Endeavor . . .
"Go raibh míle maith agat."
Gaelic translation...."Have a million good things" or simply - "thank you so very much."
Equinox . . .
"Equinox... 'a period of struggle between darkness and light, death and life.' Pastor J.L. White, Mission Ministry, approaching his 36th year, presented himself to me by his relentless humming and shuffling of feet. Back and forth, back and forth, he was to preach the funeral of a 7-year old boy who was so young, void of wants and without sin, yet his life was tragically cut short. The visual duality of contrasts brought clarity of isolation, loss, humanity facing physical structure...the power of prayer once again being questioned and accepted."
American Gothic . . .
Grant Wood's "American Gothic" continues to Inspire Great Artists …. Grant Wood Colony
Day 7 of my nocturnal trek through boundaries of Mission District San Francisco known as "Inner Mission" also known as "The Castro" I was addressed by, "excuse me sir". Ok, cameras hanging off shoulder, appearing somewhat exhausted, looking down I respond, yes can I help you? What is your name? Owen he says as he reaches up to hand me my note pad that had fallen from my pocket. Thank you Owen...then in the background a voice says Owen don't bother that man. No bother at all i replied-
Time passes, introductions are exchanged. Overwhelming loss, emotional pain, financial despair are smack front and center, this is the family's reality. Their togetherness brings a fleeting calmness into their daily life battle. This "family" which consists of an exhausted single young struggling mother - Rachel and her two children - Owen and Izabel. This 8pm interaction became my present-day inspiration of "American Gothic".
Vigil . . .
San Francisco, Mission District and the desperate cries for help. Dealing with everyday life, consumed with awareness and lack of presence, this blatant human struggle to exist while competing with life's rhythm of purpose. Life extinguishes all dreams. The memories within this new reality overtake the ones Latitia had from before and she finds herself staring at a loss that she's no longer capable of bearing. Can life in The Mission truly be saved?
If this is Goodbye . . .
Discomfiting… Annalise's face and wrap are mere fragments that were left without conclusion. Her storm-ravaged hair is echoed in the clouds that hover behind her and in the unsettled atmosphere of her stare. Will she resign to count heartbeats in her perseverance or succumb to the pain of loss. She must try to exist in a world where everything she loves begins to fade away one breath at a time.
Lost Girl . . .
"It is 3 a.m.- ish; the smell of diesel, ozone and hemp fill the station, I have spent almost 45 minutes quietly observing "Avery" cry into her phone and snap her gum. She is without destination other than realizing tonight's cash is never enough. Without intruding I present myself to her as someone who feels the emotion and space we are sharing and would like to photograph this moment. 'Why not?' she says. The door closes."
Madame E'jem . . .
Luck is king, but patience is always rewarded. From Toronto to Vancouver, In pre-board process I was fortunate to strike up a cryptic conversation with Charlotte, a.k.a Madame E'jem about why I have no Canadian accent? Her dialog direct and assertive while intertwined with vague references of her past life experiences of travel, wandering to find her "lure destiny". I humbly resisted interjecting my questions or participating in insight so I patiently waited in the background for her verbal narrative pause…. after much attentiveness, non came. Madison works the ink business, boasting proudly as she declared her ancestral Moore came to her in a midnight gathering to guide her future, quietly yet directly I ask permission and captured a single image. Silence followed-
Before Gas and TV . . .
Mississippi, Cotton and Horse farm country…A period of time that dramatically brought light and darkness into the realm of "there once was a time". I chose to capture the "pulse relic" of days gone while witnessing Mr. Nathan continue on his journey. No dialog was exchanged other than pleasantries but framing the scene with structure and soul brought melancholy along with hopefulness thus broadening a chapter in life. May you fare well Mr. Nathan-
Trawlerman's Song . . .
I remain confronted by a bearded old man whose craggy face is reinforced by the peeling and chipped paint of the weather-beaten window frame that encompasses him; notwithstanding, what I are really drawn to is his eye. I recognize that in his sightless eye I may gain some understanding in his life, and hear the song of his years aboard a boat endlessly rocked by a restless sea.
Lost Years . . .
"Magdalena, who refers to herself as 'invisible,' with snow falling, she exhales her spirit into the cold night air. She remains alone in the artist's common ground, amongst the passing river of humanity, she speaks in low tones about her fictitious family, her children from a husband that never was. Dementia is apparent, her reality fleeting as her youth. We talk in short poignant sentences as I remain a witness to her lost years."
Echo of Sadness . . .
"While walking the streets, conversing with the locals, I was introduced to Rumor and Essence, twins living alone since early childhood. Products of dysfunction and neglect they remain devoted to each other. What separates them is the hurdle of stuttering and deafness. I chose to capture their complementing auras as echoes of sadness."
Gravedigger . . .
Anxiety and the NYC subway culture. Riders are being less respectful of one another and preconceived emotions are all the voice and less the fact. The overwhelming reality temperature of the trots of people are that of exasperation and exhaustion. Here I am faced with Otto who by appearance remains unsettling and fractionally impending, yet when taken as a valid entity is just trying to get to his destination in life, an embalmer, Yes, an embalmer.His focus and overbearing facial hair are off-putting and without comfort. Otto stands his ground as I remain an obstacle in his destination. He is aware of his aura and his emotional impact yet upon loose dialog proceeds to inquire as to my purpose. Brief and poignant is our banter as our introduction hastens to conclusion. "I am an artist and you inspire me to say hello", Otto breaths heavily, looks me up and down, professing that I might be best prepared for the eventual encounter of those less stable in their focus and intention. Thank you sir, be well...
Prima Ballerina Assoluta . . .
"Fear is intrinsic to everything you do as an artistic person. You're constantly putting yourself up there to be judged and trashed."
Black Swan...Odette as she wants to be imagined and realized, period.