Photography Thinks
So, I went to Woodstock, Center of Photography, for a landscape workshop with Greg Miller. No sharp light. No long shadows. Almost no color.
The frogs and caterpillars hadn’t left, but they were cold.
The snakes still slunk around.
And, the birds were everready.
Don’t really care about perfect weather. There’s always something to shoot.
As Chet Baker sings, … everyday is Valentine’s Day.” Not for Molly. She’s still on the street. Hard enough not having a place to live.
David’s back, too. He’s still lost and adrift. But, he thinks he’s cool.
Bill Traveller doesn’t get any older; his lines grow deeper, hiding years of travail. Where has he been? Where have they all been? Places I’d never go.
And, Katie looks like she’s Catherine the Great, just off a barge ride down the Volga.
Had never seen the guy before. He sat with a traditionally messaged sign on the wrong side of the street, on the heavily trafficked corner across from Ben and Jerry’s where no one sits. Bright shoes. Big camp back pack. Hardly someone who doesn’t want to be noticed.
With the wind, snow and cold, I couldn’t go out. We must have emerged at the same time after two weeks in hibernation. First guy I saw after stepping out of my car into long missed but not forgotten sun. He stood behind the fence at Rite Aid, one of the City’s dingiest spots. Had to ask about the tattoo. “Got it in Las Vegas. It’s a coverup. Lost a bet that three girls that I was running could make more money in a night than another guys. The payoff was the tattoo: Lost in Vegas. And a telephone number. My girls took the money, bought drugs and spent the night getting high. Couldn’t get them to work. So, I lost. Got the tattoo and left. Then I got it covered up.”
So, Richard North has given up. But, who knows? He disappeared for a few days. Skippy told me he went to the hospital. Richard said they advised him to stop drinking and to take his heart medicine. I offered to take him to pick up the medicine. “Not now.”
Two kids passed, telling me to pay Richard for the priviledge of taking his picture. “Like, who the fuck are you? Will you help me?” They kept walking. Richard: “…, they are kids, leave them alone.”
Lenny struggles. Has social skills and smarts. Family in the area. Knows what he has to do, except for battling the demons. Got into a program. Got a job levelling tables. Still needs to ask for more help. Courteous to a fault. Has his life on his back.
Sharon and I volunteer at the Burlington Emergency Food Shelf. If you have stuff which people can use, I will pick it up and distribute it. Call me. Someone will use it.
A lot of people I have photographed on the street come for breakfast and then, if eligible, pick up food and supplies. Today, Rich Fish came in. He has a place to live, though not one where he feels he has enough safety and structure. But he has a place to cook and a place to store food. The last time I shot his image, he was cooking franks down by the Coast Guard Station on a grill. I found him, delivered a print, which he lost when someone stole his backpack, or maybe he left it somewhere.
He couldn’t find butter in the cooler. He needed to cook noodles/pasta, which will stick together without it. Previously, I had given him a dollar which he had designated for a beer. Now he has a problem: he needs another dollar, some butter or he can settle for sticky noodles. He thanked me for the dollar and headed off with his groceries. No longer homeless, he can only come every two weeks and what he gets ain’t much. But, in this weather, he’s a lot better off than he was and not as good as he will be now that he is off the streets.
Earlier in the morning, I had given a dollor to a person who didn’t want it. The guy, whom I have seen on the street, said to give it to someone more worthy. I don’t know his name and he hasn’t let me take his photo. But he always says hello, sometimes calling me Dick, instead of Duck. I told him he could give it to someone worthy and refused to take it back.
As the morning shift wore on to its end, I saw the guy give the dollar to a woman who was picking up for herself and family. She accepted it, graciously, walked over to me and handed me the dollar. “You deserve this for helping us.”
Don’t call him homeless, he’s not. Just houseless. Manages to skrimp by. Loves his place and his dogs. Arranges detritus. His grounds have museum quality street art. He surrounds himself with graphics and sculpture. Wood keeps him warm. Imagination keeps him alert.
Gotta keep warm, too. So, he splits wood. Friends help him out, loaning him the equipment and bringing him wood. He needs some socks, shoes and gloves. Could use some food, too. But, he ain’t complaining.
I couldn’t survive a minute, living the way he does. Incredible survival skills.
Paul Bunyan. Bigger than life. Not ready to define himself.
“But sometimes there’s a man, sometimes, there’s a man. Aw. I lost my train of thought here. But… aw, hell. I’ve done introduced him enough.” Stole this line from Lebowski, but John deserves it.
So, he’s putting together a group to do art during his healing. He has esophageal cancer and needs to start treatment. He’s looking upwards, to the sky, for support. I’ll send him some landscapes and sky shots. I don’t do sunrises or sunsets. Too beginning and ending for me. The colors shine too brightly. Life’s a slog; mostly gray, not always black and white.
John finds music in everything. He sees art in everything. Melodies, not really recognizable ones, roll around in his head and then out his mouth. He’s more Beat, than neat. Not a hippie or hip, just different. I relate to different. Not many do. Now he has to turn his body over to the men with the white coats. Seems like he used to work with the guys in the white coats, only they treated heads not bodies. All those skills will be needed.
We will all root for him, those who know him and those whose lives would benefit if they did. We know he will go through the process with the same degree of joy that he used in life. He’ll be a good patient and we will be good friends.
A guy stopped me as I shot. “Not a good day for photos, eh?” “Au contraire, monsieur [he wasn’t from Montreal], gray is the favorite color for photographers. I get to control the light. Actually, the scene could use some fog.”
I stood and waited for the snow to come. Maybe later. No one walking. Here, I live in one of the coolest and most desirable places, one calling out for attention and its empty. People want the reds and blues and greens. Oh, come to the Lake for its beauty. Let’s go leaf peeping. Nothing wrong with this.
So, I tell the guy my views. As usual, he disagrees. Just like a Vermonter. Every sentence begins with I like it or I don’t like it or I agree or disagree. I want it to stay this way forever. I liked it better when there was a swamp here.”
The road to recovery can be bumpy. Just cannot give up hope. David fell off the wagon again, to use a trite term, which used to refer just to drinking, but now, who knows. He’s got no place to go and no place to hide, except the park and the street. Warm today. Tomorrow, could be cold. After all, it’s Vermont.
Nicknamed after a raffish cartoon character, he resumed his birth calling, David. He had a place to live and some work. He lasted for close to a year. Too soon to know when he’ll return or as what.
When I saw him over the past few days he said needed to bolt from Dodge. He asked for $10 for a bus, like they would have let him take a bus ride somewhere. Then he asked me what I would do if someone said something about my Mother. Don’t know why they would, but I don’t care. She and I had a difficult relationship which should be of no mind to anyone. He obviously does care and something obviously happened which if I knew, I could explain, but not understand. Lots of people die in the name of religion, love and mothers. And some even blame their failures on them.