Photography Thinks
Just let’s say people still visit the Lake Champlain boardwalk and need to go to the bathroom. But the facility is closed. In Burlington, manners predominate. I never call a “John” a ‘Facility.” Sharon’s Mother used to call it a “pissoire,” which could have been the only french word she spoke. Well, they will just have to use the facility at ECHO if they have to go.
Getting a creamy can also be problematical.
So, he sits in the park, smiling, talking to strangers. Not many on the streets of Burlington, despite its beauty and grandeur. People live elsewhere and have to work. Jack says he did as little as possible. Worked in a cemetery. I asked him what he was doing sitting in Battery Park on a chilly fall day? “Waiting for two women in bikinis to take me home.”
I could have waited with Jack, but the second girl probably had been spoken for by the General.
So, I know him as Caveman. Easy monicker, like mine, based on the surname. Recently found a spiritual name. He says his mother was Jewish. Parents sat shiva when she married a Catholic. He took on a biblical name, one that denotes he is one of the people. Me, I am a Kohane, a word that doesn’t mean anything to him, Jewishly speaking.
These guys on the street act in several plays. Not many of us has the courage to even live one. 71 years old and starting to look it.
He tells me we used to hang out in the same places in the Village in the 70’s. His friends and I went to New York Law School together. Now, he lives on the streets. Moving to Waterbury on Wednesday into a sober house. Wants to make a movie about street life.
Rabbi Joshua has a show in the back at the Maltex Building on Pine Street. Figures that a rabbi would select wood as a medium, since trees have special significance to jews. He chisels, making shapes for the light to shine through. The colors come from gentle strokes, highlights, midtones and some darks, changing the subject into extra-worldly matter. Any narrative becomes yours for the taking.
He wanted to call the piece, “Campy’s Glove.” How many remember Campy? The Hall of Fame would adore a spiritual wooden piece to go with the sculpture by Beielstein which sits outside the library. Perhaps, the adjustor, healer whose nameplate appears behind his head might like it, also.
A healer from the Wellness Collective on the third floor passed by. After I introduced Joshua as the artist/sculptor, she said, “I think about your work all the time. It makes me feel so good. I was wondering? Do you use a chisel?” What an honor for an artist to hear love while being asked for instruction.
Says he’s been on the street, travelling for 12 years. Has his faith and a Mother. She doesn’t tell him the truth, but his faith does. Never wants for anything. Lives day to day. Doesn’t want help, but asks for money.
They come and go. New ones every week. How do they find Burlington. Noway here from there. He says he’s been here before, but I have never seen him. Where he came from? He said everywhere and nowhere. Where’s he going? Doesn’t know. Will work for cash. Now, that’s smart. No taxes. Doesn’t have to contribute to Social Security. What would he do? Who would hire him? Carries a duffle and a garbage bag. And he has his sign.
Last time we saw Richard, he and the sailor shared the set. Richard, today, came to feed the Ducks and mourn his sister’s death. He casts potato chips on the water attracting Ducks while remembering his sister. I tried to explain that potato chips weren’t good for Ducks. “…, they come right up to me and eat them. They like them.”
Skip aged since out last shoot. “Hard out here. Slept here last night …. You age fast on the street.”
Lot of effort goes into shooting on the street. Sometimes, you gotta find them. Sometimes, you gotta have equipment. Never know, as a street shooter. Then I gotta get them to stand still, which really isn’t easy if they are stoned, drunk, on meds or angry. I could go on. The biggest stressor? Do they trust me? Damn. I love seeing them. Fear their deaths. Questioned about the people I know or knew, I show them a portfolio of recent photos. Most of my notebooks have two copies, because I haven’t been able to find the person pictured. Never give to people who promise to deliver. Another thing to carry.
So, Richard talked, after he heard from me, “… about being alive, being alive, being alive.” “You gotta do what you gotta do, … even if it means doing what you can do.”
Little nippy today in Burlington by Lake Champlain. Al fresco doesn’t suit me. But for a chronic drunk who hasn’t dried out lately, the feel of the Lake Breeze and warm morning mist offers sleeping opportunities few can appreciate and fewer would take advantage of.
But, there, in the shadow of ECHO lay Richard North.
And his vodka bottle.
I’m sorta glad the two of them look out for one another. Don’t you wonder what they talk about? We know the Lone Sailor watches for his ship, so he ain’t drinking. But what does he think about the mess, the bottles and the bodily fluids deposited nearby?
Aren’t you glad he has his gloves. Don’t want cold hands. Damn. I cannot sleep without a pillow either. You try lying on cold marble or granite. Got to passout not to feel the pain.
One day, I fear, he will end up like my friend Paul O’Toole, dead on a grate.
New England shows its colors slowly, sometmes. This fall looks as if it will go on forever. Colors just coming out. I don’t involve myslef in reds and yellows. Send me blue greay. Matches my eyes.
Started at the fishing pier where no one catches fish. Moved to the sailor.
Went home for breakfast. Not much doing. Headed to the Water Treatment facility. Bike path quiet. People taking boats out of the water. Windy and sneaky chilly.
So, I meander down to the water to make this shot, sliding across the rocks. Totally into getting the shot, I left my I pad, phone and journal on a picnic table. A guy came buy, wondering who would leave such valuable stuff unguarded.
Evan. He had a dog. Shadow.
Recently, houseless. Ended long time relationship. We know many of the same people from the streets.
I have been taking pictures of Cheryl for a while. Funny how when a photographer knows the subject, the images improve. You can feel the trust and see the honesty, despite the desultory plight.
She has nothing, right now, she says. The evil step-mother took her money, leaving her homeless, a condition which caused her to have to return to jail to max out for lack of a residence. No one has given her any supplies, which she included in her requests just in case anyone would think she had a drug or alcohol problem which needed to be fed.
She delivered a message from a woman in jail who I have photographed. With no family or friends, the woman asked if I would write her. The woman faces the same prospect of maxing out due to a lack of a place to live. Not many supportive environments out here for people who have paid their debt. Dismas House heads a short list. But they kick you out if you don’t have a job, a problem for people with mixed substance abuse and mental problems.
Ryan looks out for her.
Four months ago, she looked like this. What did society gain by keeping her in jail.
We care about him, despite his declarations to the contrary. Yesterday, he complained that too many people lectured him. “Social workers, street workers, friends and my mother ….” Well, Eric, it’s because we don’t think you will survive the winter.
“I just want a place to say what I know to be true. I know what they want me to do. Go to Voc Vermont. Eat at the Food Shelf. Sleep at cots. Then they’ll give me a place. Suppose I don’t want that? I want to be free. How bad am I doing? I do what I want. So, I drink too much. People have lived on the street for years, 30, 40 years. They tell me I’m just a baby.”
Ramon walked by. Offered Eric a cigarette. Ramon had a store bought pack. Eric took one and then rolled his own.