Richard and Skip Feed the Ducks

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.”

Lone Sailor Watches Over Richard North

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.

Foggy Morning

wpid5042-MyFile.dng-1.jpg

Chasing the sun brought great results today. Sometime you work for the shots. Sometime you just point the camera. Looked out the window. Couldn’t see the street. Washed my face, brushed my teeth. By the time I hit the street, the light had come up, but the fog hadn’t lifted. I could feel the wet in my face and smell the morning moisture.

Fg_Mrn-1

 

Clouds covered the sun, just enough to rob the scene of its yellow. Birds screamed, unable to see their morning breakfast through the mist. Good day, if you were a fish.

Fg_Mrn-5

Magic everywhere. Still a there, there. Clouds with nowhere to go. No wind pushing them. No waves or flutter. Water gently lapping up against the pier. It wasn’t cold and it wasn’t hot.

Fg_Mrn-2

 

The sailor doesn’t care. He waits and watches. One day his boat will come. Already packed for the sea.

Fg_Mrn-4

 

Burlington arises.

Fg_Mrn-3

Stanley Bleifeld, Sculptor, Dead at 86

I visit the Lone Sailor regularly. Watch him watching the water, waiting to begin his mission. Stanley Bleifeld knew him better than I could.

He stands in the cold.

His eyes always open.

The wind sometimes picks up his jacket which is a composite of five naval tops. Some in the service don’t like seeing his hand in his pocket.

The sun plays tricks with his skin, some of which comes from famous Naval vessels.

He likes the sun, too.

Birds don’t always show his broad back respect.

Not his position to complain.