Text and photos by Max Sher.

Map and Territory

I was born in St. Petersburg, then Leningrad, and, at the age of 11, moved with my father to Kemerovo, a Soviet-built industrial city in West Siberia. Almost every summer, I used to travel back to St. Pete to stay with my grandparents, and I remember roaming the area where they lived with a Soviet map of the city – wittingly incorrect and lacking many streets including the one where my grandparents’ house was located. It should be said that normal, detailed city maps were hard to get during Soviet era. Back in Kemerovo, there was no city map available at all until late 1990s. I started putting the missing streets on my map of St Petersburg. Then I began exploring other neighbourhoods and putting the missing streets on the map as well. I was constructing, unconsciously of course, my own mental map of the city, thus symbolically defying the State image (‘map’) of the territory.

Dubna, March 31, 2010, 56°44′37.33″N, 37°10′16.43″E
© Max Sher
Please visit Russian Palimpsest, by Max Sher for the full size image.

Moscow, February 6, 2013, 55°44′33.92″N, 37°48′56.4″E
© Max Sher
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Travel and photography change your mental image of the place. It’s a cliché to say Russia is huge and it is – in purely mechanical terms of the area it covers. But if we travel and photograph where people live and where there is culture or industry, this image of hugeness shrinks dramatically. During Soviet era, the geographical map of the ‘sixth part of the world’ was one of the sacred tools of power. At the former czar’s Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, a huge map of the Soviet Union made of gems had been installed where the imperial throne once stood. When I was kid it was still there.

Moscow, February 16, 2013, 55°48′4.33″N, 37°36′56.23″E
© Max Sher
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The role and image of traveler and photographer in Russia also changed dramatically over the last one hundred years. The pre-1917 Russian photographers were private entrepreneurs who had a relative freedom of what to look at and photograph. Many of them produced picture postcards as part of their business, and these postcards depicted not only ‘attractive’ places but also prisons, factories, alms-houses or hospitals for the poor. This interest towards the everyday culture was effectively banned after the 1917 revolution. Photography was harnessed as a tool of propaganda and very soon, a certain matrix of representation took shape while attempts to picture the everyday routine began to be seen as subversive and treacherous. The image of the country was effectively reduced to that map at the Winter Palace. Traveling around the country became severely restricted as well. Many cities like Vladivostok or Kronstadt were sealed off even to Russians. The Benjaminian figure of the flâneur – inseparable from the image of the contemporary photographer – became virtually impossible. Moving around the country was only available to those employed by the State – military, officials, journalists, or scientists. Freelancing was illegal. Taking pictures in the street was equal to spying. All this, it seems, was one of the reasons for an almost complete absence of photographic work focusing on inhabited landscapes as a subject matter between 1917 and late 1980s. Very few images survive of how our cities looked and felt like, and changed during that time.

Smolensk, May 17, 2013, 54°47′58.15″N, 32°2′56.32″E
© Max Sher
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St. Petersburg, July 23, 2012, 59°51′48.93″N, 30°29′52.21″E
© Max Sher
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Today’s photographic practice still faces a lot of restrictions although incommensurable with the Soviet times. It is still technically prohibited to photograph railway bridges, for example, or to travel to the so-called ‘border zones’ without getting permission from the KGB successor agency FSB. The latter is all the more absurd that you can easily avoid it: once there, you get detained by border police, pay a 10-dollar fine and are allowed to stay on. That means still control for the sake of control.

Vereya, January 6, 2013, 55°20′37.9″N, 36°11′6.81″E
© Max Sher
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To photograph my landscapes I am often looking for elevated vantage points. By taking photographs therefrom I symbolically appropriate, privatise the viewpoint, the image and thus the territory that were tightly controlled as recently as a couple of decades ago. At the same time, these vantage points provide the necessary distance, both physical and metaphorical.

Zhavoronki, September 8, 2012, 55°38′31.2″N, 37°5′58.67″E
© Max Sher
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Russia as America

The main question of course is how to depict the Russian inhabited landscape today. I use this word – inhabited – because the term ‘landscape’ in our culture mostly refers to the pictures of natural scenery and not to places where people live. Interestingly, a Russian city is often considered ‘nice’ for the nature that surrounds it, not for urban environment or architecture. Since most of our cities are generally considered ‘ugly’, this perceived ugliness as well as many other unpleasant realities of our everyday life alienate many Russians from their own cities. We just do not consider them ours.

Smolensk, May 17, 2013, 54°47′57.35″N, 32°2′12.49″E
© Max Sher
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Smolensk, May 17, 2013, 54°47′7.83″N, 32°1′11.52″E
© Max Sher
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What I’m trying to do in my project is to bring out all the influences – from the 19 century Russian landscape painting and photography to Soviet-era postcards to New Topographics and Google Street View – that help define today’s visual vocabulary through which to look at and make sense of our landscape. What matters to me is the idea of a certain type of optics – focusing on the unnoticed elements of our living environment. It is very effective as a tool to accept and face the reality, to demystify it in a way. We need to look at our country the way American photographers look at theirs. Explore, record, accept, love it.

Moscow, February 16, 2013, 55°48′1.16″N, 37°36′56.04″E
© Max Sher
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Strange as it is, Russia has always been at loss for a detached, calm representation of itself because of either censorship (control of the image) or over-politicising / over-romanticising on the part of both the state bureaucracy and the educated classes (as noted by Vyacheslav Glazychev¹). While the state propaganda fed us with feel-good images and that gorgeous ‘map’ of a mighty empire, the ‘democratic’ image was supposed to ‘tell the truth’ or struggle for an abstract ‘common good’. I want to liberate the documentary photographic vision from both biases to aestheticise the ‘ugly’ to make it enter our consciousness. It’s nothing new, even in Russia, if we remember what the pre-1917 Russian photographers looked at and photographed. The point is: this is how Russia looks like, let’s face it, and let’s treat it as ours.

Vereya, January 6, 2013, 55°20′37.9″N, 36°11′6.81″E
© Max Sher
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Voronezh, July 1, 2013, 51°39′52.23″N, 39°12′42.12″E
© Max Sher
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Russian Palimpsest

So, why Russian Palimpsest? The title of my project suggests an image of the landscape as a multi-layered medium, written, erased and re-written upon over time. Basically, every landscape – American, European or Russian – is a palimpsest. But to my mind, our post-Utopian territory is a palimpsest par exellence where very little ‘shows through’ after the previous layer has been erased and is being rewritten upon. Despite a thousand-year-old history, this country collapsed twice in less than 80 years, first abolishing all the institutions of the past and the past itself to form a sort of an isolated apocalyptic sect (as defined by Boris Groys²), then dissolving this sect, only to find itself between the Future where it has already been and the Past where it had already been too, completely disoriented. As a result, our landscape presents an unbelievable pileup of ill-thought-out cities, top-down development projects hastily implemented without much prior analysis, poor infrastructure, childish architecture, and that famous feeling of impermanence, precariousness, and unrootedness, so ‘rooted’ in our identity. What might be the role of photography here? Catalog it! Of course, you can never make a full catalog of anything, even less so of something constantly evolving but a catalog of landscapes is possible. What should be included in it? In Russia, as in America, the only possible catalog of landscapes, I believe, is the one compiled from random images with something more in them than mere archetypes. I’m looking for images that convey a spatial sensation of the country, when you can say: hey, that’s Russia of our time. This is what I mean by demystification.

Podrezkovo, February 17, 2013, 55°56′32.59″N, 37°19′32.85″E
© Max Sher
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Ulan Bator, April 28, 2013, 47°25' 4.54"N, 108°12' 35.42"E
© Max Sher
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All photographs are captioned with the name of the place, date and exact geographical coordinates suggesting an open-ended diary-cum-catalogue of our time and living space.

For more photos and stories, please visit Max Sher website.

Ulan Bator, April 28, 2013, 47°54' 43.48"N, 106°54' 52.63"E
© Max Sher
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1. Vyacheslav Glazychev, Gorod bez granits, Territoriya Budushchego Publishers, Moscow, 2011, pp. 161-162.
2. Boris Groys, Politika poetiki, Ad Marginem Press, Moscow, 2012, p. 321.

Text and photos by Robert Jackson (The Lens Collective).

Having worked predominantly with film, analogue photography seemed a logical topic to elaborate and compose some thoughts on. In a world where generating images seems almost innate, the idea of challenging photography as a medium appears more relevant than ever. In a fast digital developing world, is the choice of using analogue one that begins to challenge photography as a medium, whether it is used for its aesthetic or purely the process involved? This piece does not aim to reproach digital photography in anyway, in context I think every medium has its relevance, but describing my experience in the transition of using analogue throughout my most recent project ‘Verkamannabústöðunum’ its one hopefully worth sharing.

Please visit An Experience of Analogue, by Robert Jackson for the full size image.

Verkamannabústöðunum was the first state-subsidized development of workers housing in West Reykjavik. Built in 1931 for a working class community of Reykjavik, the apartments saw host to individual bathroom space and electricity for cooking, which was a rare occurrence. With the functional principles employed in the design of the apartments, it is noted as an important stage in Reykjavik’s architectural development. The series explores the life of individuals and families who reside in Verkamannabústöðunum, observing their relationship with their surroundings.

Working with a a medium format camera using a waste level view finder, my opinion is that this combination contributes to a very specific approach. To begin with there is a level of intimate interaction that presents itself, which can help to build a relationship between the subject and photographer, which I believe is partly due to the equal concentration between subject and camera. The idea of using film in this method is an aesthetic choice as well as the process it encourages, for me it slows down the way I look at the situation and stimulates a response in regards to what I’m doing, it’s always productive to question why. For these reasons alone the analogue approach is one that to me, suits ‘Verkamannabústöðunum’. With documentary and narrative genres, when working with subjects there can be a barrier between a subject and photographer, where I find there is an essential need to deal with in a way where the subject offers something to the viewer. However I would say this is the photographer’s job to do so, one in which I find the waste level view finder can do so by stimulating a response from the subject. The way in which the viewfinder encourages interaction between you and the subject, for me allows the subject to become more involved in the process. Whether or not it provokes a perplexing response, it is more often than not a contrasting but intriguing process as opposed to what people may expect.

Please visit An Experience of Analogue, by Robert Jackson for the full size image.

I think it is worth elaborating on the idea of film being a slow process. A problematic issue with digital photography is its accessibility, which encourages endless amounts of capturing and possibly less criticizing. Technology in the world we live in seems to be competitively driven around speed and efficiency, I find it slightly humorous talking about the ascendancy analogue cameras nurture. Whether you are working on large or medium format, the amount of shots in relation to speed is slow, be it loading with film, rolling onto the next frame or focussing the shot, there is no real way of obtaining a fast approach. I have learnt a lot in the transition from digital to analogue, working with only 10 frames I have become more aware of photography and the discipline analogues installed. Perhaps not necessary to all practice but treating photography as a craft and challenging how it can be used leads to developing bodies of work further and really pushing it as a medium. Of course this process can be used with digital but analogue plays an important role in teaching or uncovering the actual discipline. In my work there is a very similar process in the act of crafting a portrait, to the craft of painted portraiture. The element of time for me is what links the two together, despite being dissimilar in other ways, the same consideration can be installed working with film, the stuff can be very unforgiving and unless you like this element, then I think we all try to work around it by becoming more focussed to the elements of a portrait.

Please visit An Experience of Analogue, by Robert Jackson for the full size image.

What I found intriguing in this project is the curiosity value film lends itself too. I think producing projects whilst sending off film to be processed always creates an instinctive response, but producing a project where you aren’t able to, keeps the brain ticking over, thinking productively about what may take the project forwards or what is missing. This is exactly the case in ‘Verkamannabústöðunum’, I spent a month reeling off near a film per day struggling to gauge a wider picture of the series. Of course it would have been more practical to view work whilst producing it, but there seems to be a romantic element that heavily existed in photographs like Robert Capa’s, where you produce work that technically doesn’t exist until it’s processed. That’s a scary thought isn’t it? The curiosity element experienced seems to be an extremely natural one, prompting an instinctive response and breaking away from really constructing a project. Of course I think a project benefits from constructive viewing, able to respond and elaborate, but the natural spontaneity which I really value could maybe be missing.

Please visit An Experience of Analogue, by Robert Jackson for the full size image.

To conclude, I think the use of analogue photography has helped me to challenge photography as a medium, in a stage where taking photographs is second nature. To summarise this point in brief, my main conclusion is that analogue photography creates a response to the camera, and to question what is happening. Nothing is as simple as turning the camera on and pressing a button, to use the camera. There is a need to understand shutter speeds, aperture and ISO and for me I only understood this when I began to use analogue more, because it felt I had to. Of course I think there are many ways to challenge photography as a medium but using analogue for me, does so without almost thinking about it.

Please visite The Lens Collective for more photos and stories.

Please visit An Experience of Analogue, by Robert Jackson for the full size image.

Text and photos by Yana Feldman.

I would like to present my photo project “Saint-Petersburg. Childhood of many faces”, that is dedicated to children of different nationalities in Saint-Petersburg from families where the national traditions, customs and family traditions are really saved.

Buck drums
© Yana Feldman
Please visit Saint-Petersburg, Childhood of many faces, by Yana Feldman for the full size image.

I started to think over this project, when I was studying on the 4-th term in Saint-Petersburg State University of Culture and Arts. Being a student (and still now) I appreciated the work of American photographer Steve McCurry. I had the idea to make something of this kind. With the kids as the main heroes of my project. However, that time I did not have clearly formulated concept of my future project.
Then one day I got spontaneously my first shot series that further on leaded to start my work.

Together with my husband, we strolled slowly in the center of Saint-Petersburg, when he saw a group of gypsies Luli, who mingled with the crowd near the market and asked for alms. I decided to make some shots. To tell you the truth – at first time I was slightly frightened to start photographing them. I understood of course that we were in the heart of Saint-Petersburg, not a Middle Eastern or Indian town, but I still have not stopped thinking that they can yell at me, prohibit to shoot, do something else like this. Luckily, nothing happened. Although I shot mainly behind the back of her father. A sort of human shield for me.

Offense
© Yana Feldman
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Photographs turned out to be very lively, not staged at all. I still had no idea how I should use that series for me, so I just put it aside that days.

Next heroes of my project, I found, when I was invited to reportage a holiday in the Jewish boarding school for boys. For me, it was a new experience, so I asked for permission to stay on one of the lessons to see how it looked like. I made ​​some good shots from there, one of which became lately the presentation of my project.

Give me a hint!
© Yana Feldman
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That is probably after the second shot I have formed the final vision of my future project. I realized that I wanted to do a project on children of different nationalities who live in Saint-Petersburg. I deliberately turned down the opportunity to make shots in hinterland and/or other cities/countries. Originally is was an idea just to take pictures of children of different nationalities; further on it turned into a definitive decision to devote that project for those children who observe family traditions, culture, and any features that are transmitted in their families from generation to generation, all together at the same time living in a multinational city. Representing the people of different nationalities in my project, I want to show those children who, despite the fact that they live in St. Petersburg, don’t forget their traditions, celebrate holidays, study in special schools, and follow in their culture. In my opinion, no one can honestly convey the emotions and mood but a child.

I just tried to distance myself from a national perspective and to focus on some cultural and family values. But as it turned out – to do so would not be easy. After all, many family and cultural characteristics of families in some way connected with the national peculiarities of these same families.

The second home
© Yana Feldman
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Other heroes of his project, I began to search for different ways: through a variety of acquaintances, friends of friends, random encounters. With the help of social networks in which I methodically sought out by community groups and relevant words combinations. Finding such groups, I contacted the organizers, explained to them who I was and what I wanted from them, asked to give me the contact of families with children of a certain age, and whose families follow the traditions. Many people denied participating in my project because they did not understand who I was and what I did. Yes, and judge for yourself – here is some stranger, who says that your family is interesting for him and he wants to shoot all of you (sometimes to visit your house). How many people would immediately agree to help him?

If you take the statistics – two or three persons answered me from each of a dozen messages I wrote. One or two families welcomed to become my heroes from a dozen of those, who firstly answered me. However, most of them immediately expressed their willingness to dress children in a national costume. In addition, according to my question what kind of family or cultural characteristics they observed in their family – puzzled shrug and said that they had nothing except costume.

Unfortunately, too little families keep even any family traditions (eg, Sunday dinners, recipes from their grandparents, and skills from father to son, etc.), and mind of their historical roots a fortiori. Perhaps this is because big city forces people to assimilate, to live in a different rhythm, subordinates its own rules. While searching for heroes to my project, I encountered hundreds of families who, unfortunately, could not “confirm” their national identity.

Granny's pie
© Yana Feldman
Please visit Saint-Petersburg, Childhood of many faces, by Yana Feldman for the full size image.

Of course, there were also positive responses. With the help of my friends, I suggested to contact a Georgian family, which as it turned out, through the generations from mother to daughter passed branded prescription hachapuri in Adjara.

With the help of social networks, I was lucky to find few more future heroes – a Tatar family, whose younger generation had settled in Saint-Petersburg long time ago, and great-grandparents lived near Kazan. However, they often come to visit her great-grandchildren, and great-grandfather (who was the religious head of his homeland) taught his great-grandson the precepts of holy book Koran with each visit.

A link of generation
© Yana Feldman
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In addition, with the help of social networks, and through the personal contacts I was able to meet and visit the calligraphy lesson in boarding school for the children of Japanese businesspersons and diplomats. At the Korean Cultural Center, where boys learned the tradition of drumming Buck. The Islamic center where young children from the Central Asian republics and the countries of central Africa were studying the Arabic alphabet, drawing the letters on the flour. The Armenian Church. I visited the Turkish and Sudanese families, where I could see the art of drawing with paint on the water – Ebru, as well as traditional outfits of young Sudanese girls.

The art of calligraphy
© Yana Feldman
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Random article in the newspaper about a family of ropewalkers who acted at festivals, fairs and public events in various cities of the CIS led me to be acquainted with this amazing family. Along with hundreds of other spectators, I was able to see how the young Seyfulla performed exercises on the trapeze (of course with the safety net). However, he was only 3.5 years!

Hereditary rope-walker
© Yana Feldman
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The most incredible adventure happened with me when I, accompanied by a volunteer travelled to Gypsy village on the suburbs of Saint-Petersburg. Before that trip, I had very vague thoughts who the Gypsies were, where and how they lived. In addition, of course, I could not even imagine then 20-30 miles from my house might be a big gypsy camp. I met several families, looked through the difficult conditions of their living. Nevertheless, I tried to depict on my photographs all that range of positive emotions and feelings that are unique to every kid.

Pumping water for cooking
© Yana Feldman
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There were many other equally interesting meetings and photo series. Sometimes the natives of big city never suspect the existence of some nations and nationalities, living together with them. Even they much less know about how that people live. Nevertheless, it is worthy of attention. This will help to build intercultural and interfaith dialogue, to present and reveal the life of the representatives of different nations, to remove stereotypes and clichés from the minds of different people.

It may seem that all my heroes are ordinary children, but of different age and appearance. However, it is not true. I set myself the task to open the door to the small world of every family, to be acquainted with the culture of each character, which is stored only inside and not visible from outside. Family, lifestyle, religion – all these are just begin to govern the children and we can only guess about his future fate.

Male from the birth
© Yana Feldman
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For me personally, in this project “Saint-Petersburg. Childhood of many faces” it was also important to preserve and pass on the aesthetics of the photographs. I did not make the task, and did not want to shoot and show the blood, dirt and any other thrill, which, unfortunately, sometimes common in modern documentary projects. After all, no matter what – the children always remain children. Nevertheless, at the same time, I specifically refused to shoot glamorous baby photo. Can you even suggest how family and cultural traditions in some way be related to the “puppet” kids?

Easter
© Yana Feldman
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Somewhere in the middle of a project, I decided that after the diploma work I would like to continue working over this project. By that time, it had already become a part of me. In addition, when I was offered (after graduating) to hold an exhibition at the gallery of the Saint-Petersburg State Academic Capella, I realized that I was ready to exhibit my project to the vast audience. I started preparing for the exhibition, which also became my first solo exhibition. The exhibition opened in mid-January 2013. A short time later, I was offered to present an exhibition in Minsk.

From myself I would like to wish all the readers: look for unusual ideas, do not dwell on the simple. Having found an exceptional story – in any case do not give in to difficulties! After all, the more ambitious and more complex you set a goal – the more pleasant you will be, when achieve it!

For more photos, please visit Yana Feldman website.

Africa inside
© Yana Feldman
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Text and photos by Gráinne Quinlan.

I have always enjoyed the thrill of combining adventurous travel with my love of photography. Photographing the Irish Strawboys offered this to me and more, taking me on an Alice in Wonderland adventure — an unimaginable journey that brought me to parts of Ireland, my home country, which I had never seen before and where I met with characters who will forever stay etched on my mind — the Strawboys.

Aughakillymaude Mummers, Fermanagh
© Gráinne Quinlan
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My engagement with the Strawboys opened the door to a world unknown to me — a world of exuberant costume and magnetic performance going beyond any spectacle I had seen before, certainly in Ireland or indeed Europe.

The lead up to my ‘discovery’ of the Irish Strawboys is perhaps equally interesting and deserves its own part in this story.

Aughakillymaude Mummers, Fermanagh
© Gráinne Quinlan
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I had recently submitted my thesis in my final year in my photography degree at the Dublin Instititue of Technology, after spending almost twelve months of arduous writing, involving late nights, re­edits and copious amounts of caffeine.

My chosen subject was the great Malian photographer Seydou Keita. For months I had immersed myself in Keita’s stunning imagery and style. My research immersed me in the culture of Mali — its music, sculpture and paintings — a cultural kaleidoscope that is as uplifting as it is inspiring.

Balina Strawboys, County Mayo
© Gráinne Quinlan
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In addition to Keitas’ kinetic imagery, with his choice of simple backdrop and subjects
that appear in front of the camera with ease and grace, I spent hours poring over images of the Dogon tribes people. The esoteric culture of the Dogon tribe in southern Mali, is enthralling to the eyes and ears unfamiliar with such practices. Their sensually detailed carved masks and ruffled costumes filled me with wonder and fueled a curiosity in me of masking traditions.

Cleamairí an Chorráin (The Currane Strawboys), County Mayo
© Gráinne Quinlan
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By January 2012, each of the fourth year photography students at D.I.T were let loose to fully concentrate on their photographic practice and subject of their own choice. Ideas for projects were considered in trepidation as each student was aware that the resulting images would be displayed in National Photographic Archive and in Dublin’s Gallery of Photography. As a culmination of four years intense study, it needed to pack a visual punch for audience members alike be they family, friends and even the wider general public.

Fingal Mummers, North County Dublin
© Gráinne Quinlan
Please visit Strawboys, by Gráinne Quinlan for the full size image.

During my search for a suitably visual striking topic and in line with my peeked interested in masking, I began to hear of a strange custom involving strikingly disguised people who attended weddings in the West of Ireland — particulary County Mayo where the tradition remains prevalent today. During the celebrations these masked Strawboys, as I learned they were called, would arrive unannounced to the reception and provide entertainment through song, dance and poetry to the surprised onlookers who, no doubt, would have been particularly amazed by their elaborate costumes.

Fingal Mummers, North County Dublin
© Gráinne Quinlan
Please visit Strawboys, by Gráinne Quinlan for the full size image.

My search for images of the Strawboys invariably indicated that the highly visual Strawboy performance had largely only ever been captured by amateurs and the occasional local photographer. It was the idea that this unique performance had only ever been captured by amateurs that instilled in me an eagerness to record this colourful practice formally, away from the distractions of the performance.

Historically, the tradition was most prevalent in rural areas of Ireland. The Strawboys would arrive at a bridal breakfast party in the brides home, sometimes down a chimney or by banging loudly on the front door with a mock menacing tone. Disguised in masks made of straw — a cheap material readily available in Ireland at the time — the Strawboys would regale the wedding guests with song and horseplay. Often they would be uninvited neighbours looking to gain access to the celebration and to partake of the refreshments on offer in return for lively entertainment.

Fingle Mummers, County Dublin
© Gráinne Quinlan
Please visit Strawboys, by Gráinne Quinlan for the full size image.

Archival letters held at the National Folklore Collection in the University College of Dublin (UCD) suggest that many people in rural Ireland would expect the Strawboys arrival at any given wedding reception and in some cases despite the guise, their identity was clear to all through body shape and spoken word. By the 50s however, the tradition had petered out in many areas with mass emigration and a change in farming practices that led to the demise of straw.

John Street Wrenboys, Dingle, Kerry
© Gráinne Quinlan
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Once I began to reach out and contact the still existing Strawboy troupes, much to my delight, my phone calls where always greeted with an eager and welcoming response: “No problem, how many Strawboys do you want for your photo?”.

Arranging visits to various parts of rural Ireland where the Strawboy tradition is still practiced was a photographer’s dream. I travelled over the Connor Pass in County Kerry, had tea with an eighty year old Strawboy in his bucolic kitchen in County Fermanagh and returned to Dublin with my very own strawmask gifted to me by the Ulster Folk and Transport Museum in Belfast.

Sligo Strawboys, County Sligo
© Gráinne Quinlan
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The people I met, are as one might suspect, entertaining storytellers or seanchaí’s — the Irish word for storyteller. After agreeing to sit for a formal portrait they told tales and gave reason for their Strawboy participation. Many of the stories recalled were humble, honest and humorous. Not only does the tradition allow group members to practice music and song, it offers to a means to socialize and to engage with a rural community that otherwise stays in the confines of a home.

Beneath the fears and worries attached to exhibiting, intuitively I felt that exhibiting portraits of Stawboys, would remind viewers of photography’s potent power. It was has always been my belief that photography’s greatest attribute is its ability to educate people, in as much as literature or the spoken word. The Strawboy tradition that I focused on was largely unknown — an almost forgotten anachronism from a different time in Ireland. This was certainly true amongst the groups of people that I shared the idea with, and for this reason I felt compelled to follow my idea.

The Armagh Rhymers, Armagh
© Gráinne Quinlan
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In terms of how I approached each portrait, I was able to drawing inspiration from my recent studies. Using a tried and tested formula — certainly influenced by Keita — I placed the emphasis on the performer’s visual presentation rather than the commotion of an energetic performance. The format of a formal portrait, I like to think, shows the Strawboys as stately and noble looking befitting their striking and imposing visual aesthetic.

For more photos and stories, please visit Gráinne Quinlan website.

The Erris Strawboys, County Mayo
© Gráinne Quinlan
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Text and photos by Jon Guido Bertelli.

Rain and an embrace of gray clouds welcomed me on my first visit to Vancouver, nevertheless I was so enchanted by the city that I decided to move there a few years later.

“RainCouver” as many residents jokingly call Vancouver, is not only the most expensive city in North America but has also one of the highest living standards in the world. An idyllically situated seaport it is the third largest metropolitan area of Canada, with approximately 2.5 million residents.

Alex taking a rest, wearing his always impeccably polished boots (reminiscent of his army days) on Blood Alley, a descriptive name left from the days when the old butcher shops used to pick up their deliveries there.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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Vancouver is located on the Burrard Peninsula, between the Burrard inlet to the north and the Fraser River to the south, and is beautifully framed by the Strait of Georgia to the west and the picturesque North Shore Mountains (part of the Pacific Ranges) to the north.

Since that first visit to Vancouver I have been captivated by the magic of the city’s quick and constant changes in lighting: from soft to dramatic knife cutting shadows, bursting with rich contrasts, from vibrant colours to a softer palette of pastel shades and spectacular, monochromatic overcast tones accentuated by strokes of primary colors.

When the curtain of an overcast day lifts, the skyline of Vancouver glitters like a multifaceted prism, reflecting varied and richly coloured images unto the buildings, changing constantly when viewed from different angles with a backdrop of the beautiful North Shore Mountains.

White Tranquility
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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Vancouver’s prominent Stanley Park, with its outstanding aquarium is 10% larger than New York City’s Central Park. Its bull’s-eye location gives visitors a 360-degree view of Vancouver when walking, skating or bicycling around the park and all the while enjoying the breathtaking views.

The city’s modern “Glass and Steel” buildings stand hand in hand in absolute harmony besides the older buildings of the city, juxtaposing the puzzle of the past with the new.

The character and soul of Vancouver breathes through everywhere, even in the smallest details of the city.

Dion, “Binning” along one of the many richly ornate Vancouver Downtown Eastside alleys.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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This is a city, which vividly stimulates one’s sense of creativity. People from all over the world have chosen to make it their home, adding to its cosmopolitan character, its culture, and history, bringing a wide variety of international restaurants that put a smile on any food lovers’ face. Vancouver is home to a renowned Art Museum, galleries, an Opera House and a Ballet hosting national and international artists.

Away from the glitzy downtown life, restaurants, clubs and such glamorous stores as Hermés, Louis Vuitton, Cartiér, Gucci, Prada and Burberry, roaring Lamborghinis, Ferraris and Porsches cruising the streets, multi million dollar houses and condominiums blending in with the city’s landscape, sailboats interrupting the straight and peaceful horizon line in the distance. As with so many other large metropolises, Vancouver also has a side in need of help and a facelift: the Downtown Eastside. The poorest area code in Canada, this older section in the historic heart of Vancouver provides a unique dimension to the city’s “glass and steel” character. These aging, often dilapidated buildings are the forgotten facades of a more glorious past.

Reaching for the skies, BC Place Stadium and condominiums, Vancouver.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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Downtown Eastside, a city within a city, is the home of a disproportionate number of homeless people facing serious issues regarding drug addiction, mental and physical illnesses, violence, crime, abuse, sex workers and the highest HIV infection rate in North America.

More than thirty percent of the residents are indigenous, a ten times higher rate than any other place in Canada. More than sixty women have disappeared, presumably murdered in the neighborhood during the last decade. Even after the arrest of pig farmer William Pickton, now in prison as the mass murderer of Downtown Eastside, the trend continues, with the addition of vanishing men.

Because of Vancouver’s construction boom and the 2010 Olympic Winter Games, several hotels in the area that served as low-income housing have been demolished to make space for high-scale development projects. Housing activists have been demanding that the government build more social welfare housings and shelters for the homeless. Several organizations reaching out to the homeless are active in the area, among them the Anti-Poverty Committee, the Downtown Eastside Residents Association, the Vancouver Area Network of Drug Users (VANDU) and so many others.

Anthony, reflecting on his girlfriend’s suicide and being robbed of his life savings.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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I spent a year walking the streets of Downtown Eastside, at first primarily interested in photographing the buildings surviving from an earlier chapter in the history of Vancouver. I used to have an automatic, preconceived and negative opinion of the homeless that I would encounter on my way, always trying to look busy and not to let our eyes meet, until the day when I met Alex, a bright homeless street veteran in his sixties. He approached me with a dignified “Good evening. How are you Sir?” Alex and I immediately clicked and found ourselves engaged in our first of many to come long discussions, not only about the problems of Downtown Eastside, but also about national and international politics, diet, health, art, botany, survival and so many other interesting topics.

Alex, a lively and friendly Dutchman by birth, with a big, fiery reddish beard contrasting with his deep blue eyes, gave me the opportunity to meet other residents of the Downtown Eastside, to befriend, photograph and interview them, giving me a much better insight into their lives.

Reflection in Flight, downtown Vancouvers.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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He used to work as a photo-camera technician for Polaroid, but was not able to keep up with the recent giant steps in the technology of digital photography and was quickly left without a job or new skills. He had part jobs here and there, but not enough to pay for his living expenses. He lost his home and gradually found himself homeless on the Downtown Eastside. Regardless of what happened in his life, he always tries not to let anything take away from his happiness to be alive and his cheerful voice can often be heard on the Downtown Eastside streets “I’m the luckiest son of a gun in the world”!

Dion, so amazing with numbers that he was not welcome to play at some of the Las Vegas’ casinos, was hit by a drunk driver in Vancouver while crossing the street and nearly died of the injuries. He also lost his home and found himself with an injured neck in a halo brace “binning”, picking up empty bottles and beer cans along the streets and alleys of Vancouver for deposit refunds, or anything else that he could find to make ends meet.

Lorna embracing her aunt in front of the “We can not forget” poster of 2008, in remembrance of the many young lives cut short, including their own kids.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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Anthony, a proud Native American of the Cree/Saulteaux First Nations, with long black hair and piercing eyes, left his reservation of Poor Man in Saskatchewan, arriving to Vancouver as a native artist and a musician.

He taught Native American art history at college level and was the Director of one of Vancouver’s Art Galleries. Anthony is a traditional Native American singer, who also plays the flute and the drum. He has performed in Canada, the USA and Mexico. He even added his voice as a traditional singer on one of the multi award winning and Juno award nominated Canadian First Nation singer Sandy Scofield’s CD, Dirty River. Anthony never got over the tragic suicide of his young girlfriend of five years and being robbed later of his life’s savings, two devastating episodes that brought him unfortunately to the Downtown Eastside.

Enteing Downttown Eastside, Hastings Street, Vancouver.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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As he says ”It’s hard, very hard to get back up. To have the incentive or the strength to do anything!

Lorna, of a mixed Native American ancestry, has lived for the most of her life in the Vancouver Downtown Eastside. One of her daughters died of AIDS and another of an overdose in one of the Eastside alleys, reasons that keep her a staunch member in organizations committed to help the homeless, the women at risk and the addicts in her community.

Liza, from Flying Dust, a small Cree reservation in North Saskatchewan, with a population of just over 500 people, moved to Vancouver captivated by the life in the big city, but soon found herself in the Downtown Eastside trying to support her addiction. She is not only beautiful, but a kind and bright young lady who, at the age of 11 took upon herself the responsibility of caring for her siblings after their mother moved to Edmonton. Pregnant for the first time at fourteen, she now has ten children and is already a grandmother at the age of thirty-one.

Liza, a beautiful young lady, not only a mother of ten kids but also a grandmother at the age of thirty-one.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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She warned me not to blindly trust anybody in the area, even telling me once “I don’t cheat, I don’t lie and I don’t steal … that’s the real me. That’s me with a heart, I have a heart! I’ll give you what I have if I see that you need it, but come dark-time in my addiction, I will take everything you have of value”. Lisa was able to leave the Downtown Eastside and was able to kick the habit a couple of times, but sooner or later always found her way back there, as so many others do. With her head in her hands, she told me that the area is not only addictive to drugs, but also to the place itself, life and the people. It just draws you back in; it has a grip on you and doesn’t let go.

Amy, born in Edmonton, Alberta, but brought up in a small town along the Sunshine Coast, British Columbia, moved to Vancouver at eighteen. A “Tom Boy” as a kid, she was always trying to keep up with her three older brothers, drinking, going to bush parties and “doing stupid things” as she says.

Thornton Park Hotel, East Main Street, €“Vancouver
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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She left home at fourteen, quit school and decided to go prawn fishing, a well-paying job that introduced her to “coke” at fifteen. By the age of twenty-one, she was hooked on heroin. Trying to leave her addictions behind, she and her husband checked themselves into detoxification centers. Finally, both of them succeeded and were clean of drugs. Not only were they later able to buy a house, a truck, a boat, but they even had a son.

As Amy says, however, “My life is like a revolving door. The drugs took over again, even when I tried my hardest. Drugs linger like a bad smell that you can’t escape”. Looking up, her eyes filled with tears of despair, she told me that she had lost everything, including her precious two-year-old son, taken away and put into the care of a foster home.

Amy, who has constantly been fighting her drug addiction, says that drugs linger like a bad smell that you can’t escape.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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Violet, a Saulteaux Native from Northern Manitoba, left home and her reservation while barely a teenager, shortly after her mother killed her father. She found herself homeless, an addict wandering around and trying to survive the streets of Canada’s main cities, ending up on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside thirteen years ago, sick, having lost one kidney to cancer, with pulmonary edema (fluids in the lungs) attributed to her bad heart. She is never certain whether she will even wake up the next morning.

Regardless of all her life’s misfortunes, Violet had the strength to defeat and remain free of illicit substances until the shattering death of her husband.

Not wishing young girls to end up in her same situation, she tirelessly tries to frighten and convince as many of them as possible to leave the area, telling them that they will sooner or later end up like her, an addict, sick, in a wheelchair: somebody who has lost everything dear to her, including her four children who were taken away from her.

Joe the pastor, preacher at the Carrall Street Church.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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She is a member of the Western Aboriginal Harm Reduction Society (W.A.H.R.S.), an outreach organization run by aboriginal people, which recognizes that the problems caused by epidemics, alcoholism, rubbing alcohol, Lysol, mouthwash, drugs and many other factors have hit the native population the hardest.

These are only a very few of the many devastating life stories that have found their way to the streets and dark alleys of Downtown Eastside, human dramas that could happen to any of us.

They live month to month on welfare cheques, barely enough to cover the rapidly increasing rents which displace the residents and create more homelessness.

Enteing Downttown Eastside, Hastings Street, Vancouver.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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Some of them are reduced to sleeping in doorways, under plastic sheeting or in cardboard boxes, looking for the comfort of some warmth from hot air-ducts during the winter, or simply finding refuge in a dirty, wet sleeping bag along the streets.

The City of Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside (DTES) Local Area Plan is focused on helping its low-income residents, to improve the community, improve their quality of life, work for social justice and meet the many challenges brought by drug use, alcoholism, crime, housing issues, abuse, illnesses and unemployment.

The DTES works in partnership with the DTES Neighborhood Council, the Building Community Society and the Local Area Planning Committee.

Violet, holding up a photograph of herself with the certificate of being clean of drugs.
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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The council is committed to increase affordable housing for all residents and end homelessness by 2015. Vancouver is seeking to build approximately 500 new affordable housing units on city owned sites, as part of its More Homes – More Affordability program.

I have strong hopes that the plans and the optimism for a better future for these often forgotten people in the Vancouver Downtown Eastside will become a reality in 2015, bringing them out from the darkness and back to the light of a more dignified life.

For more information, please visit Jon Guido Bertelli homepage and take a look at these Vancouver Downtown Eastside websites: vandu, dnchome, Building Community Society.

Green & Blue Palette, Olympic Cauldron / Torch, Vancouver
© Jon Guido Bertelli
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Gonzalo Bénard: Small Town Inertia: do you want to explain the title or the story behind it?

Jim A Mortram: Small Town Inertia is a long form documentary and environmental portraiture series that I have been working upon for the last 3 years. It concerns itself with the real life stories of several people within a 3 miles radius within my local community in Dereham, East Anglia in the UK. The title stems from the notion that many people end up and stay here even though they desire to leave.



I entered into the series with the notion that everyone has a story and with a desire to afford a voice to those that often have no platform to communicate their story. Themes have varied from person and situation. I’ve reported about isolation, poverty, drug abuse, homelessness, self harm, mental illness, juvenile crime, epilepsy though for myself the over riding experience has been one of endurance in spite of the impossible walls life often presents to us. Wall’s that box us in, wall’s that separate us, wall’s to climb to be set free.

© Jim A Mortram
Please visit Small Town Inertia, an interview with Jim A Mortram for the full size image.



Small Town Inertia reports from within these documented lives. Lives lived in the now. Lives lived within times of much change. As the cultural, political and economic landscape changes these stories depict the final destination for the results of many of those high up and far away decisions and influences. These photographs and supporting stories depict the full stop of the Welfare State cuts, Housing Benefit cuts, Health cuts, loopholes and failures of systems and what happens when the heart of a community is slowly eroded. They also depict the lives of those hanging on, bowed yet not broken, of lives where a fight to survive is very real. Fighting apathy, addiction, fighting loneliness, illness all the while clinging to self-respect, adrift in the community, in life, but not yet lost.

Gonzalo Bénard: Everybody can see the tremendous quality of your photography, even on internet where sometimes we can’t see it properly, so let’s not talk about it and let’s go beyond the technical stuff. Since I know your work you’ve been always focused on what it is to be human, bringing naked-fragile minds through your portraits. What’s the relation that you have with them all to achieve such deepness and honesty when doing a portrait?

Jim A Mortram: I always treat people, as I myself like to be treated. You can never feign nor fake interest in a person. I’ve never singled out people with an eye that they might make a good story for example; it’s a very organic evolvement. Though every person I’ve photographed I’ve met as a stranger over time bonds form, trust very much has to be earned. People are very giving and that humbles me greatly, my greatest debt is always to the person the other side of the lens. It’s such a great honor to be accepted and brought into another person’s life and given the access to document it. I’m sure I could work in a faster fashion but for me long form documentary is where my heart is. Often I’ll visit people and not even take an image, just talk and more importantly listen, and I listen more than I shoot. I have an equation that I always bear in mind Talk more than you shoot and listen more than you talk and it serves me well. I break shoots up into periods of straight documentary and periods so shoot portraits, make interviews and shoot video. 



© Jim A Mortram
Please visit Small Town Inertia, an interview with Jim A Mortram for the full size image.

The most wonderful outcome of the series is seeing the positive effects that it has upon the people featured within the series, our very real bonds and the sense of community, both with the people I photograph and from the wider photographic community itself whom have been of outstanding support.

Gonzalo Bénard: I know that your main job is to be a carer, but your hobby became a continuity of that. Do you feel a carer when you’re photographing them?

Jim A Mortram: That’s a really interesting question and something I’ve often mused on. My conclusion is that being a Carer, especially for a loved one, a member of the family has influenced me as a person and those experiences evidently trickle down and appear in my personality now so are present when I shoot. It’s a high stress situation working as a Carer and you need to develop many skills you’d never use in everyday life, elements such as thinking really fast in serious situation, life threatening ones from time to time, acute patience and knowing when to shut up and listen, to understand what a person needs when they can’t always communicate. All these have had a real impact on the way I communicate and especially listen during shoots but I have never felt like a Carer, everyone I shoot is just like me, were all human being regardless of what we might be experiencing, I always take that into every situation I go to document.

© Jim A Mortram
Please visit Small Town Inertia, an interview with Jim A Mortram for the full size image.

Gonzalo Bénard: Do you feel that for them is important you to be there and in some way leaving a register in your photographs? Do you feel this ex-change when you’re with them, being important for you to photograph and for them for being photographed?

Jim A Mortram: Yes. Very much show and for many reasons. Initially it’s to have an opportunity, ANY opportunity to share their experiences and to be heard. It’s, I feel a really empowering step for the people I work with on these long form series to make the decision to get involved, stay involved. It’s a way for many people to take a positive step, to maybe take some control where there might be a huge absence of any control in their lives. It’s also a mirror for many people, it might be the first time that they have paused for thought as every day is just surviving, enduring and when you live just to make it through one day to the next it’s often hard to distance yourself from that experience and take a moment for reflection.

Gonzalo Bénard: Do you want to share a special moment with any of the people you shoot towards your photography or you being photographer?

Jim A Mortram: I’d first encountered Shaunny totally by chance as I’d taken a street shot of him taking his shirt off outside a pub in Market Town. Subsequently that shot went on to place 3rd in the Photo Radar POTY (Documentary) and I wanted to find out who it was I’d made this random street image of. 



© Jim A Mortram
Please visit Small Town Inertia, an interview with Jim A Mortram for the full size image.

Market town is a small place and it did not take too long to find someone that knew someone that could put me in touch with Shaunny. I got an email and arranged a meeting at his home. At this time I was still borrowing a camera and lenses so I’d picked them up the morning of the shoot along with for the first time a 50mm.



My sessions always work the same. There is a lot of talking. I’ll always set out what the project is about, where images will be shown etc and then we really get into exploring life. Many times the people I shoot have no significant opportunity to talk, open up or be listened to. I like to ask a question then let things roll, to let the person reveal as much as they are want to share and interject with further questions throughout the conversation making fresh junctions together, seeing where it takes us.



I’d started with a 28mm, a f2.8 and the light was very dark that day and the D200 I was using was not the best camera for an interior, little light and so I was pretty much forced into putting the 50mm f1.8 to the body to give myself a little more room to play with.

 This first shoot with Shaunny was one of the first that I’d really explored intense 1 on 1’s. Walking into a total strangers house was quite something but my own fears were suppressed by the desire to do justice to what was happening within the room. Shaunny was opening up more than I had expected. Within 15 minutes of arriving he was opening his soul to me, every pain, loss, regret began to flow forth, at first just a trickle but soon becoming a river that was to burst it’s banks.



© Jim A Mortram
Please visit Small Town Inertia, an interview with Jim A Mortram for the full size image.

“I never talk to anyone about this stuff” Shaunny said as we talked through the loss of failed relationships, finding his Mother passed away at 15, the death of his young children, his battle with chronic back pain due to an accident, his self medication with alcohol. 



“Do you want to stop? I can put the camera down at any time” I told him, we were very close, the 50mm forces you to use your legs as a zoom so I was maybe 1 foot away from Shaunny, both of us standing parallel to the single window in his flat. Winter skies outside, I remember someone revving their car, redlining it, testing the engine outside a monotone drone that seemed to amplify the words, the stories Shaunny was sharing. There was no longer a camera between us. I often look over the viewfinder so actual eyes can lock, I shoot manual so that was spot metered and taken care of, shooting wide open at f1.8 hand held is tricky at the best of time and as Shaunny’s first tears started to come I fought to keep my own hands from shaking.



“Do you want to stop mate, I don’t have to photograph this” I asked again “No, I want you to, this is the first time I think I’ve ever opened up about these things, I want people to know I have regrets, that I am sorry, that I’m not who they think I am, I want people to see that I hurt too”.

© Jim A Mortram
Please visit Small Town Inertia, an interview with Jim A Mortram for the full size image.



Shaunny saying that was a revelation for me. I could easily have put the camera down had he not said that. In that moment I knew that to not do my best in this situation would be a dereliction of duty. Here I was, in another mans home, toe to toe with him baring his soul and tears, very old, bitter, painful and real tears spilling from his eyes and I felt for the first time the burden of a very wanted responsibility. I could feel myself totally engaged in this moment, this shared moment and also aware of controlling the camera, probably nervously as I’d never used a f1.8 50mm before so I was as nervous as all hell of getting it wrong but everything was happening so fast I just had to let the fear go, rely on instinct and carry on.



I shot a lot in 10 minutes, maybe 40 images and most all with Shaunny looking right into the camera, right into me, right into the audience. These were intense shots. Being so close to another human being in pain, sobbing their heart out. As Shaunny reached the climax of his very personal cathartic out pouring I took one last shot placed the camera to one side “Mate, that was amazing. Have you any idea how much that touched me. I’m almost in tears too! How do you feel?” I asked. Shaunny drying his tears looked up and at me and said, “Fucking brilliant mate, I feel fucking brilliant. Like a weights gone. Thank you.”



This really choked me. Thank me? I’d done nothing. Pressing a shutter is no big mystery to me. I’d not expected this day to unfold anywhere close to where its destination eventually was. It was becoming a moment of very real clarity for me too. These moments were teaching me why I had to pursue the Small Town Inertia series, that every person has their story, tales of loss, tales of joy, endurance regrets and hopes of redemption. Instead of 15 minutes of banal transient fame they deserve, instead of being the focus of an imposed ego destined to be art on a wall we all deserve to be listened to at the very least within our lives.

© Jim A Mortram
Please visit Small Town Inertia, an interview with Jim A Mortram for the full size image.


I put my arms around Shaunny and gave him a hug “You don’t have to thank me mate, thank yourself, you found it in you to face all these things, to get them out. You feel the regrets you do, they affect you. You’ve shown that in extraordinary circumstances today. I’m proud of you… be proud of you too. “



I packed my gear away and as I left I told Shaunny that I’d sit on the images for a while and visit again with a print, if he wanted them public we’d go from there. When I got home I was relieved the shots had come out at all. Whilst editing them I found the shots with open eyes a little too obvious and they somehow through all their evident pain lost some intensity and they did not really reflect the most poignant moment of that morning. The very last shot however did. When Shaunny paused for that final moment, tears upon his face with eyes closed finally reflecting upon the life, his life and all it’s pain and all his regrets that he had just fought into and excised and shared for me epitomized the pain, struggle, endurance, reflection and acceptance of that cold morning shared in a flat with a stranger. A few weeks later I returned with a print. I was weary, would Shaunny be pleased, would he not want to share the image at all. My fears were allayed instantly. Shaunny loved the image, was proud of the day. We’ve gone on to share many other moments together as I’ve documented his life and the portrait we made together hangs on his wall still.

Gonzalo Bénard: You’re creating a relation with them, only that way you can also have the honesty in your work that is so important, and I guess that this is not a short time project but a longer one. Do you want to show the evolution of being alive in such register?

Jim A Mortram: Absolutely. I could not see myself working in any other way than long form. Without the time invested I think I would document in a much shallower, ephemeral way so taking months, years to constantly document and share it gives the series context, there is a evolution within the lives, to tell any story you have to do more than read chapter one you have to read from the front to the back cover.

© Jim A Mortram
Please visit Small Town Inertia, an interview with Jim A Mortram for the full size image.

Gonzalo Bénard: Which is the evolution you noticed more since you started this social photographic work till this latest one you’re still developing?

Jim A Mortram: I firmly believe that you never reach a destination; I’m constantly moving forwards in terms of the way I do things mostly as I believe we never stop learning. The largest constraints to the work are financial; it’s hard to self-finance travel, film, equipment, bills etc when you pay for everything from Carers Allownce Benefits and that’s frustrating but not enough of an obstacle to stop my work on these series.

Gonzalo Bénard: Apart from the exposure you’re getting with your photography that can and should bring more awareness to our society, is there a immediate and practical help you’re getting or can get doing this work with/for them?

Jim A Mortram: I’ve had a wonderful reaction from so many photographic peers, curators and editors, something that began slowly and led to a point where I have a wonderful network of friends that help out in many ways which is something I value so dearly. RE the project I get no financial help outside the occasional donation, no Arts grants etc. One company that has helped me has been the UK Office of Hahnemuehle papers that were just fantastic in supporting my last exhibition, without their help the show could never have taken place at all.

© Jim A Mortram
Please visit Small Town Inertia, an interview with Jim A Mortram for the full size image.

Gonzalo Bénard: Of course that there’s always people who think that you’re taking advantage of them, and I’m saying this by some comments I read on an article about your project on BBC news, maybe from people who never did anything useful nor are aware of your real work. Is there anything you want to share to our readers who don’t know you?

Jim A Mortram: It’s easy for people to make a snap decision when looking at a series or a single image, I can understand that and honestly many of the situations people I work on stories are in, I’ve experienced myself so I have a real and true empathy, a connection with them and that’s mutual. I’ve always made sure everyone I’ve ever worked with fully understands the project, consent is always the first element discussed and I’ve never had a complaint from anyone that’s been a part of a series in fact it’s just the contrary as my phone often rings with people wanting to do it, to be involved. What people maybe don’t understand is the depth of commitment between all the people in the series and myself, it’s long term and very real.

Gonzalo Bénard: How can someone take part on this project or how can someone help you/them on this Small Town Inertia?

Jim A Mortram: The most important thing I would always say is to view the images in context with the interviews and testimony upon the Small Town Inertia site or the Aletheia Photos site of which I’m a member. If anyone would like to help the project there is a donate link upon the Small Town Inertia site.

© Jim A Mortram
Please visit Small Town Inertia, an interview with Jim A Mortram for the full size image.

Text and photos by Alex Tomazatos.

Of course I am full of uncertainty. So full of it, that I have reached the point of categorizing it in good one and the one transposed in hair pulling and nail biting. The good one materializes in a spinal downrush when, after a long ride, voyage or flight, I disembark alone without knowing what awaits for me – where I shall sleep, what I shall eat, where shall I go next or who shall I meet. My shoelaces are tightened once again, the camera strap is adjusted one more time around my shoulder and I am ready to exchange uncertainty for concentration and fear for rejoice.

Real and Imaginary Letters to Oana

19.09.2011 Sfistofca, Romania

I haven’t been here for more than 2 months and I miss it – the place and the photos I took there. I miss Egor in his two-wheeled cart, catching up with me just a short distance from his house. I also missed the fish soup, with the fish caught and prepared in the same morning and the comfort of their home. A strange, sublime comfort, which any traveler would long for after so much sand, sun and thorn-bushes. I wonder why exactly today, after 11 months, and 14-15 trips here, I started writing. I have “waves”. I have “phases”. I have crises; all figuratively and literally. Of restlessness, of confusion, of revelation: everything. All day I had one thing in my head – besides Amelia – intimacy. How to illustrate it, this word, intimacy, brings me to Rachel Mummey’s “For better or for worse”.

I passed by Ignat. He was at a neighbor. I raised my hand greeting the men and walked by. I did not recognized him because of his glorious new beard. This upset him.

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I cannot concentrate. If I would, maybe I would not call Ignat “Igor” (same as Egor). I am embarrassed when this happens and maybe you’ll say I don’t care about the people I photograph. I do care, but my mind is totally blurred when I come to this place. Maybe there are other causes…

Today I met Alenpe, Vasea’s cousin. He is a very intelligent man, this father of two who took up priesthood. For me, he is a little too intelligent to be the father of children who took up such carriers. I somehow got the impression that he is not very fond of religion, so I think he would agree with me. One of them is now the bishop of the Russian Lipovans. Alenpe and I discussed various topics, and Ignat got himself a Mona, a bottle of the blue sanitary alcohol the locals here consume with gusto. He got it from me… I broke my own code.

Aliosa, Petca, Adi and others started to build a stable. It seemed interesting, especially because is completely made of reed. I have never seen how the reed is turned into a structure before, with the exception of reed fences in Sulina, but then I was too young to care. Back then all I cared for was the perfect cane, to make the perfect arrow or the perfect spear. I brought a photo from last trip to Petca with him steering the boat full of church’s carpets. That was before the motor’s screws escaped the transom and the kid passed out from drinking next to the village priest in the boat, leaving me to row a boat full of carpets and two “sick” people (as described by some tourists) until close to Sulina when a boat came to pick us up.

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This evening the light was good, I took some shots, but I was not there. I could not connect. In front of me, unwinding was a brutal and brutalized world, with families gathering around the cheap “100% grapes” wine, the bottles of Mona. Added the chill of a September evening, easily I stepped back when shaking their wet, huge or dusty hands. My mind was filled with thoughts of the hot food, the high old bed with starched sheets, and the warmth of the two elders’ home that is now for me like the center of the Universe.

“This is not a hunt or race”, I thought, reminding myself that to relax. But on my way to my hosts Maria finds me whilst out talking with a neighbor. She stops me for a picture, like every time she sees me. I lied and said that I didn’t have battery or film. Still, she wanted a picture of herself basking in the September sunset. If I had taken her picture just for the sake of pleasing her, she would ask to have it printed next time. No problem, but I can’t really do all of them. As she gets closer I notice she is not wearing beige tights, but she is in underwear only. Maria is about 50 years old, 1.9 meters tall, and she has a slight mental handicap. She asks me for pictures every time she sees me since my first trip here when I gave her a picture with her and her foal. 

20.09.2011 Sfistofca, Romania

Egor and I checked his fikenets, a type of tunnel-like fish traps. It seemed like I was his lucky charm today: we found one pike, 3 tenches, a small crucian carp (I have never seen one up-close), a small carp, some Prussian carp and perch. This catch comes after a period when no fish were seen here.

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At about 10 a.m. the soup was ready. A tench and a chunk of pike each, plus, for the guests, sunfish and the small crucian carp. Then we go grape harvesting. The light isharsh, but besides taking photos I fill a few times the bucket prepared by Zenovia, Egor’s wife, especially for me. On the way back, I don’t know what took my mind to Oana, but it gave me some swift, hard-hitting flashbacks. I still have them. Still, I sometimes think of answering “Do you miss her?”

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© Alex Tomazatos
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The thought of going tomorrow to Letea at the church’s patron fair is thrilling. However, I felt I should stop thinking of everything as a “picture harvest”, something with a quota from which I have to come back with good photos. This is detrimental to the quality, the sincerity. Thinking like this, I felt little better than a hunter, or worse, a scavenger. I should learn to relax. 

I don’t know how, nor can I guess, a day or two is enough to think of how good is at home with my family. Here nobody messes with my head, no phone rings and I don’t think about emails. My only distraction is school, because today Laura called to tell me she got into a new master program, and we’ll be in the same university again, but different years of study. I didn’t know what to think; when I am at home it seems to take so little to be close to raging hell.

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I paid a visit to Aliosa, Petca and their father while they were working on their new stable. I snapped some frames of the reed construction and then Aliosa and Octav Postolache, a retired art teacher from northern Romania who moved here with his wife about 10 years ago, posed for me on the field between the crumbling houses. I found out that the community center – the club, as the teacher calls it – has now a PC and a printer, besides TV and stove. I have also learned that a communal chess competition with contestants from Letea, Sfistofca, Rosetti and Periprava took place in the community center here in Sfistofca. Petca finished on second place. I began to realize the efforts the old teacher has made to get the villagers off the bottle, something which seems so attractive here where life unwinds in poverty, dust and isolation.

21.09.2011 Letea, Romania

After I took some pictures of Zenovia picking grapes from yesterday’s harvest for the church’s communion wine, I set on foot to Letea. On sandy roads, through forests, I listened to and recorded owls and cowbells luring me from the misty woods. In one and a half hours, admiring and recording included, I reached Letea. There I met the most photogenic children of the village: Alexandru, Catalina and Constantin. Their mom seemed pregnant to me, a fact confirmed by the French filming crew that already finished their film. The woman was five months along, even though her husband only got out of prison in August, a month ago. Anyway, they liked the photos I brought for them, and the poster from my first real solo exhibition poster, where Catalina features. That was exactly 2 years ago – at the same holiday.

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As I do every time I go shooting, I ask myself if I will be able to pull it off this time. It’s like this every time I get somewhere, especially in a new place. This is not a new place, but still… My day in Letea was spent at the church taking pictures, talking with the villagers, playing with their children and taking more pictures. The youth were circulating a rumor that that night at the local bar there would be some kind of special event.

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I decided to follow my intuition which, based on previous experiences, told me that not so much would happen (now as I am writing this I realize how stupid this was, and how much in contradiction with my normal practice it was – be there first, leave there last). So, I hitchhiked home, with a boat. Contrary to the custom around here, I got the ride for free.

22.10.2011 Istanbul, Turkey

I got off the bus at 2:30 am, found a crayfish on the street in front of the fish market in Kumkapi, while scouting for the fishing vessel where I stayed last year. I froze on a bench until around 5 am. After that, I set out on foot, crossing Eminonu and Galata Bridge. I stayed there until 7 am. To my surprise, during the night the bridge is filled by roughly the same number of fishermen as in daytime, who keep themselves warm by lighting every kind of litter they can find. By around blue hour those fires looked great. When the light was bright, I went back to find my fishermen from last year. Fish auction are still at around 9:30 am. I did not find the crew from Barracuda 2, but I did find the two other fishermen on a small boat I met last year as well. I gave them the pictures and left to swell my right tonsil some more by waiting Barracuda 2 in the wind by the port’s lighthouse. Two sandwiches and a few apples later (from my mother) I leave Kumkapi.

It felt really good crossing the historical district in the middle of the day, again. I met Michel, a German student sent here to teach Turks GIS for at least a month. I know him from home, in Sulina, where I met him in front of my house. He was with his girlfriend, Ines, and a Polish traveler named Jed. Back then, we partied with barbecue and electric guitars as my part of town had never seen or heard. I took him through the most crowded market I have ever seen since I come to Istanbul and we stayed for juice and tea in 3 different places.

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23.10.2011 Istanbul, Turkey

Initially I was going to set my alarm early to catch the fires on Galata bridge, but because of my cold and the back pains which now are spreading to my feet, I could not refuse myself a good sleep; especially after forty hours without sleep with about twenty of walking with a backpack.

Every time I reach my destination, be it new or familiar, the same question runs through my skull: will I manage to do something this time? Every time I ask myself if I will find situations from which to return with good pictures. I gave up the hunter’s approach because it is not good for me. But sometimes I feel I am one. And every time, I try to find perseverance and patience that eventually make it all pay off.

Here is increasingly hard for me to find something. In this gigantic city, it is hard to find something to make mine, something to photograph. So I am not going after my fishermen and decide to wait more. I only paid for 3 nights at the hostel because I never know where I wind up. I went to Taksim Square thinking that, being Sunday, I might find something different to what I had so far. And I did. After about 10 minutes, a group of demonstrators appeared with flags, headbands, and scarves, shouting nationalist and anti-PKK (Kurdistan Workers Party) slogans.

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Immediately, everything concentrates around the monument in the square, where I was surprised to see small children waving the huge flag with adults and shouting the hymns and slogans. For me, a non-, maybe anti-patriot, this is intriguing. When I start to shoot near the immense flag, a man gestures in sign of invitation for me to take photos from under the flag. I stay there until I go numb on my feet and lower back; so concentrated that I forget about the back pains. What was good was that the demonstration started with me there, meaning I had 40 minutes alone before the press showed up. After that, 4-5 cameras started shooting and, of course, chimping under that same flag. I stepped back pleased. Looking for water and stretching. I followed the rally only to make sure I don’t lose other shots. After that, though, I hardly took any photo at all. It all looked too newspaperish to me. The crowd disbanded and I left to Karakoy looking to buy a shawl for Laura and a lunch for me.

26.10.2011 Istanbul, Turkey

I did nothing for a day, and another one I spent on the Asian side searching for a bazaar, which is only open on Tuesdays. I found it. Pictures ok, but I enjoyed eating a pomegranate the size of my head even more.

I got back to Kumkapi, without a trace of Barracuda 2. I meet a man who speaks English and knows the crew I seek. He is the captain’s cousin. And guess what: Barracuda has left to Izmir – for good. One of them is in Samsun and another quit fishing. I don’t know what to think or how I feel. The absence of the Barracuda 2 leant a lot of instability to my plans, since I wanted so much to see them. I am sure they would have been happy to see me. Uğur was happy to see me. Last year he invited me on his boat to smoke a joint, as big as on a Bob Marley caricature t-shirt. I turned him down, sadly; firstly I was there with work in my mind and secondly I did not want paranoia with pirates in the middle of the day.

As if in some cheap, but somehow cute comedy, the same episode from last year happens again. I walk a few meters after leaving the pictures for Barracuda to the captain’s cousin and greet three fishermen on a boat. “Ḉai? Tea?” was their reply. I am not that stupid to say “no” and there we go again. This way I get to know Ali, Dursun and his son, Tolga. They also left their town, Ordu. Just like last year, one of them was speak a bit of English. Dursun worked on cargo ships almost 10 years. Then again, this year my Turkish is not so bad either.

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Accepting tea is enough to be asked if you’re hungry. A few hours later we go to Kumkapi to watch the game of their local team from Ordu with Bursa. We cannot find any place to see the game so we stop undecided in front of a tea saloon where men play cards, backgammon and drink tea. The fishermen disband, one of them left in search for a public phone. Probably there were not enough seats in the saloon. Later I went back to Sirkeci, and checked in for another 3 nights. The next day, I decided to come back again.

27.10.2011 Istanbul, Turkey

Over the past few days I have been thinking of clichés, and indeed how I am perpetuating them. I am the worst person with whom to have a discussion on the theory of photography. I’ve heard that photography has already been “smoked” and now is only being rearranged. However, I have started to feel that the balance is inclined towards the hours of drooling on the net rather than to the days and weeks on the field with the subject. I don’t know…I really don’t. I apply formulas, I improvise, I imitate.

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Some of them are commonly know, some are more my own. And I get rubbish, nothing more. Decisive moments, reflections in the windows, strange mix of faces in the frame, cut busts, taken from above, taken from below…long exposures and nothing else. Wherever I turn to, images come to my head, but they are not mine.

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29.10.2011 Istanbul, Turkey

I went back to Rustem Paşa mosque in a place I found yesterday. A narrow alley guarded by the high stone walls. There are big arched iron doors, windows with heavy grids and a corner for me to wait around. I frame, focus – talk about hunting – and gnash my teeth in the current whizzing through the thick beanie I bought yesterday near the Egyptian bazaar. The old man from the other corner already knew I was not a tourist passing by just to see the mosque. The shutter snaps metallically several times and… I’m done. Time to go and eat.

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Later I hop on the ferry to Kadikoy with my last token. I take it three times, watching how the person beyond the window in front of me changes every half hour; only the reflections of the train station, shipyard, cruise ships and tall minarets are the same on their faces. A waiter cleaning the deck of teacups interrupts my freeze from the bow of the ship and I get down in Kadikoy. It couldn’t be the other side so I won’t have to go into my last ten lira bill!… Luckily it was not necessary though.

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Back at the hostel, I was more at ease. I was waiting for the sun to get a bit lower before going out – but I fall asleep on a couch up on the rooftop terrace, enchanted by the muezzin’s call for prayer echoing from the minarets all around.

30.10.2011 Istanbul, Turkey

Err 99 Shooting is not possible. Turn the power switch to and again or re-install the battery.

My camera died and left me just hours before hopping on the bus back home. I was shooting in live-view mode on a bridge and the last few frames carried the “symptom”: a quarter of the frame had light leaks and the last shot had the same portion darkened. Not surprised and I wasn’t expecting that.

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14.11.2011 Sofia, Bulgaria.

I checked in at the hotel and I’m dying for a photo. The green, polka-dotted armchairs and curtains are on the sides of the big square window revealing the city at dusk with its lights and smog. The small table, the lamp guarding the large window at the 12th floor in this grand communist hotel, they all compose a scenery long time hidden in my subconscious. I accepted being brought here, but not for a photographic business. Still, it’s the first time in 8 years – no it’s the first time in my life – when I go somewhere without a camera. I could not find one before leaving Iasi, so I won’t come back with pictures on hard drive disk, but on mental one, recalling how I used my eyelids as shutters when seeing something that was worth raising the camera to the eye. I always thought is a good exercise…

22.12.2011 Sfistofca, Romania

My brain turned on instantly when the alarm rang. I was just on time to catch the ride to the village. From C.A. Rosetti until here took longer than usual. I left the road a few times for the woods. My rucksack is heavy, but small and compact. My boots feel tight and impenetrable to the cold because of my two pairs of socks, and my fingertips have just the right amount of freeze. I feel good. It’s my first trip since the camera visited the doctor – it needed a new shutter. It seems slower than before, but perhaps is just an impression. The air is frosty and the hoarfrost decorates everything on the ground. The water-soaked sand is like concrete now. I missed the frozen fields, the ghostly ringing of cowbells in the forest, the croak of pheasants. I don’t know what day is, but I remember when my phone starts ringing. I could not turn it off, even if until 8 a.m. I already spoke with my brother (he called me at 6 a.m.) and my parents who call to wish me “happy birthday”. As the conversations finish, my lapsing back into temporality is both welcomed and inevitable.

I spent more time on the road because I started to explore what I think could be a new chapter. The award from COPY while I was inactive has motivated me tremendously. I want now to experiment, to do something different, but complementary. The influences are obvious, but the other part of “Homeland” (my biggest, never-ending project about Danube Delta) has its origins in my subconscious, perhaps somewhere back in my childhood. I went into the delta with something in my mind…maybe unpeopled? Question marks have always tormented me. I always searched for human presence in my photographs. But now, at least for the moment, I see this parallel as some kind of “after”, if the current series in colors is “before” or “now”. What would happen “after” people are no longer in my pictures? I borrowed a film camera from Daniel, a good friend and colleague, but it’s the digital still then one I use now.

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I don’t have money for film and it would take a few rolls just to see how things work. I do not know what film is, and the thought of lacking the “discipline of film” has always made me feel incomplete. On digital I used to have 2000 shots at the end of the day. Maybe for commercial shooting is okay, but for me it is the reflection of occurring impatience, invasiveness and lack of discernment; a fear that the decisive moment would escape me if I stay on “single shot” and not on “burst mode”, thus making me a visual Gatling gun with less discernment than intended, driven by the images of my models that got stuck in my head.

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I start the above-mentioned “parallel” in digital, though. I can’t wait until I can afford some film. I feel like I start all over by doing this. My photos are amateurish and with a high dose of uncertainty, and it’s a cross I bear with pleasure, I must say. Black and white photography on film, not to mention developing processes, has always seemed to me something unattainable…

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Egor and I went fishing – seven fish this time. Now I grope in an abandoned house, I reach for some food in my rucksack and I head to C.A. Rosetti through the forest. I try an alternative way, which leads me to the village cemetery, and from there I find my way back, out of the village. I roam through the woods following feral horses. My simple and safe mental map shatters when I make my way out in the field and I see in the distance, in the direction of my destination, the village I just left from not so long time before.

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© Alex Tomazatos
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Back in Rosetti and then Sfistofca. Two perches and a Prussian carp, all fried and…done – I’m back to base. In the room, the heat makes all optics unusable and torpor sets in as if I have stacked hay all day. Today was not so bad. I did not photograph so many people, and the result was the same for me. I did exactly what I considered “artistic” in a mild fulsome way. I did not hunt. I walked and gave each shot some thought. Maybe what I want to do next is a counterweight, the dreamlike “parallel”. Or perhaps this will destroy the balance (is there any?) of what I have so far.

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It suddenly came to me that I don’t have any finished body of work. Something concrete, solid. I still have moments of doubt about what is best of my work. Impatience and confusion are draining the life out of me. Same for exhaustion. It’s just past 6 pm and I feel all my bones broken. After more than a month of successfully doing nothing, I start to feel guilty.

23.12.2011 Letea, Romania

I left Sfistofca on foot. I passed through Rosetti and reached Letea. The village is ghostly – I have hardly seen a person. I roam aimlessly looking for “trouble”. I did not aim my camera too much on people these days. I photographed Zenovia and Egor because I stayed with them more, but for the rest of it… still searching without knowing what for.

The delta has something that hardens a man. It reveals more of his wild nature, accustoming him with her isolation. As someone said, here, man limits himself to what he sees – water, reeds, bulrush, nothing more. Compared to the rest of the people, he is like the feral beasts that sniff the dirt in the woods and were, some time ago, in his homestead. Thinking of this, I start asking myself why when I am at home is like walking on burning coals and after two or three days on the field it does not seem so bad returning home. Only a couple of days! The landscape and atmosphere have some oppressive. It’s a marvelous land nonetheless, but it has its own spookiness. The truth, admitted only in my heart and mind (and now in these rows) is that since Oana and I parted, I haven’t been the same ever since. And the spookiness is spookier and harder to bear. I am totally changed, maybe in good, maybe in bad, but I incline for the first. This happened years ago and since then Sulina is a place I can hardly stand. It’s not that I did not get over it, I did, but walking through her parent’s villages I feel the loss of something inside me never to be found. Maybe it’s better this way and time is the only one needed. To “marry” photography this time seemed the best and most normal outcome. To put my work which does not even provide me with a living in front of my relations with family and others; to submerge myself in what I do, to be constantly on the road, so I won’t have when to think of something else. And the more hurdles I leap, the more sucked I get. This cannot last forever and I have to look for some balance. My photographic dilemmas are too many and too big to leave room for others. And what is more difficult is being unable to distill my dilemmas into words, words to form sentences, sentences with any kind of punctuation at the end, if that matters.

A mother with three small children were on their way to school. From their discussion I understood that there was a Christmas show where children sing carols and recite poems to Santa Claus. I knew that was the place I wanted to be. Outside it was very cold, inside it was very hot, and my camera got fogged to the core. Wiping my lens or viewfinder was useless, and the last time I was at this kind of event, I was the same age as the ones on the stage.

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I met Constantin in front of the school. His sister, Catalina, the girl on my first exhibition poster was participating in the show. From Constantin I found out that their brother, Alexandru, works for a neighbor chopping firewood. Both boys dropped out of school, and Catalina is back in the first grade. After the show Constantin took me to a shop I did not know, but because it was closed we visited the graveyard. I ask him about his father who got out from prison less than six months ago. I was also curious about his baby brother, Luca Andrei, who was only one or two months old. In his purple thin jacket the boy shivers in the whipping wind. I feel sorry to hear they dropped school. There is no future for them here, and they, with the help of their parents, have thrown away their last chance to pull themselves out of the hardships to come. A villager appears and easily sets a bargain with the boy who follows the man to work.

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Frozen and waiting for the minibus I saw dusk’s usually consistent blue sky succumbs to darkness faster than usual, because of the clouds. The car arrives; the terrace of the shop where I am waiting is lighted, so I think I can get something out the dark sky. I set my camera on a high ISO, maximum aperture, long exposure, handheld. The strange, beautiful, mix of people, bags, carts, bicycles and playing children, that unwinds every day at 5 p.m. when the minibus is ready to connect the villages north of Sulina, made me forget about the cold and lit a fire under me. It is one of those combinations of artificial and natural light that is visually stimulating.

18.01.2012 Iasi, Romania

I went to Laura. She was working, and she asked me to pay her tuition fees, because otherwise she wouldn’t be able to attend the exams. A bit of frost is good for me and I can have some time with myself on the way. This way I hoped to clear my mind of the thoughts that got crammed between four walls during the last few days.

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I tried to take photographs of the student life – again. I failed, obviously. I got one or two good pictures, but nothing solid. This because I hated it, I did not belong to that kind of life. It does not matter why. I hated pretty much everything that comes with it. I did not enjoy being a student. I got good grades, even though I hated my faculty, and living in Iasi.

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Obviously I have a fair share of guilt. But since I started my last academic year in October things changed a lot. I started to like Iasi, but only in my room and around my roommates. That’s why I take pictures, without any intention of showing glimpses of student life. What is here is, for us, outside time or space. It’s like living my subject.

2.02.2012 Sulina, Romania

I arrived home yesterday. Even though I had plenty of time, I forgot to write. From Tulcea to Sulina instead of 4 hours, it took me 8. Not with the ferryboat, but with a beacon carrier. I was not alone, many people had to reach their homes. The Danube is not navigable and the ferryboat is blocked at shore. Everything is paralyzed, and here in the delta, isolated too. What I saw during those 8 hours was really spectacular. Such a hard winter had not visited these places for a long, long time. I do not feel sorry for coming, although I might get stuck here. I like what I see, but I don’t like the possibility of not getting out in time for my last exam. Without it, I can’t apply for the internship in Turkey and with the complications will come in a cascade effect.

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Two and a half years ago I started a multimedia project about the Greek community from Sulina. For that I visited Vanghelie and Alexandra Marcari, the eldest couple in town, twice. On Monday, January 30th, Vanghelie Marcari turned 99. Two days after that, yesterday as I write, his wife Alexandra died. I visited him today at noon and in the evening at the vigil watch. There were no people. It is too cold.

6.02.2012 Sulina, Romania

On the other end of the town, across the Danube, things look different. There, behind the houses stretching on a single street on the river’s bank, it is hidden a small channel connected with the one leading north, to Cardon. On the far end, it reaches the Danube one mile upstream from where the town ends. People are poor, and isolated; the landscape portrays the relative poverty of Sulina on its left bank. I walk across on frozen water, and meet Petre Ujei who is going to his father for some firewood. Since it was such a hard winter, people’s stocks of firewood were already dwindling. This led to the cutting of many willows from nearby. Later, walking on the ice, I meet Marius, who was “sewing” his gillnets under the ice with great skill. I get acquainted with Mr. Mihai too, after helping him to carry a sheaf of reeds he cut near the channel.

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After that we discuss various topics while sipping something one can hardly call “wine”. Our topics range from the history of our town, to the genesis of the delta, to our national poet; 40 delightful minutes that freeze me to the core, there, in the middle of the frozen channel.

Marius kept “sewing” his nets nearby, lightly dressed, like Mr. Mihai. Both men had been with their hand in the ice holes for the whole morning. Marius’ worried wife appears when he has already finished and asks me if I want to warm up a bit. Of course I do and once we get home, the couple with their youngest son, Sorin, and their smallest dog, Maia, start to defrost and talk.

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He was a fisherman until 7 years ago when he had to quit when the law changed and he had to do it on his own with authorization. Without money to afford the taxes, he gave up fishing. Now he fishes for subsistence, but the law not so long ago changed again and such practice is allowed only with fishing rods, not with net gear – making it impossible to feed a family. This is the reason for which the border police confiscated his boat, something he was only able to afford after two years of hard work in Greece with his wife. You hear a lot about the abuses of the authorities, especially the border police in these parts.

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Two years ago he underwent surgery on his spine, but his wife is a very fierce woman. She told me that in case Marius gets incapable of fishing, she would go and work in his place with his brothers. As I later found out from my grandfather, an old pal of Marius, his wife comes from a family where the members have been fishermen for many generations. Well warmed after a mug of hot, spiced wine I leave with Sorin, who offers to lead me back in town.

© Alex Tomazatos
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© Alex Tomazatos
Please visit Notes on the Roads, by Alex Tomazatos for the full size image.

10.02.2012 Sulina, Romania

It was 1:19 am when I noted that I had been on a tugboat, Gheorgheni 2, for one and a half hours. It reached the port not long ago, it waits for the local stores supplies to be unloaded and then it leaves again to Tulcea. It’s my only chance to leave Sulina these days. I don’t know when, but I will get to Tulcea. The 72-73 kilometers can take a day or it can take three. We are about 10 persons who hope to reach Tulcea. The moon is almost full, and its light is strong. No one has seen this kind of ice blockade. The ship shakes with a rumble sound when it hits the ice banks that plug the Danube once every few miles. Gathering pace, it climbs the thick ice, which breaks under the tugboat’s weight.

© Alex Tomazatos
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After my eyes got used to the dark, I could really see for the first time what lies ahead: ice that was compact enough to walk on, sparkling under the moonlight. Oana’s father, Gheorghe, was working on this shift, below in the engines room somewhere…

© Alex Tomazatos
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At 9:15 am we docked in Tulcea. I spent Eight hours between the deckhouse, cabins and the three decks where the cold felt like pliers tearing at the flesh on my face. I did not sleep, there was no space for that, but others have managed to do it in the engine room, where you couldn’t even hear your thoughts if you tried. This was the most interesting part of the journey.

© Alex Tomazatos
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Next is my brother’s flat in Galati, where all that impresses the camera’s sensor looks like creepy paintings. The trains are canceled too. One had a delay of sixty hours, time that people froze, hungry and could not use the toilets in the middle of a white, endless field. I had no idea when I would reach Iasi.

© Alex Tomazatos
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15.03.2012 Somewhere on a train between Iasi and Bucharest, Romania

The two phone’s alarms rang simultaneously, waking me up instantly although something of a deep, narcotic sleep still clung to my head and eyelids. I hate sweet, greasy “goodbyes” so a “Good night, see you when the summer comes” was all between me my roommates before going to sleep. They understand me…

I have left to Turkey. In fact tomorrow I am departing – to Eastern Anatolia to be precise. It was nice in the room, but not very active for me. I had almost no schoolwork, nothing. This state of things would eventually drive me crazy, so I decided to do something before leaving university for good. I leave in great disgust for my university and faculty, which by now cannot surprise me any longer. I shall see Iasi again, after 3 months when the hell of my un-equivocated exams and final thesis will break loose in my last days as a student. By then, it is possible that the mud and puddles filling the streets and alleys will be gone and the tram will reach my campus as it did last year until fall. Or I might be too optimistic. I do want to leave that blasted place, but it will be great to come back in the room and then have at least one barbeque down the ski trail with Roberto’s boom box cassette player blaring out. If not, the summer is long and my house is enough for everybody.

What’s next? I don’t know and I don’t think I am supposed to; a lot, of that I am sure. Next is life – real, adventurous, hard-punching life. The world that lies ahead is waiting for me to take a dive. I imagined many times how I would feel in those moments. It will be the moment when I’ll be seeing myself on the edge of my highest cliff, bracing and saying, “Let’s jump. Let’s fucking jump, man!!” Joy, fear, good thrills, bad thrills, good trips or bad trips, new friends, old friends, adventure – anywhere, love, death…I am waiting for all of that. And I hope my camera won’t leave my shoulder for even one instant.

I would like to express my gratitude to Ronan MacDubhghaill and Mark Byrnes for helping me bring this story to its present form. Their time and effort is greatly appreciated.

Please visit Alex Tomazatos website for more information and photos.

Text¹ and photos by Marc McAndrews.

“Have you ever been to a brothel?” she asked.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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It was August 2004 and “she” was the girlfriend of one of the bikers. They were staying in the motel room next to mine at the Cadillac Inn in Lovelock, Nevada and were on their way back from the Sturgis bike rally. We were trading stories when she began excitedly telling me about the Brothel Poker Run that takes place throughout Nevada every February.

By this time I had been driving and living in my van for weeks so I stopped into Lovelock to relax, shower and look over some of the photographs I had recently taken. The late summer sun in the desert is brutal, able to push past every form of shade. Even though the air conditioner was on full blast, my room was stagnant and sweltering from having been cooked all day. To get some air I went outside and sat in front of my room to drink beer, smoke cigarettes and watch the traffic go by.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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The bikers were out front of their rooms as well, a few doors down from mine. At first it was just two of them, like a couple of off-color raccoons, their faces a patchwork of sunburn and bright-white, bare-skinned eye sockets, acquired by riding through the desert all day with sunglasses on.

We sat there silently drinking our beers in the late afternoon light until eventually, with the intention of asking to do their portrait; I bummed a light and offered them a beer in return. One thing lead to another, their friends joined us and a few days later I left them with a massive hangover. I don’t know at exactly what point it was that she asked the question, but like a moment of clarity, it’s one of the few lucid memories I have from our weekend together.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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I had heard the Nevada brothels existed, but going to one hadn’t ever really crossed my mind. I was never a big fan of strip clubs; they felt desperate and depressing to me. The ones I had been to were rooms full of drunken men, yelling at the sight of a nipple, desperately throwing money at women who had no intention of sleeping with them. And prostitution? Well, I had always thought of it in terms of what one used to see on the seamier streets in NY or roaming the casinos in Vegas. The legal, sanctioned, and regulated sale of sex never showed up on my mental radar.

As I was leaving town I found myself thinking about brothels, wondering what I was going to find there. I had all these preconceived ideas: double-wide trailers in the middle of a barren, dusty desert, women with no pasts and men running from theirs, whisky soaked owners trying to hustle a buck off of someone else’s misfortune. Drifters, grifters, runaways—I saw all these people in my imaginary brothel. The insides were all dark and dirty, the air was heavy with smoke, alcohol flowed and drugs were a badly kept secret. It would be gritty and American and I imagined myself making formal 4×5 photographs of all of this.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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But, really, what the fuck did I know? I had never even been to a brothel before. My fantasy was filled with scenes and characters more suited to a Nick Cave song than anything that had to do with reality.

When I got back to New York a few days later, fully recovered from my Nevada hangover but still suffering from an Ohio one, I immediately began planning my trip back West and flew out a few weeks later to do some scouting.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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The first brothel I ever went to was the Bunny Ranch in Carson City. I didn’t call them, had no introduction, but just showed up early one evening with some tear sheets and a vague idea of what I wanted to do. To say I was a little on edge would be a pretty big understatement.

I vividly remember sitting in my van in the parking lot outside the brothel. I sat there for quite awhile, trying to get my nerve up, breathing hard and starting to hyperventilate. I was all calm and confident talking about it back in New York, but to actually be here about to try to talk myself inside was a whole other story. I kept thinking to myself, “Why the fuck did I tell people I was going to do this! What the fuck was I thinking!” All I wanted to do was turn around, go back to my motel room and hide under the covers and pretend this had never happened. I was completely, one hundred percent, out of my comfort zone.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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Reluctantly, I stepped out of the driver’s side door, walked up and pressed the red buzzer on the gate. Trying to mask my awkwardness from whoever was watching me, I took a deep breath and opened the gate, concentrating on looking as relaxed as possible walking up the stairs. I opened the frosted glass doors of the entrance, walked through and…Holy shit, there were all these women standing there in lingerie, perfectly lined up under bright lights, smiling right at me. That veneer of calm and confidence never made it through those frosted doors. I just stood there blushing, fidgeting, unable to make eye contact, holding my tear sheets and my little notebook and my binder. I was totally confused, unable even to get my rehearsed greeting out. I felt so stupid, so vulnerable and so exposed.

A voice to my right asked me to “pick a lady” so, blindly, I lifted my arm and pointed out in front of me. I had no idea who I picked; I only briefly looked up from nervously studying the floor.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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She took me gently by my free hand and began giving me a tour of the house. We passed through the bar, went down this hallway, down that hallway, past the doctor’s office, outside, then back inside. I tried to explain to her that I was a serious photographer; I was here to do serious things. “There was no need for a tour,” I assured her. We went all around the house until finally we arrived at her room where she closed the door and laid lazily across the bed. With seeming unconcern, she began fixing buttons on her top which I swear didn’t need any fixing.

She looked up at me and smiled, “So, what else can I help you with?”

© Marc Mc Andrews
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“I just want to take pictures,” I stuttered in return.

Arriving back in NY a few days later I was convinced that all had gone well and the sought after permission was a done deal and so I bought another van on EBay and readied for another trip.

But life and work got in the way and it wasn’t until early the next summer that I was able to get back out on the road. Now usually when I leave on one of these trips I meander for a few days, maybe go down south a bit, explore the switchbacks of West Virginia or the tiny towns out in Indiana. This year I bee-lined straight for Nevada arriving a few days after, tired and nervous yet excited for the possibilities. I spent the day after I arrived resting to get my bearings and trying to think about what exactly I was going to do.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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I woke up early the next morning, feeling ready and prepared. Leaving Carson City I headed east on Route 50 towards Mound House and The Bunny Ranch.

This time when I arrived I was prepared when asked to “pick a lady” and asked to see a manager. The doorwoman, who acted as a gatekeeper for drunks and creepy photographers looking to take pictures, asked if there was anything that she could help with. As the women in the line-up relaxed and began slowly drifting back to the parlor and their rooms, I explained that I was the photographer who was here a few months ago and had been given permission to take some photographs whenever I came back. Looking me up and down she took the folder of images I was holding, thumbed through them quickly and handed it back. Bluntly she told me they weren’t interested in any photographs and the manager wasn’t available, but I could call back later that afternoon if I wanted to talk to somebody.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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Not quite sure what had just happened (was I denied or just stalled?) I made the drive back to Carson City and attempted to regroup. Hours later I was still nervously pacing my motel room, back and forth from concrete wall to concrete wall, staring at the phone in my hand trying to organize my thoughts. I needed to figure out what exactly I wanted to say to whoever it was I was about to call and talk to.

After a series of fumbled phone introductions I was finally transferred to someone I was told could help me. The woman I eventually spoke with on the phone assured me that I must have been mistaken, that she was the only one that would have been able to give me that kind of permission and she had no idea who I was. She was sorry, but she couldn’t help me. “Thank you and good-bye.”

© Marc Mc Andrews
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I stood there in a state of shock from the abruptness and finality of her response; I had figured that I would at least be allowed to come in for a meeting to talk with someone.

I remembered seeing a sign for another set of brothels on one of my drives out to the Bunny Ranch, so after dinner I set back out for Mound House hoping I’d have better luck at one of these houses. I found them hidden down a small slope of a hill, past a few auto painting and machine shops. This was Carson City’s version of a red light district. Three brothels—the Kit Kat Guest Ranch, The Bunny Ranch II, and The Sagebrush—were situated on a large cul-de-sac parking lot. Closing off its far side was a junkyard that filled the surrounding acres with stacks and stacks of abandoned cars and buses.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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Walking into The Kit Kat was a much different experience. Gone were the bright lights and line-ups of the Bunny Ranch, replaced by a lone bartender watching TV in an empty and dimly lit parlor. As I took a seat at the bar one of the women appeared from a side hallway and slid in close to me. Eyeing the folder resting in front of me she asked where I was from and who I was looking to see. Taking out my Polaroids and placing them on the bar, I began explaining to her that I was here to start a project photographing the brothels, a very serious project. Without even bothering to glance at the Polaroids she turned, disappeared into the back and returned a few seconds later with another woman and the manager on duty. We only spoke for a short time before the manager deferred to the woman who had originally approached me and then vanished back down the hallway. I was much more comfortable here and this time when a tour was offered I was able to accept without having to look down at my shoes.

The woman who took me around was tall and full-figured. I remember being struck by how at ease she was talking to a total stranger with half of her breasts spilling out of her top. Walking through the house we chatted about possible locations to shoot and who would be up for it. She promised to talk with the owners later that day, but assured me it was all going to be just fine. We sat back down at the bar and one by one she called the other women over to introduce me. They were overwhelmingly excited about the photographs and we made plans for me to return later that week to get started. I was in and I could tell this was going to be amazing.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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When I returned to the house a few days later they knew who I was and were ready for me. But, instead of this being a positive thing, I was met at the door by a large bartender resting his hand on a small caliber pistol holstered to his waist. He buzzed me through the front gate but met me outside, closing the front door behind him. He regretted to inform me that the owner of the brothel, while appreciating my interest, had to decline my offer. I began to protest, but he quickly raised his hand and cut me off. He was sorry, he said. There was nothing else he could do.

And I needed to leave the property—immediately…

© Marc Mc Andrews
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Later that evening I was having a few consolation drinks over at Mo and Sluggo’s bar in Carson City, thinking back on the past few days’ events and my brief foray into legalized prostitution. The woman with the overflowing breasts had made an off-handed comment that the brothels over in Elko would be worth checking out. She thought they’d be much easier to get into. I sat there mulling over her advice. I was becoming quite disheartened by the whole process. I had been in town for some time now and was getting stonewalled by one person after another. It was probably the whiskey, but I resolved to make the drive and give it one more shot.

The next morning at breakfast I looked over notes from my recent attempts, trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. What could be giving them pause? What was keeping me from getting inside? I needed to re-calibrate, to be more certain in what I was trying to say. I needed a new approach, so I wrote out an introduction and recited it over and over again to my eggs and grits until it came out smooth and natural. After downing a pot of coffee, I got in my van and merged onto I-80 to make the seven-hour drive east out to Elko.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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It was the middle of the afternoon when I finally arrived in town and pulled into a gas station to ask for directions to the closest brothel. Barely taking his eyes off of the black and white TV behind the counter the attendant pointed out the window, indicating a few blocks in that direction.

Situated on two streets in a residential section of town, the Elko brothels are located two blocks from the casinos and the town center. There are five brothel licenses available in Elko and all of these are taken with four of the houses open and operating—Mona’s Ranch, Sue’s Fantasy Club, #1 Geisha, and Inez’s Dancing and Diddling.

The brothels were sitting there innocently in the midst of modest single-family houses, their neon signs not yet lit up. Kids were outside playing, riding their bikes and chasing each other up and down the block. Parking half way between two of the brothels I gathered my things, recited my intro one more time and walked into Mona’s Ranch.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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Like the Kit Kat there was no immediate line-up here, just a bartender casually wiping down the bar and smoking a cigarette. Stopping mid-motion, she leaned forward on the bar and watched me walk down through the hallway and out into the parlor. “You wanna drink or you just wanna see the ladies?” was how she greeted me. I opened my folder and went right into my prepared speech. This time it came out smoothly and easily; it felt honest and sincere with no stumbling. Dragging heavily on her cigarette she turned her head to the side without moving her body and called out into the back, “Caarlii!!”

Coming out smiling from the back hallway wearing cut-off jean shorts, a pink halter-top, and flip-flops was Carli. She walked up to the bartender, leaned heavily on her shoulder and, while never taking her eyes off me, asked, “So, who’s this?”

© Marc Mc Andrews
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Carli was then the Big Sister at Mona’s Ranch. She had no problem with me photographing in the house, but wanted to check with the owner first. He had just bought the place and she didn’t want to make any assumptions. She invited me into the kitchen while she made the phone call. Just as she was dialing he walked through the back door carrying overloaded bags stuffed with groceries for the week. As Carli began to ask him about the photographs he interrupted before she could finish, “Sure, whatever, but he’s your responsibility.” And just like that, in a very unceremonious way, I had finally gotten access.

Sitting at the kitchen table Carli offered me a cup of coffee and gave me a quick rundown of what to expect at Mona’s: the women, the schedules, when they’re busy, what to do about customers, some basic ground rules for when I was shooting. For instance, if I was working in the bar and a customer rang, I had to break everything down and hide it all in a side room.

I told her my story and what my experiences had been so far. When I had finished she smiled so sweetly at me. Slowly, Carli reached across the table, placing her hand gently on mine. Shaking her head she seemed as if she was going to start laughing out loud at any second, “Listen Honey… you gotta relax…no one’s gonna hurt you here.”

© Marc Mc Andrews
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Carli walked me down the hall and took me to my room. It was a good-sized room, much bigger than what I had back in New York. A bare king-sized bed sat in the center of the room, pushed up against a mirrored wall. Two worn end tables sat on either side, loaded with more condoms and lube than I had ever seen before. After bringing in some clean sheets, she introduced me to Whispers, who I’d be sharing a conjoined bathroom with. Then, after offering their assistance for anything I needed, I was left alone to get settled. That was to be home for the next five days.

While bringing my gear in from the van a pair of Lucite shoes caught my eye, sitting neatly on a staircase of flocked wallpaper and lit from behind by rope lighting. I went back to my room and got my camera and some lights, setting them up slowly.

I took a photograph.

For more photos and stories, please visit Marc McAndrews website.

© Marc Mc Andrews
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1. From an essay by Marc McAndrews appeared in Nevada Rose, a 160 pages photobook about legal brothels in Nevada designed by Natasha Samoylenko and published by Umbrage Editions/Nan Richardson (Associate Editor: Antonia Blair).

Text and photos by Mugur Varzariu.

When I turned 40 I decided to become a professional photographer. Some might say that was some kind of middle age crisis. If that would be the case I prefer this to going behind my wife’s back and having an affair with some half my age chick. That’s not my style…

General view of Craica, an informal roma settlement in Baia Mare, Romania, September 22, 2011.
© Mugur Varzariu
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I say it was a moment of revelation. It all started in 2010. A former classmate and friend, that I didn’t see for 20 years decided to contact me after reading some text I wrote for a local TV online platform.

He was a staff photographer for AP since 1989. I’ve always dreamt of being a photographer so I asked him if I have what it takes to become one. We worked together for a few months and at the end he said that if I work hard enough I might have everything I need to fulfill my dream. I still hope he was right… While I still doubt my talent in this past two years, if I where to work for a news agency, I could have been easily declared the employee of the year… Twice in a row…

Roma man seen removing a plastic foil outside his ramshackle dwelling on Craica, an informal roma settlement in Baia Mare, September 24, 2011.
© Mugur Varzariu
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My first couple of months as a photographer where very confusing. I had no idea where to start. In a way I have to be thankful to Sarkozy. If it wasn’t for him it would have probably take me a lot longer to understand my own destiny as a documentarist. His morally wrong actions to move Romas from point A to point B triggered my personal fight to end the Roma plight.

Noticing a situation is the first step in recognizing and solving a problem. It was there and then in 2010 when I opened my eyes and truly saw this heavily challenged ethnic group.

Roma woman seen fixing her hair, early morning, outside her ramshackle dwelling on Craica, an informal roma settlement in Baia Mare, May 2, 2012.
© Mugur Varzariu
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The sense of justice followed me since I was a kid. It was there when I defended my friends as kid, my colleagues, or when I discovered my ability to write. But it truly made sense when I decided to become a social artist.

As I already told you, looking at the problem is the first step in solving it. And what better way to look at things than through the lenses of a camera. The camera gives me the ability to look at things without staring. It also helps me hide my emotions, for the things I sometimes see would make even the toughest men cry like babies.

Roma man seen getting ready for work inside his ramshackle dwelling on Craica, an informal Roma settlement in Baia Mare, May 2, 2012.
© Mugur Varzariu
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Since than I’ve been constantly following Roma’s realities trying to give the world a different point of view. While through my images I want to make people look, through my ideas I want people to challenge their own limitations and preconceptions.

I remember the day I heard the mayor of Baia Mare stating that he will build a mighty wall around a Roma community on Horea street, allegedly to put an end to the chaos created by the Romas in the neighborhood. I said to myself ‘look, this is a very thoughtful mayor indeed’…

The next day I flew to Baia Mare for the first time in my life. The plane landed around 22.30…Less than one hour later I was on Horea street.

Roma man, seen helping his friends settle in their new temporary room on Cuprom, a formal factory office building, after their dwelling on Craica, an informal roma settlement in Baia Mare, where demolished, May 12, 2012.
© Mugur Varzariu
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It was than when I first met Pise. Someone warned him of my presence and half an hour later he showed up. He wasn’t very welcoming as you would expect from someone claiming to represent the Roma community and he immediately stated that the wall is in the best interest of the Roma people on Horea street.

The following days I met with Pise and we had some long chats about his intriguing view on what is best for the Roma people on Horea Street and in general.

I spent 3 weeks documenting the ghettoization of the Roma community on Horea street and another week working for amnesty international on Craica, an informal Roma settlement threatened by forced evictions.

Roma kids seen carrying a mattress to their new temporary room on Cuprom, a formal factory office building, after their dwelling on Craica, an informal roma settlement in Baia Mare, where demolished, May 12, 2012.
© Mugur Varzariu
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The initiative to enclose the complex was justified in the mayor’s eyes by the bad behavior of the Roma kids who allegedly throw rocks at passing by cars and occasional traffic accidents reported in the area. The plan also included video cameras and a police station to monitor the situation in the complex.

Facing media pressure, the mayor changed the initial plan that originally included only one exit, and started to build the wall on the last open side of the complex. Building walls around each community where we can find uneducated kids, regardless of their ethnicity, will bankrupt this country. The truth is this wall makes no sense other than segregate the community.

The living conditions in this social complex are so bad, Roma people living in informal settlements, with applications for a proper house, dating up to 10 years back, refuse to move on 46B, Horea Street.

Colompar Roxana doing laundry on Horea Street in Baia Mare, september 20, 2011.
© Mugur Varzariu
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I was really scared by the cynicism of romanian authorities. On one hand they claim they are concerned by the Roma kids well being so they have to build this ‘protective’ wall, and on the other hand they allow hundreds of kids to live in this social housing complex without direct access to electricity.

Without heating or electricity they live a life in conditions similar to those in the Middle Ages. The unfortunate ones get an improvised electricity line form their neighbors. When you discover how much they pay for this bootlegged current that fuels maybe one light bulb (20 Euro), you realize being poor doesn’t come cheap.

Roma family pilling chestnuts on Horea Street in Baia Mare, September 23, 2011.
© Mugur Varzariu
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On many floors you can find broken banisters so walking the staircase it’s life threatening not just for a 3 years old but for all inhabitants.

Hundreds of kids of all ages live in the complex. International organizations ask of Roma parents to reach out and send their kids to school, while local authorities condemn their future by burying them alive.

While I was hopping to return to Baia Mare to witness the demolition of this shameful wall, this year I had to go back to document something even worse.

Roma girl, Novac Roxana caressed by her mother Todor Mariana on Horea Street in Baia Mare, september 20, 2011.
© Mugur Varzariu
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The same mayor, whose popularity increased after he pulled the wall stunt, decided to clear the city of the informal Roma settlements, some dating 17 years back. So he made this promise the leading point in his electoral campaign.

This time, learning his lesson from the lawsuit that fallowed his actions to segregate the community on Horea street, he knew that he can not use force to evict the targeted informal Roma settlements. In order to make this happen, he again needed the help of corrupt Roma leaders. While he was publicly claiming that no one has to accept the temporary relocation on the premises of Cuprom, once one of the most polluting factories in Europe, Pise and his lawn-sharks lieutenants used threats, bribery and force to convince some of the Romas to sign the relocation papers.

Roma woman seen inside her ramshackle dwelling on Craica, an informal roma settlement in Baia Mare, September 22, 2011
© Mugur Varzariu
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At Cuprom, there where 3 building made available for the displaced Roma people. After the first administrative building was filled up, sometime at the end of may, few days before the election on june 10, a second demolition order was carried out. This people where moved in the second building, a former factory laboratory.

The building wasn’t even dusted before it received it’s new tenants, not to mention properly decontaminated and sanitized. Bottles containing toxic chemicals where left laying around almost in all rooms including the basement.

Roma man seen smoking inside his ramshackle dwelling on Craica, an informal roma settlement in Baia Mare, May 2, 2012
© Mugur Varzariu
Please visit My home, by Mugur Varzariu for the full size image.

Few hours after being exposed to the toxic fumes tens of adults and kids felt sick and required medical attention and hospitalization. Few families, scared for their kids life decided to return on Craica. Their ramshackle dwelling was leveled to the ground so they had to move into a dwelling that was only partially demolished.

The next morning the mayor declared the the incident was caused by the corrupt Roma leaders by using pepper spray. The same day, the mayor’s mother visited the laboratory, accompanied by local police forces. Scared by the toxic fumes emanating from the basement, fumes that could not have been caused by pepper spray allegedly used more than 24 hours before, she knew something must be done.

The third former Cuprom building that was supposed to shelter romanians of roma origins after being existed from Craica, as seen on June 3, 2012.
© Mugur Varzariu
Please visit My home, by Mugur Varzariu for the full size image.

The vice-mayor and the head of the local police ordered the basement to be cleaned of all toxic materials. Ironically, they asked the Roma people to collect and dispose of all these materials without the use of proper anti-hazard equipment. For their help, the Romas where promised to collect all the scrap metal they could gather from the basement.

Roma people, working for DRUSAL (local sanitation company), later disposed of all the containers on the city dumpster.

The next day, the basement windows and all connecting ventilation shafts on each floor where walled in. The walls where washed and repainted and a major cleaning operation was ordered.

The hallway of a former chemical laboratory offered by local authorities as temporary housing, to romanian citizens of roma origins, as seen on June 3, 2012
© Mugur Varzariu
Please visit My home, by Mugur Varzariu for the full size image.

While his negligence could have cost the life of many innocent children, it most certainly did not cost him the election. The racists in Baia Mare and most probably some confused Romas as well made him the mayor for the next 4 years.

I remember asking different people their opinion about the mayor. They all, invariable said to me that Chereches is a god mayor. When asked why they replied ‘the city is cleaner’.

While french authorities believe that sending the Romas from France back to Romania is the solution, the romanian authorities, self-destructively, wish they could send the Romas back to India. I say self-destructively because, while the Romas could survive without us, we will be dead without them in a matter of months. For more than 80% of all people working in the sanitation system in Romania are of Roma origins.

Romanians of roma origins that returned on Craica after they where moved to Cuprom and their house was demolished, seen giving written statements to roma NGO's about what happened, on June 3, 2012.
© Mugur Varzariu
Please visit My home, by Mugur Varzariu for the full size image.

Yet the Romas watch impassively as they are humiliated, segregated, deprived of their dignity while they quietly collect our garbage every day. Why can’t the Romas working for sanitation companies go on strike, like all the other professional groups, and have Chereches send his own mother to clean up his mess again?

And ours…

For more photos and stories, please visit Mugur Varzariu website.

Roma woman helping rebuild the dwellings of those that return from Cuprom as seen on Craica, June 4, 2012.
© Mugur Varzariu
Please visit My home, by Mugur Varzariu for the full size image.

Text and photos by Leslie Mazoch.

Everything changed when I realized I was giving up my dream job. I was going to give up being a photojournalist to become a photo editor.

Everything I had done up to that day was in some way a step toward becoming a photojournalist. I’d fallen in love with photography as a teenager, studied photojournalism in college, worked at my University newspaper, did a summer newspaper internship, got my first full time shooting post at a small town paper and then got my dream job: a photography post in Latin America with an international news agency. There I was, six years later, choosing to leave it.

© Leslie Mazoch
Please visit Changing Perspectives, by Leslie Mazoch for the full size image.

I worried I’d have regrets, but I was positive that it was time to move to a new country, and this was the train that came my way. I packed my bags, left my agency’s cameras behind and flew from Caracas to Mexico City to take a seat at a desk. My job description changed and it felt like my ‘life description’ had changed too.

When I explained to my colleagues, and to myself, why I was doing this, I had a very positive mind set. I rationalized I’d have more time and energy to work on my own photography. In retrospect, I was right, but I had no idea of the inner struggle ahead of me.

© Leslie Mazoch
Please visit Changing Perspectives, by Leslie Mazoch for the full size image.

Within the first week of my new job I came to understand why photo editors were asking me the questions they were asking when I was in the field. I see now how challenging it is to deal with dozens of countries instead of one. I now realize they were juggling communication with many photographers simultaneously on the instant chat and phone, taking other random phone calls, coordinating with other formats, spending time in meetings and writing up internal reports. Logically, a photo editor who has never been a shooter would learn from standing in the shoes of a photographer as well.

Then there’s the sheer number of photographs I look at as an editor compared to when I was a shooter. There’s no comparison, and I have to make a quick decision about them. The options are: move the image to clients as is, negotiate a crop with the photographer, don’t use it, and/or ask the photographer to send more. It’s like judging a contest on deadline day after day.

© Leslie Mazoch
Please visit Changing Perspectives, by Leslie Mazoch for the full size image.

Feedback was what I most craved when I was a shooter, and if I didn’t get any, there was no relationship with my photo editor. So, making the time to explain why I like or dislike a photographer’s image, or suggest a crop for them to consider, under the time constraints of spot news, is the most valuable thing I try to do, for both of us.

As soon as I got the hang of my new work-life rhythm and settled into my new city, I started a personal photo project on my days off. After a few months of keeping my eyes and ears open, I discovered the Mexican escaramuza: female horse riding teams whose members mount side saddle and wear dresses. It was love at first site. They looked as if they came from another time.

© Leslie Mazoch
Please visit Changing Perspectives, by Leslie Mazoch for the full size image.

This is where it got weird. My pictures could only be seen from my hard drives, not in the public domain, like yahoonews.com when I was a photographer for the agency. I didn’t exist online. Also, I was no longer covering events with other journalists. That family was gone. My experiences as a photographer became private. I turned inward, both photographically and psychologically. I started reading authors who explored the nature of identity to help me get my head around my new ‘life description.’

I’d always heard that no matter where you work, you should take pictures for yourself. I don’t mean save a few frames for your personal archive but in an deeper way: take pictures the way you like to take them, not only the way your company needs them. I suspect I hadn’t figured out how to do that. So, here I had an opportunity to give it a try.

© Leslie Mazoch
Please visit Changing Perspectives, by Leslie Mazoch for the full size image.

When I met new people who asked me that number one question “so what do you do?,” I found myself saying “I’m a photographer who works as a photo editor.” Then I moved on to “I’m a photo editor moonlighting as a photographer.” Eventually I got comfortable saying “I’m a photo editor” and depending on the person, I told them about my personal project.

It took about a year for me to stop caring that no one else could see the pictures I was taking. It became ‘enough’ that they were for me and the people I was photographing. I became completely absorbed in the project and stopped caring how long it was taking to complete it, since I was limited to my days off. I began to accept my secret life as a photographer and simply enjoy myself.

© Leslie Mazoch
Please visit Changing Perspectives, by Leslie Mazoch for the full size image.

After three years, I edited a photo package and produced an audio-slide show to send to international photojournalism competitions. To my utter amazement, they were awarded two prizes by the National Press Photographers Association’s Best of Photojournalism contest. One for a sports picture story and another for a sports audio-slide show.

Ironically, these are my first photo awards. Perhaps the combination of unlimited time to work on the project and my love for the subject matter is what came together for me to produce a solid package for the first time. I’ll keep going with the project, as I’ve fallen in love with it and the people, and I’ll post them to my website as they emerge. I have in mind a photo book and a short documentary photo-video essay.

© Leslie Mazoch
Please visit Changing Perspectives, by Leslie Mazoch for the full size image.

Until this experience, I hadn’t realized that I’d so tightly bound my identity with my job title. And I’m relieved I was wrong to do so. My understanding of identity has expanded. It has matured. Leaving behind my job as ‘photographer’ doesn’t mean I leave behind my photography too, if I so choose. Our job titles don’t define us. We define ourselves.

For more informations and photos please visit Leslie Mazoch website.

Text and photos by Alex ten Napel.

It was my intention to show another reality of people with Alzheimer’s disease in my series about dementia. The man on the street was convinced that people with dementia did not have a dignified life. The public opinion regarding dementia at that time was that dirty old men and women, being lonely and abandoned, waste away in nursing homes. Pictures shows people with baby bibs on, slobber from the mouth and the remains of a dinner on their clothes. That’s no life! was the prevailing public thought.

© Alex ten Napel
Please visit Forgotten Life, by Alex ten Napel for the full size image.

In my photo-documentary I asked myself, what is left of human existence after the destruction of the self by Alzheimer’s disease. While photographing I scanned the faces on signs of an inner life and in my portraits I tried to give an illuminating view on this.

Alzheimer’s disease shows us human existence without any decoration. You see it heartbreaking bright, fragile and delicate in all its details. And you will see more similarities than differences with our lives than you might think. We all are familiar with sadness, joy, fear, despair, depression and cheerfulness. And people with Alzheimer’s feel it the same way. Unfortunately emotions confuse them and…us.

© Alex ten Napel
Please visit Forgotten Life, by Alex ten Napel for the full size image.

People with dementia wander around in time. They are nomads in their own history and future. It has no beginning or end. Thrown back on themselves their life is totally out of control.

Dementia can alter a carefully constructed personality into a human wreck. The disintegration of the inner life hits the heart of human existence. Our whole life and heart is devoted to develop our personality. A confrontation with people who suffer from dementia can be frightening because their existence raises questions about our own lives. They show us that life can evolve in a different way and their fate makes us sensitive to that.

© Alex ten Napel
Please visit Forgotten Life, by Alex ten Napel for the full size image.

During my photo project when things weren’t running smoothly I comfort myself with the patients of the nursing home.

One of my favorites was Ms de Graaff. She was always in a cheerful mood and in a conversation with her my frustrations went up in smoke. These two portraits show her.

© Alex ten Napel
Please visit Forgotten Life, by Alex ten Napel for the full size image.

The first with her dentures and glasses. The second without. She had lost them. Her face is dramatically changed in the time between. But she had not lost her cheerfulness, liveliness and her characteristic way of handling misfortune and grief. What is deep inside her stays forever. The other dissolves in a life that has been forgotten.

Photography also played an important role in my meetings with people suffering from Alzheimers’ disease. These moments show that in the world I found myself in photography was not what it ought to be.

© Alex ten Napel
Please visit Forgotten Life, by Alex ten Napel for the full size image.

At the beginning of the shoot, I let the man have a Polaroid photo of himself. He stares at his own portrait. Then he looks up and asks me annoyed:

“Who is this man?”

“What do I have to do with that man?”

Before I come up with an answer he throws the picture on the floor. He looks at me and asks: “Do you have a smoke?”. I give him a cigarette. He smokes it and we start the shoot.

© Alex ten Napel
Please visit Forgotten Life, by Alex ten Napel for the full size image.

I usually needed more than one hour for the shooting to complete. I had a seperate room in the nursing home which I could use as a studio in order to work in peace. The residents were sitting in front of me in an armchair, a chair at a table or in their own wheelchair while photographing. In this way I could also wait for that specific moment portrait photographers wait for. The special moment in time in which posture and facial expression come together in a meaningful portrait. That often meant a very long wait. My directions proved to be useless and pointless. They didn’t get through to them, they lived behind a wall of misunderstanding. With the camera ready I waited for the moment. Then there is a woman. She is sitting before me with hunched shoulders deep in her own world. She is little. On her lap, she holds a purse. She firmly holds the handles in her hands. Suddenly she comes upright and opens her handbag. A hand moves into her bag. A package emerges wrapped in blotting paper. Very cautious and careful she opens the package. As if it is precious and fragile. A photo emerges out of the paper and she shows it to me. It is a picture from the early years of the 20th century. It shows a middle-aged woman in brown colors of an ancient photo process. She is young and in the prime of her life. On her face are cracks in the surface of the photo.

© Alex ten Napel
Please visit Forgotten Life, by Alex ten Napel for the full size image.

“That’s my mother,” she says.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

After a short while of showing the portrait she carefully wraps the picture with the paper and locks it in her bag. Her hands take the handles tightly and her body gets into the familiar posture. The shooting begins, the flash illuminates her proud and happy face.

Much of my time in the nursing home I spent on looking for suitable candidates. I sat at a table in the living room, drank a cup of coffee and had a chat with them. Meanwhile, I studied the people and searched for characteristic postures and facial expressions. In my studio I had some tables and chairs. So they could sit in the same way as they were used to. And I would get the same postures in the studio as I had seen in the living room.
One day I saw a woman holding a frame in her hands. When I sit beside her I see a picture of a baby in the frame.

© Alex ten Napel
Please visit Forgotten Life, by Alex ten Napel for the full size image.

“Is that your grand child?”, I ask her.

She smiles. Pride appears on her face. When I look better I see under the picture – for children from 9 months -. I understand that the portrait is an advertisement image for baby nutrition. But what makes the image so special that it is in a frame? And why does she hold it so proud in her hands?

“Has your grand child been a model for an advertisement for baby food?”, I ask her.

She looks at me. Not understanding and in confusion.

A nurse who is busy with the dishes intervenes and gesticulates in my direction.

“It has your eyes”, I say to the woman.

She takes the frame and firmly press a kiss on the glass.

Visit Alex ten Napel web site for more portrait photography.

© Alex ten Napel
Please visit Forgotten Life, by Alex ten Napel for the full size image.

Text and photos by Bryan Thomas.

 
God gave man coal and he made a home.

© Bryan Thomas
Please visit The things we did while you were gone, by Bryan Thomas for the full size image.

The man laid tracks. He built buildings. His family grew.

The man honored the Lord and, when someone asked him where he had made his home, he looked toward the heavens and, in light of the Lord’s bounty, he gave his home a name.

© Bryan Thomas
Please visit The things we did while you were gone, by Bryan Thomas for the full size image.

The name didn’t honor his president or a town from where his father had traveled. It was a name that symbolized everything that had led him here rather than elsewhere; everything that had been in his belly, his heart, and his hands. It was responsible for the walls around him, his family at the table, and his friends down the road. It was dark and, when it rubbed against his hands, only his fingerprints were visible. After a day’s work, he’d wash his hands, but not before this little rock’s imprint had left soft, black marks across the counters of his home. Fitting, he thought, because this rock that he’d carved out of this thin sliver of land, had subtly made as large an impact on his own home as he had upon the land from which it came.

© Bryan Thomas
Please visit The things we did while you were gone, by Bryan Thomas for the full size image.

This town’s name was Carbondale.

As there was once plenty, there was now naught. The coal dried up, the mines closed, those fingerprints that were once so striking as they peered from under and out of those dark hands were harder and harder to see. The marks, eventually covered; left in walls painted over or burnt down.

© Bryan Thomas
Please visit The things we did while you were gone, by Bryan Thomas for the full size image.

Several decades after the closing of coal minds in Carbondale, Ohio, a town hemmed in by the Zaleski State Forrest, there is no longer a railway going through town, past the post office and general store, headed to deposit the toil of those who lived there. At the beginning of winter, and walking down Mine Road, that loss is palpable. It’s in the air, in the first story that someone shares with you being their saddest, and in the dusty scrapbooks, pulled down from the walls, filled with pictures of school children with no names but only dates. Where man once identified himself and where he lived by plenty; he now identifies himself with that which he doesn’t have. As one person from Carbondale once told me, “If I don’t feel sorry for you, I’m not going to like you.” We are what we are, but we are also what we aren’t.

© Bryan Thomas
Please visit The things we did while you were gone, by Bryan Thomas for the full size image.

Now, as the generation that knew Carbondale as a coal town slowly fades away, those who have made their home here have come because of a memory of what it once was or the absence of memory that it’ll soon become. It’s the family moving here from South Carolina to rekindle the image they had of the area as a child, running barefoot through the streets and in the woods. And, it’s also the family moving here to just be left alone; to watch as Carbondale’s name disappears from a map as if it were written in invisible ink.

© Bryan Thomas
Please visit The things we did while you were gone, by Bryan Thomas for the full size image.

With no memory of the coal mines that made this town grow, a new generation is attempting to find their foothold, and is doing so with difficulty. In a town where almost one third of all individuals are below the poverty level, where the median age is 26 (10 years younger than the national average), and the percentage of those who have attended college hovers at 7% (almost a third of the national average), the youth of Carbondale struggle to create a vision of their future as well as how to spend their present; boredom and, in turn, the dual threats of idle crime and drugs are ever-present. And, with many parents unemployed, disabled after working years of physical labor, or having struggled with drug addictions of their own, parents own problems often become the problems of this generation too; even as you discover parents more resilient and loving than almost anywhere.

© Bryan Thomas
Please visit The things we did while you were gone, by Bryan Thomas for the full size image.

As one generation made their impact on Carbondale and Carbondale upon them, another now attempts to grow up in Carbondale, find their place in it, and find themselves.

My essay “The Things We Did While You Were Gone,” a portion of which I’ve submitted, is an essay about this generation. It is an attempt to examine and document how identity is formed in the face of loss; and how, ultimately, we are shaped by what is no longer there as much as we are shaped by what is ever-present.

© Bryan Thomas
Please visit The things we did while you were gone, by Bryan Thomas for the full size image.

What happens to the unseen? How does the intangible shape our memories and our identity? And how do we translate these themes to photography? In a place like Carbondale, whose absence of historical significance and relevance has been so thoroughly erased, what does it look and feel like to grow up in a place that lacks in the present and physical as well as, the archival and psychological? How can youth see the future if there are only relics of the past to build upon? While the most reductive reading of photojournalism is built around the idea of transferring a dramatic image seen by one to another, I’m interested in how photography is able to capture the unseen, the ambiguous, half-moments, and passing emotions.

© Bryan Thomas
Please visit The things we did while you were gone, by Bryan Thomas for the full size image.

With time, I’ve realized that this essay represents the way in which I see the world. A world that’s not created by grand leaders and dramatic action, but one built and shared by real people living, and sometimes struggling, with and amongst empty space; building layer upon layer of life even if as those layers that they have built upon quickly become hollow. Ultimately, this is a work-in-progress, so I am still exploring my own emotions concerning Carbondale and the families whom I’ve become close to there. For the six months that I spent in Carbondale, I often felt as if I’d fallen into a rabbit hole – probably accentuated by the fact that Carbondale is fitted into a small holler surrounded by state forest. In this secluded hamlet, I often saw so much that was different with my own upbringing, but so much that was the same. And, of course, I saw and felt so much that I still have yet to understand; brief glances into issues and emotions that are sometimes unknowable to ourselves, but briefly visible to our cameras. Which, of course, is why I’ll continue to return.

Please visit Bryan Thomas website for more photographs and stories.

© Bryan Thomas
Please visit The things we did while you were gone, by Bryan Thomas for the full size image.

Following interview by Rian Dundon and Yuhui Liao-Fan.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: What does “photography” mean to you?

Rian Dundon: Photography for me means taking an active role in the world. It means dedication to the pursuit of something meaningful. And it means confronting ourselves with notions of truth that are not always comfortable or of tangible benefit. Photography means reaching a state of vulnerability within oneself and recognizing that vulnerability in others.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: Can you write a biographical introduction?

Rian Dundon: I was born in Portland, Oregon in 1980. December 23. Grew up in Monterey, California. Earned a B.F.A. degree from New York University (Photography and Imaging: 2003). I’ve lived in China on-and-off between 2005 and 2010 working as a photographer and consultant. I’m currently an M.A. candidate at University of California, Santa Cruz (Social Documentation: 2012).

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: What is your history as a photographer?

Rian Dundon: I started photographing in high school and pursuing it full-time since shortly thereafter. At some point while at university I narrowed my focus to working on more long-term documentary projects. Most of my current work continues to be this type of socially engaged documentary photography. I use photography as a form of participant observation and as a means to enter social realities different from my own.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: Can you describe your work? How would you define your photographs?

Rian Dundon: I’m trying to embrace people with my photographs, trying to hold on to people in my work. Perhaps this is an impossibility, but I’m always pushing towards a certain depth of intimate meaning in my photographs. I’m desperately searching for something I know I might never find.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: How do you approach peoples? Do you ask them if they accept to be photographed or you try not to be noticed?

Rian Dundon: It’s always different but in general I try to get to know the people I photograph. I don’t hide: there is always some kind of interaction or relationship between us.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: What is their typical reaction?

Rian Dundon: I believe most people genuinely like to have their picture taken.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: Do you think that the fact you are a stranger makes easier to take photos of people? Or it’s the contrary?

Rian Dundon: I try not to be a stranger. The people I photograph are people I generally spend a lot of time with and become very close to. Being a stranger in a foreign country is difficult but it also allows me to open myself to new people and experiences in a way that is hard to do at home.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: In your series “Chinese youth” you explore the experience of young people in Mainland China. Do you think that there is a fundamental difference with the youth from the western world? Or on the contrary all human beings today share the same experience? Does geographical differences are still important or the world is globalized?

Rian Dundon: That project was looking to explore universal themes of youth and self-identity: not necessarily just those brought on by globalization, but the deeper emotional experiences that we all share. That being said I think there are many important factors that shape and differentiate the lives of young Chinese. There is no single Chinese youth identity, but I do think that socio-political influences have helped shape and dictate the structure and experience of this generation of Chinese youth in particular.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: Your work sometimes show difficult situations. For example “Addiction in Kunming” tells the story of heroin addiction and AIDS infection in the Yunnan province. Sometimes, here in Europe, we have the impression that the Chinese government tends to control all the informations and hide the negative news. Did you experienced any form of pressure from the authorities? Hod do you deal with this question?

Rian Dundon: I never experienced pressure or threat from the Chinese government. The Yunnan work deals with difficult issues but it’s not explicitly critical of state policy.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: Can you say a few words about your technique?

Rian Dundon: It’s all film. I do minimal manipulation, try to keep most of the tones in a print or scan. Always full-frame (or close to it). I shoot almost everything with one lens and one camera. I try to minimize technological variables in my work. This process works for me, it keeps things simple.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: Are the technical aspects that you mentioned important or is what really matters only the final result?

Rian Dundon: Of course final results depend on formal and technical aspects, as well as the theoretical. Everything matters equally. In visual art the way we physically create a final product is as important as the ideas behind it. One cant exist without the other.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: Can you further describe your relationship with China?

Rian Dundon: As I said I lived in China on-and-off between 2005-2010, first in Hunan and later in Beijing and Shanghai. Originally my girlfriend had gotten a job there so I moved with her. I like China very much and speak Mandarin OK. I keep going back to China because of the good friends I’ve made there over the years. And the food is quite good.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: Do you think it is fundamental to live in a big and important city, or -for example thanks to Internet- the city in which you live is no longer a constraint?

Rian Dundon: Many places are interesting and unique and important in their own ways. Some people prefer to live in large cities, some the countryside. The Internet has nothing to do with the tactile reality of inhabiting a place.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: Do you think it’s important to have a website? Is it is essential to have it translated into various languages? How the Internet contributes to the spread of contemporary photography?

Rian Dundon: Having a website is not nearly as important as making prints and looking at them. The Internet allows our work to be seen by a vast transnational audience. But as that audience slowly becomes immune to the subtleties of photographs the Internet can also cheapen the impact of our images. I think people are less capable of connecting with photographs now. We see too many images (and as photographers we produce too many photographs). Our visual sense has dulled. I think photographers should make less pictures, but smarter ones. We need to spend more time looking at our images and thinking about what they really mean before we throw them up on the Internet. Make prints first, then worry about a website.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: What are your sources of reference for contemporary photography in China?

Rian Dundon: Three Shadows Photography Art Center in Beijing.

Yuhui Liao-Fan: Can you tell some names of Chinese photographers that you particularly like and why?

Rian Dundon: Zhang Hai’er – Intimacy and closeness with people. I haven’t seen much of his work but what I have seen is beautiful. Li Yu and Liu Bo – Their project “13 months in the year of the dog” is fascinating. Zhou Hai – Atmosphere.

Please visit Rian Dundon website for more informations and documentary photography.

© Rian Dundon
Please visit Interview with Rian Dundon for the full size image.

Text and photographs by Scott McIntyre.

Being born in America, the extent of my travels was fairly limited. Growing up, my family would go to Florida on vacation and occasionally other states where the distance was not too far. When I was in college I picked up a camera and studied photojournalism. My passions grew but my curiosities seemed rather simple when it came to exploring with my camera. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago where my interest to travel the world to work started to grow. The more international photographer’s work I would study the more my curiosity and angst to travel would grow. My first opportunity came in one of my journalism classes when I was approached along with a couple of classmates to apply for a travel grant to cover an even that was discussed in class. This grant would take us to East Bosnia and Herzegovina to photograph the 15th anniversary of the Srebrenica genocide.

A Bosnian teen makes his way down a hill near the town of Caparde in Eastern Bosnia and Herzegovina during a trek called the March of Peace. The march commemorates those who had fled genocide of thousands of Bosnian Muslim men in the small town of Srebrenica in July of 1995. This year over 1,000 people participated in the 110 km march of East Bosnia. Since the Bosnian war ended, the country is still in transition and the search continues for loved ones who have not been found since their disappearance during the genocide.
© Scott McIntyre
Please visit Leaving Comfort Behind, by Scott McIntyre for the full size image.

A Bosnian Muslim man makes his way past the 775 caskets of Bosnian men and women who were killed during the Srebrenica genocide in July of 1995. Every year since the genocide, a memorial service has been held in the town adjacent to Srebrenica called Potocari. Each year, the service brings together the families of those whose remains have been identified and buries them in a mass grave site.
© Scott McIntyre
Please visit Leaving Comfort Behind, by Scott McIntyre for the full size image.

Fast forward six months. I research the area and speak with friends about the country. Even though I have a good idea about what to expect when I arrive in Bosnia, I still feel very unprepared. I don’t know the language, I don’t know where anything is, I don’t really even know where we are headed when we get there. All I know is our journey begins two days after we arrive in the small village of Nezuk.

Women weep together after watching their loved ones being buried in the grave site in Potocari. In 2010, 775 people were buried in the ceremony.
© Scott McIntyre
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A woman weeps for her family members that are being buried at the memorial. This year, over 50,000 people came to the ceremony to pay their respects and bury their loved ones. When women were separated from their husbands, fathers, and sons during the war in 1995, they were told they would be prisoners of war but were taken to neighboring towns and murdered.
© Scott McIntyre
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A little background on the project. In July of 1995, an army of Serb-VRS soldiers, led by General Ratko Mladić, entered a United Nations sanctioned safe zone in the town of Srebrenica, Bosnia and Herzegovina. The army separated the Bosnian-Muslim men and boys from their families. The soldiers told the families that the men would be considered prisoners of war but were then taken to towns throughout the area and murdered. The Serb-VRS force killed over 8,000 Bosniaks in what was considered the largest massacre on European soil since World War II. Every year since the genocide, thousands of people converge on the small town of Potocari, Bosnia and Herzegovina to bury the remains of people who have been found in the various mass graves where the murdered were buried throughout the hills of Bosnia.

Bosnian women seek refuge under the shade of a tree in the town of Potocari at the end of a ceremony remembering the 15th anniversary of the Srebrenica genocide. In July of 1995, women from Srebrenica saw as their sons, fathers, husbands, brothers, and other men in their lives were taken from them to where they were thought were going to be prisoners of the Bosnian war but were taken to outside providences and murdered by Bosnian-Serb forces. Every year since 1995, a ceremony has been held in Potocari that remembers the massacre and buries those who have been found throughout the year. In 2010, 775 people had been found in areas throughout the country, especially in mass graves that had been found by the International Center for Missing Persons.
© Scott McIntyre
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Surrounded by nearly 50,000 people, families shoveled dirt on top of their family member's caskets. 15 years after the war in Bosnia has ended, the country is still rebuilding not only buildings and towns, they are rebuilding families.
© Scott McIntyre
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We started on July 8th in the small village of Nezuk in an annual 110 km march to the ceremony site of Potocari. Over 1,000 people and I walked through towns, hills, roadways, and forests to reach our destination. I was not used to any of this. When I am making photographs I like to stay and linger in a situation until I am happy with a photo. This was not the case. I had to adjust to making photos while trying to keep up with over 1,000 people who I couldn’t understand. Even though I couldn’t speak the language people started to understand why we were there. After a day or so, our fellow marchers welcomed us. At some points there would be breaks where someone would read historical information about the spot we were on. Some of our breaks included spots where the Serb-VRS army would shell towards people fleeing through the same hills where we were resting. At some points when I was exhausted from hiking I had to snap myself back to what was important. “What do I have to complain about? People were escaping death on these hills. People lost their families in these hills.” I was becoming selfish and tired.

A man makes his way down a hill to a group of men talking towards the end of the second day of marching the Bosnian countryside toward the Srebrenica memorial site in Potocari. 15 years after the war in Bosnia has ended, the country is still rebuilding not only buildings and towns, they are rebuilding families.
© Scott McIntyre
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Spiritual leaders make their way through the large crowd to offer prayers for families who are burying their loved ones in the ceremonial burial site.
© Scott McIntyre
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My exhaustion subsided when we arrived to Potocari. I could see the graves in the distance. It still felt like I was in another world. Three weeks prior to this trip I was in the comfort zone of my life in America. I knew exactly where I was and what I was doing. That feeling was never with me when I was in Bosnia. My thought process was changing. How I approached situations became clearer when I couldn’t communicate with whom I was documenting. It is difficult to explain but somehow things felt like they were falling into place visually. My nerves seem to have subsided or just became numb. I knew that I was getting more comfortable with these situations when I walked into the warehouse where the 775 caskets carrying the remains that were to be buried were being held. I didn’t freeze up. I walked in and composed the situation the way it felt to me. I believe that is how I achieved some of the photographs from the following day at the ceremony. Over 50,000 people attended to watch and bury their loved ones. It was the most powerful scene to be a part of. Was I doing the best I could? I think so. I knew I was doing well because I was not being disruptive. I believe that is one of the worst things a photographer can do. It angers me when photographers push and shove to get the shot. There is no art to that, nor beauty.

Bosnian-Muslim women pray over the casket of a family member the day before the ceremony in Potocari.
© Scott McIntyre
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After ceremony services concluded, the 775 caskets carrying the remains of Bosniaks were carried to their respective burial sites and placed in the ground.
© Scott McIntyre
Please visit Leaving Comfort Behind, by Scott McIntyre for the full size image.

Ten hours later people started to leave and we started to collect our thoughts about what just took place. I had never experienced anything that powerful ever before. The following days when I was traveling back to America I kept replaying this journey in my head. What I had just been through was unlike any other project I had ever pursued and I liked that fact about it. I approached every situation with a fresh eye and curiosity. I was going through my photos and noticing different ways of seeing. What was I thinking? It seems to me that my experience in Bosnia matured my vision to what it is today. Sure, I don’t see like this everyday but when I do, I look at situations more symbolically than literal. To some viewers, it may not work, but to me it is what the photo represents rather than what it is of. I am still astounded at how I came away with a body of work in which I am proud of. I was quite unprepared going into these situations, but the more I think about it, I work better that way. I’ve read about other photographers who take months planning where and what they will shoot but that’s never helped me. There’s only so much you can plan ahead for and in my life the times that are not planned are what make life so surreal.

A group of Bosnian teens rest during a short break before taking on the third day of marching the 110 kilometer trail from the small village of Nezuk to the Srebrenica ceremony site.
© Scott McIntyre
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Thousands of people make the trek to the Srebrenica memorial every July 11 to remember their fallen brothers, sons, and fathers that were killed in the genocide by Serbian forces in July of 1995. This year 775 people were buried and over 50,000 people came to honor them.
© Scott McIntyre
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Text and photographs by Rafaela Persson.

Flying in over Afghanistan on an early November morning of 2008, revealed a barren landscape with no greenery visible for miles. I went to Afghanistan intrigued by its people and culture, being something very different than the places I previously visited. What would it be like photographing here? Would I be able to get close to any Afghans? I like to spend extended periods of time with people I photograph. In Afghanistan many journalists seemed to use the 15 min rule: you never stay longer than 15 minutes in a place because that is how long it takes for someone with a cell phone to arrange a car to kidnap you.

© Rafaela Persson
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I had an idea to photograph female drug addicts. Afghanistan is the world’s biggest producer of opium, from which heroin is derived. According to a study made by U.N. Drugs and Crimes Office in 2010, the rate of drug addiction in Afghanistan is twice the global average; Afghans have become the leading consumers of their own opium.  Approximately one million Afghans, or eight percent of the war-shattered country’s total population is suffering from drug addiction, a 75 percent increase since 2005. What is even more alarming is that studies show that 50 percent of Afghanistan’s opium-using parents give the drug to their own children.

I began my project at a drug rehabilitation center for women and children. After the compulsory cup of tea with the director Dr. Toorpaikay Zazai, I was introduced to a twelve-year-old girl named Karima. She had a look of wisdom and tragedy at the same time, one that I would find in many afghan children making them seem much older then they where. Karima and I bonded in a second.

© Rafaela Persson
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Five minutes later I found myself stuffed into a car with my fixer, driver, Karima and her family, the parents Mohammed, Jamila and the four kids including Karima who was sitting in my lap turning around every minute or so to look at me and caress my cheek. Her nine year old sister Mujadin, sat in her moms lap next to me and continuously kissed my hand for the approximately 30 min car ride.

This was my first meeting with Karimas family. It was Eid and the family had been given permission to go home for the holiday. During their refugee years in Pakistan the family had lived through many hard years and the mother Jamila was given opium tea by a neighbor to comfort her after the loss of a son in a car accident. Jamila, like many others female addicts in Afghanistan, was told that it was a kind of a medicine that would make her feel better. It did momentarily and that feeling got her hooked. Before long, Jamila would make the opium tea for her young children as well. The opium tea would make the kids drowsy and complaints about hunger and the cold would disappear. The family would come to rely on the tea for many years to come.

© Rafaela Persson
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After the fall of the Taliban, Karimas family decided to move back to Afghanistan. Afraid to move back to their home province Kapisa, they decided to resettle in Kabul. For many years the family have been squatters in an unfinished apartment block built by the Russians in the late eighties. Standing approximately five stories, with pylons and rebarb sprouting from the roof suggesting is was intended to be higher, the cement brick building is situated on the main road to the airport. A staircase completely open to the outside leads me up to the third floor, where the family has taken over a one-room apartment. There is no electricity so the hallway is very dark, but the kids are familiar with the hallway and are able to lead me. A makeshift door has been put up to give them some privacy. Inside, plastic bags from various aid organizations have been cut up to cover the open window along with dark drapes to help with insulation. The room is dark and very cold.

© Rafaela Persson
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The family quickly pushes me towards a sandali, a common heating system in Afghanistan where a coal fire is lit in a pot, put in a frame and covered by a big blanket that the family can all tuck their feet and legs under. As the sandali starts to heat us up, the family begins to tell their story. Throughout my almost yearlong stay in Afghanistan, I would visit many times with the family under the sandali to hear their stories over cups of green tea. Karimas family was not the only family I photographed but they where the ones that I became the closest to.

© Rafaela Persson
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Drug addiction is the common link that led me to these families but what kept me shooting was so much more. Often I would finish a four-hour visit with one of the families and with only 10 frames on my memory card. Instead I would leave with thousands of images in my mind; images that I still see everyday. The stories I would hear from these women, ranging everything from what they where making for dinner to losing a child, worries for the future and their thoughts on western life intrigued me. They would often advise me on my own life, encouraging me to have children of my own. I realized I continued to visit them not only to photograph their addiction but because they had become friends.

© Rafaela Persson
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Living in Afghanistan as an expat is not always so easy: the poor living conditions, constant threat of illness, the tense security situation, etc. But I always had the option to leave and every few months, like most other foreigners, I would do so. The families I photographed like many other Afghan families had no chance of escaping. Often when leaving after spending the day with them I would feel a sense of guilt because even though my life was not always so easy in Afghanistan, it was not comparable to their situation.

© Rafaela Persson
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I did not follow the 15 min rule in Afghanistan. I never felt threatened while at my families. My fixer, an Afghan man in his late 30s, would often bring one of his young boys to work, and together we looked like a small Afghan family. I always dressed conservatively and never exposed my cameras before going inside the living quarters of the families. Once in a while, after some time had passed during a visit, my fixer would say I think it is time to leave and we would go immediately. I never questioned his judgment and never had any problems.

© Rafaela Persson
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I am not sure if I was influenced by the Afghan women’s advice, but today I have a daughter of my own. I do, however, have a deeper understanding of the difficult decisions she must have made; the desperation these women feel when they cannot comfort their kids and the only solution they feel they have is to turn to opium.

Please visit Rafaela Persson for more stories and documentary photography.

© Rafaela Persson
Please visit Female drug addiction in Afghanistan, by Rafaela Persson for the full size image.