Doing the District Federale

 Boarding the plane from St. Louis to Charlotte are mostly young men and women in khaki uniforms, in great physical shape, heading towards some military duty. On the next leg of my journey, the first passenger I see on the plane from Charlotte to D.C., is a young African-American woman standing at her first class seat putting a bag in the overhead. She’s fashionably sporting an afro and a Yale tee shirt. I’m loving this East Coast thing. Too bad US Airways lost my bag. Otherwise I’d love them too. I actually watched the entire Giants-Eagles game till midnight, suffering through watching Michael Vick win a game, hoping to be awake when a courier delivered my bag. Alas, instead, I nodded off to the glow of a lava lamp in the bedroom I commandeered from my second cousin Michaela, staring up at her poster of Justin Bieber.

In the meantime, I was treated to a lively game of after-dinner Parcheesi. My three quick-minded second cousins are frighteningly quick at math. They at least pretended to be patient with their silly, slow cousin Peggy, as I counted my moves on the board. They knew all of their options and mine before I counted the dice. Olivia and Michaela were kind enough to explain a bit of strategy lest I suffer a terrible fate at the hands of their younger brother Chauncey. Multi-talented, they could do all this while texting on their cell phones until their turn came around again. My cousin and I are sort of text-savvy, but prefer a walk in the park with the family dog Lucy.

  Their Maryland home rests at the end of a sloped cul de sac designated the sledding hill by the rest of the neighborhood. Therefore when snow immobilizes the region, everyone’s streets get plowed but theirs. During the four-day long blackouts in recent years, neighbors brought them boxes of candles. They preserved perishables by simply putting them outside in the snow.

I love efficient metro transit systems. What I don’t understand is why, during peak hours, the D.C. metro costs $1 more. Cretans. You’d think they would make it cheaper; to encourage people using public transportation instead of penalizing us for using it during rush hour.

  Making the journey by metro underground from that rural Maryland enclave to D.C., I emerged into brilliant sunlight pouring through the jungle of buildings around Howard University. My dear old friend Jeff Miller, now Vice-President of Communications for the Leadership Conference on Civil Rights, showed me around some classic landmarks before bringing me to the home he and wife Jill Schwartz share with fabulous dog Roxie. Schwartz is Director of Program Communications at World Wildlife Fund. Appropriately, their townhouse row home is full of beautiful artwork, restored original wood floors, a brilliant, colorful garden out front and a warm and cozy guest room. They bicycle to work. After all, that’s how they met: on an AIDS ride a dozen years ago. They walk the talk.

The hint of fall colors lined the Potomac around Roosevelt Island. Roxie towed us at the end of her leash, sniffing her way through the woods then leaping after sticks into the cool river. 

  Someone had laid a fresh rose at the feet of Roosevelt’s statue; we presume as a talisman to aid in his bobble-headed run for the plate in the president’s bobble-head competition; a distraction from a lackluster performance by the Nationals erstwhile real baseball games until recently. And this night, sure enough, the Nationals clinched the pennant, covering the photographers in the locker room with champagne, probably destroying any camera gear not wrapped in ziplock bags and duct tape.

My tour of U Street near Howard University included the historic Ben’s Chili Bowl, and landed us at Busboys and Poets for fabulous vegetarian food and beer.

Jeff managed to strategically beat both traffic and rain en route to seeing Los Lobos at the Birchmere, an intimate night club. Our group of five danced while these OG rockers played all the song off Kiko, marking that album’s 20^th anniversary. So they’re a little older, but their harmonies still rival the Beach Boys’.

The locals riding my bus the next morning seemed to barely notice the rain, dressing instead for the humidity. At New York Street, the driver opened the door to ask a woman about her mother’s health. A woman in the back of the bus loudly made herself an appointment with who-knows-who, promising to send a check that day, after she opened a new bank account and put some money in it.

I have so many old friends now working at the Washington Post it’s crazy. The photography that gets produced, therefore, is insightful, intelligent, heartfelt. And from the photo editors, it is encouraged, nurtured and even published. There is an oasis there at the Post, of excellent visual journalism treated right, and it gives me hope.  With the addition of immensely-talented video-journalist Brad Horn (my instructor!) an in the capable hands of MaryAnne Golon and Sonya Doctorian, anything is possible!

A brisk walk and insider tour of downtown buildings brought us to the National Gallery of Art. Jonathan Newton ushered me through the intricate maze of galleries to see George Bellows lithographs, some of the finest sculptures and paintings by Degas

 and Van Gogh

and Rembrandt (“light the way it’s supposed to be, ” he said, ever-so-poignantly) before we made our way into the evening through the wave of stars in the corridor to the East Wing. As we passed the Newseum’s display of front pages, we wondered if soon this would not be a sampling of newspapers, but rather a display of the only newspapers left in the country.

I know there are many great eateries and pubs in DC but I will always recommend Church Key for its great menu of microbrews. Leave it to the sports writers and photographers to know the best watering holes. And bless his heart, Newton had the energy, after covering the Nationals’ game and victory celebration in the locker room till midnight, to be my guide and share a brew.

The next morning my bus passed through the same neighborhoods, collecting some of the same faces, while the same folks buzzed about on the street corners. I wondered how often folks born and raised in a given neighborhood might venture out just for a day’s journey, and how far they might go, and to where, and how they might choose their destination.

  I’m not sure how far the walk was that I made from the White House to the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, then MLK Jr., Roosevelt, Jefferson rotunda…. 

Back up to the National Gallery of Art, the National Portrait Gallery… back to the White House and then from there with Pat Butler up to Mt. Pleasant, past the smallest dog park in the world.

Maybe ten miles. I think I earned the reward of a gin and tonic on the back patio under a strand of lights, the smell of humidity corrupting the leaves of maples beginning to turn amber in Pat’s neighborhood. What a smart move he made to buy this classy 1870s-built home with its hard wood floors, its outdoor porches, tall ceilings and secret doors. Good thing he has housemates. The place is probably haunted. And he’s never there, being that his job as Vice-President of Programs at the International Center for Journalists he is hopping from country to country all year.  And to think I knew him when. 

Pat shares my awe for the impossibility of art galleries in D.C. I mean, right there, at the Portrait Gallery, is THE portrait of George Washington that’s on the dollar bill. There a bronze head of Rachel Carson!

And in the National Gallery, THE portrait of Napoleon. And the galleries are all free. Our tax dollars paid for that. Free. It’s like a tollbooth being taken off a bridge once the bridge is paid for. So, when does that happen?
Jeff recommended the Roosevelt Monument, and I am so glad. It is beautifully arranged, through all four of his presidencies.

The quotations reflect the foundation of personal motivation that defined the character of Americans as they struggled through a Depression, a War and the Dust Bowl.  My favorite inscription should be front and center in today’s presidential debates: “Men and Nature must work hand in hand. The throwing out of balance of the resources of Nature throws out of balance also the lives of men.” And also, next to a wall of bronze men in a bread line: “The test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much, it is whether we provide enough for those who have too little.” Amen.

A cab ride and an order for take out Thai puts all of us together in front of one big t.v. screen for the first presidential debate. After which, of course, we all left shaking our heads.

Back on that awesome D.C. metro the next morning, I barely broke a stride moving from the green line to the red line, as the cars were so sync-ed up. The rest of the day was a whirlwind of what life is like for my mother-of-three and still working cousin. 

We eat deli salads on our laps between a track meet (Michaela) and soccer game (Olivia), passing her husband Kevin on a side road along the way while he traverses from soccer (Olivia) en route to track (Michaela).

I do the only thing I can to contribute: I make dinner, while dodging Lucy, the family dog, who is the closest thing to a stuffed animal you can get, and as playful as a puppy.

I regret leaving the next morning. I’ve just gotten into the groove. But that’s easy when you’re on vacation isn’t it?

 

 

 

 

Telling Truth With A Camera

Knowledge is a personal high.

When you’ve spent days or weeks circling around the essence of a story or a concept, like an osprey hovering over a school of mackerel…. At the moment of impact, when a concept gels into a plan, or the camera captures that classic Cartier-Bresson Moment, when the hunter snags a fish in her beak, there’s a chemical explosion in the soul that becomes addicting.

Participants in MPW64 in Troy, Missouri didn’t have days to figure things out. They needed to come up with their story ideas in half a day; then go back out and try again if those ideas didn’t have the potential for immersion and fruition. This wasn’t going to be a cake walk; not an opportunity to hobnob and add a line to their resume. There was going to be growth, and that meant growing pains.

 Never mind anyone’s jet lag, or the increasingly inclement weather, or the fact we couldn’t eat or drink in the compound we’d secured from the city: a former church, complete with pews.

For the returning faculty, seasoned editors and photographers from around the country, and the crew, largely graduate students from the University of Missouri’s School of Photojournalism, this was our Big Chill week. Some of us only see each other once a year, at the Missouri Photo Workshop. We can recite the narrative to Jim Richardson’s Cuba, Kansas documentary project by heart, and never tire of seeing the pictures again. Richardson’s classic photos of small town America, and tributes to photojournalism emissaries like Cliff and Vi Edom, remind us it is ever-more critical to teach the tenets of “Telling Truth With a Camera.” 

We come to choreograph the dance of enthusiasm on a blind date with opportunity. 

In Troy, over the course of a week, cowboys and prom queens are once again immortalized. Unsung heroes have their songs finally scripted, grandparents filling in as parents are lauded, veterans are recognized for their service once again and hyperactive families exhaust even the most energetic photographers.

Roundabout day four, when the duct tape failed to curtail the weight of the black curtain separating us from a crisp autumn day, I momentarily escaped into a pasture of green grass across the street from our compound. Following a slow creek along the park, I discovered some alien seedpods still clinging to downed vines behind American Barbeque. I managed a few photographs of the weightless seeds before they were swept away on the chilly breeze.

The beautiful rust-colored shells were like birds of paradise with a green trim and white parasolled pods waiting for a lift.

Deeper into the park behind me, between tall trees, as the sun danced through leaves, a man kneeled, searching the grass, dropping handfuls of something into a broken dustpan. Farmer Ben was collecting Swamp Oak acorns.

  Hadn’t I seen acorns before? (Must be a city girl).
Farmer Ben knew all about my mystery pod and seed ensemble: milkweed. When he was a child in elementary school, at the time of the war, the students were dispatched to the fields to collect milkweed seed pods because there was a shortage of cotton. Their burlap sacks of milkweed pods were shipped to factories and used in the making of jackets and blankets for soldiers abroad. 

Seventy years later, Farmer Ben was still collecting what trees cast off, selling his acorn harvest to a seed broker in another town who marketed them by the ton.

Back at editing headquarters, participants were showing signs of fraying. The crew was wrapped in blankets and living off peanut butter from the jar. Stories weren’t as photogenic as the photographers had thought they would be. The townspeople weren’t as receptive on day two, or three, as they were on the first day, being shadowed by a photographer. Their unkempt living rooms or less-than-perfect habits were harder to conceal now. Truth With a Camera.

Shooters were learning real people skills, or coming to terms with lazy exposure and composition habits. Editors who spent all day looking at images, weren't shy about passing along harsh truths. Veteran workshop organizers David Rees, Jim Curley and Duane Dailey have tailored the pace of the workshop, themed the presentations and organized the makeup of the teams for maximum growing pain (and pleasure in the outcome). Everyone survives mostly intact, but only a handful find this new dance magical. The majority will take their experiences home, wrapped in dirty laundry and legendary workshop fatigue. Their “Aha!” moments will appear at another time.

 

Stepping outside of one’s self far enough to step inside someone else’s world, then telling that someone else’s story is a zen process of letting go. More Truth With a Camera. Followed by late night unwinding sessions under the watchful gaze of Fred the Head.

Participants are shoved out of their comfort zones. Heading into the unknown; we only learn when we take risks. For me, giving a presentation is out of my comfort zone. Many of us are braver in dangerous confrontations on the job than at a podium explaining ourselves.

It's worth the squirming and  sweaty palms before/during a presentation to arrive at the day we sit with participants going over their final edits together. My faculty partner Rick Shaw, the venerable Director of the POYi competition, and I have coaxed some risk-taking and nuances in seeing from most of our shooters by now.

They have preciously guarded 400 total frames over four days and we arrive at the moment we whittle their story down to eight, maybe 12. This is magic for all of us. Editing is another means of storytelling; and herein we respect the photographer’s vision for their story, while also showing how to approach their next story, when they watch us pairing images into a narrative.

A faculty tradition at MPW is the brief escape of faculty into the town we have only experienced thus far in pictures. We descend like a swarm of wasps on consignment shops in search of relevant gifts for the MPW crew. Discovering what once-coveted items have been since relinquished by the denizen of Troy made us smile. Randy Cox got to reveal more of his spontaneous self. We all really missed Melissa Farlow to guide us in this and so many other things.

There were bobblehead George W. Bush and John Kerry dolls, a Masonic fez cap, record collections, a variety of fishing knives, tools, porcelain figurines and a discounted painting of Jesus.

Being on our own to search for food that day landed us at a Sonic. There is no inside to a Sonic, at least not for customers. You either park and order at an intercom, or get out of your car, walk twenty feet to a patio with tables and speak your order through an intercom to a person inside just thirty feet away. Hmmm. The locals were highly entertained by our utter confusion in this system of commerce. Well fortified with the power of burgers, onion rings and limeade slushies, we returned to the Mother Ship with our treasures to settle in for the evening's show, the results of our collective week-long efforts. As the work played on a big screen we could hear people breathe normally for the first time in a week. 

The biggest treat is the townsfolk coming to see the prints displayed at the local high school.

Workshop participants and faculty finally meets the subjects we know only through stories.

And then it’s over, but not really. Everyone leaves MPW seeing the world with fresh eyes, including the faculty. More and more it's an experience that doesn't happen at the workplace for photographers these days. It keeps us all coming back.

The amazing crew is constructing a look at everyone's photo stories at http://www.mophotoworkshop.org/.