Redlights and Redeyes

This man is planning on burning copies of the Koran on September 11th.

Pastor Terry Jones.

Not sure what else to say beyond that, because to be honest, I’m not even sure where to start.  Instead I’ll just pass on this link to Damien Cave’s story in The New York Times I shot this for.  It goes into what is sure to be an absolute media circus the evening of Sept. 11th in Gainesville, Fla., when he steps out of his church and lights up a pile of Korans he’s receiving from supporters around the country.

If you want to see more from the shoot, visit me over at Photoshelter…here.

I feel like a Wallenda.

Constantly on a thin wire, tip-toeing along.  Trying to make images that my newspaper can run and ones I like.  Nik Walleda had another trick last night – balancing atop 70 ft. swaypoles in the middle of St. Armand’s Circle – at one point switching poles while swaying back and forth in that deep blue sky and feathered clouds I’ve come to abuse so much down here in Florida.

While in essence there is an easy correlation to make between what I’m going through right now in my mind about my career, it would be kind of cliche to write about it.  But I’m all about cliche, so here goes.

So I’m standing atop this pole and it is swaying back and forth…kidding.

My career as a staff newspaper photojournalist is nearing its end.  I have two weeks left here at the Sarasota Herald-Tribune.  Starting today.  While the comfort and security of a paycheck is what I’ve always held as such – comfortable and secure – I’ve come to a point in my life that I’m ready to actually jump off that pole and see what happens.  The little safety cable might catch me, or I might hit the Earth below with a thud.  I hope neither happens to be honest.  I’d rather switch poles.

New challenges (starting a freelance business).  New freedom (shooting what I want).  New stresses (failing to feed my daughters).

I’ll miss the newspaper.  It has been the place that I’ve been able to learn, develop my vision, and learn how to be a photojournalist.  Not just a photographer.  It taught me how to love my community and appreciate it and all its quirks.  I’ve been successful and made pictures I’ve liked from situations I was forced to go and find something runnable.  ”Making chicken salad out of chicken shit” as they say.  They being me.  I know practically every brightly painted wall in town.  I know where to get a feature at 6:00pm.  I know how to turn my less-than-mediocre files from the two old-school eroded Nikon cameras I’ve slung around my neck for the past six years into usable, breathable files.  I’ll gladly hand those relics over and begin using a new pair of mistresses – the lovely Canon 5D Mark II and Mark IV.  Can’t wait for that.  I’m not a gearhead at all, but man they are beautiful…

…I digress.  Sorry.

What I’ll miss most is events like this.  Random stuff happening randomly in my community.  I’ll have to search them out and shoot rather than be given a white piece of paper with a time and place to be at.  I want to be that dude that shows up and shoots what I want, not get names and just worry about pictures I make.  Finding a picture that is no longer marketable just for a 8-inch story, but something that is marketable to a much a larger audience.  Something I may need you to sign a release for.  I’m excited about the prospect of returning to the unknown and making work that I choose to make.  Stories I choose to cover at rates I choose to say yes to.  Taking control of my life, my vision, and my future.  Finding new sources of income.  Editorial, weddings, commercial, sports, advertising.  A nice stew of photography I can’t wait to taste.

I know photojournalism isn’t the money-making venture it once was.  Wait, I don’t think it ever was.  Strike that.  Point being, most of do this job because we love it.  It’s our passion.  We all share a deep addiction to finding layers, hidden pockets of light, random surreal moments missed by the masses, overexposures, weird compositions, saturated color, silhouettes, details, life, love, happiness.  All of this tucked inside a very neatly composed rectangle (or square – sorry Allison).

With that, I’m taking my bow and moving on.  I’ll let you know where I land.

It’s not just stuff.

I drive by this house everyday.  Every day.  They lived a a few blocks over from me.  Until they got notice of foreclosure and the locks were being changed.  Donald and Teresa Beardsley have lived in this home with the decaying Virgin Mary statue out front for 30 years.

And like that, it’s gone.

It’s not a new story, really.  Foreclosures are everywhere.  This family is caught up in what is being investigated at a fraudulent foreclosure, but the damage is done.  They have to leave.  They’re selling off everything because their new apartment is half the size of their home and they can’t bring anything else.  They’re leaving behind a crumpled and boxed-up history of their life with yellow post-it notes of 25 cents dotting everything – from their children’s drawings and to diplomas and dolls.  This stuff that isn’t just stuff.  It’s their life.

What I’m having a hard time understanding is why the trend in photojournalism seems to be the drive-by shooting.  It is often forced – a story that is running tomorrow needs art now.  I shot this in 20 minutes.  That’s less than an episode of SpongeBob Squarepants.  That’s the time it took to meet people on the worst possible day of their life, see them cry as they enter the house, photograph the remnants of their ripped-apart life, and leave feeling like I could have spent hours there.  It’s hard to gain that trust in 20 minutes.  It’s hard.  But it has to be done.  That’s the way it is to keep calling myself a photojournalist.

It’s not just a newspaper issue, really, as much as I think it is a photography as a whole issue.  The rush of cell phone cameras and Flickr feeds have flooded the web with imagery.  It has cheapened our collective vision.  It has squeezed storytelling into a much tighter schedule with results lacking most of the time.  Don’t get me wrong there is quality work out there.  Scott Strazzante would be one that doesn’t cave to this notion of immediacy in photojournalism.  He has proven without any argument that photojournalism is alive and well – and can be done.  His work is beautiful.  His work is compassionate.  His work is the bar.

A call to arms, not only for myself, but for everyone out there.  Ignore the rants preaching photojournalism is dead.  It isn’t.  It’s changed.  It’s what we make of it.  Yes, photos need to be shot in 20 minutes sometimes.  Make it the best 20 minutes you can.  In the end, we’re there to tell a story and even if our little 3-column photo is the only thing that gets a reader to read the eight-inch block of text underneath, our job is done.  Onto the next one.  In your free time, get off Facebook, find your project, your own path, and make your vision known.

To be honest, these photos below aren’t good.  They’re not.  I saw something walking around the Beardsley home.  I saw remnants of a life they’re grasping to hold onto.  Something they’re trying to save.  I saw a bit of our profession and what I feel like doing right now.  Scraping and salvaging what I love.  I’m boxing up what is important and taking it with me.

It’s not just stuff.

I did something the other night I haven’t done in a while.

Slept in my trunk.

I did that more than a few times in college for shoots, but that was when I had a Jeep with plenty of cargo room.  I have a VW now.  It’s a lot harder to do and a bit scarier.  Needless to say, don’t roll into Apalachicola at 2am and expect to check into the Best Western.  Or even the Poncho Inn.  No vacancy signs and locked doors greeted me after a last-minute call to drive seven hours to the oyster capital of Florida – Eastpoint and Apalachicola.  I did what I had to do.  I had a 5am call to meet some oystermen on the docks.  Which gave me three hours of so-called “sleep,” a Chevron spit-bath in the men’s restroom, and a nasty little crick in my back.

Eight hours later, I was back on the road seven hours back to Sarasota.

I’m surprised I made it to this blog post to be honest, but it was worth it.  I always enjoy exploring new towns – especially ones rich in Florida history, untouched by condos and/or Mickey.  Great little place that was spared a direct hit from the BP oil spill, but was affected nonetheless when some oystermen took off to gather BP checks to help with cleanup left suppliers struggling to cope with demand.  This adding to the dwindling oyster stocks when the race was on to beat the spill.

I only spent the day there, but it was really fascinating to see a community so dependent on really one commodity – especially when that commodity is scraped up off the floor of the bay.

Now to figure out how to expense “Hotel de Chip’s Trunk.”

Ever come across that scene where you sit there and try to mentally will a body into the frame to make a picture?  Well, welcome to my hell the other night.

It just happens.  Perfect sunset, perfect light.  Nobody around.  I’m not going to tell you where this is, because I’m going back every night for the next three months if I have to in order to get some random person sitting here.

Chalk this up to an almost cliche.  A pre-cliche if you will.  Perhaps the birth of a cliche.  The conception of a cliche.

Oooh, I like that one.