Photos With Backstory
With over half a century of travel, I have witnessed the entire spectrum of the human condition. Scenes of great joy and others that tug at our heartstrings. As a proud gay man who suffered many indignities growing up, I have always been drawn to capture the lives of the less fortunate and of persecuted minorities. For me it is a sacred duty.
Access is not always easy and cultural barriers can make this type of street photography difficult and even dangerous. I was lucky that my work allowed me to accompany world leaders in their travels and, undeniably, my association with them opened many doors for an aspiring writer and photographer. It was a remarkable privilege to see the world through the eyes of historical figures such as Nelson Mandela. My duties never permitted me to carry sophisticated camera gear but I somehow managed. More important than megapixels, is the story behind each photograph. If a picture is truly worth a thousand words, some of these shots could be an entire book.
These photographs don't just capture poverty or misfortune. The reality is far more nuanced. Obviously, many of them portray the human condition at the moment I snapped the shutter. Often heartbreaking. Yet the subjects of these informal portraits looked into my lens with a generosity that always touched my soul. Few asked for money (all the more reason to give).
The most important filter I applied when editing these shots is that of empathy. I tried to bring out their innate nobility, the aura of dignity that so many of the subjects possess as well as the indominable will to survive. I didn't always succeed. But when I did, it was deeply humbling. These are their stories.
She danced with sheer joy and abandon, much to the chagrin of the street entertainers in Quito, Ecuador who seemed to resent sharing the spotlight. The kiss blown toward my lens touched me deeply. I amplified the message on her t-shirt with hearts and color. One of my favorite shots.
This nonagenarian from Cambodia lost her husband and eight of her nine children in the Killing Fields of the genocidal Pol Pot regime. Her eyes looked like deep wells that contained an immense reservoir of tears. She spoke little. No words were necessary.
Captured in Mombasa, Kenya. He stared ahead barely moving for what seemed an eternity. The weight of lost dreams as heavy as his eyelids.
She stopped to blow a kiss toward the altar of her local church in a small town in Ecuador. I suspected that she never forgot to do so whenever she passed by. It felt so genuine that I had to add the flare in the certainty that her God agreed.
She was just outside a small rural school in Southern Cambodia. Her enormous eyes filled with the hope of a bright future. But as a member of a Muslim minority and a young woman in a region where ethnic and religious persecution is frequent, there are no guarantees.
Although he lives in Turkey, he is stateless. He identifies as a Tartar from the Crimea. Many of that ethnic minority fled to Turkey to escape Soviet persecution. In our conversations, he told me that he had served time in jail for refusing to do the mandatory military service. It wasn't as bad as the experience depicted in the movie Midnight Express but it wasn't a walk in the park either. Almost too many layers to capture in a few shots of this extraordinarily intense young man.
He shined shoes outside of a mosque in Sanliurfa, Turkey. The movement of the brush almost robotic. His thoughts seemingly far away. Most poignant of all was the contrast between the smartly polished black pair by his knees and the state of his own footwear.
There are the rare street portraits where the subject exudes an uncommon kindness and empathy. This man in Cairo wears the grime of his job and his modest turban with enormous dignity. His face and head are scarred. The result of an accident? War? He posed patiently then smiled before we went our separate ways. It was Ramadan and no doubt he was in a hurry to be with his family for sunset.
@ The Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. He stood at the same place every day. Often for hours. There was a golden patina where his lips incessantly caressed the ancient stone with such fervor. Almost as if the wall had absorbed his pain. The contents of his prayers known only to him and to Yahweh. I wondered if on the days that he was absent whether anyone took his spot or if it remained vacant out of respect.
