There is life and then there is the world.
“Sometimes a Piece of Sun” -Pablo Neruda
Between 2009 and 2010 I spent some time wandering in the Magredi area, where the rivers Cellina and Meduna disappear underground, leaving an empty and desolate landscape in its place.
This is not a celebration.
Every morning I am awake between five and six. It’s an annoying sleeping pattern but, this summer it gave me a few hours every morning to wander the streets of California.
I had been thinking of visiting Dungeness for some time. lt is a small village in Kent, lying between the English Channel and a nuclear power station.
Front what little I had heard. it seemed to be a fairly interesting place. but I must admit that it more than lived up to my expectations— so much so that I began to wonder whether, at least in part. the strangeness of the place was intentional. perhaps a way of exorcising the presence of the power station which towers menacingly over the surrounding countryside.
May be I’m wrong. bull see the whole area as beings sort of a stage.
I’VE BEEN TO A MINOR PLACE
I CAN SAY I LIKED ITS FACE
WHEN I AM GONE AND WITHOUT TRACE
I WILL BE IN MY MINOR PLACE
Minor Place: Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy
Drop Out of Art School (2012) -
In this age of an Instagram billion dollar buyout, pushing a button digitally transforms an original picture into one of manufactured nostalgia. An artificial time passage is applied by simulating a physical-chemical process relating to a film emulsion that is increasingly in short supply. While the moment captured is not generic, the uniformly applied veneer of a declining technology, and the mood it intends to evoke, is. While the moment is real, the sentiment imposed by the aesthetic may be as bankrupt as Kodak. Within this automation, users themselves can be elevated to the status of artists, or at a minimum, appear artful.
We have yet to comprehend how future generations will view our vernacular snapshots and their attempts to understand will undoubtedly be challenged by a disjointed reality portrayed through the human construct of aged pictures. We may learn that Instagram photos are as true as those imposed sentiments written in a Hallmark card – real feelings though not produced with our own words. But as with any modern day convenience, they are available for a price. The card at Wal-Mart is only 99 cents. The App, however, is free so long as you share your personal information.
‘Drop Out of Art School’ is an impermanent look at the changing Fairview neighbourhood in Vancouver, Canada. Within the time of a month, I photographed the area while on routine errands with a used and gifted iPhone. Fairview, which is where my family calls home, is also the city’s political seat and is home to City Hall and a flux of new big box stores. As the residents of Fairview, and also Vancouver, face intensifying transformative pressures, the project takes a snapshot of the community as our mayor strives to make this former Olympic host and “Most Livable City” also the Greenest City in the World by 2020.
Just as the neighbourhood has and continues to evolve, though arguably over longer timeframes, this project will continue to do so. It will age and some pictures might disappear altogether, like those delaminating from the insides of your parents’ family photo albums. When time permits, please visit Strange.rs before June 1 when the project undergoes a lasting transformation.
“It is strange that when one thinks of New York we think of those bustling streets and the many great street photographers who have worked them, yet despite the revival here, there is no real ultimate body of work on the streets of London.” – Martin Parr.
This statement is likely to be argued from both sides for a long time. Many photographers have made the streets of London their locus but how do you define an ‘ultimate body of work”? Are modern cities simply too big and diverse to be summed up in the work of only one person? And surely it takes time, sometimes decades, for images to trickle in to the collective consciousness and gain their eventual acclaim?
All I know is that for the time being London is my home and this is the first instalment of what will be an annual set of images taken here. They’re the first steps and while they may not lead to the body of work Parr claims is absent from the capital, I can at least aspire to create something that comes close.
The rightwing press love to demonise and the Occupy protesters have had plenty of it. First they were criticised for being jobless wasters then for abandoning their tents for jobs and families. Everything from their choices of coffee shop to their lack of a solution to the ills of global capitalism has been through the rightwing papers and comment sections in the last few weeks.
From hanging out with Occupy Bristol for a while I participated in and listened to a great deal of discussion about the purpose and intent of the protest. Time and again the protesters articulately and carefully made their points to the media, to passers by and to each other. The overriding message that I took from the protest was one of deep concern. There are no easy answers but you couldn’t leave the camp in Bristol without knowing that we just can’t go on the way we have for much longer.
I’d never participated in a protest, and as I walked to Times Square on October 15th I wasn’t sure if I was going as a protester, or as a spectator with a camera. About two blocks after I exited the subway, I came across a display on a building that counted our national debt in [...]
Contrary to what is reported in the press the number of people camped in the shadow of St. Paul’s is not dwindling. More people come each day and arrive to a highly organised camp complete with a media centre, a library and a canteen rammed with donated food.
The temperature has dropped dramatically in the last few days When I got there it was early morning and people sat in the mouths of their tents warming their hands on cups of tea as a constant stream of city workers flowed past on their way to the office.
The press and outside world seem impatient to find out what these people want, be it a list of demands or a solution to the situation they protest against. But none is delivered, those things are all still to be decided and at the moment they are just happy to jointly say no. How long they will be allowed to stay there is unclear but from the people I met they’re determined to stay as long as it takes.
East coast. West coast. North and South. Money helps elevate one’s view above the treeline but smog rises, toxins seep and public disdain stains all fabrics – shiny and dull, alike. The Occupy Wall Street movement opened its Vancouver branch on October 15th, 2011 and established itself in the area surrounding the Vancouver Art Gallery and in a march beyond. The 99% are not bound to one people, one place, one country, or even one list of demands. They gather only in solidarity to make a more equitable place for all.
Fuck What They Think.
I count my days now by how many days Los Angeles has been occupied. 15. I’m never sure of the day or date, but Day 15, that I know.
Day 15 in Los Angeles marks a global day of protest. Against the banksters who have been robbing us blind, the politicians who’ve been bought by them and police that they use as the means to keeping the people in check. Who would of thought, huh? The prevailing wisdom was that America was too comfortable, too sedated — by hard work, too much TV and unhealthy food. And then, in an instant, boom! Hundreds of cities get occupied. Fuck, I like surprises! Tired of a representative government that is anything but, we’ve started working on a new system, based on consensus. Who knows what we need more than us? I’ve met people who’ve given up their homes, their part-time, underpaid jobs and the little time they had for family and friends to take a more active role in their lives and their government. When I got here 2 weeks ago, there were 30 tents up, today it’s over 300. And getting larger every day. It’s going to take awhile to figure it out — but that’s fine, we have plenty of time.
We’re not going anywhere.
Every year more than 5 million people visit this huge seaside resort, be it for a single day, a couple of weeks or the span of entire summer. I did that too when I was a kid. Now, as I recall my youth, I always felt at home there. Nobody else would ever call that strip of beach ‘home’ and I couldn’t envision any of those people sharing that same narrow strip of sand with me. You won’t see any of them in this series of pictures, either.
I was on my own. I was at home.
Roller Derby came to Madison around 2005 via Austin, Texas and a woman named Crackerjack. Leagues created, run, and comprised of women were springing up all over. Things were a bit wild in the beginning. Bikers ran the gate. The rules were still being worked out. There were theatrical fights and the camp of ’70s disco-era roller derby was still in the crowd’s mind. People sat on the floor of the rollerskating rink, around the makeshift track marked by Christmas lights and duct tape. You might catch a skater in your lap. It was still a spectacle. The newspapers and television channels didn’t pay much attention. Maybe a footnote here or there, but they weren’t printing bout scores in the sports section yet.
Year after year things solidified. The crowds showed up, too. The skating rink was packed over capacity week after week. People sat on top of rows of lockers and watched their friends, sisters, mothers, and teachers pound the shit out of each other. The cases of cheap beer being sold out of the arcade area were evaporating by halftime. Cars choked the streets. The bouts were getting better too. Most girls practiced three times a week.
Eventually the league moved to a large, well-lit exposition hall. Some of the girls are characters in a derby video game. There are currently over 600 leagues world-wide and nearly 20,000 derby athletes.
Bowling for Dolla-Dollars by John Goldsmith
A fresh ball off the tray. 16 pounds. The Mack truck of rollers. Needing some action. Just one shot to the pocket. Shit. No breaks here. Wrong entry. Bed post
One down still 9 and 1/2 to go. 300 it ain’t but that’s OK. A swig of draft. A blow to dry off my hand. It’s a pick up game. Time to tap the lonelies.
That’s it. Right there! Damn. Gutterball.
LOOK at these odd little creatures we allow to run among us, amok and naked and dirty. Smelling of strange smells, singing songs of which only they know the words: who of us has ever pretended to grasp their ways? So we let them dance and prattle on, start fires, scrap e their knees and make fortresses out of bedsheets and cooking pots. And to what end, I ask? And to what end? Naturally they never respond, too busy stealing hours to turn them into whole days, eating and burping and never washing their hands. Right beneath our noses, a hidden army of sappers and usurpers, fearless and without scruples. Has it ever crossed your mind that they might be dangerous, not only to themselves but to us, we who hold the candle, bake the bread, make the rules?
And yet there one goes again, running naked through a careful pile of leaves, eating mud, laughter like the tinkle of a bell. I tell you we ought to fear them, this miniature army of mirth and disobedience. What have they brought us but sticky floors and profound nostalgia?
There are only 100 people in the world
the rest are extras, and the world is a backdrop put there to be part of a play that our life is about.
This is the digital version of a photocopied zine I made in 2011.
The photos were shot all around Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Japan, in the summer of 2009.
I didn’t know what to expect before I went.
CANIS MAJOR by John Goldsmith
On News Years’ Day my family arrived in Australia: a 6-month stay down under and far from my adopted country of Canada. This was only one segment, albeit a big one, of what was a full circumnavigation around the globe including stops in Fiji, Oz, Germany, France, and finally, Ontario, Canada before returning home. Fast forward: 8 months and we’re already into the routine of what was. But, before we resettled into Vancouver and the comfort of the beds we left, we pulled into the penultimate port of call: Grandma’s home for Canada’s Birthday.
This was cottage country, a settlement of sorts, three hours north of Toronto and just few steps from the 45th parallel. It was familiar ground and with plenty to be thankful for after lugging around an unwieldy stack of mismatch luggage, a double-wide stroller and a pair of three year old identical twin girls that are anything but the same. There, on The Bruce, we have a big dog and an even bigger family. And even though this lake, nearly the size of West Virginia, is too cold for this native Detroit-boy a few days shy of his 40th, it’s good be home in the north and just in time for our second summer within the same calendar year. How thankful we are for the little things in life and, now, right back where we belong:
Happy Canada Day.
When they want to kill a dog, they say it’s crazy. — Haitian proverb Like most everyone else, I was appalled at the destruction of the January 12th earthquake, by the slowness of the response. I was lucky enough to randomly run into some people who went shortly after to help clear rubble. All [...]
PORTRAIT OF THE INDIAN MALE
Asking strangers for their portrait in any country always comes with the risk of a “no” and an awkward moment before I shuffle off disappointed. If I get a yes I’ll ask them to lose the smile, look calmly into the camera, I’ll take the picture and move on.
This didn’t happen in India.
by Tommy Forbes
No one said no and no one smiled. Instead everyone adopted an air of quiet pride as they stood and waited. I loved it, I took a lot of portraits, the best of which you can see here . . .
Family memories, a photo project by Rafa Alcacer.
Never a project,
it was more like a period in my life.
It was all about seeing things outside that looked
like how I felt on the inside.
Dedicated to G.Lmos IV
I am home now and no longer wake up in a new place each day with nothing to do but wander about taking pictures. Bugger. Real life has taken me back and spending so much of my time on photography is now impossible. I look back at these images and realise that maybe I’ll never have an opportunity like that again, to focus so completely on something I love, for such a long time. Sad but true, but things have to move on.
This final set, unlike the previous two, is not from one specific country but instead a collection of images from the entire trip.
Hope you enjoy them,
6th April 2009 | 6 April 2011
During the night of 6th April 2009 a massive earthquake 6.3 level’s Richter Scale strikes L’Aquila, Italy and nearby villages. This event will change forever skyline, wants, needs, lives and future of people hit by.
Rubble still there, rubble keep alive the discomfort of exhausted population, aware that, the risk of living in a permanent heterotopia are highest, and the rebuilding an utopia.
Two years, 24 months, 730 days, 308 dead, 57 township severely damaged, 19 new town.
13561 with CAS (Autonomous accommodation contribution)
13844 in Proteggo C.A.S.E. Accomodations
248 in Guardia di Finanza station
2012 rent paid by State
7091 live in M.A.P.
844 in apartment
There still are 1047 in hotel
All in 37803 displaced people who are not yet returned to their homes
James Turnley is a photographer, designer, and editor. Originally from Westchester, he is now living and working in New York City.
James’ photographs capture life’s simple pleasures – a nap in the park, a dog in the woods, a party with friends. They are fresh, clean and have a youthful energy. His online portfolios leave me craving more. The series Stereoscope Vision, a selection of his multi exposure photographs, includes images of classic movies with a twist. They are familiar faces in familiar scenes, doubled, tripled, and blurred.
James is also creator of Two for the Road, a blog exploring similarities between different images. He invites viewers to submit photographs into a group on Flickr, and ultimately curates these submissions into pairs. James’ visual duos can be abstract or funny. They are always interesting and thoughtful comparisons.
HIHO, a photo project by Naveen Jamal
My Grandfather spent only one night in Japan and refused to leave his hotel room. His brief protest, mad due to Japanese treatment of POWs in WW2, lasted until early the next morning when he flew to Hong Kong.
I was there for a month.
Subjects to avoid: teenage girls in short skirts and long white socks, geishas, my or anyone I know stood in front of anything interesting and robots.
On the 18th of April everything in my life was irreversibly changed by the sudden death of my Mother. The two years that followed were difficult for my family, all of us trying to find our way in a life that no longer featured someone so very important. During this time it occurred to me that if death and illness can ruin everything so swiftly and efficiently, then it’s far better to do the things you want to do now, rather than give disaster the time and opportunity to fuck things up. We gave ourselves a year, wrote a list of countries, planned, saved, packed our bags and went.
With me I took an unfamiliar camera, a bag of film and a mental list of “travel photography” clichés I hoped to avoid. First up… North America
I moved away from New York when I was 18, nearly 15 years ago. When I left, Gram was in assisted living — reduced rent and helpful staff, but she still drove herself around, came by the house for dinner or to babysit my younger brothers. I often lament the fact that I didn’t talk to her about her life as much as I could have, when she had all of her faculties intact. The last few years that I was there, the early signs of dementia and Alzheimer’s were already apparent. But they were cute, laughable symptoms. A bit of forgetfulness, an answer to a question that made no sense in context. We’d tease her about it, or mostly just laugh amongst ourselves.
I’m sure for family still living in New York, with her, that the change was somewhat gradual. For me, visiting twice or three times a year, they were like hammer blows. Every 6 months a different person, the grandmother who helped raise me slipping further and further away. Eventually she moved into my old house with my mother. When that became too dangerous, when she simply couldn’t be left alone, a nursing home. My mother and I had long talks about how we wished she would go. She was mostly miserable, yet every so often you’d see a spark, like she was flashing back to earlier times. For a time, she began to see her hated ex-husband, my grandfather, when she looked at me. She’d curse me out in broken Italian.
Not a very talkative woman in the best of times, unless she was talking about God or if you wanted more meatballs, it was then that I wished I could ask her about her life, what she was flashing back to. As it stands, I have only a few key dates of major tragedies in her life — events that I plan on researching through microfiche and microfilm at the NY Public Library soon — that shaped her early years and set our family’s history in motion. Smoking guns, faked deaths and truly mysterious events. And I have old, mostly worn, black & white photos that tell part of the story that I’ll never quite know the whole of.
She died last year on October 22nd. She had been largely gone for sometime.
Subdural, a video slideshow presentation by Michael Dennington.
Empty Messages, a photo project by Alex JD Smith
The world on its side, an explanation of sorts…
It wasn’t supposed to be like this…
…it was supposed to be Bukowski’s hangout, Hollywood Park, a flashback to the old LA of his time. Well, time moves on, and Hollywood Park has been closed.
We went to the comparatively fancy Santa Anita Park instead, we needed ten races to make the math, and they had eight – we improvised.
the morning line
Assembled & edited by Jared Iorio
Photographs by Jared Iorio & Alex JD Smith
Audio: Charles Bukowski reading “The Creation of the Morning Line”
Music: “Rabbit One” by Masters of Reality
Any asshole can chase a skirt. Art takes discipline.
There is a time to stop reading, there is a time to STOP trying to WRITE, there is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of ART out on its whore-ass.