fabrication

Teenager peering through a veil. (single exposure)

ice-capades

The fuses and transformers along the grid are back to working order, but a few days ago when icy snow lingered on power lines we saw sparks fly and the power went out.  

Maybe one day they will consider burying the power lines.

from the sidelines...

Monday night, my son's basketball team played a rare weekday evening game.  And even though both teams were evenly matched, my son's team adhered to their planned rotation and all the players were given equal playing time.

As the clock wound down and the score changed hands, the other team concentrated their best players on the court.  And as those players ran up and down, I could not help but notice one of their players on the bench, all alone, to the far left.

Once or twice his posture spoke volumes, but more often he could barely contain his excitement when watching his teammates score.  He supported, with great exuberance, their every effort.

Such a selfless display of sportsmanship seemed to have gone unnoticed after the game ended.  So, I wanted to make a point of highlighting it here because sometimes important lessons in sport are taught from the sidelines.

Big Chief Monk Boudreaux

Descendants of runaway slaves that found refuge among the native tribes in the Louisiana bayous, Mardi Gras Indian tribes have a unique place in both the cultural and musical history of New Orleans, and each tribe has their respective Big Chief.

This is a photograph of Big Chief Monk Boudreaux of the Golden Eagles tribe, taken during a performance at Tipitina's which coincided with his recent birthday celebration.  Born in 1941, he can still hold his own on stage for a few hours.

If you are curious about this musical tradition you may want to view the documentary film, Bury the Hatchet (2010).  The film, directed by Aaron Walker, was awarded the Grand Prize at the 2009 Royal Anthropological Institute's International Festival of Ethnographic Film.

If you just want to sample the sounds, you can do so HERE.

quicksands...

During a recent walk along a wintery stretch of coastline, I stood still and looked down.  Content in my enjoyment of the familiar patterns at my feet, I felt comfortable at a stand still and smiled.

Seconds later as I glanced up that sense of complacency washed away, and I envied the ability to take flight.

Walking past the sandy contours, I now exercised a bit more caution avoiding the captivating glances of those seductive impressions along the way.

snow-capped Buddha

Homeless in New Orleans, A Sense of Place: Part II

My presumption was completely wrong. Being homeless was not a state of being "without a place.” The people we met on that street corner, the people with whom we talked and traded stories, the people who allowed us into their space, their daily activities were small rituals constantly creating and recreating a sense of place and home around that palm tree. I noticed it when we first met; they began telling us their names. India. Memphis. Montana. Africa. Perhaps they didn’t want to share too quickly and preferred nicknames to their birth names. So they introduced themselves to us through distant geographies and cityscapes. India. Memphis. Montana. Africa. Chicago. They asked me where I was from. Washington DC,” I replied. The exchange had its purpose, an equalizer of sorts...clearing the air and underscoring that we all have roots. We all have places of origin. We come from somewhere. We all have homelands. Some individuals talked about moving along, getting out of New Orleans...a temporary station in a lengthier nomadic journey. For others, New Orleans was a final oasis in search of a job, and they are still searching. Others ran away from families, and abuse. Some were the abusers, “I have a restraining order from my wife...” I heard more than once. Some stopped running with their feet and let Heroin and other addictions run through them. Others were clean and sober, waking up everyday...looking for a job.

India. Memphis. Montana. Africa. Chicago. We all have origins...we all have a sense of place. What they lacked was shelter, in the traditional sense of a permanent structure which provides refuge. A few of them had small tents, meticulously cared for and organized. Many slept in the open, under multiple blankets. They looked out for each other and shared. They shared everything they had: clothing, covers, food...cigarettes. They watched over each other and their possessions. They swept their street corner. They made sure someone fed the birds. They settled disagreements amicably, before tempers flared. They maintained a sense of dignity and fairness, often lacking among those with greater material comforts. Perhaps as you read through my recollections, you’ll smirk and think I am romanticizing my encounter with the homeless. After all, many are on the margins of society...characterized as drifters...dangerous people. In the end, I wanted to experience a shared humanity...one that did not rely on or define us based on our relationship to architecture...to a house or apartment, but rather a shared humanity that relied on a common set of experiences...travel, loss, uncertainty, perseverance, escape, patience, time, boredom, and companionship. And that experience left a deep impression, one that I will carry to many other places.

Click HERE to see a sample of my photographs from this project. (Then click on the "slideshow" button on the upper right hand of the page to view the images.)

This work was part of a broader collaboration during a workshop with Andy Levin, and was published in the online journal 100EYES.

Click HERE to see the issue titled, Homeless in New Orleans.  (This issue contains some of my photographs, as well as Andy's work and the work of my colleagues Sarah Hawkins and Meryt Harding.)

A Sense of Place: Part I

The Outer Banks Bar: December 2010
Formerly known as the Cajun Inn, this bar located in the lower mid-city section of New Orleans is one of the few structures still standing in a 25-city block area of town expropriated by the local government. Much of the surrounding community has been leveled in order to make way for an urban hospital complex. This local pub was one of the first to be rebuilt after Hurricane Katrina and since the disaster has continued as an architectural badge of honor for the community that surrounds it. As the demolition date nears, the local clientele mourned, but they did so in the local dialect. I was there for the symbolic funeral, for the mock coffin, the jazz band parading around the barren streets. The intensity of the ritual was weighted by glances and handshakes, pauses and sighs throughout the bar. The jukebox warmed up the crowd for the live band later that evening. Neighbors sang and danced as they came to terms with the loss of community, with the death of the abstract...embodied in those walls. Weeks after the funeral I keep thinking of the emotions and difficulties in burying the intangible...memories of survival, memories of place and kinship.

Click HERE to to view the gallery of photographs, then Click on the "slideshow" button in the upper right-hand corner for the best viewing option.
If you want to follow the fate of the community, you can do so through Brad Vogel's blog:
Inside the Footprint.