aspens by tim roessler timothy roessler

Happy Autumn. It’s the best season of the year. The Jews have it right: start the year now, and not in gloomy and dank January.

And the beginning of any season is the best part of the season, its youth. If I had my choice, the calendar would be: April, June, September, December — but with the months made longer. (Time is already speeding by; who needs to shorten the year?)

Aftermath: Available Now

photo by tim roessler timothy roessler of the parking lot of the King Soopers in Table Mesa

My photobook/zine, Aftermath, is available for ordering.

You can find it here

It’s about the moment after a mass shooting, in this case the slaughter in Boulder, Colorado. It gets around the clichés you’re all used to and tries to tell the truth slant as Emily Dickinson told us to.

I took all the photos within a 100-yard radius. Everything in that circle is within the range of the automatic weapon the shooter used to slaughter 10 people.

My hope is that by taking a sideways but granular view of this atrocity, we can see its dimensions — slant and new and ready to be faced, felt, and considered carefully.

Aftermath/100 Yards

photo by tim roessler of mother and baby

This is an image from my upcoming photobook/zine called Aftermath. It’s about what happens after a mass shooting.

I took the photos all within a 100 yard radius of the entrance to the King Soopers, where a shooter massacred 10 people. One hundred yards is the range of the AR-556 weapon that police say the accused killer used.

We often see mass shootings through a choreographed and fixed narrative. I have been working on telling the story of the March 22 slaughter in a way that’s “slant” — and so, I hope, making it new.

If you would like to order it, please let me know via tim @ tim roessler.com (put in the spaces) or hit me up in the comments section. It’s in production now and should be out by the end of September.

Tonnerre, France

photo2 2

This is a view of Tonnerre, a small town in Burgundy. You can buy escargots in the local butcher shops. You can also find Marc de Bourgogne at a wine merchant’s shop off the autoroute. It’s a shabby cousin to the very groomed and much more famous town of Chablis a few kilometers away.

Many of the houses are empty. You can peer into them and see old beams, fallen stones and the usual trash that accumulates on empty floors — empty bottles of booze and McDonald’s wrappers even here. Some stray cats, their teeth black, will check you out, looking for a handout.

But the Église St. Pierre broods over the town, the rust-red tiles of the roofs, the canals reflecting the old rose and sand colored stucco of the houses, and the inevitable geraniums in the window give the place a lot of charm. Cracks in the bricks, the skewed lace curtains at the windows. crumbling stones, rusty shutters, the still surface of the canals reflecting tangled branches — you feel age and, yeah, decay in the old town. It wears time on its sleeve. It’s imperfect, used, and worn around the edges.

Although it is beautiful, it is not quaint.

And thank God for that.