Spoken Words

Last night I ventured into DC for a series of poetry readings at The Big Hunt's basement lounge, and was able to catch up with a few friends from yesteryear.  Steve read from his newly published The Luckless Age.

The evening began with Belarus native Valzhyna Mort reading some of her work.  Her delivery was mesmerizing and her poetry was absorbing.  I was nestled between three of her students as I listened in.  

I became an instant admirer as she stole the show.

The rest of the evening was full of conversations, merriment, whispers, glances, synecdoche, metaphor and some smiles.  The creative energy in that space and the general atmosphere of the city were a welcome change.  On the cab ride home, I lamented leaving the words behinds.

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.

On the street: Las Vegas

For a couple of hours yesterday afternoon I walked the strip...admiring the shadows, the shadowy figures, the costumes, the smiles, the lovers, and even a baby duckling.  My favorite shot was this one taken of a man seemingly absorbed in thought while absorbing the day's remaining sunlight.

Here are a few other mirages I found while wandering the desert of the real.

rara avis

I asked him, "You mind if I take a picture of your cool bird next to your neck tattoos...from the back?"
Shrugging his shoulders, "Sure man."
He turned around and added, "Just make sure you get the hat too." 

once upon a wall...

...a woman stared out from among the pages, and I wondered if her thoughts had any relation to the words which surrounded her.

[Fe] and other Ironies...

My very good friend Roberto visited this past weekend.  He suggested we find an urban setting and take some photos, so we settled on a strip of Columbia Pike in South Arlington.

I heard echoes of familiar places from my childhood as we walked past the Botánica Boricua (a one-stop shopping paradise for the local Espiritistas) and the Orisha ornamentations in their window.

A few steps away from the herbalist, I was reminded of a different Plant and his heavy metal melodies about a lady buying a...

("There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure...")

("With a word she can get what she came for...")

("And the voices of those who stand looking..."):
("ooh, it makes me wonder...")
("ooh, it makes me wonder...")

(" 'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings....")

palimpsests...

I set out in search of more deviant art along the walls and found a solitary figure with an appealing sketchy swagger.

Sadly, last week's graphic acquaintance was now shrouded in grey.

At the sight of the erasure, I knew it would only be a matter of time.  They'd be back again to peel away those layers of iconoclasm.

muralities...

Sometimes you walk by and can't resist engaging the artful abstractions in your path.  On this occasion, I coaxed my brother in-law and his companion.  

The photograph in the middle is the pièce de résistance.  (I wonder how long these images will remain in place...such a crime to erase this graffiti.)  

2010...

New patterns and familiar textures...

It has been a great week in NOLA. Today we head back home and will soon be floating in the cross currents generated by recent events. I expect that TSA will greet all passengers in route to DC with an extreme wedgie. I will miss the spectacle of the Quarter. Cheers.

inside a studio, inside the Quarter

Delta Blues...

A roofless warehouse on a pier along the Mississippi just, south of the Ninth Ward...

Corrugated canvas, a side view...

PERLA, a tanker nestled up to the levee...

co(m)mutations...

A few days ago, I enjoyed driving into the city on a cool foggy morning.  The monuments lost a bit of their luster in the watery haze, and the landscape took center stage.

Here a tree partially obstructs a view of the Holocaust Museum (left) and the Department of the Treasury's Bureau of Engraving and Printing (right).