Archive for the ‘history’ Category
Work is pretty crazy right now. We are shooting in the field, catching up with folks from the original Giant Polaroid project of nearly 10 years ago. It’s hectic, but rewarding. There’s a wellspring in these people of good feeling and the power of optimism. There’s also the vibrancy of life in the big city, which I have always thrived on, photographically.
We’ve had a couple bobbles along the way, in terms of getting the show out on the floor of the Time Warner Center for the 10th Anniversary, but hey, it’s New York. It’s not a straight line to anywhere, here. (Is that a sentence? I think you know what I mean.) But we are committed, and going forward, even if Louie Cacchioli, a bunch of firefighters, and the gang at my studio have to pull and haul crates and set up frames.
Photographed Keith Johnson of Ladder Six the other night. Keith is a big, gregarious guy, with an even bigger heart. He drives the tiller truck, 54′, in length, and I’ve seen him u-turn that puppy in a space you’d swear you couldn’t turn around a Subaru. It’s got a driver in the back, Keith up front. As he says, the guy in the back has really gotta keep the wheels straight. “Some guys, you know, they freelance a bit. I’ll look in my rear view mirror, and I’m driving in the left lane and he’s driving in the right, and that’s a problem,” he says, laughing. But his expertise is well needed at fire scenes. His job is to get this massive truck in close to a building, and finesse its’ position so ladders can reach those in trouble.
I’m trying to catch up to people, and shoot pictures that reflect their lives now, 10 years after the dust cloud. One ongoing devotion in Keith’s life is to his daughter, who is just an amazing kid. So she came into the house last week, and we went out on East Broadway for a picture. I asked if we could roll the truck. He said sure. I asked if that would be difficult to do. He looked at me and said, “Hey Joe, wanna see how difficult?” He turned and shouted over his shoulder, “Ladder Six, we’re rolling!”
More tk….
At least a little. LIFE was interested in the whole issue of assisted suicide, so they sent me out to Detroit to sort of live there. Dan Okrent, a rarity amongst editors in that he was remarkable with both words and pictures, gave me very sparse directions. “Go to Detroit and get Kevorkian to like you.”
It’s funny, my feeling is that people outside the magazine business might think assignments for major publications are attended to with lots of planning, forethought, trumpets blaring, an emergency session of the House of Representatives, a Papal Fiat, or some sort of whole shebang type of deal. Doesn’t happen that way at all. Many magazine go week to week, month to month on gut calls, hunches, hoped for stories, and reaction to stuff that just plain and simple either does or doesn’t work out. Cut and paste, improvise, and turn on a dime is often the watchword of a pub cycle. Except of course at the National Geographic, which tends to have life sort of planned out for the next couple of years. At least in the past, there was a certain ceremony to the awarding of an assignment down at the Yellow Border house. It was weighty, ya know? The editor would give you a blessing, recite certain ancient incantations, and you would go forth. (Kidding. Just barely, though:-) All this deliberation was with good reason. Back in the day, virtually every story I did for Nat Geo had a very substantial price tag. The allocated funds bought a lot of Kodachrome, to be sure. Not to mention air tickets, hotels, meals, rental cars, helicopters, fixers, bribes, services of guides, drivers, translators, bush pilots, gifts for locals, and other stuff that ranged from the mundane to the truly exotic.
But LIFE was pretty last minute, seat of the pants journalism, and Detroit has never been accused of being exotic, so without too much thinking, planning or fuss, I just threw some cameras in a bag and went. I did, I think, get Jack to like me a bit. Actually, that’s probably allowing too much. He tolerated me. I was, after all, a member of the press, an occupation he was by and large disdainful of, depending on the day, or the nature of the coverage. If he felt criticized in any way, he grew prickly and vituperative. But, for him, I think, far worse than bad reviews was being ignored. He would rail against the press, and then titter like a schoolkid looking over his clippings. It was this need to be noticed that finally led him to prison, really.
Off and on, I spent about six months with him. It must have been a bit like having a LIFE photographer as a pet, really. I’d just hang out there, and see if he did anything interesting that he would allow me to partake in, photographically. Off the radar, it was obvious he was doing newsworthy stuff. I intersected with him during a time when maids at certain hotels around Detroit would, on a somewhat regular basis, make a housekeeping knock on the door and encounter not a messy room, but a corpse.
I admired him, in certain ways. Love him or hate him, he stuck to his guns in uncompromising fashion, and brought the whole notion of controlling the end of your days into the forefront of the nation’s consciousness. (In terms of disclosure, I do feel it is an essential right, when all alternatives are exhausted, and all quality of life gone, to control how and when you turn your last page.) The tough thing with the doc was that he was just generally so difficult, and irascible, that the issues got swallowed up by the controversies over his personality and methods.
The story was never completed. I had to let go, for lots of reasons.
But, I did hang with Jack, ate with him, played poker with him. He was quite set in his ways, across all the activities of his life. For instance, at breakfast, he liked his toast burned. You know, charred. He would shake his head and complain when it came in a less than blackened state. With issues both small and large, he marched to the beat of his own drummer. He was, quintessentially, a contrarian.
It was in fact at breakfast at a local diner, after we finished the meal, that he summed himself up. We were leaving, and of course, everybody knew who he was. (At the time, he was probably the most recognizable person in Detroit.) A diner waitress, smiling, wagged a finger at him, and in mock mothering tones, told him, “Be good!” He shot back an impish (some would have said devilish) grin, and said, simply, “No!”
More tk….
Went through Dallas on this trip to visit a couple of dear friends. We met through photography. They fit a bit of a typical profile for photo enthusiasts. One is a very good, ardent shooter, and the other is an ever patient, equipment toting spouse.
I taught a bit at a local high school, lecturing both the art and journalism classes, and hopefully meeting the two in the middle. While down there my friends offered to host a dinner to acquaint friends of theirs’ with the Giant Polaroid Collection known as Faces of Ground Zero. It was a very welcome attempt to attract funding for the collection. The collection itself is covered now, thankfully, under the umbrella of the New York Foundation for the Arts, and their tax deductible giving program known as Artspire. Follow the link to learn more, or make a contribution.
A quick note came in today from my friends in Dallas….. ” I too, spent some time with these Faces of Ground Zero, since it was my living room they inhabited for two days this week. I had not been prepared for the emotional impact these huge images have when one is able to see them face to face. To those of you who admire Joe’s work and follow his blog – Please, please join us in this fundraising effort with Artspire so these images can be installed in the 9/11 Memorial Museum. Every contribution, large or small, will help ensure the safe future for this magnificent Collection, described by the Museum Director as, ” An endeavor of exceptional artistic, emotional and historical significance.” Joe McNally, who gives so generously of his time, his caring, and his expertise in photography to all of us who admire him, can do with some help on this.”
It was the first time I had seen these pictures staged in a sedate, non-public setting. I made them, unbelievably, 10 years ago, in the tumultuous month that followed 9/11/01. Now, in the quiet of this beautiful room, we had a short, but wonderful conversation.
Back in February of 2002, the collection began an odyssey. Starting at Grand Central Station in NYC, it migrated to Boston, London, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and then back to NY, which is where they ultimately belong. They came out of storage again at the 5th Anniversary of 9/11, staging at the Firefighter’s Museum, down on Spring Street. During the course of this journey, they became a book, elevated awareness, and helped in an effort that raised almost $2 million dollars for 9/11 relief.
Other than that, they’ve been in storage. 24,000 pounds of framed, crated pictures, all over nine feet tall. Storing them month after month has been an uphill fight for my small studio, and in tough years, damn near broke me. Adorama came to the rescue a couple years ago, and now they pay the storage bill. It was the first of numerous, wonderful collaborations I’ve had with that camera shop on 18th St.
It was good to see them again, like greeting old friends I hadn’t seen for five years. They called me back to that time, in that studio, with that giant beast of a camera. I slept over it, actually, in a loft bed. Didn’t stray farther than a couple blocks from the studio the whole time. Crews from ground zero showed up, often unannounced, at 2am, 8am, midnight, whenever. If they came, a picture was made.
I say “picture” advisedly. For most of the folks, I made one picture only. Each sheet of Polaroid was $300. Thank goodness the Giant Polaroid didn’t have a motor drive attachment.
The images bring back that desperate time, quite vividly. Every time the studio door would open, dust from the pit would sweep in, filling the room with the tang of destruction. There were tears, and anger.
But mostly, I remember the people. Filled with resolute dignity, they stepped in front of this strange photographic instrument and shared their story, their loss, and their determination. A bond was made, and I feel it still. In the moment of exposure, an agreement was struck, a wordless understanding: I’ll stand for your camera, then it’s up to you to see it through.
As a group, we have traveled quite a ways for quite a while, and hopefully we’ll come soon to a destination. The 9/11 Memorial Museum wants to be their permanent home, which is appropriate, and I have hopes. I’ve been a photog too long to say more than that. I have hopes. After 30 years behind the lens, it’s enough to have.
It’s a wonderful thing to be a photog. We can illustrate the pages of our adventure, sometimes with pictures that really mean something.
More tk….
Got a note this week from David Burnett, long time photojournalist, who this month is chairing the judging committee over at the World Press Photo awards. Judging that contest is a massive task, requiring a couple weeks, lots of coffee, a love of visual storytelling, a point of view, and probably some eye drops. Thousands of images a day pass by the judges.
If you don’t know David’s work, you should, and almost certainly you have seen it and been moved by it, even if you didn’t know who was the author of it. He has covered the globe for virtually every major magazine out there, and done so with an intelligent eye and an open heart. Back in the day, when magazines actually let photojournalists act on a hunch, or overstay a trip just in case something might happen, David was in Iran. Sensing a seismic shift coming, he hung in, and his visual document of the toppling of the Shah, and the rise of Ayatollah Khomeini is gripping and complete. He was perhaps the first Western journalist to gain access to the Ayatollah, and gave us a look at the Muslim cleric who changed Middle East politics forever.
David got this picture, and others, by being David, which means he stuck with it, went with the action, made good choices, sidled along with the crowd, created an opportunity, and most importantly, was ready photographically, when the door opened and he had a brief window with Khomeini. His coverage, and the thought process behind it, is presented, remarkably, in the book, 44 Days: Iran and the Remaking of the World.
DB continues his wry observation of the world from his blog, We’re Just Sayin. He pointed my attention to a recent entry about the day in Vietnam he didn’t get on a chopper.
The war wasn’t going well, and the official US position on moving the press around had changed. Instead of flying aboard American choppers, flown by more experienced pilots, the press was being ferried about on VN Army birds. On board this flight were Larry Burrows of Life, Henri Huet of the Associated Press, Kent Potter of United Press International, and Keisaburo Shimamoto of Newsweek. David was denied. He argued and pushed, but the answer was no. The bird was too crowded, too heavy. It took off, and never came back. All four shooters perished.
I never knew how close DB came to getting on that doomed helicopter. Reading his blog reminded me all over again of the essentially shaky nature of being a shooter. Even engaged in the most routine assignments, success is never guaranteed, and nothing is certain. It is always a risk, always a leap. For war correspondents, the leap of faith taken every day is staggering.
Like the one Burnett took by staying in Iran. There were no guarantees, no certainty of outcome, just a feeling that something momentous was about to happen. He stuck with it, which is sometimes, as a photog, all you can do. And then pray you’ll be ready with a camera to your eye when the moment you thought you needed to wait for implausibly, inexplicably, and suddenly, happens.
David’s been taking those leaps for years, quite successfully. It is sad to recall that tragic flight, of course, and the lives and talent lost. One positive note for me is that David didn’t fly that day. If he had, we would all be the poorer for it…. more tk…..
Every once in a while, you might get a feeling you need to shoot a picture. I would follow through on those, no matter how awkward, or sad, or inconvenient it might be. Over the years, I’ve made pictures of some feelings. Missed lots of times. Some, though, I still have a picture of, and I’m glad I do. Those pictures, of those feelings, have become my memory. When I saw my mom over Christmas, I had a feeling it would be the last time I would see her. So I made a picture.
My mom was an Irish lady with a trip wire temper and a pretty good right cross. She was also a good mom, in her way. She spent her life raising three kids, fiercely, and uprooting us as my dad kept changing jobs. He was gone a lot, so she bought and sold five homes on her own, and stuffed all of us and the dog into a Plymouth Belvedere, and headed for neighborhoods and schools unknown. She also spent her life doing battle with just about anybody she felt looked at her cross-ways, which was just about everybody, including, maybe even especially, her own family. She always spoke her mind. And if you didn’t agree with her, you were just, you know, wrong. Her steely bluntness made for lively family gatherings, which diminished in popularity and numbers over the years.
Ma was just about always at DEFCON One or Two at the least. Prickly to a fault, she went through her day on the alert for any fault or slight, real or perceived. If you did business with her, you pretty much got sued, or at the very least received a legally loaded, relatively unpleasant letter. She went through lawyers like popcorn.
Mom was a sword that cut both ways, of course. Her fearsomely direct approach to parenting left you no doubt as to where you stood as one of her kids, to be sure. But woe to someone she thought might have crossed one of us! One of my high school teachers who didn’t care for my attitude, an Irish Christian brother no less, drastically re-jiggered one of my grades once to negatively affect my GPA. She went to the school and fixed it, and him. I’m sure he said his prayers that night with renewed vigor.
Neighbors were an especially favorite target, especially if they had the temerity to actually stick around, and plant bushes she didn’t find attractive, or re-grade their property so that by her lights their runoff water would then hurtle, Niagara-like, towards her property. Once, a neighbor came over to ask her to shut down the light bulb she kept on overnight above her driveway door. He alleged it was keeping his toddler up at night. I don’t think it was reasonable to ask a 75 year old woman living by herself to shut down the comfort of a 60 watt bulb in the driveway, really. Neither did Ma.
She nodded when informed of the youngster’s sleep travails, and thanked the neighbor for the information. The very next week, after a visit by an electrician, her driveway was lit up with multiple 150 watt floodlights that sprayed so much illumination her place looked like a POW camp, minus the razor wire and the bark-less Dobermans. Those neighbors irked her so much she put up a laundry line on the thin, heavily shaded strip of property between her garage and their backyard, a place where literally, the sun didn’t shine. Every time those folks launched a barbecue or had some company, her undies would go up on the line. They would stay wet, on the line, all day. Drying them, you see, wasn’t the point.
Our parents live on in all of us, of course. Once, approaching the George Washington Bridge in heavy traffic, with four lanes squeezing to two, I went Road Warrior on somebody who was trying to cut in front of me. White knuckling the steering wheel, muttering ancient curses, I was on a bumper grinding heading with this guy when my ever perceptive oldest daughter called out from the passenger seat, “Dad, you’re becoming grandma.” I let the guy in.
All of mom’s flinty antics were of course amusing and exasperating until they became serious. As the police chief of her town said to me and my sisters, “We really don’t want to put an 85 year old in jail. But she has to stop.” Ma was pushing it. In the end she was the one who moved.
We had our bumps, to be sure, and long periods of silence as the years wore on, as she got ever angrier at the world and her diminished power over it. Eventually, given the haze of aging memory, she softened a bit, and there were a couple of visits. At almost 97, she could hear and see just fine, and took one aspirin a day as the sum of her medication. What she couldn’t do particularly well was remember.
She had flashes, though. That last visit, I do think she recognized me, if only briefly, and she reached to hold my hand. As difficult as it was, I made a picture.
We talked for a bit. It was nice. As I left, I made this last photo. I guess I just had a feeling.
She’s gone now. True to form, she resolutely refused to share space with my dad, preferring to go with her mom and pop, at rest in the Bronx. The ground there will be richer for her presence, I’m sure. And, if a tree ever grows out of the earth where my mother lays, I guarantee you it will be a tree to be reckoned with.
More tk…..
