still raining

inside

I haven't really figured out how to do much outside shooting in Portland this week, where it has been rainy, gray and cold. So my camera and I have been spending time inside together.

richard

Richard

I've known Richard for a couple years now. He's seems much older this summer, suffering from a bad hip among other physical ailments.

Richard lives on the street with his dog. He gets around in a wheelchair now, and often I see his dog pulling him down the sidewalk. Richard hangs out in my neighborhood. Some mornings I practically stumble over him on my way to the gym.

I made this portrait in the park next door to my building. Jamison Square has a really cool fountain that attracts families, especially on hot summer afternoons. Kids squeal with delight as the water fills the basin, then recedes. Yesterday I found Richard sprawled on the grassy area in front of the fountain. His dog was lying next to him, the wheelchair at their feet. Kids dodged them as they scampered to and from the flowing water. Parents set up their blankets so they wouldn't get too close. Richard smelled like beer. And his dog wan't tied up. And there was leftover food and trash all around him. He was passed out for awhile, oblivious to the delightful sounds offered up by kids enjoying one of the last lingering days of summer. When he woke up, he climbed into his chair and sat for this picture.

The homeless and the families of Portland coexist at this park, just as they do at most of the other urban outdoor spaces. I don't think the families do it very happily, but they do it just the same.

When we parted, I told him I hope he gets the hip replacement he needs. Richard told me he hopes I find what I'm looking for.

what am i hunting for?

“Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,

But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.”

I've spent a lot of time hunting for and making pictures in New Orleans and Portland this summer. Soon I will be in Uganda doing more of the same.

It's what I love doing more than almost anything else in my life. 

Jane Aspinwall, Associate Curator of Photography at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, used the above quote from a late 19th century poem titled "The Lonely Hunter" by Fiona MacLeod (which was the pen name for William Sharp) to introduce a short essay about my work a couple years ago. Little did Jane know that the book by Carson McCullers The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (written in 1940) and the subsequent movie starring Alan Arkin had a meaningful impact on me when I was a teenager.

I reread the book this summer (Cartier-Bresson did the cover photo - a portrait of McCullers herself!).

With my camera in tow, I am a lonely hunter of sorts. It's kind of become my mantra this summer.

I am making new work for an exhibition to be held this December at the Leedy-Voulkos Art Center in Kansas City. I've decided to call the show "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter."

So often, the hunt ends right back where I started, or more precisely, in my own backyard. After walking the city streets for most of the afternoon, I came upon this fair haired beauty wrapped up in a towel right next to my Portland home.

haircut and a shave

I stopped by Mike's usual hangout spot today and felt like I had come upon someone 10 years younger than he was just a couple days ago. He beamed hello when he saw me, called me by name and told me he'd been to the beauty salon for a $9 haircut.

I'm also happy to report that he does wear a shirt and pair of pants under his blanket.

mike

Of all the interesting people I see regularly on the streets of Portland, the guy who walks around wrapped in a blanket has always intrigued me the most. I’ve seen him in our neighborhood each summer since we started coming here in 2008 and have always wondered what his story is.

As far as I can tell, he doesn’t wear much/if anything underneath the blanket. His feet are jet black from dirt and grime. His hair is unkempt, and he has a scraggly beard. I usually see him coming from the corner ATM machine with cash clutched in his fist.

Eddie heard from a woman who works at the Starbucks across the street that his name is Mike, and he’s a millionaire. I finally decided to approach him.

I’ve asked him several days in a row now if I can make his portrait. He’s had the same response each time: “I’m OK.” Then he goes on to say he needs to shave and get a haircut, and then he goes off from there about how he needs to “get motivated” and he’s planning to get his driver’s license and also go to the library. I tell him each day that I think he looks rather royal in his “robe” and that I will ask him again the next day if I can take his picture. He smiles sort of boyishly and reiterates that he needs a shave.

Yesterday I saw him hanging out in front of the Safeway. I greeted him and asked if I could take his picture. He said it might be OK. So, we talked for a long time. I asked a few questions, but mostly he conducted a monologue about a variety of topics, hopping seriously and unpredictably from one to the next. I learned, among other things, that he is 43, his father was adopted, he thinks Steve Martin is funny, he sleeps on the sidewalk near the train station each night, he gets to withdraw $20 from the bank every day except Sunday, he was in the military and he’s traveled to many places, including Puerto Vallarta. The monologue was periodically interrupted with each passerby, when Mike would wave his hand and say, “have a good day”.

I photographed him while he was talking. He was fine with that. I told him I’d bring him a picture, but he didn’t seem too interested. I’m not sure where he’d put it, really. He just has a blanket, after all. He was childlike and sweet, and he seemed really happy that I stopped to chat. Actually, once he got used to me, it seemed like he didn’t want me to leave.

I told him my name early in the conversation and asked him before I moved on if he remembered it. He lowered his head kind of bashfully and said “Gloria.” Then he told me that sometimes he knows certain things when he goes to sleep at night but can’t remember them the next day.

I told him I’d look for him tomorrow. He was happy about that and waved to me as I walked away. He gathered up his blanket and turned to face the people who were filing out of the grocery store.

“Have a good day” I heard him say.

early morning

While in Portland each summer, I try to shoot every day. Often I wander the city for hours, observing, appreciating and sometimes photographing the many colorful characters who inhabit this city.

Yesterday, for example, I walked 9 miles with my photo gear in tow.

Two mornings ago I had to take Eddie to the airport at 4:30 a.m. When I got back to our neighborhood and was a block away from our place, I noticed a couple sleeping on a bench. It's very common in Portland to see people sleeping on sidewalks, in doorways, under bridges and in the parks, but this couple really moved me. I'd seen them there before on one other early morning walk I had taken. They sleep sitting up, one leaning on the other, and they drape themselves in a blanket. One of them must use a wheelchair, because it is kept very close by.

Friday morning, having just said goodbye to Eddie for a few days, I was particularly moved by the love these two share and the obviously challenging circumstances under which they live. It was still pretty dark out, and the only camera I had on me was my iPhone, but I really wanted to make a picture of them.

So I did.

I took two frames and then decided to run up to my place and fetch my bigger camera before they awoke and moved on their way. When I returned a few minutes later they were still under their blanket, but they were starting to rouse, and it was clear they would be waking soon. So I left.

The picture from my iPhone just didn't feel like it did justice to the beauty, sadness and poignancy of the sleeping couple, so, while I did have that, I really wasn't satisfied. For the next two mornings, this morning included, I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m. and walked back to the bench with my Hasselblad to make the picture I really wanted.

But they weren't there.

This morning I even walked a couple miles around the neighborhood searching for them. I never found them.

So, the picture I already made will be the one.

People often ask me which is my favorite camera, and I always tell them it's the one I have on me.

on the street

Walking around Portland early this morning, I was overwhelmed by the increasing number of people sleeping on the sidewalks and in the parks.

It seems like the city is dotted with fallen soldiers.

outsider shooting

There's a great conversation taking place over on Roger May's Facebook page. (Roger is the tireless creator, curator and coordinator of the "Looking at Appalachia" photography project.) The lively and intelligent FB dialogue concerns a recent article in Vice Magazine called "Two Days in Appalachia," which is loudly and brashly illustrated by photographer Bruce Gilden - in typical Bruce Gilden style. It has offended many people, particularly those who live in Appalachia - and most especially those who make their own photographs there.

Apparently Vice sent Gilden to the area to do the job. He didn't have much time and chose to spend what time he had in churches and at a festival, making what most of the FB commentaries have called stereotypical and unflattering images. It's not unlike the time Vice sent photographer Alec Soth to Nome, Alaska to do a story. Residents of Nome were up in arms over his insulting and ugly portrayal of the place they hold dear.

Shooting a place as an outsider is a challenging assignment. I know. I've done it many times.

When I go to Uganda this fall, even if it is the ninth time, I will still be making photographs as an outsider. Whenever I travel to my home state of Kentucky to shoot in Appalachia, I am an outsider. When I make pictures for Operation Breakthrough in Kansas City, I am an outsider. Pretty much every self-assigned project I've done as a photographer puts me on the outside looking in: identical twins, Holocaust survivors, the homeless in Portland and Black barber shops to name but a few.

I am a curious person, eager to learn about the people around me - especially those whose life experiences are vastly different from my own. Toting a camera has often given me access, and I've appreciated and savored that over the years. I am acutely aware that it's a privilege when doors are opened to me, and in return, I try to treat my subjects with respect.

Robert Frank was one of the ultimate outside shooters when he made "The Americans." Some felt the pictures were made with empathy and a healthy sense of curiosity; others were offended. When Arbus ventured from her upper middle class NY upbringing into the seedy apartments of those living on the fringes of society, some were appreciative of the look inside while others were appalled that she "exploited" her subjects.

As a photographer, I try not to judge. But, of course, I can't help but show my own interpretation of what's in front of me. Put ten photographers in front of a subject or setting, and, of course, you'll get ten different points of view. Many photographers believe their images are nothing more than "self portraits" because they bring their own baggage to each picture, and if they are any good, those life experiences will show up in the pictures they make. I tend to agree with that line of thinking.

So are Gilden's pictures of church and festival going people in Appalachia self portraits? Were Arbus' pictures simply riffs on who she thought she was? Are mine? Are yours?

Last night I landed in Portland, my second home, for a two-month stay. I guess you could say I'm an outsider here, since I wasn't born and raised here and don't live here full time, but I love photographing here. Within an hour of trudging my suitcase to our small apartment, I made the photograph at the top of this post. Her name is Maria, and she sat alone, thoughtfully slicing away at her small piece of cheese pizza at the place Eddie and I went for dinner. She was so lovely, and the air of sadness around her kept pulling me in her direction. I finally went over to her table and introduced myself. Turns out she speaks no English (and my Spanish is very, very limited), but we managed to make this picture. She pointed to her place, and it is right across the street from where my place is. Her building is low-income housing in a fancy-schmancy part of town. Mine is not. I am intrigued by her and want to know her story. Maybe I'll end up wanting to know the stories of the rest of the residents in her building. Perhaps meeting her on my first night back in Portland was the photo-goddess' way of plopping an idea for a summer project squarely onto my plate.

And yes, I'd be an outsider. Even though I live right across the street.

For my money, it'd be a chance to expand my knowledge of the world and its inhabitants and to touch upon the humanity that connects us all.

I heart photography. Even photography that makes me mad or offends me. Because it's that sense of shared humanity - and thoughtful conversations about it - that make me feel really alive. And make me eager to lift the viewfinder to my eye over and over and over again.

a passion for photos in black and white

David, Greyhound Bus Station, Portland, Oregon, 2012

Several weeks ago I was contacted by Barbara MacRobie, Public Information Coordinator of the Missouri Arts Council. She wanted to include my work in an article she was writing about some Missouri photographers who make most - if not all - of their work in black and white.

When she interviewed me for the piece, I had no idea she was going to weave together the stories and sentiments of nine photographers. Whew! What a task. I read the finished piece a few days ago and was very impressed. I hope you'll take a few minutes to read it and take in the images. It's a lovely tribute to the glory, tradition and passion of black and white photography.

I am happy and honored to be included with this group of fine photographers:

Dan White, Kansas City
William Helvey, Columbia
David Rocco, St. Louis
Kirk Decker, Kansas City
Kyle Spradley, Columbia
Paul Rains, Ellington
Koral Martin, Carthage
Tim Layton, Wildwood

Please enjoy the article here.

end of summer

My summer in Portland is coming to an end. Dangit.

At the end of Sunday School each June - when I was a kid - our rabbi would give us students a summer vacation charge:

Make at least one new friend.
Read at least one good book.
Take at least one long walk alone.

It always stuck with me. And I guess I've always followed his advice.

I made a new friend in Portland this summer. I read several good books, and I added so many steps to my Fitbit that it keeps dinging me with heartfelt congratulations. So I did good. The rabbi would be proud of me.

Being in Portland gives me space to breathe and think and wander and rejuvenate.  It also gives me long stretches of time to work on personal projects. This summer I wrote a children's book. I trashed it and started over several times. I learned a lot about patience and perseverance and how important the creative "process" is. I made some drawings and some photographs. I rented and played with a different lens. I tried watercolor pencils for the first time.

I am going to be 60 next week, but in so many ways I feel like I'm just getting started.  There's so much to learn.

I'm sorry to see the summer go. It was a good one for me. I hope yours was good, too.

audrey

Check out this adorable little doll. I had such fun working playing with her and her folks in Forest Park recently. I have the best job. Period.

arlo

A beautiful boy, his mom, his ball and his dog = a very fun photo shoot in Portland.