I am in Toronto again this weekend, the third time in a month. I should have rented an apartment! I’m in town for a workshop with Donald Weber, Canadian documentary photographer and member of the VII Network.
Don reviewed my work in 2007, at a conference called the Great White North Workshops. I showed him a portfolio of my “I am Free” series (originally called “Departs”). Nobody else at the conference really “got” my pictures at the time, or engaged me honestly. Don did, and his advice at that time changed my direction in photography. He told me to start photographing people. He told me to get over my fear, and get closer. Two years later, at a conference last month, he remembered my work.
Scrap metal at Baker’s in Ottawa
This time, he kicked my ass a bit. I have been shooting people. I’ve been getting a lot closer lately. I’ve worked hard to be cognizant and critical of my surroundings, and the people in them. What Don did, and what I am grateful for, is called me out for not shooting true to my vision. He is right.
Somewhere along the way, I trained myself to ignore my instincts. I focused on style and technique over substance and meaning. I lost focus of why I love photography. I’ve been suppressing the emotional, non-technical, and intuitive way of shooting that is actually my strength. Despite countless hours working on other types of photography, I keep coming back to documentary photography. I can’t stay away, and it’s time for me to be honest with myself about that. It’s time for me to make the jump, I just needed a little push from Donald Weber.
So if it’s all about the people (or, more specifically, relationships), why did I choose two photographs without people in them? I just started a new project. These pictures are part of it, but I have to keep the people photos to myself for a while.
First, there’s the many hours spent searching for the perfect picture. When you do find one, you have a split second relationship with your subject. This is not a true relationship, it is one mediated by the camera. Photography a momentary reflection of reality. Then come hours spent alone in front of the computer, making everything just-so: an idealized version of reality. When people finally do look at your photos, they see that split second relationship again. However, by this time, the version of reality captured in the moment is a former one, a reflection of something that once was but is no more. Photography is frustratingly real and unreal at the same time. After almost a decade of taking pictures, I still have trouble coming to terms with this disconnectedness.
I see loneliness in my work, and a certain absence of personal relationship. This emptiness goes along with the way I use the medium — a little heavy on nostalgia. There are parts of this that I like, but at the same time, the emptiness bothers me. Photography can be a lonely pursuit, but it doesn’t have to be one all the time. I want to use the medium to explore connection and community, as well as loneliness and disconnection. Both each is a part of the human condition.
Next week, I will start the first of a series of in-depth personal mini-documentaries. Something like embedding, but without going to war. I’ll be spending the week with one person, all the time. Honestly, I am scared. I don’t know what to expect. Each person will be different. I am hoping to be surprised. I am hoping to learn. I hope to fall in love, in a small way. It’s time to get up-close and personal.
The conflict in Sri Lanka is raging. Canada is home to a significant number of people from the island off the tip of India. Almost a quarter of a million Tamils live in Canada, 200,000 of them in Toronto. I was in the city this week, for a conference. On my way home, I walked into a protest by Tamil Canadians against the war in Sri Lanka. I have never been to Sri Lanka. I am neither Tamil nor Sinhalese. I do know people who are; people I like very much.
The Liberation Tigers of Tamil Elam are a separatist rebel group listed by Canada as a terrorist organization. Unfortunately, they are also the focal point for concerned Tamils in Canada. As I walked through the crowd, I could feel their boiling rage. These were not young hooligans, the crowd was made of desperate grandmothers, old men, and children. In the middle, men on megaphones led a chilling call and response. Tamil Tigers flags were everywhere.
Here is what they called:
“Recognize Tamil Elam” (The state they desire)
“Our National leader — Prabhakaran” (Leader of the Tamil Tigers)
“Sinhalese stop using chemical weapons”
“Sinhalese stop killing innocent Tamils”
“Cease fire”
The unity of the call and response was overwhelming. Their anger and hurt was palpable.
As I walked through the crowd, I was terrified. Not for myself, I was going home. I was scared for my friends. Scared for their families in Sri Lanka. Scared for people who live and belong to Canada, but who’s real and immediate fears are being ignored.
The world is small. There are no far-away conflicts any more. I don’t know what the proper response to the conflict in Sri Lanaka is, but I do know this: there must be an official response. No Canadian, born here but with roots afar, is truly divorced from allegiances outside the country. We went to war twice to fight for those allegiances. Why do we now refuse to acknowledge the transnational nature of our country?
It is not enough to bury our heads and wish our problems away. It is not enough to pretend that the battle isn’t being waged here too. We should remember Air India, and realize that a safe and healthy Canada needs to acknowledge everyone, white, brown, or otherwise. Refusing to listen to the legitimate fears of a significant number Canadians is damaging to the unity of our country and the principles of equality and multiculturalism upon which it is built.
The Tamil Tigers is, legally, a terrorist organization. They use abhorent tactics. The Sri Lankan governement, however, is no model citizen either. There needs to be dialogue. Canada could be a leader, the leader we used to be. What happened to Pearson’s Canada? What happened to the country that beleived in talking towards peace?
This game goes by many names — I call it King Square
I met Melanie when I was 17. I was working at a photo lab, the night shift. Melanie rode by, looked in the window, and decided that I would make a good date for her friend Reg. I didn’t make a good date for Reg, although he is a swell guy. Last night, Reg and his band played at Zaphod’s in Ottawa, to some critical acclaim. Tomorrow I’ll be taking the train to Toronto to visit Melanie.
After Melanie moved from Ottawa to Toronto, we lost touch. A couple of years passed. Then, on a trip back to Ottawa, she told me she was getting married. I laughed. It was the kind of thing she would have said in jest. I felt embarrassed, but I was happy for her. I shouldn’t have been surprised when she told me she was going to have a baby. And what a baby! Tarig is one wacky little kid.
The bike racks are new
Huntinghawk Communications is owned and run by Melanie. Melanie is an ardent advocate for health through her work with Huntinghawk, in her community, and as a mother. Melanie’s deep understanding of health changed my opinions about Indigenous people, and the role that words can play in peoples lives. Melanie sees language as a key element of health. She helps governments communicate with First Nations, Metis, and Inuit people about health. Melanie is inspiring.
If you are interested in Indigenous health, or the intersection of language and health, check out Melanie’s blog. Melanie is also an avid cyclist! (although I hear her bike needs repairs)
Sometimes I forget where I come from. Nine months ago I moved back to my old neighborhood. Wednesday of last week I went back to my old grade school. It felt funny to walk through the same cinder block halls, only a couple feet taller. It felt like coming home. I’ve grown a lot since grade six.
I walked into the office and the secretaries recognized me immediately. Considering how much time I spent in the office this is not really surprising. I got into a lot of fights, and did a lot of things that I am not proud of. I was a problem, we all were.
I got lucky. I was a white kid in a brown neighborhood, a false minority in a mixed community. I grew up in one of the most Canadian neighborhoods in Canada. How can I possibly make that claim? The Canada that our parents, grandparents, and many of my peers were born into does not exist anymore, at least it won’t for long. The future of Canada is mixed, a lot more mixed than it is today. We need to learn from places like Cambridge Street Public school what this means, and how to adapt.
Don’t believe me? Richard Florida’s “Ontario in the Creative Age” report says that we are in the middle of an full-scale economic transition, one that will place even greater importance on the contribution of new Canadians to our society. The dynamics of immigration are reshaping our cities, big and small. In their report “Immigrants and Their Communitites — Struggling to Keep Up”, the Federation of Canadian Municipalities describes the increasing challenge faced by cities to integrate newcomers. Schools like Cambridge prove that we are doing a good job. Still, we need to do better.
As a young white man, I am privileged. Nobody ever questions my attachment to Canada, my heritage, or my citizenship. I’m not an outsider. People don’t see me as a problem. Not everyone has this privileged opportunity. This is why I started volunteering. Inequity is why I am interested economics, sociology, and photography. What keeps me going back though is the kids. The kids are amazing.
Cambridge is an incredibly diverse school. In its hallways, children from every regional, cultural, and ethnic group share cubby holes. Letters home to parents are sent in multiple languages. It is a challenging place. Many of the students face barriers. Some are far behind because they are new to English, or have a difficult home life. I was one of those kids. If my grade two teacher had not sent me to remedial reading (which was available in the school), my life would be very different now. Early intervention in the lives of kids makes a huge difference.
Economists are starting to understand this. James Heckman, from the University of Chicago, has done pioneering studies of early education. Geoffrey Canada (great name) lives this idea with his Harlem Children’s zone. Both men believe we need to invest in children.
But what does this have to do with photography? Everything.
At it’s core, photography is the act of seeing. When you take a picture, you immortalize the action of seeing something, whether a person, a landscape, or kittens. Photography is based on the very basic relationship of saying “I see you”. This activity gives you and your subject power. Really seeing “the other” is an essential step in understanding. By legitimizing the unseen, photography and activism are fundamentally linked.
I love working with the kids. I do it because they are awesome people, and I care about them. I volunteer because I want to promote the idea that kids, these kids, are important. I believe in kids too. My passion about Cambridge informs my photography. This is why it is important.
If you’re going to do something, love it. I care about cross-cultural bridge building and understanding. I want to use my photography as a teaching tool, to show people “the other” and dissolve barriers.
Photography is a skill, not a job. The photographer’s role is much wider than simply clicking a shutter. Whether you are a documentary photographer or a commercial shooter, people are the most important part of photography. Understanding people, talking, and listening is the job. Photography is just the manufacturing process, we produce a translation of reality. I think we should use this power for good.
Do what you love, it will make your photography better, and make a better world.
Bonus:
Do yourself a favour, listen right to the end of K’naan in concert at SXSW ’09. This performance includes a special version of Wavin’ Flag, one that sent shivers up my spine.
Somehow, this turned into a crazy week. My life has been one big long crazy week lately, it feels like. Here goes, in reverse order, what went down:
- Met with two couples for weddings this summer (fingers crossed, they are all awesome and would be great to work with).
- A photo shoot at the Brookstreet Hotel in Kanata. Lamb tagine and the opportunity to shoot video made this one extra-fun. – Pitched a photo show for Festival X Ottawa in the fall. Early stages still, but I am optimistic.
Oh, and I went to school somewhere in there! Tomorrow I have an economics presentation on the role of immigrant artists in Canada, and the situation in Ottawa in particular.
the view from the day bed
It’s hard to keep things in balance, and to be honest, a lot of times this year they haven’t been balanced. Juggling my education and employment has been the most challenging. Although sometimes it feels like I am doing neither properly, ultimately I’ve been doing a pretty alright job. I’ve learned, from being busy, that a big part of balance is setting boundaries and asking for what you need. This applies in professional circumstances just as well as it does in the rest of life.
Some things slipped a little along the way. My house was a mess (I am lucky to live with an understanding and ridiculously tolerant room-mate). The grocery situation was, well, a situation. My bike wheel was stolen, my landlord is insane, and I put my foot through a board on the porch. Things were starting to fall apart, literally.
At the same time, they are coming back together. I am late on two papers, but they will be done, and they will be good ones. I am a better, more confident photographer . I have ideas. I know that sounds funny, but the experience of the last year has galvanized my commitment to photography, and given me insight into what I care about.
I thought, going back to school, that I would have to eventually choose one or the other, work or school, photography or sociology. They are actually the same thing. I look at photography as sociology, and I look at school as research for photography. The challenge isn’t to choose one thing that I love over the other, it’s to integrate the two. The challenge is to find a balance.
My house is at the top of a ridge called Nanny Goat Hill. There is a fire station on Preston street, below the ridge. This station serves the downtown, so it’s pretty often that I hear the trucks racing past the house, sirens blaring. One set of trucks goes up Somerset Street, on top of Nanny Goat hill, and one set goes below. I like the sound of the trucks. The sirens are exciting and alerting, they remind me where I am.
Where I am is Chinatown, and it has been burning down. It has been burning my whole life, really, but these past couple week were particularly incendiary. A couple weeks ago, I was walking home from class and chanced upon the whole of Fire Station 11, plus some, arranged in a semi-circle around a smoldering house on my block of Bronson.
My roommate and I had been feeling a little groggy, but we chalked it up to fatigue. Then, one evening early last week, the smoke detector went off in the basement. The ancient furnace had finally given up, and was spewing carbon monoxide. We spent the night on my father’s floor. The next day, my roommate and I returned to our cold apartment, electric heaters in tow. It was chilly, but we settled in with blankets and made the best of it. I crawled into my bed, tucked into the chin, and went to sleep.
Tenants look on as firefighters douse their porch
I was awoken by sirens, more real and present than usual. The flashing lights radiated through my half-drawn blinds, casting alternating bars of red and blue on the wall above my head. I jumped up, ran to the living room, and saw the flames licking up the porch across the street. My neighbors were pouring out past the flames in their pajamas and underwear. One guy was in his boxers. First I grabbed some clothes, and then I grabbed my camera.
There is a running bet around here on which porch is going to collapse first. The place is not exactly a slum, but it has certainly seen better days. It’s not the worst place on the street. One of my neighbors calls this “the garbage house”. The kids like to party, but I didn’t expect it to catch fire. My neighbor says it was arson, that someone set fire to the recycling, and that another place had been set alight last week. That is truly scary if it is true.
Thank you, fire fighters, for being so fast. It is too bad you can’t stop my neighborhood from burning down.
Oh, one more thing: the landlord of the garbage house wants to buy the house next door (to the right) and put up a shiny new condo.
Sometimes I feel like I must be wearing some sort of a sign, like a “kick me” on my back, or invisible ink on my forehead that says “gullible.” I talk to a lot of strangers, and most of the time I enjoy it. In fact, I am trying to make talking to strangers my work. Sometimes, however, trying to be open and engaging puts me in compromising situations.
I was hanging out in the lobby of my hotel on Christmas night, and this young guy comes up to me and says “hey, are you from around here?” Obviously not, otherwise why would I be in this hotel on Christmas? And then he says “I need some help man.” That’s when I flipped on the recorder. Have a listen to the rest:
We were sitting no more than twenty steps from “the Magnificent Mile.” The fancy stores had been packed with shoppers buying handbags and gadgets the night before. The street was all but vacant now. It felt like we were the only two people left in a world that had been deserted.
He made his case. It was a scam, and I knew it from the start, but I bought it anyway.
We set out alone through the empty canyons of steel and glass. Around one corner a drunk was yelling at a cop; “fuck you, I ain’t scared of you or nobody!” The cop yelled back “you better be scared! Scared I don’t put you in a mental asylum!” Merry Christmas. We marched on, talking, through Grant Park, past the bean, towards the train station. It was starting to get cold. When we finally reached the station the train had already left.
“Where’s the hostel?” I said. He was looking like crap, slurring his speech, stumbling here and there. I was starting to get worried. As we rounded the corner heading back downtown, he started to tell me a story:
“Once, when I was a kid, my parents took me to Navy Pier (where there is a Ferris wheel) for the day. My dad gave me ten bucks, for rides and stuff. There was this guy, sitting there, begging. I gave him the money. My dad gave me hell, said I was an idiot, that I wasted his ten bucks. But I didn’t feel bad. I figure that that guy must of really needed it.”
When we got to the hostel he didn’t want to stay. I knew he would have to get rid of me. “There’s an all night diner around the corner,” he said, “the subway is in the other direction.” I don’t know why I gave him the money. I said goodbye, and we shook hands.
As I turned the corner, I watched him go back into the hostel and make a phone call. In a moment he was back on the street, crossing over in the wrong direction. I followed as he went in to a corner store, and watched as he bought lottery tickets and an ice cream cone. When he came out of the store the stagger was gone. The slur in his speach had cleared up. Back on the sidewalk he said to me “hey, be carefull,” and then he was gone.
“What are you doing here?” said the pair of eyes behind the counter. Good question. John and I were going to find my grandmother’s house in Hyde Park, an upscale suburban community north of the University of Chicago. To get there, we had to walk through Chicago’s notorious South Side. What the Vietnamese man in the fast food shop meant was “What are you, two white guys, doing in this hard-up black neighborhood on Christmas?”
The air was clear, bright, and crisp. The wide suburban streets were nearly deserted. A half hour passed before we saw anyone; a couple of kids roughhousing on the other side of the street. Walking through the neighborhood from the 47th St. subway station to my grandmother’s, the whole world seemed quiet and still. Christmas was cold in Chicago, but it had been warm the night before and everyone seemed to be stuck in the ice. We stopped to give a push several times along the way.
It wasn’t a long walk, but immediately upon entering the neighborhood it was clear we were in a different Chicago, and curiosity pulled us off course. It seemed like a ghost town, Christmas or not. There were a few churches, run down corner shops, and plenty of vacant lots. Some of the cars obviously hadn’t been moved in some time. There was also plenty of fresh plywood on every street, sometimes whole rows at once. Many of the big, beautiful, turn-of-the-century houses were boarded up. One new building was abandoned half finished. This was the sub-prime mortgage crisis in action.
We walked for a long time, weaving through the side streets until we got cold and hungry. Finaly we came upon the Vietnamese place. “Hot tea?” John asked. “No,” the woman replied “ice tea only” and then continued to drink the steaming beverage in her hands. We settled for pop and spring rolls (the unfried Vietnamese variety).
We sat in what could really only be described as the waiting room, which had four tables, a television blaring the basketball game, and hand-lettered poster on green bristol board advertising special holiday catering. The late afternoon sun was streaming through the bars over the windows, and I was finally starting to warm up. I felt good, that connected and present feeling of interacting with a new and interesting place. Then the woman’s husband pushed the spring rolls onto the counter and delivered his question. It wasn’t insulting, just matter of fact, unvarnished, and amplified by his delivery in halting English.
Until that moment I hadn’t felt unsafe. In fact, everyone we had met was friendly and kind, open even. One man even entrusted us with the keys to his car while he went around the corner to get his truck so he could pull his car out of the ice. I’d been to scary places before, downright dangerous places too, but I’d never been in a segregated neighborhood. Until that moment, I hadn’t really understood that segregation meant that this was a place where there really were no people like me.
I plan on going back again. This trip is over, but it won’t be the last time I come to Chicago.
For the second year running, I’m out of the country for Christmas. Last year I was in Paris, eating really good Indian food, chocolate, and macarons. It was the first time I’d skipped the festivities, and I really enjoyed it. Although it was a bit weird to phone home and hear my family having Christmas dinner without me, the complete un-craziness of hanging out in the empty city more than made up for it. While everyone else was stressed out about presents and cooking, I was free to explore unfettered.
Teenagers at the Cheesecake Factory.
This time I’m in Chicago, and I’ve convinced my father to come. He runs a pub, and works almost every day. I’ve been working on getting him to go on a vacation for a long time. The last time we went on vacation together was, well, a long time ago. He always says that all he is going to do is sleep. I never beleive it; he’s actually a pretty energetic guy, and besides a penchant for napping, he’s restless.
My father’s parents met in Chicago. My grandmother is from Wisconsin, and was a singer here when she met my grandfather, a PhD. student. My mission, on Christmas, is to visit all their old haunts. One of my favorite things about traveling is getting lost, in a directed sort of way. I’m looking forward to exploring the places where my grandparents were young in a youthful city.
Everyone loves The Bean!
I feel conflicted about the United States. Its a place that’s easy to love. Everything is BIG here. Americas don’t really do nuance. We passed a McDonalds today that took up a whole city block. Like the other American cities that I’ve visited, Chicago has an air of vibrancy and possibility to it, even in the most difficult violent and impoverished places. The unabashed enthusiasm of people here is enthralling. It’s infective. They don’t apologize for anything. People here really believe that is is the best place in the world to live. They’re American, and they like it that way.
It is also a terrifying place. The oppression and exploitation of minorities, even in supposedly enlightened states like Illinois (they have a Freedom Museum on the main strip) really leaves a bad taste in your mouth.
Although Chicago and Toronto are of roughly the same age, size, and regional importance there is not the same amazing multicultural mixture here. My grandmother tells stories about growing up German in Wisconsin, where everyone had to learn English, regardless of being Polish, or Ukrainian, or Austrian. You checked your allegiances at the door. She can still speak German. I can’t. I think that the beauty of the United States is in its newness. It’s too bad the price is having to give up your past.
A blog by photographer Jackson Couse about using photography to understand and talk about the world.
I write about images and current events, examine the construction meaning using images, and try to understand the increasingly important role visual culture plays in life.
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