Why does this lens flare make me so happy?

Main Street’s whitewashed windows and vacant stores
Seems like there ain’t nobody wants to come down here no more
They’re closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracks
Foreman says these jobs are going boys and they ain’t coming back 
To your hometown
Your hometown
Your hometown
Your hometown

(Bruce Springsteen)

The rusty fan was spinning gently in the breeze in the upstairs window against the peeling aqua paint. I was not going to walk away without trying to capture some of what I felt. I knew I was getting lens flare, so I repositioned and attached the lens hood to try to avoid it, but it was the shot with the lens flare that evoked what I felt.

Last week I gave myself a gift.  I told myself that I could have most of a day just to drive around and photograph the world.  OK, not the whole world.  I had abandoned textile mills on my mind, and a bit of sleuthing along with some memories from a recent trip had me headed toward Haw River.  I spent way too long finding what would become my favorite location, and by the time I found this place and gathered up my courage to walk around by myself, the autumn sun was low in the sky, and lighting conditions were interesting at best.

When I took this shot I was totally on edge.  My car was acting funny and I was worried about getting stranded, I needed to pee, I was hungry, I was about to be late for an early evening engagement because I was going to hit Interstate rush hour, but mostly I was emotionally spooked. There was something around me I could not put words to. It seemed I could feel the presence of all the workers who had one day made their living here – and the emptiness left when jobs go away. What will we fill that emptiness with?

The lens flare makes me happy on many levels.  It’s real.  It’s not a filter. It’s what happened.

I’ll be projecting this and many many many other images of abandonment, and hometowns, and real people, on November 8th at Motorco in Durham.  More details here and here.  Please join me.

 

Got to stand tall of who that we are.

Jonathan Goins standing in front of Goinstown Indian School, 2016. All rights reserved.

I want to share a few sentences from an interview with Jonathan Goins who is one of dozens of people I’ve included in my upcoming “People and their People” exhibit opening in Baltimore next weekend.  He’s referring in part to the discrimination past generations of his family endured because of their mixed roots:

 “But I look at it now as moving forward. And part of that moving forward is those people are gone that hurt us. But we’re still here. And we’ve got to live through every bit of this.  And we’ve got to grow.  We’ve got to stand tall of who that we are.” 

 I am thrilled to say “People and their People:Holding our Ancestors Close” will be on exhibit at the Baltimore American Indian Center through June of 2018. The opening reception is Saturday, October 7th.  See details below.  In finalizing the exhibit, and preparing my artist’s talk,  I had the task of going back through many hours of audio and video recordings, and my scribbled notes in field notebooks.  For each portrait that I display I include a few short paragraphs from the stories I’ve collected.  As much as I love the portraits I’ve taken, I may love the stories even more.

For the exhibit the portraits are printed 30 inches by 20 inches and each one in the series shows an individual or family grouping holding portraits of their ancestors. All rights reserved.

I want to thank Jonathan, and many others who’ve been willing to be part of this project.  You can read more about it at www.peopleandtheirpeople.com  In a time when the leadership of this country might be all too happy to try to divide us along racial lines, these portraits speak loudly otherwise. At least I believe they do.

If you live in or around Baltimore, I’d be thrilled if you join me next Saturday afternoon.  I’ll speak at 3:00 pm.

 

Steadying Ourselves

My mother, Phyllis, steadying herself with one hand, hoeing with the other.

It’s a Saturday morning in April. I’m sleeping in my childhood bedroom in the house I grew up in. This strip of suburbia is known as Little Hollywood, which is an inexplicable name for a 1950s neighborhood built on an old strip mine in the coalfields of southwest Virginia.

I drove six hours yesterday for this visit, and I’m coming off some stressful weeks at work, a tired story in itself. So, I’ve taken this opportunity to sleep a little later than usual. Not to mention it was sometime between midnight and dawn when my parents, my brother and I, gave up the old ghosts last night and let the stories taper off with no endings.

When I pull myself from sweet slumber I look out the window and there is my Mother already working in the garden. This won’t surprise anyone who knows her. But let me describe the scene a bit more. These are the Appalachian mountains, and there isn’t a lot of flat ground.

Our house sits at the bottom of a steep hill, and for years my parents grew a very large garden way up the hill. Now my Mom has smaller gardens closer to the house, including some raised beds my brothers built her in a back corner. But today she’s working the soil along the bottom edge of an old rose garden that now shares space with radishes and garlic, and when she’s finished this morning will have a small patch of early peas. She works close to the house because the climb up the incline to the big garden feels insurmountable most days. She’s pushing 82 and her hips ache even when there’s not a storm on the way. In the heat of the summer she will still make the trek a few times, carrying soapy water to rid the tomato patch of stinkbugs, or to check on the potato rows my Daddy plants.

But this morning when I look out my window, she’s working this small piece of ground by leaning on her cane with one hand and hoeing with the other. Steadying herself.

There’s so much more I could write here, but for now I just want to think about her steadying herself. And express my gratitude for her steadying hand in my life.

 

This is one of the raised beds my brothers built. She uses it mostly for greens.

 

the pathos, and the patina

I was lost when I found this house. Headed east in North Carolina, toward Pungo Lake to observe the migrating birds, I missed a turn. I came to a crossroads, looked left, and there she was at the far end of a fallow field. Overgrown evergreens stood tall by the porch and it felt as if the house was trying to hide.  I approached slowly, in part because I was sensitive to trespassing, and because I just wanted to visually absorb what lay before me.


The second shot was a bit closer, through raindrops clinging to a bush.


After hanging around the property for about twenty minutes I began to get more confident that no one really minded me being there, so I began to get closer.


It’s the pathos of things that draws me. I’m going to quote from a book called “Pouring Concrete” that my brother Ben “loaned” me a decade or so ago. “Zen Buddhists have a phrase – ‘the pathos of things’ – that refers to seeing the world in depth. It is the feeling we have when we look at something transient, perhaps a flower, and see in it something of the infinite. Anyone who spends time directly perceiving the world eventually experiences some sense of this pathos.”

Like many photographers, I’m drawn to ruin. It’s almost embarrassing how many photographs I’ve taken of abandoned houses. I even tried to make myself stop by creating projects that require me to photograph humans more.

But I can’t look away. The pathos, and patina. The intersection of transience and eternity. I like to imagine the sounds that might have been in the houses at one time. The lives lived out there. It’s mysterious and not mysterious. We come, and we go.

Along the banks of the Clinch River

barn-by-the-banks-of-the-clinch-river

This barn sits on the bluffs known as “Sugar Hill” above the Clinch River just outside St. Paul, Virginia. It is located very near the site of a failed French settlement called St. Marie on the Clinch. So much history that we were never exposed to as children growing up in the Appalachian mountains. Kudos to the town of St. Paul for creating these walking trails and preserving the site.

Holding Our Ancestors Close

Now, more than ever, it’s time to celebrate our mixed ethnicity and to overcome the divide that racism can create. Thrilled to be showing my “melungeon voices” documentary, and even more excited to have a home for my “People and their People” exhibit for a few weeks. If you live near the MARC, please consider getting out to see this exhibit over the Thanksgiving holidays, if you can’t make the talk tonight.

marc-announcement-102716

Veterans Day Salute to Albert Rascoe

albert-rascoe

This is Albert Rascoe holding a photograph of his Mother, Fannie Williams. Albert, as you can see is a Veteran, so I’m posting this in honor of Veterans Day. I photographed Mr. Rascoe as part of my ongoing portrait project “People and their People.” While it grew out of a deep interest in people with mixed ethnicity, I have since expanded the concept to include groups of people who are bonded by place, or by circumstance. More on that in later posts as I’m still hard at work on it all. There is an exhibition of the portraits beginning November 17th and running through December 4th at the Museum and Archives of Rockingham County.

Each time I photograph someone for this project I ask them to tell me a story about the ancestor they chose to include. Here’s part of Albert Rascoe’s story: He’s holding a photograph taken in 1967 when he returned from his service in Vietnam. His Mother is wearing a kimono he bought for her in Japan. Pictured is the car he purchased after he returned. It’s a 1963 Ford Fairlane convertible. Mr. Rascoe was born and lived in Hamilton, NC until he moved his wife and daughter to Raleigh in the 1970s. He stayed in Raleigh, until he returned to Hamilton in 2007 to help care for his ailing Mother.

albert-rascoe-ancestor

He is standing in the school yard of the historic Rosenwald School in Hamilton, NC, where both he and his Mother attended. The Rosenwald School is currently in restoration by the Roanoke River Partners to be used as community center and interpretive site.

albert-rascoe-with-his-own-photograph

This photograph shows Albert Rascoe holding a school portrait of himself from his days at the Rosenwald School.

beset by a swingset at sunset

beset-by-a-swingset-at-sunset

This caught my eye on 87 north between Pittsboro and Saxapahaw, NC. So many unanswered questions . . .

some things change while some seemingly don’t

Some things I saw while driving the blue highways in Virginia.

some-things-change-some-dont

Changed and Unchanged: Ocracoke Island

Fishing Cabins Ocracoke

For about a decade I’ve been traveling to Ocracoke once a year or so. It’s not the long history some folks have with this tiny little village but it’s enough that I have my favorite spots. At the end of the day, when the light goes golden I put my cameras in a backpack and jump on my bike. I like to find the Ocracats that hang out at the old fishing cabins.

Ocracats

I like the fading paint on old buoys and the grey boardwalks. I like the way the marsh grass waves gently in the breeze underneath a pink sky.

marsh backside of Ocracoke

buoy and rope 02

blue boat, green building, tree shadow

There’s no pretense here. The weathered patina is not some faux fashion look. It’s the texture of a place and a people who love the sea, who live by the sea, who live from the sea. There’s a long long history and I like to get quiet and see how much of it I can feel.

ocracoke fish net at sunset

I grew up deep in the Appalachian Mountains, so the trappings of a fishing village are details I know nothing of. I’m enamored with simple things like old fishing nets, or abandoned ropes. And I’m infatuated with that rocking chair bathed in the setting sun. I think I’ll sit and stay a while.

ocracoke ropeOcracoke rocking chair