An honest to God real live snowstorm blew through these parts, a rare sight indeed. In the five years that I’ve lived here, this was the first time I had to rub my eyes and remember that I was not back in Rock Island, Illinois or Racine Wisconsin. No, this was still Durham, just buried in seven inches of wonderful snow. I took great pride in demonstrating such snow-time activities as the parking lot doughnut and sledding down the street on a cookie sheet.
Over the course of 2009 I worked closely with the organization Student Action With Farmworkers (SAF) and their Into The Fields internship program. For 10 weeks during the summer interns work full-time at community-based organizations doing outreach with farmworkers and some students also complete a documentary project based on the life of an individual worker they meet in the course of their summer. At the start of the 2009 internship I helped teach the basics of photography to a group of documentary interns, a mix of college students and sons and daughters of farmworkers. Periodically throughout the summer I checked in on the interns and was impressed with their final projects they created. Following the internship I collaborated with SAF to build a site to publish and display their documentary projects online.
One of the documentary projects, Más Que Nada, was selected to be continued into a multimedia presentation. After a few more weeks of continuing work by the student, April Simon, we were ready to start editing together her audio recordings and photographs into the following short film.
A view of life for a migrant family living in limbo to work the tobacco fields of North Carolina so they can raise six children up right in the very place where they were born. Told through the words of the matriarch, Isabel, and daughter, Yesenia, this short photo documentary explores the ties that bind a family to a place even at the risk of being torn apart. Film by D.L. Anderson based on the documentary work of April Leanne Simon, Dayana Diaz and Jennifer Gonzalez – 2009 SAF (Student Action With Farmworkers) Into The Fields Interns.
Presenting this film at the N.C. Latino Film Festival in November was a major highlight of the year because the family featured was in attendance that night. For months I had worked with April going over the photographs and audio, learning about this family’s struggles and triumphs, editing and re-editing their story; but it wasn’t until that night that I actually had the pleasure of meeting them. I hope to work with SAF in the future and help in anyway I can to share the stories of just a small portion of the thousands of farmworkers who toil in the fields to bring us the food that we need survive.
When the ball drops in Times Square to usher in 2010, few people will mourn the passing of 2009. Millions of us lost our jobs and lost our health care. Some of us lost our homes. Most of us, at some point, felt like we had lost our way.
Yet when our troubles seem larger than life—and doubtless, sometimes they are—we can forget the quiet moments that whisper to us: Don’t give up. All things must pass.
Indy photographers D.L. Anderson and Jeremy M. Lange captured the emotional scope of 2009: joy, sorrow, exuberance, and anxiety. They witnessed—and reminded our readers—that despite what’s being played out on the larger world stage, everyday life goes on in living rooms and diners, tobacco fields and swimming pools, courthouses and convention halls.
It was a tough year, but we made it.
Now, 2009: Goodbye, good riddance and get the hell out of here. —Lisa Sorg
Fishing for good things, San Francisco, California, 2010
We decided to travel by train to California. This was well before smoking underwear bombs and new air travel headaches. We simply wanted the pleasure of riding the rails and singing the songs. Then we arrived 12 hours behind schedule, still time enough to celebrate the new year with friends in fine fashion. There was the bay and all the beauty of Marin County with the sound of the rough Pacific and the odd taste of watermelon wheat beer. Then back on the train again. All too soon.
In honoring La Virgen de Guadalupe, an intersection of identity and culture
By Lisa Sorg
A squeaky wagon rolled down Burch Avenue carrying a carving of the Virgin Mary and a tape deck blaring instrumental music. A crowd of 200 recited the rosary in Spanish, while a Chevy truck that had been fashioned into a float ferried a young girl draped in deep green, only her face and folded hands visible, while three men kneeled before her, surrounded by roses.
“¡Viva la Virgen!” a woman cried.
“¡Qué viva!” the crowd responded.
Last Saturday about 200 people joined the annual procession through Durham’s Burch Avenue and northern Morehead Hill neighborhoods honoring La Virgen de Guadalupe, the Virgin Mary. Mexican Catholics believe she appeared Dec. 12, 1531, to an Indian peasant named Cuauhtlatohuac, who had been baptized by Spanish Catholic missionaries and given the name Juan Diego.
The procession marked an intersection of Catholicism and indigenous beliefs, of American and Mexican culture: Men and women cradled framed portraits of the Virgin Mary and her image was silkscreened on jackets, shirts and capes. Others wore headbands decorated with feathers or hats with colorful ribbons streaming from the brim. Dancers spun in the street, led by a man hoisting an American flag; down the line, a truck had shrouded its hood in a Mexican flag and embellished it with roses.
I had looked forward all week to the procession, as it reminded me of the five years I lived in San Antonio, Texas, where police routinely closed the streets to accommodate marches in honor of figures ranging from the Virgin Mary to César Chávez. (A 10-day festival known as Fiesta commemorates the United States’ victory over Mexico; culture and history are not tidy.)
In the early part of this decade, San Antonio, a city of 1.2 million people, was 58 percent Latino, although whites held a disproportionate amount of economic power. Nonetheless, I was reminded every day that whites made up the ethnic minority: Spanish was widely spoken in the street, and on my Sunday morning walks I would linger beneath the open window of a nearby storefront church to hear ministers preach and their congregations sing in Spanish.
That’s not to say race relations weren’t strained: Latinos who had abandoned their heritage were known as “vendidos” or “sellouts.” As historically marginalized groups, some African-Americans and Latinos argued over who was the more aggrieved minority. Yet hostility toward Latinos, at least in south-central Texas, was abated by the fact that deep down, we knew that the Mexicans were there first. The gringos are merely occupying the land.
So when I arrived in North Carolina three years ago, I felt mystified by the animosity toward Latinos. And last Saturday, in the midst of dancing, prayers and music, I encountered it again. A car and a truck were idling as the procession passed through the intersection of Buchanan Boulevard and Jackson Street. It was a brief inconvenience, no longer than the wait at a sluggish traffic light. As I walked by, a man in the truck blurted through his open window, “I’ve never seen so many Mexicans in all my life. They’re taking over.”
I explained the significance of the religious and cultural observance, and reassured him the procession wasn’t very long. He stopped himself, perhaps realizing that I was unsympathetic to his outburst, and added, albeit half-heartedly, “I mean, they’re people, too.”
The procession cleared the intersection. The man in the truck drove to his job at a construction site down the street. I lingered at the corner, watching the tail of the parade round the corner and listening as the sound of music and prayers and the squeaky wagon faded.
In less than a week I’ll be back in the ol’ Land of Lincoln for the holidays once again, so it’s only fitting that I should find this blog post gathering dust in the drafts folder.
January 12, 2009 (Written on the back of an atlas while waiting for someone to come for me)
Stuck on I-80. At least the radio is good. Surfin’ USA plays with Big Lar and “the greatest hits ever made” on 106.1, every Sunday afternoon. Now it’s E.L.O. with Don’t Bring Me Down. Fitting. . . though it seems I’m filling in for the part of Bruce. Minutes earlier I was tapping my toes to Here Comes The Sun as I passed by the gas stations of Anawan, Ill., six miles back from here. Sad part is that I ran out of gas once already back before that. I came to a rolling stop . . .
(At this point my help arrives, dispatched by my friend Tyler who I was going to pick up. I’ll continue, though the telling will be different a day later in the comfort of warm home)
The first time I came to a rolling stop at a farm house along Henry Co. Hwy. 5, clean out of gas. Embarrassment ensued. “Jesus man,” I thought. “What kind of junior varsity shit is this?” Not since I was in high school have I ran out, but even then it was with a slight degree of purpose; a bit of youthful naivety in attempting to defy the readings of my gauges. But this time around I had no idea what was happening as the RPM reading sank low and all signs were pointing to This Ride is Over. Damn. So now, sitting still in my mom’s Chevy Blazer, I thought through my options. One: call my folks and have them deliver me from my own stupidity. No way. I had just finished traveling through Mexico for two weeks and now I’m going to call my dad and say that I couldn’t make it out of Henry County, Illinois? Think again. Two: walk to somewhere that has gas, like the farmhouse in front of me.
Naturally I was under dressed for walking through the snow, but the cold can do wonders for your conscious. I looked around for signs of a external gas tank like the one on my grandfather’s farm. There was a barn and some outbuildings, fresh tracks on the driveway. When I knocked, the old man came to the door and greeted me. “Hello sir, I’m from Galva on my way to Princeton and I have run out of gas. Could you help me?” He looked past my shoulder, out where the green SUV was sitting at the end of his drive. “Sure, I think I’ve got some gas.” I waited outside while he opened the garage door and handed me a five-gallon jug of the go-go juice I so desperately needed. I thought to myself about the idea of being prepared, how that was my oath as an Eagle scout and how many times I had forsaken it.
Before I headed back to bring life to my dead horse, the old farmer said, “put in as much as you’ll need to get you there.” I was beaming with gratitude. His eyes seemed fixed on something else. His weathered face bore deep longitudinal lines that accentuated the bend in his hunched frame. He wore red suspenders under a blue denim coat that matched his eyes perfectly.
There was a long bolt stuck in the end of the spout of the gas can. It felt cold on my hands, which were beginning to lack feeling. I began to pour in the gas wondering how I would repay him. I had no cash on me. I knew that he wouldn’t care about that, but I couldn’t help feeling like some kind of sorry lackey. I stopped pouring. Then started again. Just a little more to get me to Atkinson. My mind was whirling with modern guilt – as if I had committed some error that would be the subject of a Larry David episode.
I set the gas can down in his garage. It was lighter by at least a gallon. He laughed when I told him that I had no money. “That’s alright, just glad I could help,” he said. “My name is Auggie and this is my farm.”
–
I suppose it’d be good to visit Auggie in Illinois this time around. Give him some candy and a thank you. There’s another part to this story, about how the gas station was out of gas and I drove right by the only other place that had some, but another time.
This time year of provide some amazing sights with the first coverings of frost and the last colorful bits of fall interacting with a rare glimpse of the sun. In looking at the way frost disappears when touched by the sun I’m reminded of the incredible work of Andrew Goldsworthy – a real inspiration.
Ampelmännchen, East Berlin | Holocaust Memorial, Central Berlin, December, 2009
Before leaving for a journey through Germany, Holland and Denmark with the bearded brethren of Megafaun, I had to decide if I was going to take my favorite camera – a Canon 5D that I’ve used day in and day out for the past two years. I had just acquired a sharp little HD video camera and would be borrowing another HD rig to focus on producing a travelogue type documentary of the tour. Staying light and becoming familiar with this new form of storytelling were my top priorities. So I left the 5D behind and found myself snapping away with my iPhone when the need for a still image arose, which was quite often.
Back when I was a student at SIU learning the craft of photojournalism my professor would drill us about keeping our camera within arms reach at all times. “What if you happen to be driving and you see a plane falling from the sky? If you don’t have your camera nearby to make photos, then you’re not a photojournalist.” His views of photojournalism tended to be anachronistic, but not without merit. At that time, way back in twenty ought three, it must have seemed a distant dream to have a pocket camera like the iPhone at your disposal. Now most anyone can capture such a disaster and be a ‘citizen journalist.’ Remember that photograph of everyone standing on the plane of U.S. Airways Flight 1549 in the middle of the Hudson? That iPhone produced photo ran on the cover of countless newspapers the next morning. What a peace of mind.
Here are some more pocket snaps from the journey. Hopefully I will have finished the film version of the trip by the end of January.
These three panels were published in the Independent Weekly as a photo essay, a bit unconventional, yes, but fun as hell to do. The inspiration for this came from seeing an exhibit of work by Chicago photographer Barbara Crane at the Chicago Cultural Center. Her career spans 40 some years, but it was her early work of black and white images printed multiple times in wild patterns that really sparked my interest. I thought this approach would do well to capture the dizzying array of light and sound on display at the fair. If you have an interest in acquiring a big print (24×36″) of the two big panels let me know – dl(at)dlanderson(dot)com
Some fellow photographers in the area meet up once a month to shoot the breeze and enjoy some libations. We lovingly call ourselves CLACK – a play on our state name, Cackalack, and a fine old camera made by Agfa. The idea of a photo field trip had been in the ether for some time when I purposed a sojourn to the weird and wonderful interstate attraction known as South Of The Border in Dillon, South Carolina. Ten of us made the journey and stayed overnight, snapping all the while. A grand time was had by all and we hope to assemble the resulting photos into a Blurb book. If you’re in the area and have an interest in photography, consider joining CLACK by sending an email to snapclack(at)googlegroups(dot)com
The Rolling Stones set the mark for the highest stage for a touring band with their A Bigger Band tour, then U2 came along and doubled it – topping off at 164 feet. Nicknamed “the claw,” the steel framed 360º stage took 3.5 days to construct and requires 120 semi-trucks to transport it. U2 plans on purchasing carbon offsets for their world-wide tour, an estimated 65,000 tonnes of carbon dioxide – equal to the amount emitted in flying a passenger plane to Mars. The cost of construction for the stage is between €15 million and €20 million each; yes, there are three in all.
Smoke poured from all four legs of the stage as Bowie’s Space Oddity blasted out high overhead moments before the lights were cut off.
Then the thing came to life and everyone took pictures.
It was a spectacle to be sure. Unfortunately we, freeloading press photographer folk, were ushered out after the third song. I was told that the massive screen in the middle actually descended and spread out, changing it’s form to unimaginable configurations. Figures.
Gayman, Durham PRIDE Parade, 2009. Photo by D.L. Anderson
It’s a wonderful thing to live in a place like Durham, where they have been hosting a gay pride parade annually for the last 25 years – which includes a good deal of crazy-ass homophobic senator Jesse Helms’ career. I still remember the first time I watched the parade, way back in 2005, or twenty-ought-five as we’ll soon say. Everyone was still lining up near Duke and a drag queen from Miami was smearing Vaseline on her teeth, surrounded by she-males in colorful full feather headdresses shouting at one another in Spanish. It was a bit of a culture shock having just arrived from the milquetoast Mid-West. I don’t believe I’ve missed a parade since.
Brian Hare is not your typical college professor, or at least not who I expected to meet for this assignment. Hare is an assistant professor of evolutionary anthropology at Duke University, where he recently opened the Canine Cognition Center. The center is basically a room under heavy surveillance where Hare and his team of graduate students tests a dog’s instinctual response to a human gesture, specifically pointing. Dogs do surprisingly well with this cognitive test, chimpanzees, our closest extant relatives, do not. What does this say about the social evolution between dogs and humans?
Prof. Hare is also a huge fan of Bonobos, the lesser known species of the genus pan, or chimpanzee, that solves all their conflicts through sex and exists in a matriarchal society. Wha?
Both photos from Springfield, Ill., summer internship 2003
Recently I’ve found the time to copy damn near every photo I’ve made from hundreds of CDs and DVDs to one big ol’ external hard drive. Memory is cheap these days, the idea of a terabyte’s worth of storage is real. It’s been a trip to spin through an old shoot rapidly and see single moments of people’s lives I’ve long forgotten about suddenly animate themselves into being. It triggers all sorts of related memories of the day and of the person, our brief time together – work, assignments, another then another. The number of faces being copied down from one magnetic disc to another is simple dizzying.
The righteous folks of Akron Family came through town for a gig recently and we made some photographs together for their label Dead Oceans. I’ve been waiting for a reason to check out the new dinosaur park in Durham and these dudes love them some prehistoric creatures. Back in 2007 the fellas from Megafaun joined up with Akron Family on a East and West coast tour and have remained good friends ever since. So before setting out for this shoot, I joked that they had to up the ante on Megafaun and their horse-mounted photos by riding a gigantic dinosaur. They happily obliged.
For four years the people of Rockingham, NC, have been waiting for stock car racing to return to the historic track outside of town, right beside Hwy. 1, where NASCAR royalty Richard Petty even helped lay down the asphalt. The track was auctioned off to former racer Andy Hillenburg and is now enjoying a renewed life.
