Three Versions of Judas, 2, Berriedale, Orkney, March, 1984. (printed 1984). Platinum-palladium print on 100% cellulose (Van Gelder simili japon) from original 18×24 cm negative.
Sebastian Mera, Duckspool, Somerset. 1989.
Pt-pd print on tea-stained 100% cellulose from original 8×10 negative.
here’s another print, also made on Fabriano paper, but without tea staining:
detail of unstained print:
Moti Malde, Sewanee, TN. July, 2015.
I made this photograph today, using a lovely Leica Summicron-R 50mm f2 lens that belonged to my father when he lived in Tanzania. He gave it to me some years ago, and I recently had it cleaned up and serviced by Leica. I am glad to have it back in use again. The photograph completes a circle in many ways, as I am sure Moti photographed me with this same lens when I was a child.
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
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,
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,
because the light is rightly placed.
it will pass. night. the air flows, invisible.
Jiflore Jean, at home. Blanchard, Haiti. May, 2015
In the wake of yet another swarm of murder and ill-will,
anger and grace, this time in Charleston, SC, I can’t help but wonder:
How far have we come?
Can we go further?
Will we always enslave our selves?
Bondage from freedom, or freedom from bondage…
…this is a culture of bigots and blindness, and while changing the gun-control laws may help, it won’t make much difference until the US government looks after its people: funding health care, education and civic and social services.
No wonder some people who have it all cannot sleep at night;
and sadly, too many of us sleep all day long. The real zombies.
I wake up when I make portraits like this. And they stand as cynosures reminding me to be kind, patient, considerate, impassioned, and wanting less while seeking more.
Most of this morning was spent gazing across water,
from a place that honors one of my childhood heroes.
How far have we come?