Stories from the River

Stories from the River

Where I grew up, the riverfront, or foot of Broadway as it was known and where my hometown began, was the center of activity in the city. The waterways industry built and repaired barges, fishermen launched their boats alongside recreational boaters, and barge companies restocked their tugboats for the long journey down the Ohio and Mississippi on to New Orleans.

And along these banks, the city thrived with commerce, banking, even the hospital was built near the river.  But at some point, while not unlike many other communities, Paducah turned its back on the river and looked elsewhere for commerce and recreation.

They have tried to bring it back, but it’s difficult, times have changed. Situated at near flood stage Paducah is surrounded by a concrete and earthen flood wall.  And while it’s been decades since the town last experienced flooding on a major scale the flood wall, now covered in murals depicting the history of the city, remains as a reminder to never ignore the river.  Yes, times have changed but not the river. 

Rivers define us, determine where and often how we live, our culture and lifestyle.  We build near them, on their banks and bluffs and bends.  We take from the river and it asks little in return.  Yet they are always there. Their currents teeming with life, their headwaters, backwaters, and channels always flowing, always changing.  The rivers divide us and unite us, and we build bridges to cross them, dams to control them.

 As our natural highways, we transport grain, coal and goods along the river and the rivers transport us through time and space, our history often defined by the rivers.  What does the river say to us?  What stories do they tell?

Some days the river lays smooth as glass seemingly calm on the surface, and just as fast it can become dangerous, currents constantly changing.  Mysterious and silent their movement never-ending, never resting in their journey long and tireless.  There is a cadence to the river, its heart beating with a life of its own throughout its channels, streams, and tributaries.  

 Just a few miles up-river from Paducah the city of Owensboro has witnessed a major redevelopment of their riverfront.  Through local leadership and substantial investment of government and private resources Owensboro now has arguably the nicest riverfront of any city in the country.  And once again since its founding on the Yellow Banks of the Ohio River over two centuries ago, Owensboro has redefined itself and proudly looks to the river as a gateway to the future.  

 I have spent a lifetime living along a river.  Near and along the banks of the Ohio, Tennessee, Green, Cumberland, Mississippi, and Tangipahoa Rivers in communities, who owe their very existence to their location on the river have all been my home at one time or another. 

And having witnessed one community struggle to find its place on the river, while another community has successfully reconnected with the river I have become interested in the history and stories of the rivers along the way.

 Trade, travel routes, rich farmland, and migratory flyways of teaming wildlife were a few of the reasons why early settlers came and often stayed at a place along the river that would grow and prosper in the early days of our country’s expansion.  Today, rivers are no less important to the prosperity, economy and the cultural identity of a community and the people who live along a river’s banks. 

I've begun a long-term project to capture the stories and voices of the river. Photographs of the towns and people and their connections to the river. Every river has a story and a voice.

Each day the rivers flow past countless towns and communities and each day the rivers give us another story.  The rivers rise and fall, an in the distance, we hear a tugboat’s horn blow hard and loud.  Its bow cuts through dark brown water, oil slick and drift, and the rivers continue to flow and tell their story and define us as they have for generations.

Contained in this post are just a few of the photographs that will make up this work. Images that explore our relationship to the rivers and tell the story of the rivers. Images that give voice to those stories. I hope you enjoy Stories from the River.

600 Hot Air Balloons

A hot air balloon drifted over the house recently and I thought what great fun that must be, to silently float along with in the clouds pushed along by the prevailing wind.   But I don’t like heights so my hot air balloon experience will be limited to being an observer - with my feet planted firmly on the ground. 

As  the balloon floated silently out of sight, I was reminded of a trip we took through the Southwest, our destination, Albuquerque, New Mexico where we attended the Great Balloon Fiesta. 

Imagine waking up at 3:00 A.M.  to go out into the cold New Mexico desert to see a hot air balloon take off at dawn.  Well actually, there were 600 hot air balloons of incredible shapes and amazing colors that ascend into skies over the Rio Grande Valley in wave after wave after wave. 

Our weather was perfect and it was a great day to take photographs especially considering you can mingle with the pilots and crews as they prepared for lift off.  Held each year in October over nine days, over 100,000 people gather on the launch field for the rare opportunity to see these magnificent balloons lift off into the New Mexico sky.  It’s quite a sight and I recommend anyone add it to their bucket list.  It will lift your spirits. 

Please visit www.jarrettstreetphoto.com to see more photos.

Until next time…

Shotguns and Rabbit Dogs

I grew  up with hunters.  One of my grandfather's loved to hunt as much as he loved raising his prize beagles.  I learned gun safety, respect for other people's property and even how to clean what we killed.  I bought my first gun from Lack Sporting Goods in Paducah with money saved from my paper route.   

I picked this particular shotgun I think more for the way it looked than for any practical reason.  And it still has a good look and feel even after all these years.  The bluing is worn and the walnut stock and forearm are scarred, even some of the engraving is worn smooth from years of chasing rabbits, quail and doves but it is still beautiful gun.

 I'll never take my grandchildren hunting and that's okay.  I never liked cleaning a dead animal anyway.  Times and attitudes about guns and hunting have changed with the generations, and most of the game is gone and no longer accessible. I'll be content to show them these photos and tell them tales of my hunting adventures so many years ago with my grandfather and Skippy.      

If you've ever rabbit hunted you can hear the dogs work the rabbits, the distinctive howl and yap of a beagle in hot pursuit.  And generally, there is one dog that leads the pack.  His name was Skippy, and he was my grandfather's best hunter.    "They'll break out of the tall grass right over there" he pointed, adding "boy, whatever you do don't shoot Skippy, he'll be leading the pack for sure."  

I told him I was ready but when that frightened rabbit broke into the open I raised my new double-barrel 20 gauge and let loose with both barrels.  Just as I jerked the trigger that rabbit made a sharp right-hand turn.  The dirt exploded just in front of old Skippy, at least three feet behind the rabbit, and that beagle let out a yelp and I just knew I'd shot my grandfather’s prized hunting dog. 

Skippy lived but he was ever a good rabbit dog after that.  Shell shocked as he was he became a beloved house pet living for many years after his near demise at my young hands.  My grandfather never said a harsh word.  He just suggested perhaps that bird hunting would be better, knowing that errant buckshot directed into blue sky would be safer for all concerned.     

Skippy of course is gone, but I still have that shotgun.  One of the firing pins no longer works but that's okay.  I doubt I will ever shoot it again.  It's been over 50 years since I almost ended poor old Skippy's life with that gun.  As some of my friends will tell you I'm better shooting a camera than a shotgun anyway.  

There's something special about old shotguns, the craftsmanship of the engraving, the polished wood finishes, and the time-honored designs such as a Browning Auto 5 or the sleek Remington Wingmaster.  And then there's my old AH Fox 20 gauge double barrel shown here.  Not expensive guns by any means, but the memories of those days with my grandfather and Skippy are as they say, priceless.  

There are more photos of these old shotguns at www.jarrettstreetphoto.com.  Please take a look and let me know what you think.  

Until next time...

A Morning with Daniel Boone

I spent the morning with Daniel Boone…

…Daniel and Rebecca actually, and a few hundred of their closest friends.  It was one of those nice spring days and the forecast called for fog early, giving way to clearing mid-morning.  A nice day to get out of the house and not be around many people, at least not anyone contagious. My destination was the historic Frankfort Cemetery.

Daniel and Rebecca Boone’s monument overlooking the Kentucky River and Frankfort.

Frankfort is a short drive from where we live and historic cemeteries can be interesting. Especially here where the famous and sometimes the infamous lay together in the rolling hills and manicured grounds among spectacular monuments, statuary and majestic trees that together make this a great place to visit and photograph.

The cemetery is located on a bluff overlooking the Kentucky River, the Capital building and downtown Frankfort. According to the cemetery’s website a vice president, numerous former governors, military heroes – even slaves and “people of color” - are all buried here.  Daniel and Rebecca Boone were the first to be laid to rest in the cemetery in 1847. 

Your view in any direction is incredible as land near the Boone monument drops dramatically down to the Kentucky River

My thought was to photograph the view from the Boone’s grave site.  I spent some time waiting for the sunlight to burn through the fog and I felt like my morning with Daniel Boone was time well spent. I’m pleased with how the photographs turned out.

The fog tended to soften the details and allowed the camera to make images that resemble old oil paintings rather than a photograph.

There is so much to see here that it deserves another visit or two to take it all in. I think later in the fall when the colors are as rich and vibrant as the history of the Frankfort Cemetery will be the perfect time to return.

Hidden Stories

I enjoy street photography. Walking around thinking I’m the next Robert Frank or Cartier-Bresson, I find that I enjoy taking photos of people. And I realize there are certain people who grab my attention more than others.  Some have an appealing or unique look.  Some have a weathered or haggard expression, created by a lifetime of hard living I imagine.  Others have expressions of joy or sadness or simply catch my attention with a smile or nod.  And most often it’s their eyes that are most interesting. 

Peter Lindbergh, the famous photographer said, “I focus my lens on the subject’s eyes, so that I can see what is inside - the eyes are always honest”.   

And as I photograph people, I’ve found it’s fascinating to try and imagine what their personal stories might be.  Are they happy or sad, what do their expressions tell us, or maybe what are their expressions hiding?  What are their eyes saying to us?  What can you really tell about a person from a photograph?

It has been said of David Heath’s work, another famous photographer, that he charted the geography of the human spirit – the joys, pains, and uncertainties that unite us all.  His photographs reveal that the faces of strangers are never truly alien to us.  In them, we recognized basic elements of ourselves, evidence of our emotional and spiritual kinship. 

So, when I’m out shooting  people on the street I’ll look for an expression or glance, maybe just s smile or a nod and I’ll compose the shot hoping to capture a lifetime in a fraction of a second.  I will fail of course, knowing that there is more to a person’s life, and more hidden stories than I will ever capture in a single image. 

But for a moment there’s a brief connection and I like to think I’ve captured more than just an image, but a chapter however brief of a hidden story. What do you think? Be sure to let me know and to see more images go to www.jarrettstreetphoto.com.

Until next time…

Painting with Light - Photographs that look like Paintings

It’s not too often that I take photos that look like paintings.  It takes some luck, timing, and of course Mother Nature’s help to create that effect. Filtered light, reflections, and ripples on the surface of the water, weather conditions, locale, and camera settings, all contribute to the effect. Here are a few photographs that I’ve taken recently that have painting-like qualities.

A pond near our home. I used a lens made in 1958 that is very fast but hard to focus. The result is the very shallow depth of field and a slightly soft image. Muted colors reminded me of an old painting faded with time.

Reflections on the water can create painting like effects. In this case there was a vivid blue sky, white clouds and ripples on the water that also added to the effect.

Sunrise in Charleston, South Carolina. The sun is just beginning to rise. I shot this with a wide-angle lens and pushed the horizon to the top of the frame wanting to include as much of the water and sky’s reflection along with the marsh jutting out into the bay.

Bernheim Forest, a late November afternoon nearing sunset and I was about to loose the light. I used a polarizing filter that saturated the colors and softened focus. Initially I did not like this photo all that much. Dark at the corners and the colors looked overdone due to the filter and low light. Over time it’s grown on me.

Floyd’s Fork along the Valley of the Giants trail in the Parklands. Shot in October again late afternoon. Adjusted the highlights and shadows and boosted the saturation in LIghtroom. Shooting with a wide-angle lens defines the perspective that allows the wide field of view.

Dogwood in bloom at the Frankfort Cemetery and a view from Daniel Boone’s grave. Early morning fog softens the image. I shot this a few minutes later as the sun rose and the fog lifted resulting in a totally different image. Fog can create a sense of mystery.

Mother Nature provides unlimited opportunities to shoot vivid landscapes that with planning, camera settings and a little luck will create photos that look like paintings. Check out all the photos on this website and let me know what you think.

Sunrise in Charleston

The morning air is still and cool and it's quiet, not a sound but the distant caw, caw of a lonely sea bird.  I have a few minutes before sunrise so I try to position myself along the pier so that I can capture the best photograph. 

The tide is low, and the smell of dried marsh grass is pungent, strong and I think there must be rotting fish somewhere along the craggy rocks left bare until the tide rises renewing the marsh once again.  I am beginning to make out the clouds above me as they fan out like cotton fingers reaching for the distant horizon.  The sky is beginning to lighten, its blackness becoming a soft blue canvas ready for the brush strokes that only Mother Nature can make, her brush touching here - now there - as the sun's light touches the sky and this masterpiece of a new day is complete once again. 

The mirrored glass of the water just in front of the pier is beginning to ripple, as the wind freshens ever so slightly. The azure clouds above are becoming a technicolor mosaic of blue gray, whites and reflected yellows.  I adjust the cameras settings in order to expose for the shadows and highlights which is no easy task.  Mother Nature does not like to be copied and capturing the true beauty of this morning’s sunrise alludes me. 

And so, I step back and just watch as the sun rises over the horizon bringing with it a new day.  Slowly the world around me awakens.  A foghorn from a distant ship blares in the distance.  A pelican glides along the surface of the bay searching for breakfast.  I hear the gravel crunching under foot as a jogger runs by me seemingly unaware of the start of a new day, focused instead on the miles ahead.  Soon, too soon, the sky brightens, and the new light of day chases the clouds away. 

History is not lost on me in this special place along the river, Ft. Sumter only a few hundred yards from where I stand, silent now, just a small out-cropping of rock and sand.  A flag flies over the fort commemorating the significance of the battles fought across this water so long ago.  And I wonder if the silence and beauty of the sunrise was enjoyed by those brave souls who fought here so long ago in the moments before Mother Nature’s canvas was shattered and torn by canon fire and blaze of musket bore? 

One thing is certain.  Charleston is a special place for many reasons.  The history and events that were played out here, as sad and glorious as they were, serve to give this place its meaning and charm, and as history reminds us there will always be a new day.  I snap one last photograph and walk away. 

I’ve been thinking. My photos of Charleston or any place that we visit for that matter, are typically snapshots of where we go but don’t give the full picture of the town or city. I didn’t set out to document Charleston, but just took photos while we walked around. To really do Charleston justice, would take a greater investment in time and effort than I was able to give it on this trip.

These are just pictures within the City, the wonderful architecture, gardens and facades - things that appealed to me, but which do for me anyway, evoke “Charleston”. The photographs were all taken with my Leica M-10 and a 21mm and 35mm lens primarily. There are a few taken with a 50mm and maybe one or two taken with my 90mm. That’s really not important because regardless of what equipment you use, it’s how, and with what, you fill the frame with that counts. In the end it’s the story you tell with your photography that is important. I hope I’ve left you with a bit of Charleston that otherwise you might not have experienced.

I Will Testify

"Is the present the victim of the past; or

is the past the victim of the present?"

The Circus in the Attic - Robert Penn Warren

When I was a young, I spent most of my days on the Southside of Paducah.   Mom and Dad were working, and this was my daycare, preschool and kindergarten rolled into one where most days I found myself at the stoop of a white clapboard shotgun house on Jarrett Street in the Southside of Paducah. 

My grandparents attended East Baptist Church.   A Southern Baptist Church as it were where despite the directional references, I never felt much direction while attending, heavenly or otherwise.  But it was a place where poetry fell out of people’s mouths when they rose from the hard-wooden pews to testify. They revealed their joys and sorrows. They sought forgiveness. But most of all they told their own stories. Because most were poor, and they tended to clutch their Bibles as tightly as their purse they had no particular way of expressing themselves. They spoke in a rhythm that mimicked the way stripes of mist eased over Island Creek on summer mornings. Their words were so vivid and perfect, they seemed to have been carefully chosen. But for them, telling a story was innate. They were born with the ability to testify, and in doing so gave praise to their God

We took words seriously in those days.   We had a deep reverence for language and storytelling. So, it’s no surprise that testifying was a sacred act for many poor people in those days before television, internet and social media.  I laugh as I recall thinking I bet they would have made great photographers if they’d had cameras.  Their words becoming the imagery of their lives and times.

        But testifying does not only take place in church. The act of telling one’s story might be holy, but it can be done anywhere. In those days, they told their stories not only on front porches and around kitchen tables but also in the aisles of the local A&P and the waiting rooms of doctor’s offices.

They told tales in their gardens while they hoed beans or in the shallows of the river bottoms where the barges plied their trade. Often, they are stories of nostalgia, for they were a people always mourning the past. Always holding tight to the old ways, grieving because they knew how easily things can slip away forever.

The beauty was in the testimony itself, even when there is ugliness mixed in, too. In these river bottoms of Western Kentucky, we know what it’s like for the eyesore and the magnificent to coexist. The true beauty was their story, told to one another in those days now so long ago.    

Today when we “testify” our stories are rooted in the modern world and told in increasingly modern ways: on laptops, blogs, social media, cameras in our phones, in texts and videos.  Validation comes in the form of the sum-total of our digital “Likes” and “Friends” some of whom we do not know and have never met.  They exist only in digital bytes of information. But their was a rhythm of life, told person to person, face to face that has been lost in all the technology and yet I look for it still with my pen and camera.    

        Not long ago, I went back to Jarrett Street and stood along the banks of the creek. I watched in the dark, as the sun rose. Hoping for a clear horizon. I had no real idea for what, or whom I was waiting. Just a feeling. A memory that stirred from deep down within, had drawn me to this place. 

            The old house is now gone as well as East Baptist Church and its hard wood pews.  But their stories remain.  I return here as often as I can to remember.  And to be thankful for the blessings in my life.  Their stories come back to me rising slowly in my mind like the sun now beginning to rise over the horizon.  

            The sun begins to shine across the water below.  Ripples form where Mayflies land softly on the surface and reflections of clouds begin to float along the surface, the creek a mirror of the world above and the secrets she holds and the mysteries she cannot let go.  I reach down and dip my fingers into her cool muddy water.  “I know, I whisper to myself, I will tell your story, I will testify.”

The Parklands of Floyd's Fork

Morning at Beckley Creek Park

The term flâneur comes from the French masculine noun un flâneur [ahn flah-NUR]—which has the basic meanings of ‘stroller’, ‘lounger’, ‘saunterer’, ‘loafer’—which itself comes from the French verb flâner, which means “to stroll”. (Webster's Dictionary)

In this edition of the News from Jarrett Street we find ourselves "strolling, sauntering and loafing" among the landscapes of The Parklands of Floyd’s Fork here in eastern Jefferson County. According the Parkland’s website the area is comprised of five distinct park and woodland areas, that, “cut right through the heart of the last major undeveloped section of Metro Louisville. It preserves a vanishing landscape designed to capture the beauty and function of the Floyd Fork wetlands corridor.” I am beginning my own journey through the over 100 miles of woodland trails and walking paths of the Parklands.

Without a doubt the planners and designers have managed to capture and preserve this beautiful area and all that nature has to offer. Under “Current Work” you will find a few photos of this beautiful woodland park. I plan to add many more in the next few weeks.

Strolling without purpose, nowhere to be, only to be - and to be mindful of your surroundings all of which provides limitless opportunities to see the landscape that at one moment you are enveloped by- and at another separate from - are all there for you to photograph.

In nature it is a spiritual and unseen force that has created the natural beauty of the world around us. And we benefit from the experience. Nowhere is this more true than at the Parklands of Floyd’s Fork.

Flâneur comes from the book of the same name by Edmund White who described it as,

“A flaneur is a stroller, a loiterer, someone who ambles without apparent purpose but is secretly attuned to the beauty & fragility of nature – and is in covert search of adventure.”

The Parkland’s of Floyd’s Fork are at once simplistic and complicated, vibrant and alive, offering up opportunity after opportunity for the photographer and the adventurer! As you journey through the natural beauty of the Parklands you begin to see the fragility of it all, and too often - but for our photographs - the instant will be gone. We have to grab the opportunity, frame the image and the moment is ours.

Loiter as we may, we stroll through these natural landscapes, in search of adventure. From the woodlands and trails of the Parklands, I continue the journey.

Short Stories

"Let us assume that it is summer," begins Robert Penn Warren's short story, "The Circus in the Attic." And with these few words, Warren captures your imagination. The brilliance of Warren's work is well documented and the short story form, along with his poetry and novels distinguish Robert Penn Warren as one of the giants in American literature in the 20th century.

He wrote of his youth in the South, of innocence lost and the trials of living and dying, loving and giving. His complex and powerful narratives describe our human nature with all our virtues and faults. "Everyone has their story," he wrote, "and everyone's story is worth telling."

When I'm choosing the final selection of photographs for a book, magazine, or this website one clue that I may be looking at a special photograph is that I want to linger with it, much as the reader wants to linger in a Robert Penn Warren short story or novel. And is often the case I am struck by the question, what story is the photograph sharing with me, what clues are there to the mystery that has been written in the form of an image?

I've long been interested in the relationship between text and images, especially poetry and how the two can illuminate the personal narrative of the subject of a photograph. For me, it is one of my chief obsessions. Ultimately it's about striking the right balance, so that one doesn't overpower the other. It's about how the two art forms can compliment the other.

Adding layers, often complex elements to photographs, creating images that end up asking questions. An attempt to bring multiple dimensions into a single frame. To offer multiple meanings and possibilities to the short stories of my images. To create images about something, not just of something. To document the mystery that is life.

In this edition of The Jarrett Street Collection I was inspired by a quote from Robert Penn Warren: "We're separated from our inner being as if by a glass wall...We are akin to it and yet we are alienated by our consciousness - our curse and our blessing."

This kind of emotional tension Warren is referring to echoes the inner conflict I sometimes feel while photographing people who are, or who appear to be suffering. Part of me wants to turn and run the other way - yet because these people are so utterly compelling to look at, to understand the essence of their short story - another part of me wants to get closer. This often unsettling feeling compels me to take their photograph. The outcome of which is to share their story and in doing so offer them a degree of dignity.

And often an image presents itself that is joyful, a celebration of life, an interesting situation or event. Like life, there is the gamut of emotion. Deep heartfelt suffering and an equal measure of joy. Some photographs for me at least conjure up memories of growing up, learning, exploring and testing the limits. And so I linger, wanting to spend time in the image, with its story waiting for the emotion to unfold.

Let us assume that it is summer. Can you feel the heat of a summer day, smell the freshly cut grass? Look over there! A dog chasing his ball, that old Tomcat chasing butterflies? Do you feel the smooth river rocks, the flat one's good for skipping across the surface of the water? And do you feel the loss and remember the flowers, their smell heavy in the hot humid air at the funeral and later everyone brings food and there's the murmur of voices and forced laughter?

Do you see her coming closer, its as if she's floating on the summer breeze, the slight tilt of her head and the catch light in her eyes and you feel your gut tighten in anticipation of her smile, her touch? Close your eyes and you are there.

Short stories. Everyone has their story. And everyone's story is worth telling through the images of their lives. In joy and in sadness, celebrations and loss, ours is just a short story waiting to be told.

Constantine Manos - “You Need to Work Harder”

I had and opportunity recently to attend a workshop led by Magnum Photographer Constantine Manos. It was a one-day workshop that included a portfolio review along with an opportunity to discuss photography and listen to one of the best photographers of this generation. I will tell you that if you have not undergone a portfolio review - an objective and critical look at your work - it is an eye-opening experience not to mention at times a somewhat painful and revealing experience.

In a few words Constantine said I am a “lazy photographer”, unwilling to work for the best image. “Stop taking photos which simply show what something looks like,” he told me. “Put the elements of an image together in the frame that show us something we have never seen before and will never see again. Add more layers and complexity. Be a better storyteller, see all the edges and corners and fill the frame.” He went on to suggest that each photograph has a life of its own and each photo is like a poem. And like a poem it is the small details that make it beautiful.

So often, I have the idea that it is just a matter of photographing what we see, rather than “constructing” an image by building the elements in the frame each playing off the other. In street photography, for instance, I tend to point and shoot, trying not to miss something, rather than allowing a scene to develop fully. And while he would tell us that is important up to a point, you have to be prepared and that the difference between a snapshot and a great photo is visualizing in advance, identifying the elements and filling the frame with information.

Here are two photos that he reviewed that he thought came closer to being good photographs - photographs that document and tell a story by containing multiple elements, leaving the viewer to interpret the scene.

A man sitting on the beach, seagulls flying and a boy playing in the surf nearby. The man could be feeding the birds, or simply enjoying the view. You’re asked by the photo to supply your own explanation, to write the story. In reality the man is a Cuban refugee, his gaze to the south and his homeland where he still has a family. He told me he enjoys the birds because they are so free.

In addition Manos stressed rules of composition and placement of elements in the scene. He suggested that I work on this as well. While being critical he was very complimentary at times, at least when deserved.

This photo captures what appears to be a mother, who by her expression, we might assume is seeking peace and quiet from the chaos around her. Not all that unusual for mothers everywhere, I suppose.

We are left to supply our own interpretation of what the photographs are telling us, to fill in the blanks. Constantine said, “The flow of people in a setting, their changing relationship to each other and their environment, and their constantly changing expressions and movements - all combine to create dynamic situations that provide the photographer with limitless choices of when to push the button. By choosing a precise intersection between subject and time, you transform the ordinary into the extraordinary and the real into the surreal.

The bottom line? I need to work harder to develop my skills as a storyteller. To create more complex images that challenge the viewer. To become a better story teller. .

To learn more about Constantine Manos or see his work go to:

https://www.magnumphotos.com/photographer/constantine-manos/

http://constantinemanos.com/

Beginnings

Half Dome Yosemite - Terrell Morris, 1962

He and I would become darn good friends that summer. You could say we grew closer. Spending three days on a bus will do that for you. You grow close to a lot of people. It was the summer of 1962 and there my grandfather and I were, standing at the bus station in Cairo, Illinois, he with his Kodak Retina 35 mm rangefinder around his neck and me with my Kodak Duaflex twin-lens reflex camera, imagining I was the famous lensman Mike Kovak from the TV hit series, “Man with a Camera” staring Charles Bronson.

My grandfather, Terrell and I took the Continental Trailways bus 2,000 miles to California along the famous Route 66. Overall, it was a month long journey of discovery and wonder and I would grow very close to my grandfather and develop what would become my passion for photography.

Terrell and I would take many road trips together in the years that followed. He loved to travel, experience new places and people and record his adventures on film. I still have his cameras and boxes of photos and slides taken on this favorite film Ektachrome that he used and he would tell me, “Expose for the highlights and light the shadows” which of course I did not understand at the time. We photographed and talked about sites along the way and the stunning California scenery that awaited us on our arrival.

Yosemite was the highlight of our trip with its towering redwoods and spectacular mountain ranges. I remember the moment he took this photograph of Half Dome in the Yosemite National Park. Pulling off the winding mountain road into one of the several overlooks we were able to get our first look at the face of the monolith that Ansel Adams himself had made so famous in the photograph titled, "Moon and Half Dome" taken only the year before.

This overlook photo, one of my favorites from our trip, has become a connection to my grandfather, as much as any memory I have of him. I can still see him bring the camera to his eye and with a sense of wonder and amazement smile as he looked through the viewfinder at the Yosemite Valley that summer morning. He was not a great photographer by any definition, but he was a good photographer and he understood the process.. Most importantly he loved taking photos and sharing them with family and friends. .

Our trip would prove to be the start of my passion and interest in photography that has lasted a lifetime and I still share his sense of wonder as I bring the camera to my eye. And I often think of my grandfather and our time together at the overlook in the Yosemite Valley.

I’ve never been on another bus, even to take one across town. Being on a bus for three days does bring you close to a lot of people. And while I wouldn’t trade anything for the memories, three days on a bus! Are you kidding me? No way! Unless of course, it could be with Terrell and Mike Kovak.

A Magnificent Aluminum Machine

Thunderstorms form in the west and rain falls

collecting in pools iridescent, sparkling.

Under the glow of lamplight

Ektachrome colors in the ripples danced.

Light reflected in liquid mirrors hold you

in their mystical magical trance.

Painted people walking by, their images coalesced

as characters in this bus-stop paperback romance.

Strewn on the sidewalk another day's confetti

the ticket stubs lay torn

where the ticket master makes his rounds.

Vivid images still in my mind

among the sights and sounds

of this hot August morn.

Departure times are set.

Voices, obscured by the diesel engines sudden roar,

rise as their heightened anticipation soar.

The sixty or so nervous excited travelers listen

for the announcement,

"All Aboard...!"

The bus depot was in Cairo,

"You know the one, just to the west of us there

at the confluence of the Mississippi and the Ohio River.

With the little pack I carried I bounded up the steps

all 80 pounds of me at best, I feel a sudden shiver.

Not from the humid dampness of this summer morning,

but at the sight of this magnificent machine

This shimmering shining, gleaming polished aluminum spaceship.

I wait for the countdown, T minus 10, 9, 8...

I push back hard against the seat, ready to blast off!

And with a sudden jerk and hiss of hydraulic brakes

we began our journey and, in my imagination,

I was strapped into Mercury Seven,

and in that capsule, I held tight. I was eleven

and in that summer, I would leave the bounds of earth

for my journey to the stars in the heavens.

Godspeed John Glenn.

We traveled along Route 66 on our journey west.

Three days to Santa Monica through Texarkana,

Oklahoma City, Amarillo, Albuquerque

Flagstaff and Needles.

Just my grandfather and me

and there was so much to see.

We made it to the Golden State.

It was bigger than I imagined

and the sights were strange and different

than anything I had seen.

LA to Bakersfield and on to Fresno

Our final stop,

We toured the valley

and the mountains, and there along the way

We drove through a tree –

Can you imagine? We drove through a tree!

That summer when I was eleven

I took a journey to a place of wonder and dreams.

From Cairo to Yosemite

and all the places in between, even through a tree.

And with a little pack I carried we traveled to a place of dreams

in a shimmering, shining, gleaming, polished aluminum machine.

And the Band Played On

“If you believe in forever then life is just a one night stand. If there’s a rock and roll heaven, well, you know they got a hell of a band.”

- The Righteous Brothers

It has been said that music is a connection.  Music is a memory.  Music connects us to a memory.  Anyway, I’m sure you’re like me and can remember what you were doing when a particular song was released, or possibly you remember a special girl you were with or party you attended. Songs do bring back memories and so there is a definite connection.

Music does connect us to friends, lovers, wars, celebrations and sadness.  It is the language of a generation, the harmony of emotions told in stories and poems by the troubadours and minstrels whose amplified hi-fidelity touched us like nothing before or sense.  And we are connected to these memories. 

When we were young, we believed in forever.  We believed that we could solve the world’s problems.  We believed we could end war, and we did.  We believed we could all live together in harmony and we were wrong.  But more than anything we believed anything was possible. 

The music came to my generation on vinyl, eight track car players and over the airwaves played on FM radio stations that we played in muscle cars or just the family Buick.  The British bands invaded America singing songs with riffs and melodies borrowed from Black gospel and blues of the smoke-filled juke joints of the Mississippi Delta.  Songs of love lost and found gave way to lyrics of protest and questions of a thousand dreams.  Songs that challenged the very core of our democracy and asked why we killed the finest of a generation.  And we’re still asking the questions. 

What does this have to do with photography. Well, I happen to like both and I enjoy the fun and challenges of concert photography. The mix of action and lights on stage creates unique situations to photograph. The collection of photos here includes shots of musicians from Bluegrass to Blues, Rock to Country and simply street musicians.  This mix is varying, and my hope is my photography will connect you to a memory like the music of our time.  And when that note is struck, and the shutter is pushed the music and the photography will become the melody of forever.  Kind of like that special girl from so many years ago…



dis-ABILITY

Wendell Foster Campus - Where hopes and dreams become reality

“But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was; and when he saw him, he had compassion, and went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine; then he set him on his own beast and brought him to an inn, and took care of him.”

Luke 10: 33-34

Today, Wendell Foster Campus is home to nearly 100 residents and serves thousands of children and adults as outpatients, is a leader in the field of developmental disabilities. It was the dream of Wendell & Edith Foster over 70 years ago, to care for their daughter Louise, in their home, where she could be nurtured and loved, a place where her dreams and hopes could be fulfilled. A place where she would be judged not by her disabilities but for her abilities. The Foster’s dream is a reality today.

I have had the opportunity to photograph and share the incredible stories of the residents and staff at Wendell Foster Campus for several years. It is truly a remarkable story and remains today a testament to the vision of the Fosters, the staff and many supporters who have made WFC a reality. A leader in person centered treatment that focuses on each individual the staff and families can design a treatment plan, cultural and educational activities and even integration into the community in a way that best meets the needs and desires of each patient.

I have included a few of the photos of the residents and staff. What I hope you draw from these photos is the deep and powerful connection that exists between the staff and residents. When you are able to witness this, I believe you begin to understand why WFC is such as special place. It is a story that goes beyond medical and technical advances in the care for people with disabilities. It is a story of love, dreams and hope.

Heaven's Door

In our fast-paced lives, it is difficult to measure the positive impact we can have on another person’s life.   And we often neglect the power of kindness and love for one another and the humanness we all share.  It is evident in the love of a mother or father for their child, in the love of newlyweds, or in the face of a grandparent seeing their newborn grandchild for the first time. 

And it is evident in the kindness, love and care of a Hospice nurse or social worker visiting a client who is near the end of their life.  Are they just clients, in the clinical or institutional sense?  Well yes, and while that description might be apt in that sense, it falls short of accurately describing these relationships and the connections that are formed between individuals and families facing illness and even the inevitability of the end of life. 

It was my privilege this past year to photograph hospice care and at the families invitation create lasting memories and photographs that offer the truth of what the process of death and dying looks like and how families and friends deal with the pending loss of loved ones.   

This was an emotional and very rewarding experience for me personally.  I met some wonderful patients and family members whose example taught me not to wait to live life to the fullest.  To love and be loved, to live each day as if it were your last.  Beyond the clichés it taught me humility as I witnessed the courage of people at the end of their lives.   Don’t wait!

When the subject of a photograph dies, it becomes what can be called a post-physical image. This is because it no longer depicts a physical body going about in the world. Instead, it now corresponds only to memories of the deceased in the minds of the living who knew them. The departed person is physically dead but remains symbolically alive in memory, which is supported by a photograph. The image itself is an extension of recollection.“

—Marwan T. Assaf