Who The Fuck is Kyle Markley?!?

I’m from a little slice of Hell called La Grange, Illinois – a boring suburb of Chicago. A place best described by fellow suburban Chicagoan Ernest Hemingway as ‘a place where people have wide lawns and narrow minds.’

But La Grange has one redeeming value - its close proximity to Chicago – about a 20-minute train ride. The train station was right next to my high school. So the trick was getting on the train - while managing to dodge the narcs, who hid behind trees waiting to bust us making a break for it.

Once on the train, of course, you hoped you didn’t run into your dad or one of his friends – cause they all worked in the city. But half the time THEY were dodging ME, too. You could always tell when ‘The Wall Street Journal’ popped up just a little too quickly - covering someone’s face, cause they didn’t want to be spotted with some hot young girl that clearly wasn’t their wife.

But they didn’t need to worry: I’d met their wives, and I’d have cheated on their crazy asses too.

Pulling into Chicago was like landing on another planet – and I loved it. Ever see ‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?’ – That’s what it was like – with a little ‘Kids’ thrown in - to make it more interesting. Instead of Ferraris we took trains. And instead of going to Cubs games, we dropped acid and hung out in subway tunnels with schizophrenics and homeless people, listening to the saxophone players. The way the sound echoed down the tunnel –there’s nothing like it. It always struck me that here’s this genius - musical prodigy, being passed by thousands of commuters in $1,000 Jimmy Choo shoes - without so much as a second glance. Sad.

But it taught me some people can hear the notes, but not hear the music. I’ve taken that lesson with me. When dealing with someone who just doesn’t get it – I simply remember: they hear the notes, they just can’t hear the music.

We’d take the El to The Alley and Rocket 69 on Clark and Belmont - to buy bongs and check out these killer posters: Sid Vicious all cut up and bloody – ‘Nancy’ carved into his chest. Paul Simonen from The Clash - smashing his bass on the ‘London Calling’ cover. Johnny Cash giving the photographer the finger, Frank Zappa taking a shit, Bob Marley smoking the biggest spliff I’ve ever seen, Keith Richards – nodded out on the floor, pants halfway down, gun laying by his side, waiting to shoot the 1975 cover for Rolling Stone.

These were my heroes and I wanted to be where the action was. I had no clue who took these photos – I knew it should have been ME. At this point I didn’t even know people got PAID to take pictures. I would later learn their names: Annie Leibovitz, Ethan Russell, Bob Gruen, Jim Marshall, Anton Corbijn. I just admired them from a far and thought ‘Wow – that would be a GREAT fuckin’ job – too bad I’m stuck in La Grange - where NOTHING interesting EVER happens!’

But I made a decision:

1. La Grange was where I was born, but it sure as HELL was not gonna be where I died and..

2. Once I left, I would NEVER look back.

And I haven’t. Since then I lived in Los Angeles (barely escaping with my mind in one piece) – I’ve traveled all over Europe, lived in Asia for close to 3 years, seen 22 countries on 3 continents – and that’s just the beginning. I’ve held over 20 different jobs – from landscaper, to video editor, to teacher, to telemarketer, to photographer - to several I can’t mention til the statute of limitations runs out.

Basically – I’m a gypsy. No wife. No kids. One bag - containing all of my worldly possessions. But I finally got that camera.

Now – if you’re still reading, you’re probably wondering: ‘What the fuck is he talking about and WHY do I care?’

Well trips like this made me realize I was far more interested in observing life than being a participant. Participants were running from the subway to make it to work on time. Observers blew off school, and sat on the bench in the subway station on acid watching them. Participants buy a bong and leave. Observers watch the salesman sell bongs to 14 year olds - without giving a flying fuck about the law prohibiting this. Participants run from the cradle to the grave (in $1,000 Jimmy Choo shoes), while observers take pictures and write down observations as the journey from cradle to grave passes.

So this is how I live. Not for everyone, but it works for me.

kyle@kylemarkley.com