Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
One girl was on the phone to her mother, almost in tears, saying “Mom, I really fucked up this time.” Others had their heads buried in cell phones trying to book Uber rides which, because of the sudden spike in demand, were priced in the stratosphere.
As I continued to shoot, I heard a woman’s voice immediately to my right: Stop shooting! I ignored the voice and kept shooting. Stop taking photographs this instant.
To take his mind off the pain and insomnia, he started decorating things, his mailbox and front porch to begin with, then expanding out into the yard to create a garden of glass beads, plastic bugs, pennies, action figures, rubber boots, bicycle tires, teapots, pool cues, ad infinitem.
I wanted the man to understand that I’m not just another callous photographer, that I care about animals and abhor cruelty. Who would do such a thing? I asked. He pointed at me. You did this. You and your camera.
We eat at the bar; my nephew is serving. A man sits on the stool to my left. He says he’s at the convention for the North American Widget Manufacturers Association or something like that. As soon as he opens his mouth, we know he’s an American …
Whether six degrees or three, separation is still separation. Sometimes I feel separation when there are no degrees.
A funny thing happened. When I walked down Yonge the first time, all my photos were in black and white. But when I joined the parade and walked down a second time, all my photos were in colour. It was just like in the Wizard of Oz.
I milled around on King St. each of University for a time, reminding myself that, as a street photographer, I wasn’t there to photograph a parade, but to photograph the people who come to see the parade. So I started walking.
Last night was game six of the NBA championships. Throughout the series, I keep telling myself I’ll go down at night to photograph people going mental in and around Jurassic Park, but I keep playing mind games with myself, inventing reasons why I should stay at home, put up my feet and read a book…
Photography is not a craft; photography is a religion. It is governed by a theology of grace. We do not earn our good images; they are bestowed upon us.
It is arguable that in the summer of 1978 the whole world felt an innocent pause, a shining moment in time when people of the West could pretend there was nothing pressing at the doorstep. Saigon had fallen which meant American and Vietnamese kids weren’t getting killed anymore. A peanut farmer was President of the US of A. Canada’s leader was a playboy/media darling who seemed to swing the world by its tail.
This year’s theme was Until We’re Safe, acknowledging, among other things, the murders committed by Bruce McArthur. It was disheartening to see a group of “Christian” freaks near the end of the parade standing on the north side of Dundas at Victoria Street.
For legal reasons, I don’t want to come right out and say “Doug Ford was a drug dealer”, but there are so many stories circulating in the GTA smog that people generally take it as a given: Doug Ford’s claims of business acumen and entrepreneurship stem largely from his experience dealing drugs.
Following my personal theory that “scary-looking” dudes are sometimes lonelier than the rest of us precisely because they are “scary-looking” and are therefore dying to talk to people, I asked if he’d mind me taking some shots. Once again, my theory seems to have been validated. He smiled. His face opened up. We started to talk. His name is Ben.
In the age of Trump, the startling rise in Ontario of yet another populist leader, nationalism, political fear-mongering, scapegoating, press-bashing, and power grabs by craven oligarchs, it’s important periodically to remind ourselves what it means to live in a free society. It’s likewise important periodically to test the limits of that freedom to make sure those limits haven’t contracted around us while we were asleep.