snapixel magazine
issue 8
The new documentarian october 2010
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From “HIV +” by Nathan Weyland. See the rest of the story on page 22
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Contents
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Peter Dicampo
Life Without Lights
Nathan Weyland
Born HIV+
Andre Hermann
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Luz
Dipti Desai
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Urban Ore: the Secret Life of Scrappers
Aimee Guymon
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The Bazaar
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or this issue, we’ve hand selected five strikingly powerful projects showcasing the talent of the new generation of up-and-coming documentary photographers. These projects explore issues in the world today ranging from a child born with HIV to a village struggling to be heard by its government. Through these projects, our photographers have painstakingly revealed the subtleties that accompany such sensitive issues. Yet the most compelling aspect of these projects is that hope that can still be found in each situation. These stories are not about pity. They are about admiring the strength that individuals can find in overwhelming circumstances, and about the love that is radiated onto the people around them. This is undoubtedly the most solemn issue our magazine has released yet, and it is one that we publish with pride. We hope you not only enjoy looking at the magnificent work of these five photographers, but that it makes you want to pick up your camera and go out to connect with people through it.
Kaitlyn
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Editor Kaitlyn Ellison
Art Director Adam Oliver
Writer/ Copyeditor Robin LAm
Contributing Photographers: Aimee Guymon www.aimeeguymon.com Andre hermann www.Andrehermannphoto.com Dipti desai www.diptidesai.com Nathan Weyland www.weylandphoto.com Peter Dicampo www.peterdicampo.com
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Selective Transparency By Robin Lam
In our current trenddominated society, jumping from one needy cause to the next seems to be the norm. Documentary photography was once a tool that aided the endeavor for social change. It was thought that by revealing the invisible, unseen horrors overlooked by society, the public would be spurred to action and change. Now however, with the torrent of bad news that we are barraged with on television and online everyday, hardly anything seems to elicit action. The photographs that once carried so much compassion and conscience are now seen as commonplace, something that’s to be expected with bad news. Instead, we have become voyeurs, fueled by the exoticism of human decay and drawn to the titillation that accompanies photography of anything unusual or scandalous. Outside museum and gallery installations, the power and impact of documentary photography have been reduced in the flood of consumerist images that we are exposed to on a daily basis. Some say that documentary photography should ‘be concerned’ about society and play an active role in social change, but with so little attention from the public, how is documentary photography supposed to fulfill these responsibilities? The camera was used as a scientific tool in its origins, but gradually photographers began aiming their camera lenses onto their own societies, documenting the dark underbellies of the city and the dank living conditions of the poor, the criminal, and the working classes. Rather than exhibitionist, photography was a telescope that peered into the cracks of society which had until then been largely ignored. Social documentary photographers like Jacob Riis and Lewis Hine brought mass attention to urban social plights, undoubtedly aiding in popular social reform of the time. Dorothea Lange’s “Migrant Mother” became an iconic symbol of the catastrophic effects of the Great Depression.
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“It is no longer a unified force meant only to ignite social change or reveal flaws in society, but rather, it is a tool that allows one to take a look at a community from within, and also have the breathing space to step back and reflect on what is seen.“
Social documentary photography had a clear goal then—to instigate social amelioration. Now, the role of the documentary photographer has bled into that of a photojournalist, with the lines between the two often blurred. Traditionally, documentary photography was a style in which the one attempted to explore and reveal a situation or social issue and represent it with minimal distortion. On the other hand, photojournalism is a visual extension of journalism itself, related directly to current headlining news and communicating the visual story that words cannot convey alone. Take for instance, the documentation of the recent oils spills in the Gulf of Mexico. Images of birds, otter, and other wildlife covered in oil and dying on the coast sparked heated debates, angry outbursts, and an explosion of condemnation on BP. Massive news coverage accompanied the images and undoubtedly helped speed up the response to the ecological disaster. However, contemporary photographers see documentary photography as something more akin to the process of finding truth through experience. “I think a lot of photographers in this genre are obsessed with the idea of telling the truth without realizing how subjective the genre is,” explains photographer Peter DiCampo (‘Life Without Lights’). “[However] in the process of choosing which images and which moments to fit into a story, we really end up choosing the truth. It’s up to us to choose the truth that best represents what we see. But even then, in some way, our own personal feelings on the subject are going to come across.” Truth then, is not composed of hard facts and figures, but of the emotional dialogue one experiences when faced with images of another’s reality. Instead of only seeking social justice, contemporary documentary photography often finds itself critiquing social relations, and along the way, bringing attention to the rise of new social classes and the forgotten individuals left in its cracks. Andre Hermann in his project ‘Urban Ore: The Secret Life of Scrappers,’ photographed the homeless citizens of the San Francisco Bay Area and their dangerous struggle to scrimp a living out of scrapping metal from abandoned buildings. What started as a personal project for him eventually became “a story about a functioning community, the recession, and the need to turn a buck at any cost.” Through his images of a group of homeless people living beneath a freeway off-ramp, Hermann attempts not merely to record their daily life, but to show a different perspective of how life was affected by the recession. Though these individuals do not have the legitimate or respectable jobs that are expected of citizens, they too “were just as affected by the recession as every other working person was. When the price of different scrap metals dropped, the man-hours and risk outweighed the return at the scrap yard, causing most of these people to either work harder or find other means to make money.” At the very end, Hermann shows that the homeless have the same desire as any ordinary citizen to make money and earn a living. As a scrapper from the demolished Washington Packing Corporation Tuna Cannery once told Hermann: “Why do they care if we scrap the metal from this building? This place is going to be torn down at some point anyway—we’re doing the owner a favor. If they need it done, why don’t they hire us? We want jobs. We’ll take jobs.”
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From political, to humanist and aesthetic, documentary photography is motivated by a wide variety of emotions and desires. It is no longer a unified force meant only to ignite social change or reveal flaws in society, but rather, it is a tool that allows one to take a look at a community from within, and also have the breathing space to step back and reflect on what is seen. The inspiration and artistry that drives these photographers could be as mundane as a backwater village or as blood pumping as a street riot. Be it for reform, to inform, or simply to follow a personal desire, documentary photography allows the viewer to explore the essential, intrinsic form of an experience through a series of images. The resulting narrative is at once both arresting for its visual stimulation, as well as its inevitable underlying role as a recorder of history itself. What needs to be changed is our exposure to it and our recognition that it is a form of education as well as a voice for change. Rather than treating such images as sensational, we can realize the intrinsic value they present; they provide us with an opportunity to empathize with our fellow men and use what limited capacity we have to make a difference—even if that difference is only to be less ignorant of the world and the people around us.
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Life Without Lights
Like a moth attracted to a single flame, Peter DiCampo was drawn to the project ‘Lights in Ghana’ in an inexplicable, mystical way. As a Peace Corps volunteer in the village of Wantugu, “I was out wandering one evening, and noticed children reading the Koran by flashlight in the village's central mosque,” DiCampo says. “I was attracted by the beauty 12
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of the situation—the hypnotic recital of the passages, and the earnest way they studied by flashlight. That became the beginning of [this] project.” For the next three years DiCampo would document the lack of electricity in rural Ghana as well as the resulting effects it had on villages, the region’s economy and standard of living, and its people. Though
Photographs and captions by Peter DiCampo Year-round in Ghana, the sun sets at 6 p.m. and rises at 6 am— thus, the residents of communities lacking electricity live half of their lives in the dark. Over ten years ago, the government of Ghana began a massive campaign to provide the country’s rural north with electricity, but the project ceased almost immediately after it began. The work sluggishly resumes during election years, as candidates attempt to garner popularity and votes. But at present, an estimated 73% of villages remain without electricity in the neglected north—an area comprising 40% of the country. Living without lights is more than just a minor inconvenience. Electricity provides a paramount step on the ladder of economics, and northern villagers know what is being kept from them: lights to study and cook by, machinery and refrigeration, and a standard of living that would attract teachers, nurses, and other civil service workers from the city, not to mention foreign tourists. That said, some forms of progress are inevitable, and a number of surprising modern amenities reveal themselves in the night. Mobile phones are widespread, and a growing local film industry allows northerners to see movies in a setting and language familiar to them for the first time in their history. All of this exists despite the absence of a convenient outlet in which to plug basic electronic appliances. A closer look at the lack of electricity in villages reveals much about their complex dependency on cities and on the West. The 1.6 billion people living without electricity worldwide share a commonality in both the advantages they are denied and the technological advances that slowly pervade rural life. [Peter DiCampo]
the lack of electricity stifles potential economic growth and perpetuates the cyclical nature of poverty in the region, DiCampo does not accept that ‘Lights in Ghana’ is merely a story about electricity. “[This is] a story about people who have no representation in their own government. The way I see it, there are two main strengths to this story. One is that
I was able to explain a very specific impediment to development, instead of just contributing to a discussion on poverty in a very general way. The other is that I was able to present a problem, but not victimize the people I was photographing—there's an issue that needs to be solved.” - Robin Lam Snapixel Magazine
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Village Elder
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Father and child in Voggu
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Boys
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Children reading the Koran by flashlight at a mosque in Wantugu.
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Above: The crew of Marvelous Films International, a local company from the nearby city, films a scene in Voggu. Only in the past few years has a growing local film industry allowed northerners to see movies made by their own tribe, in a setting and language familiar to them.
Following page: People board the last car of the night through Wantugu.
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HIV + Photograph and captions by Nathan Weyland The devastation and pain that HIV causes families has been well documented. However, what is not frequently realized is how the virus can be passed to children and continue to threaten families and strain finances. In Mexico, less than one quarter of pregnant women can access medication to prevent transmission to their child. This series of images is a portrait of one such family. [Nathan Weyland]
Kevin Damian, 8, was born HIV positive. He takes a wide variety of medicine three times a day to keep his illness at bay, and makes monthly trips to the hospital for check-ups and blood samples. His mother died of AIDS six years ago at age 20. In Mexico, HIV transmission from mother to child remains a serious problem and one that photographer Nathan Weyland has begun to explore with his project, ‘Born HIV+.’ Weyland stumbled upon this little-known problem in Mexico during his participation in the 2008 Foundry Photojournalism workshop, and was immediately drawn to the compassionate community and family members who strive to deal with this situation. “I learned so much about how HIV can continue to devastate a family for more than one generation, something I never even realized before,” Weyland explains. “[Grandmother] Teresa,” the primary caretaker for Kevin and his uninfected brother, “was immediately warm and open—so common in Mexico—and she seemed to understand what I wanted to do and why. Doing this type of work, being let into people homes and lives, being present during their most intimate moments, really teaches you something about generosity and sharing.”
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Previous page: Teresa comforts Kevin after a late-evening squabble with his brother.
Left: Kevin and Teresa embrace in their living room.
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Kevin in front of his apartment in Peralvillo. In the evening, the brothers play a board game while Teresa does chores.
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Kevin and Edwin race up an escalator during a shopping trip.
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Teresa’s brother lives on the streets of their neighborhood and struggles with alcohol addiction. Sometimes he has a gift for Kevin, his nephew.
Following page: Kevin once again hides under the table to avoid eating.
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Urban Ore The Secret Life of Scrappers Photographs and captions by André Hermann Underneath the off-ramp of a major San Francisco, CA freeway, six homeless people have created a home and community around a dangerous, labor intensive trade—scrapping. Copper and other metals are extracted from abandoned buildings and discarded objects like motors, pipes, and cables. In ‘Urban Ore: The Secret Life of Scrappers,’ Andre Hermann has documented the creativity and danger that lies in this operation, as well as the lives of the homeless individuals who rely on it to make a living. “They were the invisible, homeless, below the radar so-to-speak,” Hermann says of his subjects. “All they wanted was [for] the system to take notice that they were there and needed help.” In the end, these scrappers have the same desire as any individual in our hard-pressed economy: the desire to find a job. In the image ‘Somewhere Else,’ (see page __) scrapper Steve is captured in a poignant thought, wondering how to make enough money to pay the fee to take a driver’s license test so that he can apply for a real job. “In the end I hope people will realize that the homeless are human beings like the rest of us, not unwanted animals on the street that society has been burdened with,” Hermann explains of ‘Urban Ore.’ “They have lives, they care for their own. They have hopes, dreams, and needs—to make a living.”
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Standing amongst a group of forgotten, unshaven and dirty characters under a San Francisco freeway off-ramp, my eyes can’t believe what they are seeing: a modern day mining camp, complete with a BBQ, chairs, a laundry area, pets, and tools of every size and shape. Amidst the stinking heaps of trash, towering piles of disregarded belongings, and remnants of stripped electrical cables and other components, exists a camp like no other. Six people have been living in this small wedge of a space for years with all the amenities that one could imagine. The group consists of a motley crew of characters: veteran scrappers who have more than 10 years of experience, a few newbies, and a plethora of passer byes from other camps visiting to share drugs, info, food, and conversation. The scrappers worked vigorously over six months to extract as much of the metal from an old nearby building as possible. The owner of the building tried various measures to keep them out, such as welding their access points shuts. The scrappers were never be deterred. Where there’s a will there’s a way, they always told me. “They keep sealing up, and we’ll keep finding our way in.” But due to an increase in illegal scrapping, the local scrap yards had been hit by undercover police raids and a new restriction was put in place at the scrap yards. No scrap would be bought unless it came in by car. No longer could the scrappers bring it in by bike or foot. Nor could scrappers sell stolen scrap, manhole covers, Cal-trans road signs, or any other scrap that bear special markings of the owner, or origin. Desperate for money the members of the group sold their scrap this way to turn a very fast buck, with no questions asked. [Andre Hermann]
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Above: Starting his day, Steve crawls out of his freeway living space. The space measures four by four by twenty feet. No one is sure exactly what the spaces are used for. They make great homes though. Steve found this place over seven years ago, it took him 30 minutes to pry the metal cover off and move in. He’s been living here ever since.
Left: Before leaving camp for a day in the abandoned factory, Steve and Mike grab their golf clubs and walk out to the lagoon to hit a few golf balls.
Previous page: Sheriff ’s deputies have been raiding the camp lately looking for patrol dodgers. Steve, a veteran scrapper and long time resident of the camp, waits to barricade himself in his hole as he watches a patrol car park near the encampment.
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Coffee is made and leftovers reheated for breakfast. Food sanitation doesn’t seem to be an issue here. The camp’s food comes from many different sources. Oftentimes it is already spoiled or thrown out.
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Bhudro gets help reapplying a bandage and splint. Recently he lost the tip of his finger at the first joint to a scrapping accident.
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Above: In between scrapping jobs, everyone gathers at the camp to relax and do smaller jobs like repairing equipment, stripping cable, eating, and planning the next run.
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Depression, unlike humans, has no discernment. It doesn’t care what language you speak, what god you pray to or what country you are from. Luz, a university-educated woman, immigrated to the United States from Mexico in 1998. While many U.S. citizens see her as not belonging, or not one of them, Luz like millions of others, struggles with depression. Often depression is hidden and kept secret, covered with a forced smile and a silence. Luz battles with her thoughts and the numbing effect sadness has in order to fill a universal need to love and feel the love of her family. [Aimee Guymon]
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Luz Photographs and captions by Aimee Guymon
San Francisco-based photographer Aimee Guymon never guessed that a barrier in language would one day become her greatest strength in bonding with a subject. When Guymon first began spending time with Maria de la Luz, a university educated immigrant woman from Mexico, the lack of a communal language was an obvious issue. “Maria speaks Spanish and I only speak English, so one might think that it would have made things harder, but actually it made it easier,” says Guymon. “We couldn’t use words to communicate with each other so instead we had to connect on a deeper level faster then usual. By the end it felt as if I had grown to know and understand her in way I hadn’t with anyone before.” This deeper bond was extremely important for Guymon because it allowed her to realistically portray the story of Maria’s struggle with depression and the loneliness of immigration. “I think many people don’t want to see immigrants as human beings, people that have a need for a better life to support their families, things that all of us want and strive for. My goal was to show the human side of immigrants through the concept that emotions are universal and depression is something that almost everyone can relate to by either having felt it themselves or seeing a loved one cope with it.” Maria’s overwhelming love for her family is the strength that pulls the viewer through these images, and is evident in Guymon’s photography. “You can see the pain in her eyes, the smile she forces her mouth to make,” Guymon says of a portrait of Maria and her son. “However the light shines on her son as she holds his face there and he smiles his child like grin. She had just made him laugh. She was always trying to make him laugh. She told me she didn’t want him to be like her, always sad.”
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The Bazaar when a marketplace Dies Photographs and captions by Dipti Desai When an old bazaar dies, it turns out to be a lot of things. It becomes living quarters for the poor, studio space for struggling artists, a playground for culture-vultures who sell personal articles of the deceased for profit, and much more. A short distance from the famous Chinese fishing nets in Cochin on the southwest coast of India, the bazaar which once fed the historical spice-trade of the Portuguese and the Dutch, dies. This is where Pedro Alvares Cabral brought his fleet in 1500, inaugurating the European colonization of India. The bazaar has become less than a skeleton of what it once was, as seen in the following images. [Dipti Desai]
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For Dipti Desai, the old, decrepit bazaar in Cochin, India, is all at once a source of employment, shelter, and inspiration. The desire to document the bazaar was instinctual, “a certain homecoming,” Desai says. “Sometimes you want to be a storyteller, sometimes you want to translate an experience into images depending on how much you sink into the moment, and sometimes you are driven with a cause.” For the project ‘Bazaar,’ Desai has no message to impose through her photography, instead focusing on her personal experience with the language, subtle nuances, and culture of the community. “I believe I was more present as a person than as a photographer during this project,” she says. “The project itself was a conversation; talking [to my subjects] about their families and jobs, and listening to their stories was what led to this.” A bazaar is a mystical place of trade, religion, and ideas, immortalized in popular culture by movies like Disney’s Aladdin. Desai shows the melancholy that is left behind when such a bazaar dies, “leaving behind the ghost of the thriving place of trade it once was.”
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We’re looking for the best For each issue of Snapixel Magazine we publish the best projects from the best photographers we can find. If you’re telling great stories with your camera, we’d like to see your work. We’re accepting submissions for future issues, send a link to your current projects to kaitlyn@snapixel.com to be considered for publication.
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