Strip Lights

Fun in the studio. Learning new things. Portrait of a coworker.

A List, of Sorts

Best of lists seem so final and authoritative. So self-righteous. So superior. So wrong. As far as photographers and photo books go, my list ebbs and flows with each day's tide. So rather than a best of anything, here's my list of favorites from 2007. And by that, I mean, ones I purchased and added to the ever-expanding library this year. Some are great examples of community journalism, others a great look into the far reaches of the world. Some are by the masters, that we should all be studying... others by newcomers who are already standing on the shoulders of giants. What they all have in common is a deep personal connection to their work. A commitment to making pictures that resonate deep within. And the ability to inspire. In no particular order:

The Ninth Floor by Jessica Dimmock -- One word: hardcore. Dimmock is the darling of the ICP, with an incredible body of work that helped her win Magnum's Inge Morath Prize last year, and get a MediaStorm multimedia piece produced this year. Not to mention publishing her first book. Not bad for a 29-year-old who's just getting started. I expect big things from her. BIG.


Driftless by Danny Wilcox Frazier -- When I saw this work win the Community Awareness Award, I instantly fell in love. It's dark, it's edgy, it's real... and it's all done in his backyard. It's the kind of work I dream of doing. I'm glad to see this transcend a contest edit, and become a bigger body of work that translates beautifully onto the pages of a book.


1964 by Garry Winogrand -- If you haven't seen this book, you should. It's a classic. It's subtle. It's witty. And it's a style I've tried to adapt into my own work over the years. It's also something I've wanted to have on my shelf for a long, long time. (I really should have bought it 5 years ago when I randomly saw it at a Barnes and Noble for $50!!) So when I wandered into the rare and out-of-print room at the Strand in NY earlier this year, and jokingly asked if they had a copy -- which no one ever does -- and the guy behind the desk said, "actually we just got one in today, we haven't even put it out yet. Let me get it for you." I knew it was meant to be. It's the only book I've ever shelled out $300 for and I haven't regretted it.


The Glass Between Us: Reflections Of Urban Creatures by Rebecca Norris Webb -- It's a complex and interesting relationship between humans and animals. All the more fascinating when you contemplate who's watching whom. Or when social behavior seems so familiar, so primal. It's Norris Webb's first book and I hope it's the first of many. Her eye is refreshing. I like that her pictures have a childlike sense of wonder and awe to them, and several are downright brilliant.


Slide Show: The Color Photographs of Helen Levitt -- If you want to know what New York City looked like in the 30s and 40s, Levitt's street photography is it. She received a Guggenheim fellowship in '59 and was a pioneer of color photography. The tones of her prints evoke emotion and warmth. Sadly, I'd never heard of her before this NPR interview. Now I can't get enough.


In Search of the Corn Queen by Greta Pratt -- After traveling through 15 midwestern states over the course of three years photographing rural county fairs and festivals Pratt had amassed a collection of images oozing Americana. It's a simple book with some beautiful no frills images. For some reason I want a funnel cake, and the chance to photograph a cute baby contest now.


In The American West by Richard Avedon -- Best portrait photographer ever. I get so sick of over photoshopped, airbrushed super models, and a flawless, plastic presentation of some ideal. Avedon is such a great reminder that simple is good. That sometimes all the context you need is name and location. Proof that there's a certain purity in people, when their character is captured and their spirit unobscured. Proof that there's a beauty in truth. And there's one photo that I can't stop looking at: Boyd Fortin, rattlesnake skinner, Sweetwater, Texas.


East Side Stories (Gang Life in East LA) by Joseph Rodriguez -- Live it, learn it, then shoot what you know. Deal with your issues through photography. Find some way to give back and redeem yourself. Rodriguez was one of my favorite chapters in Witness in Our Time: Working Lives of Documentary Photographers and after hearing his story, I felt compelled to see his work.


Istanbul by Alex Webb -- It's a different kind of Webb: Darker. Colder. More melancholy. Yet still very familiar, with it's layers and use of color and conversations about politics and religion and people. Neat to see him branch out from the familiarity of Mexico and the Caribbean into a region of the world that sits on the cusp of different cultures and continents.


My Life in Politics by Tim Davis -- "Sincerity is the new irony. I'm sorry. Hope is the thing with hot sauce, and some day the ghettoest wing stand will be Smithsonianed. Hope is the thing with opinion. I'll have the Fallujah Burger, please, with a side of riots." It's a brighter, snarkier, more Yale-art-school-influenced version of Christopher Morris' My America that's a lot of fun to look at.


Cocaine True, Cocaine Blue by Eugene Richards -- Most of the Richards' pictures will rip your heart out and stomp on it. There's a sheer power to the rawness of his images. To how close he gets to his subjects and their stories. Why did it take me 10 years to by the single most influential book I've ever looked at. Richards work defines why I want to be a photojournalist. This book epitomizes it.

Shattered Body, Unbroken Spirit

Angie Moore's husband and three kids were in a car accident almost a month ago. Her middle son, Brandon, 15, had the most extensive injuries and is now recovering from a broken neck at Tampa General Hospital. asked about his injuries, Moore doesn't even mention the obvious 15 lb. halo bolted into his head because of his broken neck, he talks about how he can't move his right hand, his throwing hand. The first thing Brandon wants to do when he is better is play football again, and it was the last thing he remembers doing before the accident.



(KISS MY ASS: The thing that made me smile the most while shooting this was learning that Brandon often has his mom put a fake tattoo on his butt, so when the nurses flip him over, they're greeted with a set of lips.)

Surrogates and Sisters

It's a beautiful, complicated story of surrogates and sisters of love and family. Tomas and Maximus, welcome to the world. Adrienne and Khris, congratulations! Nicole and J.J., you're amazing.

Caption Error

<venting>

To the copy editor who changed a correct name in my caption to an incorrect one in today's paper... Please don't assume I don't know what I'm talking about. If you perceive there to be a problem in a caption, I would prefer that you call me, instead of the writer, for I too am a journalist. It may be hard to believe, but most photojournalists take careful measures to ensure accuracy in what they photograph, as well as what they write. It's neither your name, nor the writer's under the photograph, it's mine, and I take that very seriously. And I'm incredibly pissed at you for making me look bad today. Now would you mind calling the 8-year-old who's name you got wrong and apologize.

</venting>

He said

We miss more by not seeing than by not knowing.

-- Sir William Osler

In Memory Of

During the MADD Hillsborough County candlelight vigil of hope and remembrance, Tanisha Drummond holds her daughter Ariyana Jackson, 4, while lighting a candle in memory of her father, Sgt. Ron Harrison, who was shot and killed while enforcing a DUI checkpoint in August.

Sgts. Scott

Sgt. Amber Scott and her husband Sgt. Chris Scott flew from Iraq to Kuwait to Germany to Atlanta finally touched down at Tampa International Airport Tuesday morning -- they were reunited with their 3-year-old son and 6-month-old daughter. Chris was absent for his daughter's birth, and got to hold her for the first time on Tuesday. The Scotts met and fell in love in basic training at Fort Leonard Wood, four and a half years ago, and have been an Army couple ever since. While they're home in St. Petersburg for the next few weeks, they plan on visiting with family, making trips to the park and beach, and eating fast food they can't get on base in Iraq.

Why-oh-Why

What is wrong with us? I say us. We. Photojournalists. I am not exempt. Why does it seem like we're never truly happy? Never fully satisfied? Always looking forward to the next move? Always bemoaning the contests we didn't win? Complaining about how poorly things were edited, cropped and then ran? Is it just the people that the field attracts? Is it just the nature of the beast? Do we all have some similar obsessive-compulsive-perfectionist gene that is simultaneously our best and worst trait? Are we all tortured artists that need chaos to create?

Why?

The Beauty of Film

Following Henri Cartier-Bresson's adage, all I took with me was one camera, one lens, one film. While I was in Mexico, I admit, I was jealous. Shooting digitally for work for the last 8 years, I was craving that instant gratification I've become so accustomed to. I watched Josh and John look at their pictures each night. Occasionally while we were out shooting, one would ask me how the picture looked, or what I got. I'd jokingly show them the back of my film camera. "Looks great!"

And after picking up the film at the lab the other day, that trace of jealousy I once felt was wiped away. The excitement of seeing those images for the first time, and the beauty of them being captured on film, was well worth the wait.

Let it Snow...

Christmas came early, and I saw snow in Tampa today. It tasted like soap. And evaporated before it hit the ground. But still, for this Florida girl, it was a nice treat.



My all-time favorite snow story is from the one time it's ever snowed in South Florida... January 1977... Jim Lushine, a meteorologist with the National Weather Service in Miami, was driving home from his shift about 4:30 a.m. A light rain, interspersed with little white flecks, was falling. He thought they were snow of another kind: cocaine spilling from a smuggler’s plane.

Evidence of my Existence

We are neurotic children, photographers, our emotions never straying far from illusions of total defeat. Of a career lost, a life in ruins. Particularly during those projects we have yet to get our arms around. Perhaps it is a perverse stimulus, this cloud of dissatisfaction that hovers above our heads: an incentive to keep looking, trying, creating.

-- Jim Lo Scalzo

GAMEDAY: Doug Williams

Doug Williams was the first African-American quarterback to not only start in, but also win a Super Bowl, while playing with the Washington Redskins in 1988.

Really nice guy. I just wish the reporter had left me more than two minutes at the end of the interview to photograph him. Grumble, grumble.

Fiona

Unfortunately, this was a quick hit, buzzing into the life of Fiona Masika, a 12-year-old Ugandan AIDS orphan who's spending one month living with host families and attending classes at St. John's Episcopal school in hopes of increasing cultural understanding and spreading awareness about HIV and AIDS.

Aside from the initial assignment to photograph her at soccer practice, I was able to squeeze one more trip in to visit her in school and at home before the story was published. It's not complete by any means, but I'm posting it simply as a reminder to myself to follow up with her... because this should be her last week here... and it's a story worth doing right.

One Voice

I know, I know... Less talk, more photos. Here's a photo I shot for our One Voice column.



During a recent afternoon spent waiting for customers, Nicholas Dampier, 8, holds a sign advertising his yard sale, while neighbor Darren Danforth, 8, tilts his head back to get a better look at a Finding Nemo disc in a View-Master toy for sale. The story, in Dampier's words: My mom wanted my stuff to go away, so she sent it to my dad. It was my idea to have a yard sale because there's no room here at my dad's to keep it all. I've got stuffed animals, a yo-yo, a jump rope, a plastic desk from when I was little, and lots of other fun things. My one sale came when I went inside to have lunch. Someone stopped and came up to the house. I made $3 on a few Matchbox cars and a Hess truck. That's all. So I'll be back out here next weekend.

On Pain

Mexico was like a dream. One I didn't want to wake up from. The difficulty in coming home was thinking I have nothing to come home to. What I do have is a dog that makes me smile, some books I like poring over, and some good friends that give amazing hugs. While trying to make sense of it all, one friend introduced me to Lebanese philosopher and writer Khalil Gibran's work The Prophet. The chapter I read over and over again today is On Pain:

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain. And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields. And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief. Much of your pain is self-chosen.

His word's resonate and speak to a deep, dark place inside me. Right now I'm trying to find some understanding in this pain in my heart and aching in my head. It also reminded me of my favorite Audre Lorde poem:

Be who you are and will be
learn to cherish that boisterous Black Angel that drives you
up one day and down another
protecting the place where your power rises
running like hot blood
from the same source
as your pain.

When you are hungry
learn to eat
whatever sustains you
until morning
but do not be misled by details
simply because you live them.
Do not let your head deny
your hands
any memory of what passes through them
nor your eyes
nor your heart
everything can be useful
except what is wasteful
(you will need
to remember this when you are accused of destruction.)
Even when they are dangerous
examine the heart of those machines you hate
before you discard them
and never mourn the lack of their power
lest you be condemned
to relive them.

If you do not learn to hate
you will never be lonely
enough
to love easily
nor will you always be brave
although it does not grow any easier.

Do not pretend to convenient beliefs
even when they are righteous
you will never be able to defend your city
while shouting.

Remember our sun
is not the most noteworthy star
only the nearest.

Respect whatever pain you bring back
from your dreaming
but do not look for new gods
in the sea
nor in any part of a rainbow.
Each time you love
love as deeply
as if it were
forever
only nothing is
eternal.

Speak proudly to your children
wherever you may find them
tell them
you are the offspring of slaves
and your mother was
a princess
in darkness.

Pigjam

The Plant City Pig Jam... I pictured pigs in all shapes and sizes... Characters like Porky and Piggly Wiggly walking around greeting families... People wearing plastic pig noses... Pink everything... But not so... Instead all I found was some good Q... Which is really all I can ask for sometimes...



While the temperature rises at the grill, and the pressure is on for the best bbq competition, Kurt Miller of Palm Harbor, left, helps wipe the sweat off the face of friend Lionel Cunningham of Tarpon Springs at the 5th annual Plant City Pig Jam Saturday afternoon. The line of customers reaching around the corner, Cunningham was on fire while hoping to prove to people why Florida Skin & Bones is ranked sixth in the world. Cunningham says the secret is in the dry rub and finishing glaze. "We tell people to try the first rib without sauce, because chances are, the meat's so good they won't even need it," bragged Miller.

¡Viva San Martin!

4 a.m. comes early. Before San Miguel de Allende's church bells could jar me from my sleep, the alarm clock did. Dressing in the dark before dawn, I mumbled something to Josh about this feeling a lot like work.

Francisco, our faithful driver, stopped his taxi in front of our building at 4:30, as planned. The journey was cold and quiet. Neither able to communicate effectively, neither sufficiently awake.

The town we were headed to -- San Martin -- is not on a map. But when the occasional burst of a distant firework lit up the sky, we knew we were getting close. Through the dark, winding, mountain roads, we knew nothing of what was ahead. Coming down a hill, Francisco slammed on his brakes, my heart racing, unsure about what was going on, until the dim beams of his headlights traced the faintest outlines of about a dozen horses and their riders, galloping down the two-lane road... headed to the same place as us.

We got as far as we could in the car, the rest we'd have to do on foot. The ever-present "welcome to Mexico and Mexican food 24-7" quest for a bathroom led me off the dusty, dirty road, through alleyways and past vendors starting to cook breakfast for the tens of thousands about to descend on San Martin....and into one of the most beautiful sites I've ever seen. Off in the distance, every inch of hillside, was coming alive with the pink light of morning, the red fires of caballeros trying to warm to the day and the blue steam rising off the backs and breath of their horses. A priest clad in black robe, entered a circle of cowboys, blessing them and their horses with holy water.

2,500 horses... 25,000 people...

I stood, dumbfounded for a minute... sensory overload... not sure of where to begin. One of the best parts of being a photojournalist is getting to witness things that others don't. Being let into intimate, private, REAL moments. Getting to see beauty in its purest form. Meeting genuine people and getting to share in something special. San Martin was all of those. There are very few times in life where I walk away from something feeling as though there's no way the pictures could have done the scene justice... this however, was one of those times.

12 hours later, hitchhiking down a long, dusty road, thumb out, and hand-scrawled San Miguel sign being held up at every passing chance, a truck pulls over and takes pity on two wayward travelers. Thankful, we sat in the bed of the pickup truck, watching the mountains roll by, silence overtook us both. Reflection on all that we had just seen and done weighed heavily on our minds. Smiles on our sun-soaked faces.

I know a picture is worth a thousand words, but the experience needs only one: epic.

I am a Lucha Libre

100 Years of Solitude

Oaxaca is beautiful...vibrant...wonderful...alive...

It's everything I'm not.

As my body floats down countless colorful streets, ears taking in the mariachi music that acts as a soundtrack for my trip, eyes chasing light and figures and faces, my mind is elsewhere. Further away. Somewhere darker, more clouded, fuzzy. It's hard to pour my heart into anything these days when most days I question whether or not I still have one.

In a country of 108 million people, how is it possible to feel so all alone?

Holiday

The alarm clock starts going off early. Too early. 4 a.m. The drive to Miami is fast in the pre-rush hour, pre-day break dawn. Apparently Josh, John and I are the only ones awake before the sun. And an adventure awaits. We breeze through the airport. Board a plane, and settle in for a 3-hour nap, hoping to catch-up on some sleep before we touch down.

Mexico City is a crazed cacophony of sights, sounds and smells. It's an overwhelming assault on the senses. It's overwhelming. Period. We can't get on a south bound bus fast enough. A beautiful ride through the Sierra Madres hints at the rolling and ever-changing landscape to come. The further we get from the capital the quieter it gets. The calmer it seems. The more relaxed we feel. 7 hours later, the warmth of Oaxaca welcomes us.

For me, it's a much-needed embrace.

Seeing Spots

I don't know what's funnier. Dogs dressed in Halloween costumes or people dressed like their dogs.

Joshie vs Sharpie

Randomness

1. I was shooting a story in a middle school classroom earlier this week, and through the glass door a little boy, of no more than 12, sees me as he's walking down the hallway. He opens the door, runs over to me and exclaims "Is that a wide angle lens?!" I said yes, it is... a 17-40. To which he replies, "Cool!" And then he leaves just as quickly as he came.


2. I got a nice email from a student of mine up at the Eddie Adams Workshop. It ended this way: P.S I once got in trouble shooting for your newspaper through the AP, the local chief thought I played around in Photoshop because Charlie Christ's skin was too orange...


3. Our intern called and woke me up early this morning to ask if I had leather pants. After much confusion, I learned he was working on his Halloween costume.

Ode to Erwitt

As my dog was burying some lab in the sand, I noticed this little Boston Terrier learning to surf. Went to my car and grabbed my camera. Nothing earth-shattering, but it was too cute to pass up. Hopefully they can find a place for it in the paper tomorrow.

Bulls Watch

USF? #2!! When they played Rutgers this week, the school held a "watch party" so students, alumni and fans could come to the arena on campus to watch the big game. It was a lot of me watching the fans watching the game. It was a really fun assignment, where the faces told the story. And unfortunately, that story ended 27-30.



The watching... and waiting...



The thrill of victory...



And the agony of defeat.

Take My Picture

If only I could bottle up the curiosity of a bunch of four-year-olds...

Foto by Finch

I started off my career as a photographer. Twas a beautiful world. Everyday was a new exploration, everyday an adventure. I was given this license to enter any world that I wanted and witness things I could never have imagined. I, and my photography, was both innocent and ignorant.

I stumbled into success. It was the worst thing that could have happened to me. It took away all the innocence that I had and left the ignorance. Everything about photography became suffocating. It had lost all of its fun.

As my career has evolved I have tried numerous ways to move backward. And, as in life, it does not seem possible. I just want to return to the enthusiasm that I once had - to the days when I felt like the pictures I made mattered.

My friend Rob is blogging, and I'm excited to watch him get back to something he feels he's lost. He's one of my favorite photographers because he's got such a unique eye, inquisitive mind and an incredibly unassuming presence -- and all of that comes across in his pictures... which I'm just happy to be seeing again.

The Verdict

After less than 2 hours of deliberation, a Panama City jury found all 7 bootcamp guards and a nurse NOT GUILTY in the death of 14-year-old Martin Lee Anderson. Read Abbie's story for more information. The best quote came from Ben Crump, the family's attorney. "You kill a dog, you go to jail," Crump said. "You kill a little black boy, nothing happens." And he's right, as I left the court house I felt really sick to my stomach. Justice seems so subjective sometimes.



Frustration and anger shows on the face of Gina Jones, mother of 14-year-old Martin Lee Anderson who died at the Bay County Boot Camp, after all seven guards and a nurse were acquitted Friday afternoon by a jury that took just over two hours to come back with the verdict. Supporters Yolanda Ceasar, left, and Bridgett Smith, both of Panama City, put their signs down to hug Jones as she leaves the court house Friday afternoon. "I'm not surprised," said Ceasar, a mother of three. "Look at the jury. It hurts to know that they still have that kind of feeling here. I'm really not surprised. I'm just hurt.



Martin Lee Anderson's grandmother Reto Williams, 63, and aunt Kristian "Debbie" Williams, 36, stay glued to Court TV following the acquittal of seven guards and a nurse in the death of 14-year-old Anderson at the Bay County Boot Camp. Following live coverage from the trial, the family's attorney, Ben Crump, gave an interview to Star Jones Reynolds by telephone.



"I was his favorite aunt," said Kristian "Debbie" Williams, 36, of Panama City, who got a tattoo in memory of her nephew Martin Lee Anderson.