Bye. Night. 10:08 PM.  Dorchester, MA. July, 2015. 

Hello, Goodbye. Fuller and Dorchester, 10:32 AM. June, 2015.

Hello, Goodbye. Fuller and Dorchester, 9:32 AM. June, 2015.

Another sadness,
we walk throwing shadows before us, throwing them so hard
they fly away, no longer truth
or falsehood, or fiction.

How to let go without throwing away?

For my friend, Jeff Jacobson ( I took this photo this morning, a bit before talking on the phone with you),
and for his friend, CH, who passed away last night. RIP.

Lukner, waiting for his glaucoma medication to take effect. 10:07 AM. Dorchester, MA. June, 2015.

Lukner, waiting for his glaucoma medication to take effect. 10:07 AM. Dorchester, MA. June, 2015.

My friend and erstwhile mentor/teacher/provocateur, Rondal Partridge passed away on June 19, 2015. He did not ever stop looking. I wonder what we see as the world closes itself off from us, if there is a dissolution between inside and outside. RIP.

Curb, memorial for Jonathan Dos Santos, 16 years old, killed in shooting incident. 7:11 AM. June, 2015.

Waiting for schoolbus, across from curbside memorial for Jonathan Dos Santos, 16 years old, killed in shooting incident. 7:11 AM. Dorchester, MA. June, 2015.

Kettely and Lukner, at home, 12:51 PM, Dorchester, MA. June, 2015

Kettely and Lukner, at home, 12:51 PM, Dorchester, MA. June, 2015

Curb, memorial for Jonathan Dos Santos, 16 years old, killed in shooting incident. 7:01 AM. June, 2015.

Curb, memorial for Jonathan Dos Santos, 16 years old, killed in shooting incident. 7:01 AM. June, 2015.

Hamza Raheem on the bus, Dorchester. 2:22 PM. June, 2015.

Hamza Raheem on the bus. 2:22 PM. June, 2015.

I’m spending a few weeks in Dorchester, MA. I can’t help but think about one of the most important pieces of photo-documentary work, Eugene Richards’ first book, Dorchester Days, as I walk and work around this neighborhood. The area has always been home to a vibrant mix of minority communities, except to me, minority here also includes people of European origin. Richards’ work looked from deep inside to the greater community, and as such, is an impassioned portrayal of inner and outer love and turmoil. I’m just a tourist. (Thanks, Eugene Richards, for your work!)

I saw Hamza on a bus, when his prayer cap caught my attention. He kindly let me take some photographs. (Thanks, Hamza!)

Phaidon has just re-published Richards’ book, ‘reordered and expanded in this new edition to include many previously unpublished photographs’, it is a must-have for anyone who cares about documentary photography.

Marie Olen, at dawn, outside Charts Building, Zanmi Lasante, Can

Marie Olen, at dawn, outside Charts Building, Zanmi Lasante, Cange, Haiti. May, 2015.

From the song by Pedro Louis Ferrer, Ay Mariposa:

sé que en el mundo hay dolor,
pero no es dolor el mundo.

The song is in the sound track of an exquisite and poignant film by Julian Schnabel, “Before Night Falls“.

Love is at the center, it connects consciousness to survival, and so often, we are most unkind when others are forbidden to do what is most human – to love. I have had the great honor of being allowed to love all of the people through these past few portraits, to love as an act of communing and sharing a gaze, as being allowed in, even for a few moments. Yet, even gazes are prohibited most times.

There is pain in the world,
but the world is not painful.

Jibenson Jeremie, at home. Bois Jolie, Haiti. May, 2015

Jibenson Jeremie, at home. Bois Jolie, Haiti. May, 2015

in between worlds.
entire globes, bouncing against each other, not colluding, all colliding. an academic describes the lives of haitian peasants to me. i don’t recognize them.
i know another haiti; where these same peasants work the land with intelligence, and have a sense of how to care for it, like their bodies.
another haiti whose real illness is in the city,
where the rich have little sense of what they have, and for whom the peasant is just a fictionalized reality.
and here too, my riches, my smart, far seeing, all sighted academic,
my teachers and colleagues
meander across very real landscapes, but all live in the dread
possibility that their meanderings are fiction,
mere fiction.
not the fiction, broule or boule, of platonov (dhzan).
another, a fictional fiction.

i feel caught in between.
a wall, a fly swat.
a dust mote, just so, between turbulences,
shimmering, but not going,
just visible
because the light is rightly placed.

it will pass. night. the air flows, invisible.

Jean Phillipe Saintilus at home. Bois Jolie, Haiti. May, 2015

Jean Phillipe Saintilus at home. Bois Jolie, Haiti. May, 2015

A wonderful artist, farmer, cabinetmaker, musician and
father.