A bit of wandering around…
Dusk in Amsterdam…tourists waiting for pancakes…haircut day onboard the Earl of Pembroke…in the shadow of the Den Helder lighthouse…Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s desk…and the Ettal Monastery chandelier.
Time-Soaked Land
Pinhole photography seemed appropriate for locales that feel like stepping into a fairy tale—in this case the last walkable section of Hadrian’s Wall, the Scottish Highlands and the Devil’s Pulpit.
Shifted Perspectives
I recently earned a masters degree in Documentary Photography at the University of South Wales in Cardiff. My project revolved around research into the history of emotional trauma as well as the recovery process, and involved working with addiction recovery communities as well as adapting archival portraits of 19th-century Parisian hysteria patients.
The finished body of work combines alcohol-soaked portraits of members of Cardiff recovery groups with images of hysteria patients printed as cyanotypes on gold leaf, as well as an overlaid neurology rendering. With its varied materials, textures and inks, the visibility of individual elements in the piece shift and shimmer depending on the viewing angle and lighting sources when seen in person.
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I Walked Across Spain
I entered into the over-a-millenium-old tradition of making a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in northwest Spain. Starting on the French/Spanish border in the village of St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, I crossed the country on foot, journeying to the cathedral in Santiago and continuing to the Galician coast. I was alone, but surrounded by thousands of fellow pilgrims all on our respective journeys.
It was an experience wrought with challenges physically (I injured my ankle on the first day), mentally (sometimes you just want to stop altogether) and emotionally (many past difficulties reared their heads in particularly lonely moments). I am a different person for having made the pilgrimage.
Though I did capture some moments connected to my own experience on the way, I spent most of my photography time making landscapes while walking. Photography, though always present in my life, was not my priority during the trek. But exploring new inner-space territory was matched by exploring new territory photographically. Here is a selection of images from parts of the over-five-hundred-mile trek.
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Salamagundi
A smattering of images from assignments for a number of Southern California community colleges.
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Milestones
This isn’t, by any means, an important image. It is, however, a summation of nearly 10 years of my life. My little pickup truck (her name is Ethel) recently crossed the 200,000 mile mark while I was driving to grab some lunch. It was a moment without fanfare, but took me back to some of the more interesting little adventures we’ve shared…crossing mountain ranges and deserts, crowded cities and wide-open plains.
She’s taken me from one coast to the other, across the country and back on more than one occasion. She carried a reporter and me to safety while we outran a West Texas brush fire. She helped me chase an alleged criminal out on bond through crowded streets as his driver tried to elude us. She and I were lost together every time we made a trip to this West Texas monastery (it’s not easy to find a monastery in the middle of nowhere!).
The last several thousand miles haven’t produced any stories quite as memorable — but she and I have a couple of schemes up our sleeves into as-yet-for-us-uncharted territory. And Lord willing, we can blaze new trails for many miles to come.
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Memento Mori
Remember you must die.
Rituals can aid in the process of remembering. At a Dia de los Muertos celebration in Santa Ana, Calif., the veiled La Catrina watches over observers and processors during an altar parade, a living piece of memento mori.
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Lost
Renatus Chytil knows firsthand: lost stories are nearly impossible to retrieve. He’s drifting into senility, and not afraid to let you know.
Somewhere in Chytil’s past may lie harrowing experiences and exciting innovations; but to tell what’s true and what isn’t anymore, and which facts are getting mixed up with others, is difficult for an outsider.
He tells me he grew up in a villa in Prague, and fled the Nazis with his family at a young age because of their partial Jewish ancestry. That his father was killed in the concentration camp at Terezin. That he became a lawyer and moved to the United States. That he taught international law and eventually helped found a law school. That he’s spent the last 20 plus years trying to recover the sizable fortune he says the Nazis stole from his family. That he brought the case to the Human Rights Committee at the United Nations. That he now lives in poverty, is unable to provide for his family’s future, and he’s angry about it.
Some of the stories can be confirmed, some have faint traces of records here and there (I may have found records of his father’s death at Terezin), but most of the facts have been lost to the ages.
But Chytil persists. He writes letters to whomever he thinks may have the ability to help. And twice a week, sometimes more, he slowly pushes his shopping cart through the neighborhood to the grocery store, and slowly makes his way back.
Few of the neighbors he passes know his stories.
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Undefined
I photographed a fun little “food-based-challenges-designed-to-make-the-participants-uncomfortable” contest recently in a small community of which I am a fringe member. It was an afternoon of smiles.
As my friend Nora can attest, I am a sucker for ambiguous photographs. Don’t ask my why; I’ve never sat down to think it through. When on assignment, I’m always looking for the best images that can both convey an accurate understanding of a situation as well as tug on some emotions. But, I always try to come back with something a bit ambiguous for myself, too.
This is Israel, or “Izzy.” Or just “Iz.” He is a linchpin in this community.
Though you may be able to pick up some context clues around the photo as to what’s happening in the immediate moment, I doubt this image would make much sense without an explanation. I dig it anyway.
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Coffee and Company
It is a pleasure to be present when those on the outer edges of society (whether they are intentionally marginalized or not) take time to serve another fringe element. I’m fairly sure I had a smile plastered on my face for the entirety of coffee hour.
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Normal
Jesse, though he was born without arms, is like any other kid. He wants to fit in and make friends — especially while navigating the hallways of his turbulent middle school years. Using his feet to write out math homework or eat his lunch is his par for the course, and the stares from his classmates died down fairly quickly.
It’s easy for people (especially adults) who meet him to think him heroic or courageous to tackle every day anew. He has never known life otherwise.
While he does sometimes dream of a day when he can wear robotic prosthetics, he doesn’t fret over living life in his current frame of reference. As long as he has friends like everyone else, he's not missing anything.
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Pardon the Dust
Please forgive the disarray of the site at the moment – I’m transitioning things over and it hasn’t been as seamless as I hoped.
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Does it get any better...
…than an Elvis impersonator of Asian heritage sucking on a lollipop wearing a rhinestone-studded jumpsuit under warm, dappled light? I didn’t think so.
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Odessa
There’s a lot I could say about Odessa, Texas. I lived four years of my life on the dusty scrub plains of West Texas. I have beautiful things I could say about it, and like any other place, some not so beautiful things, too.
This image comes from one of my last days in town. I was wandering and photographing near the garage that I took my trusty pickup Ethel to on a regular basis (newspaper work is hard on your car). This man was sitting in his truck, reading the paper and smoking. I made a few images from farther away and eased my way in closer. He saw me, said, “Good morning,” took another drag, and that was that. A quiet moment for a quiet morning.
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Grace
I dreamt of the chance to be privy to such a scene. A couple of days in person gently negotiating deeper and deeper access to the monastery. My first hours there I was allowed no further than the gate separating the altar from the choir in their chapel.
Don’t get me wrong, I think the sisters and I hit it off right from the get go – they are a welcoming bunch to be sure – but there are rules about this sort of thing. First a quick tour of the grounds, then back out. Next, as they began to know me better and understand my goal, some time spent with novitiates in their studies and prayer.
Eventually it was time to do the laundry, though, and from my previous tour I knew we would be walking down a path that would mislead you as to your time and place even on its worst day. And this time, I was blessed with a strong breeze.
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