Photography Thinks
David said the night would be full of fun. What he does for fun, who knows? But, though his life had different reference points than mine, his goals seem the same. If it ain’t fun, why do it? Me. I did many things I didn’t think were fun to go along or get along. He didn’t. Or, if he did, he said, at some time, enough.
This David follows a different path. Always looks unsure of where he is or where he is going. Aimless. Wandering. Sits. Stares. Rocks.
Jerry doesn’t have a home. Feels lucky he has a place to stay. “Spoke with HUD; certificates cut back.” I don’t really understand the system, but the so-called cutbacks scheduled for a few days from now cannot mean more housing or social welfare for those unable to care for themselves.
Confined to wheelchair, he parked himself outside a State store. No way to tell what he got from passer bys on their way to buy happy juice. He seemed resigned to doing all he could do to make it.
Bitterly cold out there. He just sat. “You still takin pictures?” I brought my book over to him. Just some recents. “I know him,” he said of Larry’s image, “old-timer.” Knew Karl, the poet, also. Does that mean something I don’t really appreciate? He’s saying that they are making it and so can I.
I see these guys so irregularly. When I do, it makes my day to know they live. Living hand to mouth. I have never done that.
He stays at the shelter on North Street. Looking for a more permanent place which may only give him shelter from the storm. Not ready to ask why he needs it or why no one else has come forward to help. No family. No friends. No social service worker. Wait until it is my turn.
Great eyes, eh!
So, Larry’s friends moved him from the camp during the cold spell. He has a foot problem from his inattention to sores and his inability to change his own clothes. They cleaned him up, raised his spirits and protected him from the elements. Maybe friends overstates the relationships. Hard to tell. The word connotes closeness. Knowing intimate details doesn’t make people close, only vulnerable. But, if you cannot be hurt, then what?
How do these guys qualify as home care attendants? No resumes in this business. You show up for duty, ready to serve. Still gotta live your life, somehow. Mishegas. Oh, how I wish they understood mishegas. I left last night to go to shul for shabbos, Matt said l’chaim. How’d he know? Who cares. I walked into the camp. Saw one of my images on the wall. Not interested, though tears came to my eyes. JFK’s image also hung on the wall.
So, my friend Karl Berry, the poet, will have hip surgery. He motors around on his scooter, stopping at Starbucks to write a few verses. MS, cataracts, arthritis and who knows what else. In two weeks, he gets his hips done.
He carries a lot in his head, translating it into poems. Writes a little like the beats, Baraka more than Ginsburg. Has a CD out with an image I shot. The pith helmet seems out of place in Burlington. He doesn’t care.
He looks a lot more like Rembrandt than Robert Frost.
Marty makes these snow blocks so the Penguin Plungers can carve snow sculptures. Rain and 50 degree weather caused the previous ones to melt. Climate change affecting art.
The snow comes from piles removed from the street and dumped near the waterfront. Recycling takes many forms in Vt.
Now for the art.
Seriously cold, I will tell you. He had jammed his walker up against the wall in front of Macy’s. Got caught in a space in the pavement. Veered left. He put on the breaks and sat down. I approached, watching him applying absent muscle to an effort to stand. He wavered, shivering and almost toppled. I feared he would fall. “You all right? Need some help.” He wispered that his legs hurt. He said he couldn’t hear and could barely see. “I live at Cathedral Square, up there.” “Don’t fall dude. We will make it together.” A woman, not dressed for the day, helped. She told me she just conquered breast cancer. Her son is a 30-something and needs a hip replacement. I had two, but later. She double-teamed the walk across the street and then left. Stopped at the Courthouse for a breather. Always nice to be there when I don’t have a case. Took a while, slowing down to go down hill. And we did make it back to his place. And me to mine.
I met Amber a few years ago when she visited Paul. With the hat and heavy coat I didn’t recognize her. Reappeared in City Hall Park the other day. She was looking for me. Wants to work on a photography project with me for school. Her assignment is to find a local photographer to shoot.
She didn’t have a camera; lost the charger. I shot. She posed. We bothered a few passersby to hold a small reflector. The light at 12:00 poked through the bare trees harshly, bouncing off the metal sculptures. No time to head for cover.
Then we walked down to little park in front of the Men’s Room hair salon. Bitterly cold. Low, unremitting light.
Needs to know which devil to attack first. As one of the survivors told me, “he need to give up the dope and the alcohol….” But which one first? And the where does he go? Cannot possibly seamlessly merge back into the system, unless taken care of. Do we? A line gets drawn in the sand. Join up to receive. If not, what?
So, what’s the problem? Heroin. Does he do a substitute? Alcohol? Can we dope him up to get him off the sauce? He has court cases. Will he be sober enough and healthy enough to go to a treatment facility? I make him laugh. He makes me cry. I want him to be well. Nothing I can do for him at the moment. He sits and begs. People look at me from the nearby diner, not happy about him being there and wondering why I do what I do. I don’t shoot them. They are only secondarily my subjects. Can my images change opinions? Who knows?
One of the great museums in the world; one of the best exhibitions I have ever seen. Learned many things; didn’t realize that Dega’s ballerina wore a cloth skirt. Saw the art up close. Not that we haven’t been to the Clark several times to see Sterling and Francine’s collection, but this visit felt differently.
Winged Victory moves on to Springfield.
