A documentary project...

Sometimes in a moment you photograph a mood or a scene.  Sometimes you decide to conjure categories and photograph a brood or a theme.  And once in a while an invitation arrives and a door opens. You enter with your camera...unsure of the terrain.  You accept the offer and hold your breath because the path ahead is emotionally wrenching.  You sigh because the journey you're about to document will make you cry, and laugh and change you in ways you never anticipated.

A week ago I met him and his wife.  In January, he lost both legs in Afghanistan.  His right arm will undergo much reconstructive surgery.

While on patrol he took a step, and heard the sound.

I have been invited to capture the images...as his prosthetic legs are born, as they learn to carry him; as his steps become stronger, as he walks, and even runs, again.  That day when he runs effortlessly sensing each step through an architecture of alloy and plastic...may be two years in the making.  I plan to be there so you can see the motion, perhaps as a blurry image.

Others have traveled the same journey...

So if I don't post as often as I have in the past...bear with me while I take a detour and embark on a documentary project.

the daybreaks...

Sat on the beach early this morning and greeted the day.  

And despite such a colorful breach of the darkness, I imagined the spectacle in a monotone hue closer to my mood.

Then glanced again without a filter, and was disappointed by the fiery reality.

Eventually I settled on the idea that the morning colors add an unnecessary confusion to my perception. So, I decided to simplify the view and sift away the distracting intensity.

I smiled and went about the day.

Road Trip

Off on a work-related adventure down South, and I don't know if I'll be able to post much for the next week.  But, I will be back....

a hand-made face

While contemplating my daughter's artwork...from a few perspectives I asked her, "Whose face is this?"

"You can't tell?" She shrugged.

"Papa! It's obvious" She pushed.

I just moved my head from side to side, as I draped some yarn over her brow.

"Paaaa-pa! It's an african-american grandmother," she smiled.  So I picked a filter and returned the smile.

"It is whomever you want it to be," I winked.

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.

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.

Rituals of Induction

Last week I ran around the streets of New Orleans with Meryt and Sarah, my newfound colleagues, and we spent most of our time engaged in a documentary project on the homeless.  During the next few weeks, I'll write more about that experience and share some more of my work and the encounters with street life in the Big Easy and the homeless...their dignity, their kindness, their addictions, their demons.
My work last week left a deep impression as most formative rituals tend to do.

On one particular day my colleagues and I had lunch at Cafe Reconcile, an in-house academic training restaurant for inner-city youth.  The food was great and knowing that profits were going to a great cause felt even better. Along with the memories of a debris-style roast beef po' boy, I will recall a simple note card near my place setting.  It had a quote from Henry David Thoreau:  Things don't change, we change.   Those words have followed me back home to the DC area.

Midweek, our documentary project was part or a more comprehensive nightly exhibit at the Lost Love Lounge in the Bywater area of town.  The morning of the exhibit Andy Levin was editing our slideshow and as he typed my surname on the title slide, he inadvertently spelled:  M-a-r-t-i.  I paused and then corrected him, but he insisted that as an artist and as a photographer I should consider spelling it in this manner. So I agreed. Along with the more profound transformations engendered by the social documentary project, I also found myself confronting seemingly minor and unintended orthographic refinements.

A portion of my contribution to the overall project is scheduled to be published online in the near future in a well-known online magazine.  I'll let you know when it comes out.  In the meantime I will share some of my other experiences of that week, bit by bit and post by post.  Some light-hearted, and some not.

seasonal asymmetries...

October leaflets...

ups and downs...

moments on a trampoline during the night, or metaphors of childhood and adolescence; distortions of self; unfinished movements, inchoate gestures, emergent postures...via multi-second exposures, manual focus, and wide apertures (Click on the image to enlarge the ghostly outlines and seek out the human forms.)

chlorophyll laments

...and their associated pigments

leaves begin to fall

and just like that, seasons change...

Early Departure

Unsure of whether Earl would ruin the last few days of our stay, Daniela and I decided to go for a long walk this morning. Along the shore we saw the usual fare of runners. One man in the distance was midway through his Sun Salutation pose. As we walked by him, he mentioned that the county to the south had issued a mandatory evacuation as the hurricane moved up along the coast. He mentioned that the evacuation order for our area was imminent. We pretended otherwise and kept walking.

As we neared our starting point we could see a cluster of people. Daniela thought they were a large family gathering for a photo op. I thought it might be a local dialect of religious ritual. We were both wrong. The flower girls gave it away as they approached the group huddled by the shore. Then we saw the bride.

We returned to the house and planned to have a relaxing breakfast, but heard the news that all visitors must evacuate. Unfortunately, our vacation was abbreviated and we were all a bit moody. Endings are never pleasant....

We started packing, and left the island only an hour after our morning walk. But as we drove off, I thought of that couple on the beach. Hurricane Earl may have forced them into an impromptu seaside exchange of vows, or it may have all been planned. Either way, they were beginning something...and that made me smile.

wipe out...

Squeeze play

Pulling Mussels (From The Shell)...

rite de passage...

His 10th birthday and Ari couldn't wait to take the field.  He had been waiting too long for the opportunity. Now, he was old enough to enter the colorfully orchestrated melee.

A day later, he seems to have forgotten the tears as he proudly narrates the action and points to his bruises...florid blemishes marking a transition.  (I ran around with a helmet and a camera as the paintballs reverberated.  Fortunately I was only stung once in the hand as I focused on the players.)

If you want to pick apart the collage, click here.

laminations

outside...

...inside

בת מצוה

at the final rehearsal last week...

after the final rehearsal, she let her hair down (then up)...

Saturday morning, my cousin Elisa came by to do the hair and make-up...

Later that afternoon, she chanted melodies from the scroll.  She delivered a speech wrought with poise and maturity.  After the service, we ate and danced, and danced some more.  The next morning, in a softer light...she proudly displayed some of her henna markings.

ant•ics

I don't mind them at all, and often stop and stare for a few minutes.

Often, my arguments in favor of just leaving them alone are not well received by the rest of the family. Today, Daniela spotted the first black ant scurrying across our kitchen counter.  "Summer is definitely here!"  Then I heard a large whack.

longitudes and attitudes...

Somedays, I wonder how those legs...

 manage to support so much adolescence.