Photography Thinks
Beck’s grave. A gnome with a shovel on a gravestone.
Mathey served as a fireman, though I thought the hydrant might have been a symbol that he liked to walk his dog.
Meriott hunted.
Conant lived here.
What anniversary? Put a photo on a grave? Not mine. But, perhaps, there should be a link to a web page with more images of them, so we could see them in real life.
A little early for Nicole.
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Jimmy told Richard, “you are too drunk, too early.”
Rouche styling. Labels. Signs. Haircut.
Keith put on this red chapeau for a trip to the tobacco store.
“No crying on Church St,” a passerby said.
Maybe Greg likes Rick Perry?
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They call him Mikey Huffer. He huffed with a flame nearby. Not much left, except his heart.
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So, he likes Tigers, the Detroit ones and the Bengals. A little too drunk to distinguish the two, but he acknowledged that having a reflector, held by Eric, shining on him, required me to pay him $3000 for the shot. He never read Moon Tiger, though.
“Mrs. Duckman, ….” Eric calls me, especially when he lectures me.
Quite an accomplishment for a photographer to have my street models hold a light shaper, eh!
Now, I just have to learn how to teach them how to use the equipment.
Lake Champlain has the capacity to take a beating and come back with a roar. Its magic and beauty have captivated, motivated and fascinated people for centuries. And that is a lot of effort over a long time. But this summer, mountains, errrr, climbing walls have come to the Lake, giving it a chance to show a new dynamic. Almost biblical, think about it, the mountains have come to the Lake.
Check out the Nor’Easter festival this weekend, September 23 through September 25. Rock climbing, running, boating, and cyclecross. A music festival featuring an eclectic mix of bands and sounds. A chance to aid flood victims through a costumed fun-run. Like, dude, what else could you want for the last weekend of summer?
Great thanks to Paul’s sister, Mary, who keeps part of her eye on her brother through this blog, for sending me this image. He did ask for you upon his return, asking that I tell you where he was at. His surprise that I had informed you that he was incarcerated at St Albans, lacked understanding of our relationships: yours and mine; his and mine; and the power of blogs.
Photographers, especially documentary/portraitists look at their work in search of increased understanding of individual people, as well as the human race, in general. That is quite a span in which to find a focus. Every portrait forces me to look at the person, an exercise which can start with the easiest question, like where was this shot made or when and why. But, at some level, I just look at the portraits, knowing they have recorded a life living.
So, he spent 31 days in jail. What a waste. “Nothing much to do there,” he said. Missed the Labor Day Weekend in Burlington. People on the street said it was for a failure to appear; others said his public presence and sanitary practices posed a problem. He had built up a series of unspectacular violations of the public order and couldn’t or didn’t show up in court to answer them. He went in, because there are only a few ways the system can respond to uncooperative citizens who disrupt the peace in the main urban glen in Chittenden County.
Still complaining, he returned to the spot where he hangs, starting the same cycle of present life again, and continuing to age. Yeh, they pick on you. Yeh, you have been underserved. Now what? It be getting cold, again. “Hey, yunno, there aren’t a lot of people walking down this street. Getting more difficult to make a living out here.”
I watched the cops frisk him when he got here in April. He acted friendly, offering things to people, talking a mile a minute. Came up from Fla., he said. Never spoke with him until mid-September. Interesting guy.
“Been all around. Make my money recycling. I know where to go; usually its where no one else goes. I make a living and live on it. Worked in Arkansas on a chicken farm for Tyson. Hard work. They give you vitamins to strengthen your forearm muscles. You got to hang 30 chickens a minute or they put you in the slow lane–20 chickens a minute, but they are wet. Lot of women work, doing chickens; strong women.”
“Where did you come from?” “I was in Iowa; Portland, Maine and Brattleboro. Lots more homeless in Iowa City than here.”
Meatwad rides a bike. A car hit him, knocking him to the ground and smashing his tire and wheel. He hid the bike, put up a sign, and begged for pills. He refused to go to the hospital, preferring to wait until he felt better.
Brian Sheldon ain’t buying…
Dreams.