Capturing Communities in Words and Images:

Just some more pictures

 

Thoughts had during the pictures (aka field notes):

The speed reading was terrifying. Every so often they would take a loud, deep gasp. So many words uttered in one breath and one gasp only to utter so many more. Their chests shuddered and fingers shook. Nerves were at the front of every debate but they were veiled by a confident composure. The debaters are impersonal. A connection, if any is distant and professional as it should be. I like the subtlety. Connections are made in the community not during the actual debate but in the process before or celebration after. It’s a community built on competing against one another; on rising above the ranks. Still at the end of every battle comes the handshake. “Thank you for the debate.” Although still impersonal the shake is strong and reminiscent of the trial.

Not so Black and White: Outside in progress

Field notes:

 

  

Field notes:

 

   We see ‘the other’ as someone far off; someone not near us, not like us.  We tend to overlook ‘the other,’ to dismiss him as someone we cannot comprehend, someone we cannot form a connection with. They say it’s harder to shoot a man when you’re looking him in the eyes. That is because it is hard not to relate to another human being when you are standing right next to him, looking right at him. It’s hard not to feel a kinship towards an individual you capture in a private moment: kissing a child, laughing out loud, wiping a tear. There’s this instantaneous magical moment where you just connect to an absolute stranger; this instant when you realize we are all just part of the larger web of humanity.

      My goal is  to capture a community from the “inside out-” an abstract concept I’m trying to illustrate through the usage of space and distance-both physical and emotional. I hope to capture both private and public moments; weddings, Sunday shopping, prayer services… This is a difficult task and I am not sure I will succeed, but am hopeful that a friend serving as a liaison will ease the constraints. 

 

Belt Parkway, Brooklyn

       Driving down the belt parkway one Sunday in September, I noticed an inordinate amount of Hassidic Jews clustered around the shoreline. I parked the car off to the side and walked towards them with my camera at hand. Many were facing the water, holding small prayer books with tiny ancient print. As I neared, I saw that each person seemed to be enveloped in his own private world, completely engrossed in prayer. Some had their eyes closed, others were mumbling silently, their heads bent in submission. I was hesitant to approach, reluctant to disturb them. But I need not have worried. So absorbed were they in prayer that they did not notice my presence. I stood there for several minutes- for what I was waiting I’m not entirely sure.

I shot several pictures of people praying, but especially liked the symmetry in the image of the couple praying together. I must have been staring at the couple because after a few moments, the woman looked up at me asked if I needed a siddur (prayerbook). Embarrassed, I quickly shook my head and smiled my thanks at the woman, whose name I learnt, was Malka. Malka smiled back at me and said in a Yiddish tinged English, “It’s perfect today. I vas so vorried it vud rain, and we had to come, for tashlich.”

      Tashlich, is an ancient Jewish prayer, recited near a body of water. Said on the ten days between Rosh Hashana, the Jewish new year, and Yom Kippur, the day of Judgment, tashlich is a highly emotional, symbolic prayer wherein an individual privately confesses and asks G-d that his sins be forgotten, as  though cast into the sea.

    I turned to the water and noted how beautiful it was, how serene it was to listen the slow melodic lap of the water against the shoreline. Malka seemed to read my thoughts. She said, “here I can be at one with God.”

 

Boro Park, Brooklyn

    Sandwiched  between 12th and 18th Avenues and 40th and 55th Streets in Brooklyn, Boro Park is home to thousands of Hassidic Jews.

        The discordant blaring of a thousand car horns hits me from every angle, loud and jarring- it just won’t stop. Cars are illegally parked,double parked, triple parked. There is no room to move; it is a traffic nightmare. Black and white signs with Yiddish print advertise  any goods from housewares to fresh fish to  Strauss’s homemade cookies. Young mothers in long skirts and silk kerchiefs-covered heads push babies in strollers, shopping for bargains.

      I am hesitant to photograph these people,  fully aware that I myself would not appreciate the invasion. I take some quick shots, hidden from view. A young girl spots me, and points in my direction, jabbering something too quick for me to catch. I find myself looking away and walking quickly in the other directions.

      My first images, I see, are all taken from a distance. Ah well, I conclude, these will be the photos that capture the community from “outside”. There’s always next week to gather my courage and capture them from within.

 

The Klein Family

The heart of Hassidic culture lies in “the family”, and I wanted to somehow capture that. Initially, I tried to photograph families out shopping together, but found that the quality of my photos were rather flat; I was unable to capture the depth and range of emotion that I had hoped for. I thought it’d be best if I went into the home of a family, and took pictures of a family interacting. After asking around, I was introduced to Baruch and Sarah Klein, a middle aged Hassidic couple, with five children. I explained about the project, and they invited me into their home without my having to ask. Sarah suggested I come late Friday afternoon, so that I could witness their Sabbath preparations. When I entered the house, I was instantly put at ease. Sarah and Baruch smiled at me and asked me several questions about myself and my project. Their children aged 2-13, looked at me curiously and smiled shyly.  While several of their children’s toys were askew, the rest of the house was spotless. The windows glistened and the hardwood floors shone. The long dining-room table was decked in a silken white tablecloth, and the oldest daughter Shevy was setting it with silver and crystal tableware. Two crispy braided challahs leaned were set at the head of the table. It looked regal.  While the girls were setting the table, Yossi, one of the boys, was teaching his friend how to play the keyboard.

Sarah told me that the Sabbath was very important to them, as it was the one day the entire family was together, without the interruption of ringing phones or homework. She explained that there this “incredible sense of peace, and with the lit candles and singing …it’s just magical.”

            The Kleins invited me to return later that night which I did. The food was incredible, and the atmosphere was serene. The children all helped without complaint and kept asking me if I needed anything else. The family is very musical, and the father and his children sang well into the night. It was very beautiful.

 

The wedding

I had trouble getting decent shots because of the lighting, but managed to get some. The cluster of men standing together are watching the “Huppa” or marriage ceremony. Men and women are separated then, and they dance separately as well.

Physical touch between man and woman is prohibited until marriage and the first dance between the bride and groom is the first time they are to touch.  This dance is considered to be a special moment, where not only do the bride and groom’s hands touch, but their souls touch as well. Hassidic weddings are thought to be very spiritual, with special prayers said throughout. During the dance the grooms’s eyes were closed, and the bride seemed to be in midst of prayer, perhaps one of thanks for having reached this moment. In the hall, I see a young couple, who seem to be deeply in love. They are staring into each other’s eyes, completely oblivious to the world. I snap a shot feeling somewhat guilty of imposing on them. Later, I speak to them and discover that their names are David and Dina, and they’ve been married for nearly six months. Dina blushes profusely when I tell them they make a beautiful couple.

 

The synagogue

Walking with some friends one night, I pass by an empty synagogue, and decide to step inside. The interior is comprised almost entirely of dark oak, and the windows are made out of stained glass. I step into the men’s section, an area that would ordinarily be off limits to me. I walk around a bit, and see the dark blue velvet draping that houses the Torah scroll. Turning to leave, I notice an array of men’s black and white taleisim, or prayer shawls, left there to be used for the next morning’s prayer services. 

 

Friday morning, Boro Park

I casually walk through the streets, one early Friday morning. It is freezing. Hassidic men and women are rushing about, making last minute preparations for the Sabbath. Men are buying fresh fish to bring home to their wives to cook. There’s a buzz, a charged electricity in the air. The people move in fluid, rushed movements. Hurry, hurry! They seem to say. I spot  a group of men, who’ve stopped to after morning prayer services and quickly exchange greetings before continuing on their way. The bakeries are bursting with people buying steaming fresh challahs and cakes dripping in chocolate. The flower vendors are frantically trying to keep up with demand.

 

 

 

Goth Project Update

Going beyond images to words with this project has been the sticking point. Goths seem to love to congregate and joining them hasn’t been a problem. The barrier comes from how to approach them to start a conversation when we are in a nightclub and all they want to do is dance.

I am able to carry my camera, point and shoot, but in many ways I am still approaching this community from the periphery.

I’m going to change my tactics. I think I am going to follow the path of Nancy Kilpatrick, author of The Goth Bible published by St. Martin’s Press. Says Nancy in her foreword:

“I sent questions out into the void. In this case the void is virtual and has a name: the Internet.  I announced my intentions to every goth newgroup and chatroom I could find, sent word to upcoming conventions and Web sites, requesting that anybody who wanted to talk to me about being goth, well, I’d listen.”

There’s enough of a scene in New York City to generate some responses. I’ll take to the internet to see what happens.

Getting Closer to the Dwelling Place

I spent part of my Thanksgiving with the women, staff and volunteers of the Dwelling Place. Being there and sharing this holiday with them gave me a better sense of this community. The women who live at the shelter and those that came for the Thanksgiving dinner all shared their stories with each other and with me.

This community of women that come togther every week respect, care and give each other stength to meet their challenges.

In order to understand their struggle, I decided to focus on a couple of the women. I interviewed “Dorca” last week. She shared with me some of her painful adolescense, drug abuse and her everntual diagnosis with mental illness which led to her being homeles. “Dorca” spent much of the last 15 years going in and out of hospitals while she struggled with her mental illness. There is a lot more of her story that I would like to capture and for this I have asked her to take me to her old neighborhood on the Lower Eastside so that I can take picutres of her visiting where she used to live…

I will be going to the shelter tonight and hope to be able to take picutres. This has been the most challenging part of the proeject. I need to figure out a way to captute this community in images.

Once Upon A Time…

It was early November, a day I can’t remember. I was on my way home when I noticed small groups of goths heading in the same direction. Instead of following me, I followed them.

The goths were all heading to a dance hall on the corner of 149th and Grand Concourse. I stopped outside and watched the procession, hoping to get more information. Asking no questions, I got none. I decided to run home and come back with my camera.

When I returned I stayed outside hoping to see a friendly face that I could invite to pose for a photo. I saw none. Even though I was hanging around staring at everyone, I was largely ignored.

I didn’t have the nerve to snap an unsolicited photo on the street but I wrestled with the idea. Finally I snapped one of a patron who seemed to have had too much to drink as she went to get in a car. I hid while I snapped – taking 3 pictures, only one which was worth anything. If this was how it was going to be I was going to have a long night. I gathered my courage and decided to go into the dance hall.

Inside, no one paid me much mind.  Though not dressed for the ball, there was a culture of acceptance. There was an open bar but I decided against it. I wanted to be lucid and quick in taking my photos. I waited around twenty minutes before I took my first shot inside.

At first I took sneaky photos. After a while I just took candid shots. And after that I got a few people to pose for me. The goths didn’t mind, no matter how bizarre they looked. This was a younger crowd on average than the Home Sweet Home crowd. There was more variation in dress too. They were a bit more expressive. And differences in sexual expression were not an issue.

Dead Dance, pt. 2

Soon the semi-circle reached a critical mass. I was standing behind depths of people just waiting, waiting for something, for anything. I considered jockeying for a closer look and decided against it. The deejay had gone missing – so where was the music coming from? Alas, in an area designated as a stage a new duo were in charge. They had brought their own equipment. A strobe light blasted green light relentlessly from behind them making it hard to fixate my eyes on them. One of the musicians began began warming up his electronic keyboard. The other seemed to move about aimlessly, checking this, checking that, but never looking up to check out the crowd. A woman appeared with a large camera and started taking pictures of everybody and everything. She even took a picture of me. I lightened up. Then the musicians began.

What could I say about the music? If there was an anthem leading to hell, this was it. Organ notes punctuated by crashing sounds and moderated by a steady synthesized drum beat. Two Goth gals moved to an open spot on the dance floor and started dancing in a way familiar only to themselves. Meanwhile, the drum beat increased its speed. In response the girls danced faster. The music pace got faster. When it reached the speed of dance house music and I found myself bouncing to it. But the music kept accelerating, going past my ability to move, eventually reaching the pace of electromagnetic energy. The dancers somehow kept pace, moving about in their own circle like atoms.

The once aimless musician morphed into a singer. Dark lyrics rang out. I couldn’t understand him at first. It sounded like a foreign language. My mind was not yet trained to operate on that level. But I did catch this –

“There’s nowhere to go…..”

“There’s nowhere to go….”

“We’re all gonna dieeee….!!!”

“There’s nowhere to go…”

This guy was obviously the devil of this procession, with a voice rhythm and fluctuations reminiscent of a Nazi’s.

Okay, now I was spooked. I cast my eyes around looking for comfort. My eyes met those of the girl standing next to me. She looked straight at me, dark eyeliner stained under her eyes. Her eyes were emotionless. I was spooked further.

The band played a few songs. When they were finished, there were the typical blood-curdling screams and howls of delight from the crowd, then the Goths started filing out, looking refreshed. I stayed long enough to get a picture of the woman who had taken my picture earlier, (the mistress of the night) then I fled.

McSorley’s

I was relieved to find Mike behind the bar when I went back to McSorley’s to try and produce brighter pictures. He recognized me from my last visit and immediately introduced me to the rest of the staff on board.

I found that taking pictures in McSorley’s more challenging than in other bars.   Little had changed in McSorley’s during the past 150 years. A sound system was never installed and it seems like a wet cloth was not introduced to the premises in over a century. So while in other bars I enjoyed the loud music as some kind of a shield, in Mcsorley’s there was nothing to hide behind except for the smell of sour beer and the sound of cracking sawdust and peanut shells on the floor.

I spent about two (very awkward) hours taking pictures, and then stayed for few drinks with the boys. It only occurred to me when I left that it probably should have been the other way around.

The notion of bartending or table waiting as a career intriguers me. A job that is viewed as temporary by most is turned into a profession by others. I am curious to learn whether these Irish men are truly content with this lifestyle or were they just following where the New York circumstances lead them to.    

Next time I will stop by McSorley’s I will leave the camera at home. I find conversation much easier without the camera’s threatening presence.  

5 Pointz Work In Progress 3

This weekend I went back to 5 Pointz to see if I can get lucky again and find some thing interesting to shoot. Given the bad weather, I didn’t expect to get many good shots out. I was wrong. After shooting some candid photos, I ran into 3 guys that had just gotten permission from Meres to paint. Their names were Paulo aka Polo, Matthew aka Nemo, and Wes. Polo and Nemo are both from France. Wes lives in NY, but doesn’t tag. The two frenchmen are only here for two weeks and have done some work in 5 Pointz before.

I figured this would be the perfect time to take Professor Bernstein’s advice and “capture not just their art but them in the process of making art.” The whole process took about two and a half hours, but it turned out well in my opinion. While they were painting, we were talking and joking around too. Wes was making fun of Polo’s accent after he pronounced the word “engine”, “engyne”. Wes told him, “You sound like you’re saying, ‘Keep the vagina running!!'” Polo laughed and started to explain the difference between Americans and the French, but no one could understand him, not even Nemo.

It was really dark by the time they were done and it was only half past five. While Nemo and Wes went to throw away the used up supplies, I talked with Polo some more. He and Nemo have been friends in France since high school and Nemo started painting before him. Aside from spray-painting, he and Nemo also paint on canvas and do music. Polo also went on to tell me that he loves to paint so much that he finds it hard to put a price on is work, but will have to eventually to make ends meet. Before he left, he encouraged me to go back to tagging. I told him I might but I’m not good enough to be on 5 Pointz. He said “Just try and see what happens.” My one regret that day was that I was too busy talking and laughing with them that I didn’t get a lot of front shots of them. Maybe next time.

Second week at McFadden’s

I went back to McFadden’s today for another game, hoping to find more people since the Buffalo Bills had won last week. As I was walking over, however, shivering and finding refuge under my small umbrella, the thought crossed my mind that perhaps this week, the bar wouldn’t be so crowded once again. And, unfortunately, I was right. There were even less people than last week, due to a combination of the team’s record, the weather and the holiday weekend.

As soon as I walked in, however, I was happy to notice that many of the people present were fans I had met last week, and they were all standing or sitting in the same areas. I started to take pictures, quickly noting that this game was not going very well – there were a lot more angry and frustrated cries and outbursts than last week. I got access to the area behind the bar, which provided me with a great new angle, and I got a few pictures of the very expressive, sole fan of the opposite team. She happened to be sitting next to a particularly emotional and angry Bills fan, which made for some great entertainment and photos.

The latter girl, who kept yelling at the television screen and giving it the finger, is referred to as “the girl who yells at Matt” (Matt being the bartender). Her defense, Pete told me, was “But you don’t understand. I grew up in Buffalo.”

Debate Team Community

Community changed to debate team because the suggestions made for the internet community are impossible to do.

Amit- 1 word to describe debate: critical. Loves the competition. From London, England. Attends WVU. Major is Finance and Economics.

Jessy- From West Point. Is interested in debate because it is challanging and fosters greater intellectual thought.

The debate community is one unlike any other. Its connections are built on the common love for rivalry and competition. To capture this community is to capture the very essence of what makes us human. Debating and language transcends all cultures. These are only some images and I only posted one interview. I plan to write the final paper as story based on one debate member.

Moving towards pictures at The Dwelling Place

I have been to The Dwelling Place three times and have yet to take any pictures of the shelter or the women. However, on my most recent visit to the residence, after I served the women their dinner, I sat at one of the tables to chat with some of them.

This was the single best thing I have done during my time there. Usually, I just stand off to the side after I have finished serving them and watch as the women are eating without interacting with them. This has been an error on my part.

As I sat at the table I began to talk to “Dorca,” she was very talkative and was in good spirits. She began to tell me how lucky she was to have found the nuns and this shelter because she had heard all the bad things that happen in the city run shelters and was afraid to go there.

We ended up talking about a variety of topics such as music, Puerto Rico (she is Puertorican), her family and what she does to stay positive. I knew though, that if I wanted to really know “Dorca” I would need to have a lot more than half an hour with her.

She asked me if I was a volunteer at the shelter. I told her that I was yet also had another purpose. I proceeded to tell her about the Feit Seminar Class and my work so far. She was curious and interested to know more.

I asked her if she would like to meet with me outside of the shelter so that we could have more time to talk. She agreed and we are meeting this coming Wednesday Nov. 26. I am very excited and hope that I can really get to know her story. I will prepare some preliminary questions to ask her in order to get us started with a conversation – though I have every intention to just let the conversation flow and see where it takes us. I will also take some pictures of her and see if she is comfortable with this as well.

Sister Margaret called me yesterday and asked me if I would be willing to volunteer for Thanksgiving Day to help set -up and serve the meal to the ladies. I agreed and hope this will be a good opportunity to take pictures!

On my next posting I hope to post some images! Let’s see….

5 Pointz Work In Progress 2

I didn’t have much to do this weekend. I was bored, so I decided to go to 5 Pointz again to try to get some work done for this project.  It was cold and windy and I was not expecting to get any good shots that were any different from the ones I have already taken. There was no one in site, the place was empty. Then, I went to the parking lot.  There were these two guys just standing there looking at the walls covered with graffiti. When they saw me, they asked me if I was the photographer. Photographer for what? They were waiting for a photographer to come for there photo shoot with a bunch of girls to promote their business, Dimez4All.

Rabbit, the one in green, was not a shy guy. He was really interested in what I was doing. He told me he is an artist that airbrushes for rappers. He and his friend wore his work on their cloths. Aside from airbrushing, he also does videos and of course photography. He told me to stick around and watch the shoot and hang with them, so I did. It was really cold, and the girls weren’t wearing much, so to get everyone warmed up, Rabbit turned on his car stereo and blasted Beyonce, danced to it while yelling to the them, “Make love to the Camera!” and “It’s 100 degrees out here!.”

When the photo shoot was done, Rabbit and everyone left and I stayed behind and took more shots of the graffiti. That’s when a bunch of guys in low rider bikes, came with a photographer to do a photo shoot. I couldn’t believe that I would be in the middle of two different photo shoots in one day. I spoke to the photographer, Jeff, first. He was shooting the Drop Kranked Crew (Dredel, Ed & E.J.) for a magazine. The Drop Kranked Crew is just a group of guys from Astoria that hang out and ride in low rider bikes. I spent most of my time with them, hearing their stories, and observing how Jeff photographed the guys. He used a fish-eye lens for the shoot and listened to a lot of their ideas of what and where to shoot. Later they asked me if I wanted to be in their crew and I said sure. They said all I need is a low rider bike and I’m in. My boring weekend turned into a great one and now I can’t wait to see what I’ll run into next.

Amanda Lepore’s Birthday

Having a title of a celebrity figure, it was hard to to capture Amenda Lepore’s undivided attention, nevertheless I was able capture her during the most significant moments of the night and have a short chat with her after the event.  Her birthday party was one of the most staggering events that I have attended. Mr. Black, one of New Yorks most discreet transgender night clubs was packed wall to wall with Amanda Lepore’s closest friends, photographers and herself sitting in the VIP section, behind the velvet ropes.

Usually transgenders are found amongst gay crowds in gay clubs. This even was different, or at least the crowd was. It was a very diverse and mixed crowd, which consisted of girls, gay and straight guys and transsexuals. Amongst the crowd were some of her closest friends, her photographers and people who belong to her community.

Even though she does not consider herself to be a transsexual, but rather just a female, she nevertheless is a figure everyone in that community looks up to. Because of her out of this world, extraordinary appearance she has attracted the worlds most renown photographers such as David LaChapelle. Jeremy Cost, a photographer whom I was fortunate enough to speak with told me that he has captured Amanda Lepores ever changing appearance as she underwent and still undergoes plastic surgeries on monthly bases. He claims that she is “ever changing and everlasting” because as her appearance incessantly changes over the years, she does not age.

A very close friend of hers, Anjela Muzzo, who is also a transvestite told me that Amanda Lepore was not just trying to become a female, but she was striving to look like no other human alive and she has accomplished just that. Her protoge was “Another version of Marilyn Monroe,” and according to her friend, she considers herself accomplished, both in terms of looks and importance. Marilyn Monroe will be always remembered as the beauty of the early nineteen twenties, perhaps Amanda Lepore will occupy the same position in the transgender community.

Just another Sunday at Mcfadden’s

When I reached the corner of 42nd Street and 2nd Avenue, I grew extremely excited at the sight of the dark green awning under which a 6’3″, 300 pound black man was standing, chatting with a small group. Frankie, the bouncer, was the first person I talked to, and from the very beginning was nice and apparently made up his mind that he would be helping me (he later invited me to stand on seats to get a better view, and told me about the crowds the bar usually serves – sometimes there are so many people that he’s forced to send them next door).

Once Frankie let me in, I walked through the door and met Pete, the owner who welcomed me and walked me through the bar. Some fans had already assembled along the bar, wearing their jerseys and seemingly in good spirits at the prospect of a game that might treat them better than the last had. The smell of Buffalo chicken wings drifted up to my nostrils, but it was nothing compared to the intensity of the smell that came later, once the place had filled up and everyone was enjoying what they had paid for. On a game Sunday, customers can pay $15 for unlimited chicken wings and soda, or $20 for all you can eat and all the beer you can drink. “They’re the best in the world,” said one fan. “It’s all about the sauce.” Then he ran off to eat his two plates of wings without giving me the time to ask his name.

The first people I talked to were Steve and Jon, who met at Mcfadden’s through “being fans.” They said they are usually part of a group of about five people, but the Bills lost a game on Monday, their fifth loss in a row, so the morale was very low. The bar was usually packed, they said, and today was nothing.

Sitting a few feet away were Rebecca and Jocelyn. Rebecca was told about the place about two years and has been coming since, and she’s the one who invited Jocelyn, who was wearing a white shirt and pajama pants. They were nice enough to hold my coat and bag so I didn’t have to struggle with them.

Everyone agreed that this was not the best game to witness, due to Monday’s loss. But Tim stayed positive: “If we’re not gonna win, at least I’ll get drunk.” How long would that take? “At this rate, not long at all,” he laughed. He attibuted the relatively low attendance to the fact that most people were probably disheartened or away for the holidays.

Todd Rethemeier, who was standing nearby, saw my camera and said “if you wait, in just a couple of yards we’ll score and go nuts.” I waited amongst them, feeling the tension build up, crash when the team didn’t quite make it, and then explode when they did. Everyone jumped up, yelled, chanted the place’s own call and response song, hugged, danced, high-fived, and threw napkins in the air.

“If you want the sports fans, well you got us. We’re here,” said and excited Jill Kerschensteiner, who had gathered a stack of napkins to throw in the air when they scored.

In the seating area behind the bar, through which waitresses carried pitchers of beer to the tables, Alex Valentine and Rachel Schaeffer were enjoying chicken wings, mozarella sticks and beer. Alex has been coming to Mcfadden’s for three years, and this was the third time Rachel joined her, for a photography project she was doing.

Sitting at the next table, trying to listen to what I was doing, was Kenny. He was there with Kim, and he has been coming to Mcffaden’s ever since it first opened. “My brother lives nearby and when the place opened, one of his friends was here and called him to come over. Been here ever since.” He says the reason he comes to about 14 out of 16 games every year is the atmosphere – “it’s the only place that plays the Bills game.” Kim, on the other hand, seemed to be more of a fan of the chicken wings. When I asked her how they were, all she could muster, her mouth full, was a nod of approval and a thumbs up.

I came back around to the bar area, where people posed for pictures thinking I was the usual photographer’s replacement. I indulged them before meeting Hope and Tommy, who were in charge of the money, and then Dave Godvin, who comes here twice a year from Florida. He’s been a Bills fan since 1961, and is originally from Buffalo.

Over the sound of “Sweet Home Alabama” and dozens of voices joining in, I then spoke to Earnest Wallace, Barry Walbrop and Ben Irvin. Ben and Barry have been coming for years, Ben being the first, and Earnest was only at his second time. “I’m being converted by these two,” he said with a smile. Will he come back? “Oh yeah!” he said enthusiastically before taking a gulp of beer.

Ben,  who is also a Buffalo native, comes here because he calls it “a little piece of home.”

Tricks on Wheels

Sunday, November 23 , 2008

These past couple of weekends have not been going my way.  It has been freezing to say the least and raining cats and dogs.  All in all, I still had to get out there and find my nontraditional community.  This past Sunday, I went to a site where skateboarders, skaters, bmx and scooter riders come together to show off what they made of.  It was about 29 degrees outside and some of them were just in hoodies, while others were just in their short sleeves.  I on the other hand was layered up, I had on two pairs of pants, three shirts, a hoodie, my scarf, my coat, and a hat, and I was still cold.  Usually, when I am shooting I do not wear gloves because they tend to get in the way, but on this occasion that had to change; I couldn’t feel my fingers.  A few minutes later, with gloves and all, I was back in the same situation.  I gave up and decided to just let my hands go numb; the things we must do for art.  Even, though my hands were in so much pain, I really did not feel it until I was done shooting.  These guys kept me entertained.  Not only with there tricks on their wheels but also with their personalities.  I cannot wait until I go back again, which would be this upcoming weekend.  Let’s see what else they have in store for me.

Working Ecuadorians No1: Guineapig sellers

I went to Flushing Meadows Park, looking for ecuadorian food stands. I had visited the park some years before during the summer, and remembered it cluttered with garbage, full of people and different kinds of traditional food.
This Sunday there were only three such stands. The first one i saw, i didn’t document because i think i scared the vendors. I introduced myself immediately and asked to take pictures. Only after i saw their faces, and knew i had done wrong. They were two middle-aged man and  woman. The man didn’t say which city he was from, but he said he was ecuadorian and I recognized his accent. The woman just hid behind the metallic stand as soon as she heard the word “picture.” They were very shy. If i had paid any more attention to the way they looked, the style of the heavy wool hats and sweaters they had on, i would have understood that being upfront was the thing that would have such shy, contained people not want to talk to me. Obviously they didn’t believe it was just for a class. They acted defensively. What did they think i’d do with the pictures?
After that, i walked all over the park. It was very cold, -1centigrades. People played soccer. I didn’t see any more stands around, but i did see some women pushing carts. At a certain point, i saw people approaching one of these carts, and the woman who pushed it stopped and opened the plastic bags in it. I realized she was selling food, but she didn’t want to be noticed. Perhaps people need permission to sell there, and she didn’t have it. I got closer to this woman, but then it was me who felt suspicious of her appearance. Her clothes were soiled, and whatever she was keeping in those bags made me feel some kind of repulsion. So i didn’t approach her.
I saw another metallic stand, the only one left in the park. I decided i wouldn’t ask them to let me take pictures as bluntly as I had done before. I approached the stand and asked if they had something hot to drink. I spoke in Spanish, and so did the woman who handed me a cup of coffee. Her accent was that of the people who live in the coast of Ecuador: Her “s” sounded like an english “h.” The coffee i got came out of an alluminum container. I was surprised to taste it; it was done the way some people drink it in Ecuador: They just pour dry coffee over a pot with boiling water. They use filters only after they have boiled the crushed coffee grains, so the liquid one drinks has little particles of coffee in it.
I told the woman i was from Quito. Since behind her there was a man roasting two guineapigs, i asked her how much they were. She said $35, “with everything:” potatoes, cooked white corn (mote) and salad. There were two other women besides the one i was talking two. One of them was pregnant, and helped selling the food. I don’t know who the other woman was. I went closer to the man who was holding the  guineapig sticks over the coals, and asked were he was from. He said he was from Deleg; that they were from Cañar, a province in the south of Ecuador. He said he had been in the US for twenty years. At this point, i felt like i was asking too much. It was a feeling that this man was talking about something sad for him. So i said my dad had been here for 10 years as well. Then the woman who had given me the coffee told me to get empanadas–she wanted me to buy more than a cup of coffee. She was frying them in a pan full of oil. I was surprised again when she asked if i wanted sugar on them–which is the way cheese empanadas are served in Ecuador. But i am not used ot that anymore, i noticed.
Finally, i askedabout photographing the guineapigs. Ok, said the man, but only the guineapigs.
When i got my camera out, i worked with the zoom so i could get him and the woman as well. The man seemed to enjoy having the guineapigs photographed: he moved the sticks on which the rodents were stuck so i could get their golden, crusty side.
I also took a picture of the name written in the metallic stand: “Restaurante Rosita. Hoy no fío, mañana sí.”   This is a kind of funny sticker popular (frecuented by the populace) places post in their businesses. It means something like ” You don’t have credit in my store today, you’ll have it tomorrow.”
 

Have You Ever Seen The Dead Dance?

On Wednesday, Oct 1st, at the Lower East Side bar Home Sweet Home, I went to check out the Goth club event Weird. After sliding past the bar and reaching the dance floor the first thing I noticed were what looked like dead people dancing. Should I assume they were alive when their eyes seemed so lifeless and their bodies beat back and forth to the music as if they hang from a rope with some devil-tasker were beating them methodically with a stick?

The dancer’s arms dangled at their sides. Their heads were hung over, and seemed to lift only slightly before methodically falling down again. All of their facial expressions were muted. Each of their eyes were cast downward, eyelids barely open, focused steadily on something that lay in their thoughts and not in this room. I was a little unnerved. I needed a timeout. I retreated to the bar for a drink. After surveying what others were drinking, I settled on a Jamaican Red Stripe.

When I entered, the bar was already half-packed. People kept filing in. “The more, the better,” I thought to myself. I wanted to see the Goth archetype in all of its expressions. As soon as my fascination waned after surveying the latest new entry, another person or group would file in and my attention would ratchet itself up again. I got through two Red Stripe beers this way. The bar, the dance floor and the deejay booth between them served as hubs of activity. I let my eyes roam across all of it. Meanwhile, a haze of mist hung in the air lightly, wafting, drifting. It had a scent to it. It smelled sort of like…crushed flowers. Interesting.

Then something in the atmosphere changed. I noticed a crowd forming on the dance floor, and organizing into a semi-circle. I looked and didn’t see anyone or anything in the middle. What were they gathering around? If was eerie. It was as if something beckoned them into a coven. Something was calling them and they were responding. Then I realized what it was –the music we were listening to had changed. This new music had an edge. I felt it. It had a pull to it. It was dark yet inviting. I responded to it. I left the bar and joined the coven.

My First Visit – The Dwelling Place

I arrived at The Dwelling Place not knowing what to expect. As I rang the bell, I felt both anxious and excited as to what I might find.

Barbara answered the door and I was immediately greeted by the smell of cooking pork chops wafting through the air. It is a few days before Halloween and the shelter is having a Halloween celebration for the women. Barbara shows me where to hang my coat and tells me that Sister Margaret is upstairs with some of the women – she will be down shortly.

I am escorted upstairs to the second floor  dining area. Barbara goes into the kitchen and tells me to sit down and wait for Sister Margaret. The tables are all set with blue, white and yellow placemats. There are potted flowers on each of the tables. Soon the bell is ringing. Up the stairs enter what I believe are volunteers for the evening. Meanwhile, I meet Carmela – a staff member of the shelter who is busy putting plastic containers of milk on each of the tables. I then meet Cheryl and Herman who have come up the stairs. Cheryl tells Barbara that she has brought ice cream for the women and hurriedly goes to fetch it. There is another ring at the door – I later find out it is Jimmy, the entertainment for the evening. I am busy taking notes on all the happenings going on. I look up to see Cheryl placing small plastic bags by each of the placemats. When she is done. I move over to one of the settings to inspect the bags. There are travel size toilitries for the women – small bottles of shampoo, conditioner, mositurizer and a bar of soap. By this time, Barbara has asked me to move, it is almost 5:30 – dinnertime and they are about to serve the food. I go outside to a corner chair by a window. Already sitting there is a woman with long dark hair, a red sweatshirt and jeans. I sit down and introduce myself. Her name is “Carmen,” she looks like she is in her early 40’s.

I think to myself how to talk to her. I am still busy writing in my notebook – she looks at me taking notes. Suddenly she stands up and says to me that she is going upstairs – dinner won’t be ready until 5:30pm. I have missed an opportunity to engage one of the women. I sit alone, staring outside the window at the trail of NJ Buses going up a ramp into the highway headed to Jersey. The bell rings again and I look down to find a cluster of women waiting outside to be let in. By this time, Jimmy has finished setting up his electric keyboard and speakers in the dining room and is testing the microphone.

Dinner has been served and Barbara has gone down to let the women in. Sister Margaret has come down from the third floor and greets me. She sits down, I give her my letter and proposal. She reads it and smiles. Soon she takes my hand in hers and ushers me into the kitchen to announce that I am the newest volunteer and I meet Sister Nancy, the other Franciscan nun who runs the shelter.

Jimmy has started to sing “I just called to say I love you.” Soon there is dancing, cheering and clapping. It is a joyful atmosphere. For one evening at least, these women are enjoying themselves.