Tonight as I sat on Wheels's bed and let him rub my belly, he said, "My hands just LOVE your belly. But they don't know you. They don't have eyes. They don't have eyes or a mouth or a nose, so they don't know you. But I know you."
"But they're part of you, aren't they? And they sure know my belly," I said.
"Yes, they think your belly is their playground, and they LOVE to play on it."
"Good night," I said. "I'll see you in the morning."
"But my hands aren't done playing on their playground yet!"
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Tonight at my critique group I showed pictures I took today at R0n and Le0na's. As far as I can tell they live separate lives in their home. They sleep in separate bedrooms, although that seems fairly common in this demographic. But his bedroom is in the basement, not the spare room beside her. There also happens to be another bathroom, sitting room, and kitchen in the basement. They used to rent it to students. I had an inkling the first time I visited that their living spaces were for the most part separate. I suspected separate meals. Today it was confirmed. Not only separate meals but separate groceries.
When I got home and looked at the pictures on my screen, I saw way more sadness than I'd realized while I was there, especially the ones when they're in the same room. Surely that must have been some trickery at work, some slight of hand I did to project my own judgments on their marriage.
Anyways, I took some of the photos to critique -- although not the really sad ones since they had to be manipulations.
And I had a bit of a breakthrough. Tr1na said that what she was seeing in the pictures I'd shown the group so far was all about long relationships. It clicked. I'd had thoughts now and again that maybe the project could go that way, but I kept pulling away from that, since it wasn't anything like what I'd intended when I began.
But I guess this is what it's all about: discovery, being open to discovery. And it's a constant struggle for me, trying to figure out what I'm trying to say with this project. This new perspective gives me chills. This could turn into something really good.
I cried on the way home. Because if these pictures are really about marriage, then they might be what the future holds for me. In fact, they might be the best case scenario. Two solitudes?
When I got home and looked at the pictures on my screen, I saw way more sadness than I'd realized while I was there, especially the ones when they're in the same room. Surely that must have been some trickery at work, some slight of hand I did to project my own judgments on their marriage.
Anyways, I took some of the photos to critique -- although not the really sad ones since they had to be manipulations.
And I had a bit of a breakthrough. Tr1na said that what she was seeing in the pictures I'd shown the group so far was all about long relationships. It clicked. I'd had thoughts now and again that maybe the project could go that way, but I kept pulling away from that, since it wasn't anything like what I'd intended when I began.
But I guess this is what it's all about: discovery, being open to discovery. And it's a constant struggle for me, trying to figure out what I'm trying to say with this project. This new perspective gives me chills. This could turn into something really good.
I cried on the way home. Because if these pictures are really about marriage, then they might be what the future holds for me. In fact, they might be the best case scenario. Two solitudes?
Thursday, October 8, 2009
J0an and R0yce
This morning J0an took me to visit her husband, R0yce at his nursing him. He had a bad stroke four years ago and now has stroke dementia, as well as other physical difficulties caused by the stroke. He's mostly confined to a wheelchair, although he can walk.
J0an told him that I was a neighbour, that I'd moved in after he'd left the house, and for a minute he thought we were in a different town. But Joan corrected him gently, and he seemed satisfied. He's still got his sense of humour, as J0an had already told me. At one point he put a kleenex into the little breast pocket of his t-shirt, and he patted it and said, "Now, you know this is just a kleenex. I'm not built this way." We laughed, and he continued, "Although that would be fun!" I laughed a lot at that, and he turned to J0an and said, "She's got a dirty mind too."
I've been in a nursing home before, and I was a little surprised by it. People share rooms, sometimes as many as three beds in one room. And every bed had little collections of humanity: stuffed animals, family photos, and other decorations. The people I saw were mostly lying on their beds or sitting in chairs. I saw a lot of vacant stares.
R0yce's roommate is named D0n. He seems quite well, physically, but totally lost, intellectually. It seemed like he could never quite figure out where he was, and at one point I think he said, "I don't know what the word car means." Gentle light came in the window and highlighted one side of his face while he sat on his bed, and I so wanted to take his picture. But I didn't. But I would like to pursue a way to photograph people there ethically, once I finish some of my other projects.
Again and again, I find myself fascinated by the ways that people stamp their individuality on structures that are the same. Doesn't matter if it's a subdivision, a university residence, or a nursing home -- I love those signs of life, the things that people proclaim outward from within their private space.
J0an felt guilty that nobody will be around for Thanksgiving with R0yce this weekend. Her daughter who lives in town is away on vacation, and J0an and her other daughter are going to visit her granddaughter who was hit by a car just before I met J0an, then onto a bigger family gathering. But R0yce didn't care. He said he doesn't matter.
When we got back to J0an's house, she showed me the decorations she's making to donate to a craft sale at R0yce's home, and we had a nice cuppa tea. Pretty much every time I visit, she says at least once, something along the lines of, "Well, this is what we've been given to deal with. Nothing we can do about it." She says R0yce is not at all the person she married. I asked her if she still feels sad, and she said she feels very sad, and sometimes she gets mad at him, when she's alone in the house and something needs fixing.
Now that her grandson has moved out (he just bought a house), she'll have to ask the kids down the street to shovel her driveway for her this winter. I want to offer to do it, but we do such a lousy job on our own driveway, I'd hate to force anyone else to accept our low standards. I want to be the kind of neighbour who helps, but I feel so stretched these days and I just don't know how to fit it all in.
J0an told him that I was a neighbour, that I'd moved in after he'd left the house, and for a minute he thought we were in a different town. But Joan corrected him gently, and he seemed satisfied. He's still got his sense of humour, as J0an had already told me. At one point he put a kleenex into the little breast pocket of his t-shirt, and he patted it and said, "Now, you know this is just a kleenex. I'm not built this way." We laughed, and he continued, "Although that would be fun!" I laughed a lot at that, and he turned to J0an and said, "She's got a dirty mind too."
I've been in a nursing home before, and I was a little surprised by it. People share rooms, sometimes as many as three beds in one room. And every bed had little collections of humanity: stuffed animals, family photos, and other decorations. The people I saw were mostly lying on their beds or sitting in chairs. I saw a lot of vacant stares.
R0yce's roommate is named D0n. He seems quite well, physically, but totally lost, intellectually. It seemed like he could never quite figure out where he was, and at one point I think he said, "I don't know what the word car means." Gentle light came in the window and highlighted one side of his face while he sat on his bed, and I so wanted to take his picture. But I didn't. But I would like to pursue a way to photograph people there ethically, once I finish some of my other projects.
Again and again, I find myself fascinated by the ways that people stamp their individuality on structures that are the same. Doesn't matter if it's a subdivision, a university residence, or a nursing home -- I love those signs of life, the things that people proclaim outward from within their private space.
J0an felt guilty that nobody will be around for Thanksgiving with R0yce this weekend. Her daughter who lives in town is away on vacation, and J0an and her other daughter are going to visit her granddaughter who was hit by a car just before I met J0an, then onto a bigger family gathering. But R0yce didn't care. He said he doesn't matter.
When we got back to J0an's house, she showed me the decorations she's making to donate to a craft sale at R0yce's home, and we had a nice cuppa tea. Pretty much every time I visit, she says at least once, something along the lines of, "Well, this is what we've been given to deal with. Nothing we can do about it." She says R0yce is not at all the person she married. I asked her if she still feels sad, and she said she feels very sad, and sometimes she gets mad at him, when she's alone in the house and something needs fixing.
Now that her grandson has moved out (he just bought a house), she'll have to ask the kids down the street to shovel her driveway for her this winter. I want to offer to do it, but we do such a lousy job on our own driveway, I'd hate to force anyone else to accept our low standards. I want to be the kind of neighbour who helps, but I feel so stretched these days and I just don't know how to fit it all in.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
the bedroom
I went back to B0b and G1adys's house today. I didn't have long to stay, but I've been thinking about how I want to make a portrait of them in their bedroom. When I suggested the idea, B0b was not keen. "No way. We're not making a phonographic movie!"
I described a bit more what I was thinking about, and G1adys suggested that maybe I could come over when they're getting ready to go out, in fancier clothes. When I said I thought that sounded interesting, Bob asked, "So what did you have in mind? Do you want a picture of me putting my pants on?"
I think he was comforted by my very emphatic negative response.
So I made some pictures of them in G1adys's bedroom. I screwed up the exposure, sadly, but I think I'm on the right track. I like the idea of a series of photos of people in one of their most private rooms. It reminds me of my first impression of the neighbourhood, when I went out to photograph it, and I saw virtually no people on the street, just rustling curtains in the blank windows.
I described a bit more what I was thinking about, and G1adys suggested that maybe I could come over when they're getting ready to go out, in fancier clothes. When I said I thought that sounded interesting, Bob asked, "So what did you have in mind? Do you want a picture of me putting my pants on?"
I think he was comforted by my very emphatic negative response.
So I made some pictures of them in G1adys's bedroom. I screwed up the exposure, sadly, but I think I'm on the right track. I like the idea of a series of photos of people in one of their most private rooms. It reminds me of my first impression of the neighbourhood, when I went out to photograph it, and I saw virtually no people on the street, just rustling curtains in the blank windows.
Friday, September 4, 2009
untitled
I know his name is Li@m. I see him pretty much every time I go downtown, usually standing in a doorway by himself, maybe his cell phone is to his ear. I always assume he didn't stay clean for more than a few weeks.
Yesterday he was sitting on a bench talking to a girl about anxiety and stress. The topic made me wonder if maybe he's been clean all along. But he's still so skinny and haunted-looking that I have a hard time believing that.
Last summer he stayed at the shelter, so I saw him at the mission for a few weeks of meals and coffee. His mum came in during the same time. The last time I saw her she told me pretty much his whole life story.
My introduction to her was a reference he'd made the week before I saw her. She phoned for him when he reeked of pot, and when he got off the phone, he started swearing about her. "My mom's a fuckin' ****!" (I couldn't understand what he said, but I got the drift.) "I mean, I used to do drugs with that woman and now she's all..."
Anyways, she came in the following week, and kept up a sort of stream-of-consciousness commentary.
"Where's St. M@ry's? I gotta go to St. Mary's. I'm gonna hike it. Which direction do I start in?"
Someone says it's too far to hike.
"No it's not! It's 45 minutes I'm told. I'm just going to hike. Just tell me which way, I'm not from here. I'm from 0ttawa. Do I go to the 4o1?"
"I just can't believe it. I really gotta thank you, A1berta, his self-esteem has really gone up since he started coming here. He even wants to go back to school, and he's got the ability, I know he does. And he's clean. I mean, he still smokes pot, but that's harmless. Not like the bad shit he was doing."
"S1ster Chr1stine was giving him heck for selling pills the other day, and he turned to her and said, 'S1ster Chr1s, you know I don't sell pills. I only sell pot.' And another guy asked her for five bucks and she asked why and he said he wanted to buy some pot and she gave it to him."
Later, she told someone else the same story and finished it with, "But he does sell pills."
She was spooning out fruit salad into a bowl, when she said, "I am just SO happy today," to no-one in particular. My face must have given away my interest, because she immediately started telling me more. "As of today, my son is in his very own place, and he's clean and sober."
He was the reason she had to leave 0ttawa, because she couldn't stand waiting for him to die. He used to leave syringes all over her place, and she couldn't sleep at night if he was there, because she'd worry he'd overdose and die while she slept. If he ran the water in the bathroom, she couldn't be sure if he was running a bath or shooting up coke.
He had seizures, sometimes he'd be lying down and sometimes he'd be standing up, seizing, frothing at the mouth, eyes open. He couldn't hear anything though and he wouldn't remember anything after. One time he woke her in the middle of the night, screaming that snakes were coming out of his back and there were bugs all over. But there were none. He was naked and out of control and she had to call 911 three times before the ambulance finally came. He stopped taking his meds when he left the hospital though, so she made him go back.
Throughout all this, I really identified with her as a mother. I mostly listened in horror, trying -- but not really wanting -- to imagine what it would be like to watch Wheels as a teenager in Li@m's place. Whatever her faults, she's still his mom and I saw a spark of that fierce maternal love that I really believe is universal when she was thanking A1berta.
"He was loyal. He'd always call, no matter what, high or not. He always called." One time he didn't call for two days. When the police showed up at her place she thought they'd come to tell her Li@m was dead. She called out NO!!! and nearly fell down, but they were just there to check for syringes, and her place was clean.
"That was it," she said. "That was one dress rehearsal I didn't need, so I left town. I told him I couldn't watch him do this anymore. He stole from me and I never knew what was truth and what was lie. I'm an addict. But I never ripped anyone off. That was my code. Well, I stole from a few stores - that's embarrassing. I must have been really stoned. One time I had a bit of crack in my pocket, a few crumbs, so I ate them. I'm not really a crack person, I used opiates, but I ate the crack, and it was a good thing, because they jumped on me. I didn't know they had a camera. But nothing was left in my pockets..."
"I used to do drugs with him. One time I shot up with him, but right away I was like I never want to do that EVER again."
Shortly after she left Ottawa, he called her. He couldn't take it anymore. He wanted help. So she said he could come here, but he couldn't live with her. He had to stay with S1ster Chr1stine. "I wouldn't live with that abuse anymore. He called me terrible names, fuckin' whore and c**t. I've told him if he swears when he's at my place, he'll have to leave. "
"But now my son is clean and sober, and he has his very own place. He wants to go back to school."
All this took a very long time, and I wasn't sure how to extricate myself. She seemed high; her eyes seemed unfocused and her words were slurred. But maybe that's just how she talks. Or maybe she's on medication. Every time someone new came by, she'd ask if they wanted to hike to St. M@ry's with her for the jamboree her brother's playing in tonight. There weren't any takers. She came in for a coffee, saying someone had said she looks fucked up. "I hate it when people say that, when they say you look stoned when you're not. I just had two percocets this morning. I mean, I had my day."
She left for St. M@ry's eventually. It rained off and on all day, and at times it rained so hard I couldn't even see through the window. I thought about her a few times, hoping the rain made it easier for her to hitch a ride and she wasn't wet for too long.
I keep trying to imagine what Li@m's infancy and toddlerhood were like, but my mind draws a complete blank. Maybe it was like Wheels's with laughter and (mostly) doting parents or maybe it was something completely different, something I can't even begin to picture.
"I'm an addict," she shrugged helplessly. "It's the drugs..."
Yesterday he was sitting on a bench talking to a girl about anxiety and stress. The topic made me wonder if maybe he's been clean all along. But he's still so skinny and haunted-looking that I have a hard time believing that.
Last summer he stayed at the shelter, so I saw him at the mission for a few weeks of meals and coffee. His mum came in during the same time. The last time I saw her she told me pretty much his whole life story.
My introduction to her was a reference he'd made the week before I saw her. She phoned for him when he reeked of pot, and when he got off the phone, he started swearing about her. "My mom's a fuckin' ****!" (I couldn't understand what he said, but I got the drift.) "I mean, I used to do drugs with that woman and now she's all..."
Anyways, she came in the following week, and kept up a sort of stream-of-consciousness commentary.
"Where's St. M@ry's? I gotta go to St. Mary's. I'm gonna hike it. Which direction do I start in?"
Someone says it's too far to hike.
"No it's not! It's 45 minutes I'm told. I'm just going to hike. Just tell me which way, I'm not from here. I'm from 0ttawa. Do I go to the 4o1?"
"I just can't believe it. I really gotta thank you, A1berta, his self-esteem has really gone up since he started coming here. He even wants to go back to school, and he's got the ability, I know he does. And he's clean. I mean, he still smokes pot, but that's harmless. Not like the bad shit he was doing."
"S1ster Chr1stine was giving him heck for selling pills the other day, and he turned to her and said, 'S1ster Chr1s, you know I don't sell pills. I only sell pot.' And another guy asked her for five bucks and she asked why and he said he wanted to buy some pot and she gave it to him."
Later, she told someone else the same story and finished it with, "But he does sell pills."
She was spooning out fruit salad into a bowl, when she said, "I am just SO happy today," to no-one in particular. My face must have given away my interest, because she immediately started telling me more. "As of today, my son is in his very own place, and he's clean and sober."
He was the reason she had to leave 0ttawa, because she couldn't stand waiting for him to die. He used to leave syringes all over her place, and she couldn't sleep at night if he was there, because she'd worry he'd overdose and die while she slept. If he ran the water in the bathroom, she couldn't be sure if he was running a bath or shooting up coke.
He had seizures, sometimes he'd be lying down and sometimes he'd be standing up, seizing, frothing at the mouth, eyes open. He couldn't hear anything though and he wouldn't remember anything after. One time he woke her in the middle of the night, screaming that snakes were coming out of his back and there were bugs all over. But there were none. He was naked and out of control and she had to call 911 three times before the ambulance finally came. He stopped taking his meds when he left the hospital though, so she made him go back.
Throughout all this, I really identified with her as a mother. I mostly listened in horror, trying -- but not really wanting -- to imagine what it would be like to watch Wheels as a teenager in Li@m's place. Whatever her faults, she's still his mom and I saw a spark of that fierce maternal love that I really believe is universal when she was thanking A1berta.
"He was loyal. He'd always call, no matter what, high or not. He always called." One time he didn't call for two days. When the police showed up at her place she thought they'd come to tell her Li@m was dead. She called out NO!!! and nearly fell down, but they were just there to check for syringes, and her place was clean.
"That was it," she said. "That was one dress rehearsal I didn't need, so I left town. I told him I couldn't watch him do this anymore. He stole from me and I never knew what was truth and what was lie. I'm an addict. But I never ripped anyone off. That was my code. Well, I stole from a few stores - that's embarrassing. I must have been really stoned. One time I had a bit of crack in my pocket, a few crumbs, so I ate them. I'm not really a crack person, I used opiates, but I ate the crack, and it was a good thing, because they jumped on me. I didn't know they had a camera. But nothing was left in my pockets..."
"I used to do drugs with him. One time I shot up with him, but right away I was like I never want to do that EVER again."
Shortly after she left Ottawa, he called her. He couldn't take it anymore. He wanted help. So she said he could come here, but he couldn't live with her. He had to stay with S1ster Chr1stine. "I wouldn't live with that abuse anymore. He called me terrible names, fuckin' whore and c**t. I've told him if he swears when he's at my place, he'll have to leave. "
"But now my son is clean and sober, and he has his very own place. He wants to go back to school."
All this took a very long time, and I wasn't sure how to extricate myself. She seemed high; her eyes seemed unfocused and her words were slurred. But maybe that's just how she talks. Or maybe she's on medication. Every time someone new came by, she'd ask if they wanted to hike to St. M@ry's with her for the jamboree her brother's playing in tonight. There weren't any takers. She came in for a coffee, saying someone had said she looks fucked up. "I hate it when people say that, when they say you look stoned when you're not. I just had two percocets this morning. I mean, I had my day."
She left for St. M@ry's eventually. It rained off and on all day, and at times it rained so hard I couldn't even see through the window. I thought about her a few times, hoping the rain made it easier for her to hitch a ride and she wasn't wet for too long.
I keep trying to imagine what Li@m's infancy and toddlerhood were like, but my mind draws a complete blank. Maybe it was like Wheels's with laughter and (mostly) doting parents or maybe it was something completely different, something I can't even begin to picture.
"I'm an addict," she shrugged helplessly. "It's the drugs..."
Saturday, August 29, 2009
neighbours project journal #1
When I started this blog a few days ago, I told myself I wouldn't blog about anything to do with photography. Already I've decided to break my own rule. I really want to keep a journal of some of my photo projects and my impressions of the people I photograph and how I work with them. I even bought a little notebook for that purpose. But I hate handwriting. I can type fast enough to keep up with my thoughts, mostly, and I like being able to go back and edit as I go. Neither of those things are possible with handwriting. A blog seems the ideal place to record these thoughts. But I'm not ready to put that out totally publicly, under my real name, especially where the people I'm currently working with might read it. Not that I'm going to say anything bad about them or that I want to hide it from them, it's just that I don't want them knowing my inner thoughts until I'm finished the project. I worry that could interfere with it somehow. So here I go.
On Thursday I photographed B0b and G1adys (I love her name! For everyone else I will use pseudonyms but I can't resist sharing these real names). When I first knocked on their door to pitch my project and see if they were willing, it seemed like an impossibility. B0b said no right away, citing his invalid wife as one reason it couldn't happen. But he kept talking to me, and when he asked for more details about which house I lived in, he said, "Not The Forest?!" Clearly he'd noticed our lawn-mowing slack. He's a retired turf management and soil science professor, so it goes without saying that his lawn is an immaculate emerald carpet. Of course, most of the lawns in this neighbourhood are.
Anyways, I loved the little interchange we had, and his wry sense of humour. So I asked if I could take his number, let him talk to his wife, and call him in a few weeks. I left feeling like I *really* wanted to work with them and sad because it clearly wouldn't happen.
But when I phoned like a month later, he invited me over and we talked and they agreed and we set up time. B0b kept saying things like, "We may not be around for very long," and "What if we sell the house in the middle of the project?" (My answer to both was that we'd all just have to deal.)
So here's the thing. It's really weird going into people's houses for the explicit purpose of looking at their space, their belongings and them. Every time I raise my camera to my eye, I'm aware of them watching me look and of them thinking about why I'm photographing this particular thing or scene. This is the fourth neighbour's house I've done this in, and every time I've felt uncomfortable and weird. I suspect it's just a matter of time, that I just need to get to know them and them me, before we're all square.
On Thursday, when I arrived, Bob had just picked a big bowl of cherry tomatoes from his garden. He grows beets, potatoes, cucumbers, beans, and a few varieties of tomatoes. Most of the flower beds in his backyard are filled with annuals. When I mentioned that I'm more of a perennial fan myself, he called me on it, "Well, they're a lot less work." Yes, that's probably why.
Anyways, we went into the house, and G1adys was still in the bathroom. He started to clear the lunch and tea things from the kitchen counter and I started shooting here and there. I started to photograph the food scraps in his sink, because I liked the juxtaposition of them against his ornate china teapot, but that was when he spoke up. "I just don't understand what the output of this project will be. And how do I know this isn't a scam? I mean, seniors are vulnerable." And "How do I know you're not doing a story about the bad housekeeping in seniors' homes?"
That last one made me laugh, because my house is way, way messier than any of the neighbours' homes I've been in. In fact I'm quite intrigued by their order and tidiness.
I was actually really glad he spoke up. It gave me a chance to lay my cards on the table more fully and to sort of confess to the conflict I feel. I admitted that photography can be exploitative, and I feel the weight of representing others. But I also just really like doing it, so I try to do it in the least harmful way. I also told him that I photograph my own home and family in exactly the same way; I don't shy away from showing my own mess.
So we cleared the air, and then I had free range to wander around and photograph them and their home in their daily routine. I think it is partly the result of that conversation that I felt totally comfortable there. Also the fact that I genuinely enjoy them as people. He's wry and cantankerous but obviously soft-hearted. He does all the cooking and had just baked a peach pie with a crumble topping from scratch. She needs a walker and is legally blind. She has lots of equipment to accommodate her visual impairment. She also projects this sort of unflappability in her soft-spokenness. Oh yeah, and they're Mas0ns. She belongs to the 0rder of the E@stern St@r, and is very passionate about it. He's a bit more disillusioned about the Mas0ns. Says they don't seem to do much good in either of their three tenets: brother love, relief and truth.
When I left he gave me a quart of the cherry tomatoes he'd just picked and a fresh field cucumber. They are delicious. I just feel so fortunate to be getting to know them and have them as part of my project.
On Monday, I photograph J0an, whose husband is in a home with stroke dementia and who lives alone in the house they built together 50 years ago.
On Thursday I photographed B0b and G1adys (I love her name! For everyone else I will use pseudonyms but I can't resist sharing these real names). When I first knocked on their door to pitch my project and see if they were willing, it seemed like an impossibility. B0b said no right away, citing his invalid wife as one reason it couldn't happen. But he kept talking to me, and when he asked for more details about which house I lived in, he said, "Not The Forest?!" Clearly he'd noticed our lawn-mowing slack. He's a retired turf management and soil science professor, so it goes without saying that his lawn is an immaculate emerald carpet. Of course, most of the lawns in this neighbourhood are.
Anyways, I loved the little interchange we had, and his wry sense of humour. So I asked if I could take his number, let him talk to his wife, and call him in a few weeks. I left feeling like I *really* wanted to work with them and sad because it clearly wouldn't happen.
But when I phoned like a month later, he invited me over and we talked and they agreed and we set up time. B0b kept saying things like, "We may not be around for very long," and "What if we sell the house in the middle of the project?" (My answer to both was that we'd all just have to deal.)
So here's the thing. It's really weird going into people's houses for the explicit purpose of looking at their space, their belongings and them. Every time I raise my camera to my eye, I'm aware of them watching me look and of them thinking about why I'm photographing this particular thing or scene. This is the fourth neighbour's house I've done this in, and every time I've felt uncomfortable and weird. I suspect it's just a matter of time, that I just need to get to know them and them me, before we're all square.
On Thursday, when I arrived, Bob had just picked a big bowl of cherry tomatoes from his garden. He grows beets, potatoes, cucumbers, beans, and a few varieties of tomatoes. Most of the flower beds in his backyard are filled with annuals. When I mentioned that I'm more of a perennial fan myself, he called me on it, "Well, they're a lot less work." Yes, that's probably why.
Anyways, we went into the house, and G1adys was still in the bathroom. He started to clear the lunch and tea things from the kitchen counter and I started shooting here and there. I started to photograph the food scraps in his sink, because I liked the juxtaposition of them against his ornate china teapot, but that was when he spoke up. "I just don't understand what the output of this project will be. And how do I know this isn't a scam? I mean, seniors are vulnerable." And "How do I know you're not doing a story about the bad housekeeping in seniors' homes?"
That last one made me laugh, because my house is way, way messier than any of the neighbours' homes I've been in. In fact I'm quite intrigued by their order and tidiness.
I was actually really glad he spoke up. It gave me a chance to lay my cards on the table more fully and to sort of confess to the conflict I feel. I admitted that photography can be exploitative, and I feel the weight of representing others. But I also just really like doing it, so I try to do it in the least harmful way. I also told him that I photograph my own home and family in exactly the same way; I don't shy away from showing my own mess.
So we cleared the air, and then I had free range to wander around and photograph them and their home in their daily routine. I think it is partly the result of that conversation that I felt totally comfortable there. Also the fact that I genuinely enjoy them as people. He's wry and cantankerous but obviously soft-hearted. He does all the cooking and had just baked a peach pie with a crumble topping from scratch. She needs a walker and is legally blind. She has lots of equipment to accommodate her visual impairment. She also projects this sort of unflappability in her soft-spokenness. Oh yeah, and they're Mas0ns. She belongs to the 0rder of the E@stern St@r, and is very passionate about it. He's a bit more disillusioned about the Mas0ns. Says they don't seem to do much good in either of their three tenets: brother love, relief and truth.
When I left he gave me a quart of the cherry tomatoes he'd just picked and a fresh field cucumber. They are delicious. I just feel so fortunate to be getting to know them and have them as part of my project.
On Monday, I photograph J0an, whose husband is in a home with stroke dementia and who lives alone in the house they built together 50 years ago.
Friday, August 28, 2009
something I want to remember
My son is 3 and a half. I'll call him Wheels because he's inherited his parents penchant for obsessive thinking, and it's been directed anything for wheels for more than a year now. The other day when we were walking home, he saw a cement mixer and announced, "When I get big I'm going to drive a cement mixer. And I will live away from you. But I'll still come back."
"Well, that's good," I said.
"Yeah, I'll still come back for cuddles."
"Well, that's good," I said.
"Yeah, I'll still come back for cuddles."
Thursday, August 20, 2009
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