The Small Story

CAMBRIDGE—It was such a lovely photograph, with the trees down by the Charles River, and the pink blossoms filling the frame. Well composed. Brilliant colors.

But not the winner of the city’s annual resident parking permit photo contest. Not that.

“It’s an absolutely stunning picture,” said Lenore Lawrence, the city’s parking coordinator. “But it wouldn’t make a sticker.”

Every spring, in a frenzy of civic pride, dozens of residents submit the best images they’ve taken of Cambridge, hoping for the coveted spot on the city’s resident parking sticker. They try it all: The first snowfall on Cambridge Common, a dragon boat on the Charles River, turtles making tracks through the grass.

Who knows what will appeal to the judges in the Traffic, Parking and Transportation department? It’s so subjective. The only thing the entrants know for sure is that it has to be an iconic image, and it has to maintain its luster in the cramped space of a 3 ½ by 2 ½ inch frame.

Unfortunately, the trees-in-bloom scene did not maintain its luster.

So this year, the sticker goes to Jim Landfried, 67, for his shot of the Longfellow House: Perfectly centered, framed by leaves, a classic yellow colonial lit up in the sunshine.

Frankly, Jim felt there were stronger photographs in his contest folder. This one was a little traditional for his taste. But reached last week on vacation, he was very pleased. His wife had already told everyone they know. 

He won't get any prize money for winning. Just sudden, citywide fame: Come January, Jim's image of the Longfellow House, along with his name, will be affixed to the front windows of roughly 43,000 cars.

The Rush of The Win

In the not too distant past, the department used stock photography for its sticker. But this is the People’s Republic of Cambridge, with its Poet Populist and its Peace Commission. It was only a matter of time before the parking sticker became a participatory event. 

The first year, 2004, a couple of dozen photographs trickled in. Then momentum began to build, and a few summers later, Lenore and her colleagues had more than 150 images to choose from.

Some years, the submissions make perfect sense. When the MIT Stata Center opened, residents fawned all over Frank Gehry’s design, photographing it from all different angles. Then this year, for no discernable reason, they started snapping away at birds.

Anyone can enter the contest. But not surprisingly, it draws mostly people who live in the city, and love the city, and want to flatter it with their photographs. People like Peter Payack, who measures the rain in Cambridge, and submits his findings to a local television station.

For years, Peter’s strategy has been to enter his photographs in bulk. In 2008, he finally hit the jackpot with his image of Memorial Hall.

“Listen,” Peter said. “I was absolutely thrilled.”

He was nearing 60 at the time. And looking back on his life, the last time he felt that kind of rush was when he was 26, and The Paris Review had accepted his first poem.

In some ways, this was even better, he said. Tell someone about The Paris Review, and they have to go out and find it. Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. 

But there’s no avoiding the sticker. It’s everywhere—in parking lots and packed traffic, for as long as cars in Cambridge roam the road.


Missing the Sticker, Making the Brochure 

For those who don’t make the sticker, there is always the hope of landing a spot in the annual resident information brochure. It’s a far more forgiving format. 

Nature scenes do well here. Animal pictures also have a natural home. 
Last year, it was a basset hound between two snow banks. This year, four bird portraits were chosen for the back.

Chris Canfield was pretty excited when he found out a few years ago his streetscape would be featured. He envisioned thousands of people, all around the city, admiring his work. Then the brochure arrived on his doorstep, and the rush was gone.

“It was me, in my pajamas, at the base of the stairwell of a cold apartment complex,” he said.

That aside, it was still a positive experience. Chris had just moved to Cambridge, and this got him out and about, exploring the city through his favorite photographic theme: urban decay.

It is probably safe to say that urban decay is not what the judges had in mind when they put out the sticker call that spring. But they did choose his image for the brochure—then edited out the dirty piece of plywood leaning on the wheelbarrow. 


The Thrill of the Chase

For those who are serious about the sticker, buildings may be the best bet. The Registry of Deeds, City Hall—all past winners. They fit very nicely in the frame.

For some reason, Lenore says, nature scenes do not do well.

This is sad news for Janet DiBenedetto, 47, a former administrative assistant whose longtime muse is Mount Auburn cemetery. The red glow of the leaves in autumn, the cherry blossoms in spring.

“It’s like a little oasis we have here in the city,” Janet says, of the 170-acre preserve. “I call it my Mount Auburn.”

She once went on a date with a man who called the cemetery creepy. She never saw that man again. 

Given her subject matter, Janet may never make the sticker. But every spring, with much enthusiasm, she picks the best of her best, and sends them off to the city. A couple of times, she’s made the brochure. 

That’s way more exposure than she ever got before the contest. For someone who likes to share her hobby, this whole thing is a thrill.
 
“Everyday people taking snapshots of their neighborhood,” she said. “I think it’s really nice.”

Peter agrees. As the city’s elected Poet Populist, and the co-founder of the Cambridge Girls Softball League, and a volunteer photographer for the local paper, of course he agrees: This contest is a wonderful show of civic pride. 

Still, he has always been out to win. The first time he spotted that special angle on Memorial Hall, he was tempted to take the picture. But he needed clouds to make it a winner, so he waited days for them to show up.

They finally did, and he raced over to Memorial Hall to take up his position in the middle of the road. Trucks were honking. Cars were swerving. None of that mattered to Peter. 

He tilted his iPhone up. He pressed the button. And the rest is city history.