USA – Camera Obscura

Through the Green Door, by Marc McAndrews

Marc McAndrews — Tue, 25 Sep 2012 05:50:04 +0000

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?”

“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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

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?”

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.”

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.

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).

Western Landscapes, by Allie Mount

Allie Mount — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 10:38:26 +0000

Text and photos by Allie Mount.

Much of my landscape photography is taken while on family road trips. My husband and I have relatives in California so invariably we make our way down from Oregon a number of times throughout the year. Sometimes we fly, but often we load the car up for holidays, birthdays or just to visit and enjoy warmer weather.

The photographs in this series come from such travels and are typically views I have seen while perched at the side of a highway, family patiently waiting in the car for me to finish my shot.

Our last Thanksgiving holiday was no exception to this routine. It was a few weeks ago and my husband, son, sister, sister’s dog and I all piled into our car to drive from our home in Portland down to the San Francisco Bay Area. The decision to drive rather than fly was economic, but also factored into part of the fun of our holiday.

I grew up taking similar car trips with my parents and grandparents throughout California and road trips still carry both a sense of nostalgia and adventure for me; the perfect blend of the familiar coupled with the excitement of what is yet to be discovered.

These childhood excursions yielded hours of views of rolling grassy hills, ranchland, deserts and evergreen forests; fostering a real love for the western landscape. I am hoping to pass on the joy of the road trip to my son, but we might have a little ways to go yet.

On this particular trip we were traveling south on Interstate 5 through Oregon, some of the most scenic parts of the Pacific Northwest. We had snacks, audio books, even pillows for the occasional nap. We were set, or so we thought. It was a 12-hour haul and that is undeniably long for one day’s journey, especially for a child. Several hours into our trip my 7-year old, in an effort to explain or maybe complain about his boredom began to detail everyone’s “job” in the car. He started with my sister and her dog sitting next to him and worked clockwise:

With a sigh, “Sarah’s job is to hold her dog on her lap. Buddha’s job is to sleep and drool.”

Another sigh, “Dad’s job is to keep the car on the road.”

And this time with some growing exasperation, “Mom’s job is to look out the window and make us stop every second so she can take a picture for an hour!”

This made us all laugh and while we still had a number of hours to go, my boy was satisfied with his broadcast of the monotony of the road and our reactions had reset his mood. I have to say that my son’s perception of time is a little exaggerated, but the otherwise boiled-down observation was accurate and caused me to take note. I was staring out the window. I do this a lot.

For a photographer there is so much in the simple act of sitting and looking. What other medium provides the opportunity to just stop and notice? Like film or music, the element of time is intrinsic to photography. People often talk about “the capture,” the moment the camera is able to freeze time. While I also love the concept of recording a moment, it is often the time that surrounds that moment that I enjoy the most. Photography is about slowing down for me, an awareness of the fact that you are looking; it is a regard for what you are seeing and a pacing that allows you to connect to the world around you.

Growing up in California, the topography of the land automatically shaped how I identified with location and my aesthetics for landscape. I believe that much of the visual language that surrounds you at different times in your life informs what you come to find appealing. This might sound obvious, but I often think about this when it comes to ideas on inspiration for taking pictures.

I think back to my mother’s sense of arranging our home, about my grandmother’s garden and my father’s knack for bringing order and alignment to a space. I remember spending summers lost in the canyon behind our house, days at the beach and of course the family road trips.

But my motivation in taking these pictures isn’t as simple as wanting to recreate these comforts of the past. It is more about a realization that what I find beautiful has roots within my own life. Thinking about it, there are years of staring out of car windows in each of these photographs. My son would cringe at the thought!

The truth is my family is incredibly patient with my ulterior agenda to photograph the landscapes along our routes. My husband without fail will graciously pull the car over to the shoulder of the highway and I typically hike back to the location I had seen. My family watches as I wander off into a field or climb down to the edge of a stream. It has come to be such a habit that my husband has gained an intuition for when I am about to ask him to stop, “viewpoint” sign or not.

On this particular trip I saw thousands of compositions pass me by at 65 miles per hour; orchards, mountains, trees, vistas. At one point we passed a fire that had caught out in a grassy field, plumes of gray smoke were billowing. My husband glanced over at me, chuckling “Do you need to do your job”? A weak attempt at a groan rose from the car seat behind me. Sarah gently shifted the weight of Buddha on her lap and I was halfway through my “I’ll be quick” speech when I noticed I was out of film.

I have to admit I was disappointed but I had already photographed a lot that day. I had a number of keepers from earlier on and this was not the only scene to pass me by. In a sense, it creates an incentive to head out again and try to document the pictures I missed. It’s fodder for another road trip.

Simplifying Chaos, by Jeremy Kohm

Jeremy Kohm — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 14:23:14 +0000

Text and photos by Jeremy Kohm.

I had come to the southeast shore of New Jersey to photograph a series of motels that the National Trust for Historic Preservation had recently listed as being endangered. A bit of online research further revealed that there was a water park in the area and it was a subject that I’d always been interested in shooting. After a few emails and several more phone calls access was eventually granted. The water park was soon added to my itinerary.

Considering that I like to take simple, uncluttered, calm and visually organized photographs this was clearly going to be a difficult task. The main challenge was how to take a chaotic, cluttered location and give it some sense of visual organization.

My strategy had two components in an attempt to create an image that had some sort of structure. The first was to explore and photograph every single inch of this place, from the top of the Ferris wheel to the bottom of the water slide. The second was to get a bit of height that would allow the viewer to look at this image without losing their bearings.

The high noon light allowed for a faster shutter speed, a greater depth of field and minimal shadows. I was hoping to achieve as much detail as possible so that the viewer would be able to see the stories and relationships that existed within the park at that exact moment in time. The shot was deliberately composed with the bright white slide in the centre of the acting as a visual compass for the viewer – almost like a home for the viewer’s eyes to revisit in the event that the image became too overwhelming. In attempt to follow the rule of thirds, the image was subdivided using the sky as the top section, the waterslides and steel rails as the middle section and the sunbathers as the bottom section. Essentially I tried to use every photographic rule and trick I knew to make the image seem clean and approachable from the viewer’s perspective.

I’d be hoping to photograph a train for quite a while when the opportunity finally presented itself. I was driving a cube truck from Salt Lake City to Moab, Utah when I noticed that there were train tracks running parallel to the highway. A few hours into the trip and I passed a train – now the race was on.

As my cube van slowly inched ahead of the train I scanned the countryside looking for a location where the geography would reflect the shape and geometry of the train and it’s tracks. When I found some cliffs that seemed to resemble the train’s form, I turned on the hazard lights, veered onto the shoulder of the highway, grabbed my camera and climbed onto the top of the truck. One quick test shot and the train had caught up. I was able to fire off 5 or 6 frames before I had lost the shot.

The water park and the train really helped solidify my approach and methodology. It reinforced my aesthetic for trying to create photographs that are organized and easily digestible. In this particular instance I once again tried to stick to the rule of thirds by using the sky as the top third, the train and the cliffs as the middle third and the fence and ground as the bottom third.

In my office I have a scrapbook full of ideas and newspaper clippings that seem to trigger some sort of visual idea in my head. If I’m ever caught in one of those non-creative moments I look through my archive and see what I’ve got. In this instance I came across an old newspaper clipping that mentioned the construction of a mandir in Toronto. The religious structure was being constructed by hand with each individual component being shipped from India. By the time I had revisited the newspaper clipping in my scrapbook the building had been completed.

I approached the building with the same methodology I tend to use in all my work. It’s like a game of billiards. I’ll walk around the entire location looking for the best perspective. Once I’ve found the shot that works for my eye I’ll attempt to frame it while trying to incorporate some key design elements. I go through a mental checklist to see what I can add to the photo. It could be any number of things: the use of negative space, repetitive patterns, symmetry, shapes and geometry, selective focus or creative lighting to name a few. In the case I wanted to emphasize the shapes, details and colour as they were what defined this fantastical location that seemed too perfect, even surreal. I framed the shot to asymmetrically so that, even with the uncontrolled natural lighting there would be some sense of depth to the shot. I climbed up a 14-foot ladder, set up my tripod and waited for the shadows to lose their contrast and then started clicking away.

I’ve always been a fan of art deco and to find an indoor swimming pool that was constructed in the early 1900s was an opportunity not to be missed – even if my wedding reception was scheduled to start a few hours after I took this shot.

I was quite relaxed and calm while I set up my tripod and delicately moved the camera to find the most symmetrical perspective of the pool. I did however start to get a little stressed as the time ticked away while I waited for the swimmers to slowly exit the pool. By the time the water had settled I had become quite preoccupied with the reception that was only a few hours away. I took the shot and sprinted to get ready. I was a little late for the reception but I assure you it was my wife’s fault, not mine.

My approach to shooting people is the same process that I have always used for shooting environments. I went through my mental checklist and decided the most dynamic approach to photographing b-girls would be to keep them in the dead center of the frame, once again following the rule of thirds. I combined this tactic with the use of negative space so that I could shoot a stylized image that would focus the viewer on shape and form. Thankfully the talent was very patient and very flexible.

The 19/23 Corridor, by Scott Lessing Hubener

Scott Lessing Hubener — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 23:03:55 +0000

Following text and photos by Scott Lessing Hubener.

The 19/23 corridor

I have completed a recent body of work tentatively titled, The 19/23 Corridor, which is a photo documentary of the area between Asheville, NC and Johnson City, TN where a stretch of the 19/23 highway lies. This project has taken almost a year to complete and is one of the largest projects I’ve undertaken in terms of commitment of time and scale of coverage. I’ve chosen to discuss this work in particular, as it is representative of my style and approach as a photographer and artist. Below is a statement and description of the project, followed by insights into my approach and the general execution of producing the photographs.

Between Asheville, NC and Johnson City, TN lie sixty miles of varying geography, topography and demographics. Both Asheville and Johnson City are modestly sized urban areas with populations of approx 70,000 and 55,000 respectively. However, the counties between the two are some of the least populated and most rural of North Carolina and Tennessee. Madison County in NC and Unicoi county in TN epitomize the rural, quiescent, bygone eras and slower pace of life; a life that has for centuries depended upon the land for its survival and that in many ways continues to this day. As one follows the path of highway 19/23, the corridor that includes Interstate 26 and Future Interstate 26, there is a colliding and blending of past, present and future. Even the road’s varied name and status reflects this.

The roadway connecting these two cities serves as a symbol and a theme both literally and figuratively. Much as a river’s basin hosts the life along its banks and serves as a transporter of goods, people and commerce, so too does the 19/23 corridor. Along the roads and highways adjacent to the corridor, the true character of the region can be found; a region dotted with churches and crosses, barns, farms and livestock. I find the highway corridor a metaphor, because of its scale, wide reaching and meandering path, to be that of a great river and the tie that binds the region, connecting the cities, cultures and commerce of entire region.

I am interested in the dichotomy and disparate realities that span the 19/23 corridor. This spanning of the spectrum is analogous of the interstate itself, of progress vs. nature, development vs. conservation. Country barns and plowed farmland lie in the shadow of modern engineering marvels such as the viaducts and towering overpasses of the interstate and highway, which hug the mountainside. The cities of Asheville and Johnson City continue to grow as the infrastructure develops and the ease of travel and the movement of commerce is unimpeded. While the mountains of the Blue Ridge aren’t the most formidable peaks known to man, they do however insulate and dominate the landscape. Development in this region has been limited by the rough geography, however the coves and valleys do afford a spot for settlement and many of them have been occupied by families for several generations. The region boasts a population of which a majority were born and raised within the shadow of its mountains. Conversely the urban cities of Asheville and Johnson City tend to grow and expand their populations by attracting new residents from other locales. These disparities reflect the dichotomy of life and contribute to the richness and complexity of existence, which is really what this work is about, the richness of life.

As far as my method for creating images, I’ve detailed some background and insight into my approach and decision-making. My photographs are made primarily using natural or ambient light. This is one element that gives my work the feel and mood it possesses. I enjoy the evenness and honesty that I get from working with natural light. I prefer diffused, even lighting to harsh lighting; the diffused light to me is more truthful and the colors can compete for attention of the viewer in a balanced manner. My work is shot on portrait film for realistic, natural tones and colors. Using color film is important for me, as color brings another element, another layer and depth to the images. Even if the color is subtle, its presence is significant. I think the use of color adds a greater artistic element than just black and white images would to my work. The photos I produce, are in my mind, documentary first and then secondly art. I do concede there is an artistic value and merit to my work and I do strive towards that, but it is not my first intention or purpose.

Another technical insight into this series is that I have photographed it entirely with a medium format Hasselblad camera. I love what the format has to offer me; the larger negative is great for capturing detail and yet it is light enough to occasionally handhold and is less obtrusive than a large format camera. The Hasselblad’s use of roll film enables a few shots of a particular subject, whereas a larger format camera would also limit my exposures drastically to just a single frame. In some of my images, I consciously include a lot of information within the frame, and knowing that I have the resolving power of the larger negative to hold onto that information in the print is very important. I don’t want the detail to be lost in the print. I prefer a medium sized print for this series, and the photos are all printed at a 20″x20″ size. I also prefer the Hasselblad’s square image to that of a rectangular shape. The balance of the photos in a square image is much different than other formats and I enjoy the challenges and frankness the square image holds. One thing I admire so much about documentary photography is the straightforwardness in the presentation and depiction of the subject. I don’t go in for unusual angles or abstract subject matter. Attempting to be as truthful with the subject as possible is my goal. The lens I use most often is an 80mm, which is the normal lens for the format. Occasionally I use a 65mm, which is slightly wider, but still a modest wide angle and without distortion.

On Wisconsin, by Mark Brautigam

Mark Brautigam — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 17:44:02 +0000

On the site of Mark Brautigam there is a single portfolio: “On Wisconsin”. A series of large-format photographs of landscapes, buildings, cities and portraits. Photographs from the stunning palette, the cold tone of snow, calm and quite, as silent as they where suspended outside of time. I particularly like Mark Brautigam photos because they stay halfway between photojournalism and personal vision, between objectivity and the pure beauty of aesthetics, they tell me the objective truth and at the same time they make me dream, they are iconic and straight at the same time.

In the following article Mark Brautigam introduces his project “On Wisconsin” and tells the story of three of his photographs.

I climbed back into my car after photographing an unfilled swimming pool in a field not too far from where I lived in Wisconsin. Thinking to myself it might be interesting to do this kind of thing all around the state, it suddenly struck me that I had a whisper of a plan. A framework to work within. It felt good. I grew up in Wisconsin and found myself betting its character had worked itself into my mental fabric sufficiently enough to find reflection. It is a land of lakes, rivers, trees, and fields. Even in the summertime, there is a darkness to it. Some states shout. Wisconsin murmurs. It could be haunted. I was ready to begin.

That was five years ago and I’m still making photographs for my ongoing series entitled “On Wisconsin”. When I started this series, I’d never taken a photography course (I still haven’t). I barely knew what I was doing technically and conceptually. It has been an organic process on every front. I’ve had to feel my way through every stage of it. Even now that I’ve passed many of those technical and conceptual hurdles, this is still a project I am feeling my way through. But there’s a vibe to it I can latch on to. It may still take me a long time to find a subject, but now I know it when I see it, and with much more clarity. My experience tells me a larger project like this develops its own life. It’s an ongoing dialogue between you and each subject. Sometimes it requires a quick reaction. Sometimes it requires a slow down. Time to think and evaluate what you want to do with this thing.

It was a crisp May evening, and I was driving through Hurley, a gruff town south of the Wisconsin-Michigan border, when I saw this old lady raking her garden. Immediately I was struck by the way she was dressed and by the faded yellow house contrasted against the darkened trees. I pulled over and asked her if she’d let me take her portrait. She politely declined. She’s the only person so far who’s actually said no to me. But I did get her consent to photograph her while she raked her garden, which I believe ended up making for a much more interesting picture. Denial, I’m sure, rarely works out that well. As I was packing up my gear, her daughter and son-in-law drove up and I got their information to send them a print if the photo turned out nicely. The old lady was 90 years old. Her name, Enrica DeFerro.

On my way out of Hurley I made a quick detour through the town of Gile. Located on the Gile Flowage, it’s not much more than a one-road town. I passed a bar: Frank’s Bar. Its sign, a glowing illustration of two drunk fish, the word ‘Food’ ablaze in neon below it. Several thoughts surfaced simultaneously. I grew up addicted to fishing. School years were just interim periods between fishing seasons with my dad and my brother. My girlfriend’s father was named Frank. He passed away several years ago, before I could ever meet him, but the first picture I ever saw of him was one in which he was hoisting a gigantic northern pike. And I don’t think I need to go into the prominence that bars hold in the state of Wisconsin. I always carry around a small book of prints with me when I am on the road. I pulled over and took out the prints. Paging through them, I tried to figure out where a photo of this bar would fit best. I decided to come back in winter. It’s always risky to leave a potential photograph. Things change, and this place could be gone when I come back. But, I had a pretty strong feeling about it, so I left. One photograph taken. One photograph planned.

About eight months later, I traveled back up to Gile. It had been bitterly cold, but on the day I made it back to Frank’s Bar, the temperature climbed up to the mid-20’s. It wasn’t quite the right light when I arrived, so I decided to take a walk down to the flowage. On my way, I passed a white house buried in snow. A cross hung from the door and a ‘Beware of Dog’ sign was visible in the window. I could see mail was jammed into the door handle, and sunlight was skimming across the snow and house. This was either a vacation home or something had gone tragically wrong. In my mind, there were two potentials in this scene. The potential for an untold story and the potential for the sun to eventually liberate the house. The light was not going to stick around for long, so I raced back to my car, drove down to the house, and set up the photograph at a clip I rarely work at. After I took the photograph, I quickly loaded my camera back into my car. By then, it was time to get back to Frank’s Bar.

As I was setting up to photograph Frank’s, a man drove up in his car. He got out and walked toward the bar door. “What the FUCK are you doin’?” he asked. I told him what I do and asked if he’d be interested in being in a photograph. He was already a little buzzed. He had the right look. He could be one hell of a fisherman. As he stood in the doorway with the sunlight just leaving the front of the building, I took the photograph. Despite his introduction, he was a fairly gracious man. He seemed genuinely impressed with the process and I felt that this would give him a story to tell. I got his contact information (I always try to send a print to people I photograph), and he thanked me with a sincerity that was warming. I shook his hand. He walked into the bar, and I, back to my car.

Facing South: Southern Identity in Transition, by Kendrick Brinson

Kendrick Brinson — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 07:46:06 +0000

Kendrick Brinson is a young freelance photographer based in Atlanta, Georgia. Her current photographic emphasis focuses on photographing the eccentricities, stereotypes and romanticism of the Deep South of America.

She is also a founding member of Luceo Images, a photo collective of like-minded passionate photographers. Her personal photoblog is Box of Light.

Following text and photos by Kendrick Brinson.

I should preface this by explaining that I was born in South Carolina, the belly of the Deep South of the United States. Growing up, I visited my father’s family’s farm twice a year, a rural bicentennial cotton farm in rural Georgia. Every summer and Christmas, my cousins and I would pile into the back of my grandfather’s pickup truck loaded with dogs and wind through those fields on dirt roads, on Sundays ending up at a one-room church. My father, Buck, Jr., grew up in a home surrounded by fields where sharecroppers lived in shacks. There’s no doubting my Southern roots.

The first image that illustrates this article was taken at that same family farm in Georgia during the cotton harvest. The huge cotton bale behind Rebecca contains enough cotton to make over 1,000 t-shirts. The bale is just one of many that have been harvested over this rural Georgia family farm’s more than 200 year history. Cotton grew on that farm in the 1800s when cotton was king in the USA and it was the economic lifeblood of the region before during and after the American Civil War. The woman in this photo represents a shifting of the culture of the South. Her family’s ancestry lies in these fields, yet she grew up in a city hundreds of miles away. She does not identify herself as a stereotypical Southerner– she lacks a slow Southern accent, she votes Democratic, she is well-educated, she lives in a city. This photograph is just one of several I have taken for a long-term documentary project I am working on focusing on the overstated and understated stereotypes of the deeply proud Southern subculture.

As a region, the Deep South is rich in culture, history and charm and long on stereotypes. Despite where my roots were planted, a deeply proud southerner I am not. I was raised by my mother, a liberal military brat, and understood at a young age that the Confederate flag shamelessly boasting a failed win in the Civil War flying atop the South Carolina State House was a matter of shame and not pride. I am an insider with an outsider’s perspective. Like Rebecca, I reject the subculture I was born into and so will many of the next generations born in the Deep South. Yet, the region’s history, and those who hold on to the history with pride, is what fascinates and intrigues me.

Documentary photography is such a passion of mine because I love meeting people and hearing their stories. Using a camera is an intimate entry into people’s lives. For this essay, I’ve photographed a cotton harvest, a Civil War reenactment, self-proclaimed rednecks drunken mud wrestling, a devoted barbecue restaurant owner adorned in a yellow suit and a top hat, and I plan to photograph much more. The people in this region are as uniquely photogenic and colorful as their accents. I will document festivals named after greasy soul food; women with too much hairspray and acrylic Lee nails who win beauty pageants; men carrying artillery swords at Civil War reenactments; good ole boys campaigning and shaking hands in the republican states; four generation family reunions; baptisms in the Bible Belt; debutantes professing their purity in matching white dresses; leather-skinned farmers driving down rows of cotton atop their combines. I do not relate to these people, but I am fascinated by Southern loyalty and Southern tradition. They are a colorful, eccentric breed. This documentary essay is not only a visual exploration of Southern pride, but also an exploration of my own regional history.

The Southern United States is one of the fastest growing areas in the country . As the region grows, the regional identity changes and will continue to evolve as time passes. Regional subcultures of the entire US are becoming more and more homogenized through the mainstream and the traditions that make this area of the country unique will fade. Until recently, the stubborn regional loyalists of the Deep South could reject the impending transitions, but now the regional culture and its traditions must evolve or dissolve due to the unstoppable motion of shifting demographics.

Documenting people and events with photography is a way of preserving history. As a former newspaper photographer, my passion for photojournalism is linked to my duty to visually record the daily mundane and exceptional events to preserve history and to show the community what has happened and what is happening during that very moment of time. Photography is a way of freezing and preserving memories and feelings and moods and cultures as time erodes each.

What traditions may be lost as more Northerners relocate and retire in the South? Or as Southern families relocate to the North for better educations or jobs – as black diaspora of the 1930s and 1940s did for their children. What will become of my grandparents’ bicentennial farm? What part of my own family history, which is rooted so deeply in the South, will die when the banks no longer support my grandparents’ farm? What happens when their cotton fields and oaks with Spanish moss are paved over?

As Latino populations and New Englanders relocate to the American South for work or retirement, these denizens will continue to grow and overshadow the stereotypical South. From 2000 to 2006, of the top 50 fastest growing metropolitan areas in the US, 25 were in the South. Arkansas saw an increase of 47 percent in Hispanic population, the highest increase in the country from 2000 to 2005. In 1950, Hilton Head Island had 300 residents, all black, the descendants of the slaves who worked the Sea Island cotton plantations. In 2000, the population was 28,893 and 85 percent white. The subculture of the South is not frozen in time; it is growing and changing. Soon the aging traditions of the Deep South will take on other cultural ingredients to make a new South. As much as I don’t relate to those who still claim to be proud Southerners, I also hate to see the cultural traditions and characteristics of the Deep South fade with time. Photographs will preserve what time and change take away.

As a Southerner critical of, yet sympathetic to, my neighbors, I believe I am perfectly positioned to witness and document this subculture. And it’s an adventure of twangs and fried food and dirt roads along the way.

The very story of the South is a story of unresolved identity… The South, contrary to so many words written in defense and in attack, was not a fixed, known, and unified place, but rather a place of constant movement, struggle, and negotiation.

Edward Ayers, Southern Historian

Fabiano Busdraghi: You say several times that there are a lot of stereotypes in the deep south. maybe everyone from US knows exactly what you mean, but maybe it is not the same here in Europe. Would it possible for you to describe the southern culture, its stereotypes and particularities? Could you gave us a little bit the taste of what is the southern world and culture?

Kendrick Brinson: The Deep South refers to a region in the United States, but also, to some people a slower pace of life. This geographical region usually includes Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi and South Carolina — these states, plus Texas and Florida, made up the Confederate States of America, as each seceded from the United States before the Civil War. For whatever reasons, since the Civil War, the South has been riddled with stereotypes. Whether its residents be thought of as slow, or polite, or stubborn, these stereotypes have permeated through time in people’s minds, and popular culture.

A stereotypical southerner is an Evangelical, they speak with an accent– a twang, they eat fried food and drink sweet tea and whiskey. They usually hail from small towns. They are proud, they vote conservatively. They are shirtless, toothless, barefoot, and uncouth. They worship the Civil War and drive pick-up trucks with the Confederate flag plastered on their bumpers. They are proud of being from the South.