to come and see for themselves—places that I was fortunate enough to experience in solitude might become overrun—to become a tourist attraction—and thus destroyed as wilderness.

The Chinese seem to have a different view of nature and man—one that is comfortable with experiencing nature while being part of a crowd.   Our tour group went to the Baijia Cliff site at the YunTai Mountain Geo Park—a site designed for massive crowds—stone sidewalks and steps, signs, guards, and little boats with men with traditional straw hats to continuously pick up any litter that might fall into the water—intended to accommodate 10,000 visitors a day, all on a path about a mile and a half long.  And the only way to see the place was to join the crowd.  One of my American colleagues remarked that this little excursion perfectly matched his vision of hell.  My own feelings were more positive.

What surprised me was the beauty of the place—red sandstone cliffs, waterfalls, reflecting pools, mountains in the distance—all experienced in the comfort of a happy crowd.   The new emerging Chinese middle class is sufficiently affluent to travel to the park—and it’s nice to see so many people doing so well, reveling in the freedom of enough.

Some in our group noted the similarity to Disneyland—perhaps a not inappropriate comparison—both places are actively managed for the pleasure of the crowd—but US parks are really no different—we only manage them for a different illusion—that of wilderness.    And it is possible to create the illusion of wilderness (especially with a camera), even in a crowded park.

But the path through the gorge reminded me of 19th century railroad photographs—a balance between nature and man—and while the absence of the railroad might make for a picture more closely aligned with our vision of wilderness,  including the railroad makes for a more interesting picture.

Beauty in Photography: 30 years

I purchased a copy of Robert Adam’s book, Beauty in Photography:  Essays in Defense of Traditional Values in the early 1980s, one of the first photography books I ever bought (when I began a database to track my book collection, this book was the first book I entered).   I have probably read this book at least 50 times, and my copy is far from pristine—a soiled and torn dust jacket, multiple underlinings, and notes scrawled on the insides of the covers.    The book discusses not only photography, but Art, beauty, truth—all the big ideas—in a way that makes sense, but requires careful attention from the reader.   In Adam’s two additional books of essays, Why People Photograph and Along Some Rivers, additional ideas are added to the core created in Beauty in Photography,  but the earlier book is central to his thinking.  And the most central essay is that titled (surprise) “Beauty in Photography”.

8-0551 Selawik River, 1990

Adams argues that the proper goal of art is beauty (page 24), and that the beauty he is most interested in is Form.  “Beauty is, in my view, a synonym for the coherence and structure underlying life…”  and then goes on to ask “Why is Form beautiful?  Because, I think, it helps us meet our worst fear, the suspicion that life may be chaos and that therefore our suffering is without meaning.  James Dickey was right when he asked rhetorically, ‘What is Heaven, anyway, but the power of dwelling among objects and actions of consequence.’”

I grew up in a culture that did not value Art (a farming community) largely, I think, because art was not seen as being useful—the coherence and structure underlying life was imposed on the community in the Sunday sermon, and the fields and pastures of the farms provided enough visual pleasure for anyone.

I no longer believe in the sermons, though the form of the fields and pastures of that landscape still give me pleasure (there is something entirely sensuous about the green of a cornfield in evening light in May—why would one want to waste money on a painted canvas?).    I began making photographs right about the time I left the farms, and I remember thinking that what I liked about photography was that I could discover things without struggling with words—I wouldn’t have described it then as a search for Form, but now I think that was precisely what I was after—some way of describing coherence and structure.   Photography was, for me, very useful—a tool to help figure out the world.

The question remains remains—is Art enough?  Adams speaks in other places of the consolation offered by pictures, but when faced with suffering, pictures seem so ineffective.   But I offer them anyway.  Visiting my mother is easier when I turn on the digital picture frame I left in her room—sometimes the pictures will stir her failing memory.  And I have, on occasion, offered prints to family and friends going through rough times—I’d like to think that the pictures help.  I’d like to think I’m doing something useful.

A quick trip back home

An old friend (a painter, of course)  sent me a link to some wonderful images from Pennsylvania…

Carol Grahm, Cumberland Valley, Pennsylvania, June 2011

Break-up, 2011—On the Yukon

I missed break-up on the Tanana River near Fairbanks this year—traveling—but the mighty Yukon River, 100 miles to the north, holds its ice longer. When I got a phone call last Friday telling me that the ice was beginning to move at Stevens Village, 27 miles upstream from the Yukon River Bridge on the Dalton, I packed my battered RV, loaded my wife, my son, and our aging dog and headed for the river.

Break-up is an event in Alaska, defining the transition between winter and summer—the intense sun of April and May melts the snow in a rush that lifts the rotting ice on the rivers, sweeping the rivers clean. The rhythm of life changes—winters are cold and dark, but the country is accessible by snowmachine—summers are warm and light, and one can travel along rivers by boat, but mostly the uplands are inaccessible.

When we arrived at the river at about 10 PM in the evening, the ice had already moved some—there was about a half mile of clear water below the bridge—but the ice had stopped moving, not really jammed—just stuck. We walked along the edge of the water, admiring the chunks of stranded ice on the shore, waiting, watching. We went to bed about 1 AM, and awoke in the morning to find the ice in exactly the same places. All day on Saturday, the warm sun shone, and the sound of water dripping from the ice piled along the river banks could be heard. But the ice didn’t move. In late afternoon, we sat by the side of the river, enjoying the warmth, waiting, in silence. My son Ben got a stick and started poking at some of the partially floating ice, eventually starting a slow motion parade of large ice chunks along the river bank. My wife fell asleep, as did the dog. I sat and watched the river, the ice, the sun.

8-5921 Yukon Break-up, May 14, 2011

Break-up feels like an unscheduled holiday, a natural tradition, and like human holidays, much of the power the event holds is due to our memories. Where I grew up in Pennsylvania, ice formed on the rivers only during infrequent winter cold snaps, and break-up was not an event. My first break-up was the one I saw in Kotzebue, in June of 1987, a few weeks after coming to Alaska for what we thought was the summer. We’ve managed to stay a bit longer—and break-up feels like the beginning of another year here—a defining moment in the rhythm of this place, a time to both remember and to plan. Or take a nap in the sun.

4-2021 Ice out, Front Street, Kotzebue, June 1987