Chronicle

Connections

Oct 31, 2009
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Three weeks ago I sent off a batch of portraits to new friends in Mumbai. I've been spending time in the darkroom again and I think I have about half my Run to the Noise project's 40 or so portraits finished and I've been posting them in the mail as I go. Someday I'll try to show them, but the real point of the project was to meet Mumbaikars after last year's terrorist attacks and, through photography, get to know them a bit.

Since sending this last batch I've been hearing back from Mumbai through a variety of channels - the post, Facebook, email, and today my cell phone rang with Vijay on the other end.

Vijay

Vijay and I had a bit of trouble communicating with language in person - we relied heavily on his son's translations. But despite the language barrier he made me feel right at home at his shop near the Santacruz West train station. We chatted today for a minute or two - with his daughter providing the translations this time around. Still, it is much more difficult to traverse the language barrier over a mobile phone connection with traffic noise in the background. Still, such an amazing small world.

Two Weeks Later

Oct 3, 2009
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This was originally written after Sep 25, 2001. I intended to post it eight years to the day later but was delayed.

Looking Downtown

It is 11pm on Tuesday the 25th and the wind is coming out of the South. I never noticed the wind direction in New York City before. It never seemed to matter.

It has been two weeks and I’m walking down Broadway, below 14th street, while the damp mass of befouled air passes around and seemingly through me.

Ground Zero is the pit from which hell exhausts. It’s the wellspring of this river of burning plastic stench and reeking battlefield decay; and West Broadway, Church, and Sixth Avenue are its sibling tributaries. Together they are channels of funk with dimensions made visible by smoke. They move purposefully and inexorably north, bounded above and to each side by the cool clean air standing aside to let them pass.

As I move upstream, the odiferous river intensifies at Canal Street and I am, with the combined effects of the stink and the knowledge of its source, beginning to consider the possibility of gagging. Beyond my physical reaction, I find the smell shameful. Somebody should open a window. Elder Zosima on that warm day at least received that courtesy. It is natural that the remaining physical presence of the innocent should decay, but we shouldn’t be compelled to remember them this way.

Passing Fire Truck

My mind wanders. I’ve always loved walking in this city, especially in the winter. The gift-shopping bustle, the beautiful women, the not-beautiful women who try hard, smoking street carts, and all those buildings - architectural monuments to the before with their fossilized intelligence and labor. Red marble columns supporting stone lace, or a mansard roof of epic proportions from an epic time; I am transported. Swimming the crowded sidewalk I’m a bit player in Helprin’s Winter’s Tale.

Of course this city isn’t a museum and around the next corner the now thrusts itself back into my conscience, infinitely tall and sheathed in glass. Those modern towers hold down the southern reaches of the city, maintaining balance with the Art Deco towers to the north. Or they did.

During those walks, rubbing shoulders with the empty I was exhilarated. The beautiful automatons, hollowed out stock traders, vacuous French-cuffed investment bankers, bums with soul but little else hurried through canyons that weren’t then rivers of stench and I felt alive against them as backdrop. Their gaze was invariably straight ahead; even those in the most humbling circumstances wore the haughty invisible smile of the aristocracy, the aristocrats of Gotham.

Back then when the air and wind was invisible, Hell’s vent was capped, and the skyline had balance, New Yorkers conveyed the sense that “I may be nobody, but I am somewhere, I’m at the hub around which this world spins. It may not pay me homage, but it is facing my way when it bows.” Evita's dressing maid might have worn that same haughty gaze as she stood in the background on that balcony, when the crowds reached and cheered.

Today the skyline’s balance is gone, and, as I walk along Broadway the pleasure of being at the center is gone with it. It has been replaced by the realization, borne on the fetid wind, that not every face gazing this way is friendly, and that the angry ones are not powerless in the face of such grandeur and energy. And though New Yorkers continue to view the world through eyes glazed with characteristic disdain, it’s an affectation without justification. Maybe the French aristocracy viewed the world through similar eyes in those first weeks after the Bastille was crashed.

Columns of Light

Togetherness

Sep 13, 2009
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This was originally written and posted on Sep 14, 2001, eight years ago today.

FDNY

This morning it is raining in New York City. A cold hard rain that is, frankly, more in keeping with the mood here. It seems as though, after days of insulting us with her apparent insensitivity, Mother Nature has put aside those beautiful crisp Autumnal days and is shedding some tears of her own.

The news is blathering on telling us how we are standing together, a people united; thereby implying that human nature is, after all, intrinsically good. That may be true, but I am cold and my jeans are wet from the knees down where my umbrella fails to block the wind-driven rain and the honking horns all around me indicate to me that I’m not the only one moody, depressed, and deeply angry.

I have come outside to escape the confinement, the television I can’t turn off, and to find a cup of coffee to stunt this headache re-forming in my skull. The rain is knocking down the dust (and my concerns about asbestos) but it can’t eliminate the burning plastic insulation smell that occasionally skulks up from the south. The wind is expected to come around to the North as the rain passes through and I suppose that will keep the smell down for a while.

This morning the leader of The Moral Majority (even the name strikes me as an oxymoron at this moment) demonstrated his level of enlightenment by declaring our current crisis the result of our tolerance as a society for homosexuals and other sundry and miscellaneous sinners in our midst.

A few months ago a dance floor in Israel collapsed sending some 300 people attending a wedding plunging to their deaths. A noted rabbi concluded (a philosophical cousin of Jerry Falwell’s I presume) that they were being punished for dancing.

Both of these statements probably make a lot of sense to the people who made them, though I can hardly fathom the circumstances or childhoods that shaped the worldviews that must be necessary for either the content or timing of such crap to make sense. To me they only make me thankful that I don’t live in a country ruled by a religious right, such as Afghanistan for example. Jerry Falwell’s Moral Majority is our Taliban-in-waiting. A confederacy of self-righteousness prepared and willing to help us live right, even if they have to shove the correct behavior up our collective asses on a stick.

Maybe it’s not the lack of coffee causing my headache.

It seems to me that most human behavior is programmed to be fundamentally tribal, and geography, religion, politics, sexual orientation, and the like are simply attributes we use to define our groups. Tragedies such as Tuesday’s, if they bring us together, do it by expanding the boundaries of our tribe, for a time.

Flag

Both Monday’s white Catholic independent white collar resident of the Upper West Side and black Muslim Democrat municipal worker from Chicago are today’s Americans; their differences today less important in the light of recent events. As normalcy returns the scope of tribal inclusion is likely to shrink as some of these dimensions begin to matter again. But for now, we are united under a common cause.

Weirdly though, the hyper reactionary choose not to be included, even for a time. In the midst of all this, they maintain a stream of rhetoric designed to exclude the rest of us from their clique of self-righteousness, and equally, to exclude themselves from our current togetherness. They stand apart, angry at what I’m not sure, preaching a religion of division, and usurping their God’s role of judge. Tonight, I will thank their God that we are governed by a more moderate element.

Evil

Sep 12, 2009
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I wrote this on Sep 12, 2001 and posted it on a long-defunct blog called "The Big Money." I have a different perspective now, particularly on the "declaring war" part, but eight years later much of it still resonates as it reminds me of how I felt that day.

---

Smoke-plumes

I don’t know what to call this post and I don’t yet know how to put the feelings centered in a ball in my gut to words. My stomach has had this clenched feeling since yesterday morning at shortly after nine, and after a long night of sleeplessness and nightmares it is still there. Repressed tears, others that weren’t, rage, helplessness, and a difficult-to-repress desire to lash out are all competing for ownership of that spot.

I can say with certainty that writing a column about the pursuit of big money seems absolutely ridiculous to me today, as does laughter, watching televised sports, and all other manner of normal behavior. I’m sure that it will be some time before I feel otherwise.

Yesterday morning on a commuter train into the city, as I heard the scattered reports come in via cell phone, the known and the unknown combined to give me the greatest sense of disconnected helplessness I have ever felt. What will happen next? Will they hit public transportation? Who is doing this? Is it only terrorism or something bigger with this as a diversion or precursor? Is it over yet?

In that mix of uncertainty, fear, and anger, forty years of American educational bias toward moral relativism dissolved and I knew that we were facing evil head on. Evil acts perpetrated by evil men at the vanguard of a philosophy defined by hate.

That train was still a ways from the city, but the smoke plumes from the tops of WTC one and two were clearly visible, an apocalyptic and surreal beacon. As more reports came in, this time of the damage to the Pentagon, I was overcome by a desire to be home. Rationally, I didn’t expect to be any safer there; but anything seemed better than the possibility of being stuck, disconnected, in northern New Jersey without transportation, a place to stay, a working phone, or (I think most importantly) a television to watch. I hopped off at the last NJ stop, ran across the platform, and caught the next train heading back the other way.

CNN has become our way to commune and commiserate during events like this, and I am embarrassed to say that I felt strangely lost being so far away from television. It was a relief, many hours later, to finally sit down in front of mine to watch the live coverage. The TV is still working, the press is still reporting, the government is making statements, somehow everything is going to be ok. I have watched events like this unfold on television before, and eventually everything was always okay. I’m watching television now; everything will be okay.

This tragedy is being compared to Pearl Harbor over and over again in the last twenty-four hours. In many ways I think it is worse.

Not only will the final casualty count be higher; but also this happened here in the continental United States (Hawaii wasn’t a state in 1941 and Pearl Harbor still isn’t geographically or emotionally at the center of our nation). This hit us at home, and hard.

I think though, if I keep my perspective, that this isn’t Pearl Harbor (and not just because of the elusiveness of the shadowy enemy). Imagine your grandparents or parents getting up and reading the paper on December 8, 1941 and compare that to us getting up to watch our CNN today. We both face a war, but that is where the similarity ends.

WW II ended in 1945 after something like 20 million total casualties (including hundreds of thousands of American lives). The result was a tenuous peace punctuated by the cold war, Korea, and Vietnam.

This war will be long and will have its casualties, but we are not facing the very real possibility of being alone, the world’s only surviving democracy, after the fall of Europe and most of Asia to dictatorships. We will face long lines at the airport, but not at the draft station. Our way of life will change to accommodate greater security measures but we won’t be erecting memorials in every town to honor the dead. We will survive this, some of our remaining innocence as a nation consumed, but otherwise intact.

In the aftermath of such a massive tragedy, we must work to maintain our perspective. Revenge is on everyone’s minds, and we should have our retribution, but we must maintain our humanity to continue to deserve to feel so wronged. Let there be no 21st century equivalents of the Japanese internment camps, racially motivated vigilante action, or other sources of future shame. What we should do though, is to declare war.

To my knowledge no state has ever declared war on an entity other than another state. I believe that we should acknowledge that the world has changed, and that states and their associated geo-mass are not the only organizing forces around which peoples will rally and fight, and officially and emphatically declare war on the trans-national organization responsible for this hateful act (and the series of previous attacks that led to it).

A declaration of war would indicate to the world our intention to follow through to the end on this. To not stop after a single CNN-worthy bombing. To not stop until the war has been won and our enemies are no longer fighting back either because their will has left them or their material capacity to wage any kind of war has been eliminated. We need to stand up and demonstrate to our enemies that we have the will and the wherewithal to carry such a war to its final conclusion, and that conclusion will correspond to the shedding of their last drop of blood if need be.

Such a declaration of war would also serve notice to those lawless nation-states that harbor or abet this organization that, they too, will feel our wrath and pay the price for their complicity in these crimes.

Evil is not a theoretical construct that exists in a vacuum. Evil is innocent people dying unspeakably horrible deaths; it is the men who inflicted those deaths with blind hate as their only motivation; and it is the resultant fear, helplessness, and loss that we feel today as a nation. Our way of life, our continued pursuit of happiness, and our freedom within our own borders depend on the vigorous actions that we take to uproot and destroy the source of this evil.

Lane Discipline

Jan 9, 2009
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Late yesterday afternoon I was off to meet Gautam in Santa Cruz. He is a colleague I connected with before leaving the States. The cab drivers who had been so solicitus for days didn't want to take me out there since I was only a one way fare. "We are honest, cab to there is expensive, you are better off taking the train". So, I did.

7Rs fare for economy (II) works out to be about 15 cents I think and the train left within one minute of my arrival on the platform.

It was near empty when I boarded at 3pm or so, but within a few stops it was getting crowded enough that I was glad I had my bag's zippers clipped together. This was a way off rush hour train and it was still as busy as any rush hour Manhatten train that I've ridden. Crowded such that you start moving toward the door (you better know which side you are leaving from) at least one or two stops in advance. As the station approaches, the guys in the doorway start leaning further out in preparation for their leap.

When the train slows to about ten mph or so the jumpers start leaving. It's like watching a stick of paratroopers exiting the door of a C-47 in a WWII movie. Hands over their heads going from one hand hold to another to steady themselves they literally bail out, hitting the ground at a dead run for their next connection or just to race up the stairs out of the station. If you make the mistake of waiting until the train stops before you jump, it's probably too late because that's when an identical but opposite rush onto the train starts. If you're still standing in the doorway when that happens you will be caught up and swept back into the car. This isn't a scene of people boarding a train, this is a torrent rushing into a spillway.

On my return trip late in the evening the car was almost empty. Perhaps there were ten of us. I rode the whole way back in the door watching Mumbai go by. Cooking fires close to the tracks, a man relieving himself a few feet beyond a station platform, a cricket match under lights, people leaning out of the doors ahead and behind me. The cool breeze was blowing in my face and the scene flowing by was wonderful.

Off the trains and into the cars, the streets have their own logic. Lane markings on Bombay roads are like stop signs in South Philly, more ornamental than directive. Driving here isn't a turn off your brain and relax activity. Every moment behind the wheel has the intensity of a first person shooter game. You will never arrive at your destination, break out of your reverie and say, "Here already? I don't even remember my route."

The horn isn't a tool for aggression like it is on U.S. roads, here it is a constant "I am right here" replacement for lane discipline. Since you have no faith that the car already two wheels into your lane won't ease over more, you have to let him know you are there. Beep beep. My cab driver yesterday honked his horn on average three times every ten seconds, perhaps more. It is fascinating to sit in the back of a cab and watch as your driver slowly drifts drifts drifts across three lanes of traffic honking the whole time (and being honked at) but the other cars just sort of adjust and accomodate his wandering.

All of the drivers are intense, but none of them ever seem to get angry. In fact, I haven't heard a driver utter a word yet while driving. Even after we were so close to being tee boned that the first six years of life replayed in my head before the danger was past. I'm not exaggerating. The other car had all four wheels locked up, smoke pouring from them and squeeling, heading straight for my door. We were pinned by traffic and couldn't move, but my driver never uttered a sound or even looked particularly concerned.

Auto rickshaws take it up yet another notch as they whiz around the narrow dusty lanes of the suburbs. There is little point trying to explain the experience with words. If you've ridden Mr. Toad's wild ride at Disney, you already know. Except, in the litigous U.S. Disney is compelled to securely belt you in for the ride. In the rickshaw every rapid corner threatens to hurl you out. Plus the rickshaw adds sensory overload in taste (dust), hearing (horns and two stroke engines) and smell (smoke, exhaust and every other smell in the city) in a way that Disney can't - or shouldn't given the economic underpinnings of a theme park.

No matter how crazed (and life threatening) it might feel inside the cab, the real craziness is reserved for the pedestrians of whom there are millions.

The morning pedestrian rush is a thing to behold as the concentrated mass of people flows up to and then through intersections regardless of the state of the walk / don't walk signals.

If you've walked in Manhatten you've seen huge crowds heading to the train station by Macy's and you've seen them keep walking after the don't walk signal lights, pushing it a bit and using their numbers to enforce their own will on the flow of traffic. Now imagine that crowd even bigger and while traffic is hurtling by at 30mph simply deciding en masse now is the time to go. Horns going crazy they just sort of move out and there sheer numbers cause the cars to either divert or stop. There is a logic to it, but it isn't immediately apparent.

However, having been here only a week, I already find myself not even bothering to look at the lights. I just read the traffic and start across. I am playing Frogger in first person mode. Sometimes I get two thirds across and sort of get stuck for a bit, and then just patiently stand there as cars go by within feet on either side of me watching for my moment. All I need is one car that isn't following quite close enough to pin me and off I go, another lane down. Naturally the cars are trying to get somewhere too, so they follow closely and make gapless trains that rush through the intersections to hold me in my place. But eventually one them has a dodgy shift or isn't as quick with the throttle and lets a gap form, then I pounce. They honk, but they know I've won and I get across.

Con is for Confidence

Jan 8, 2009
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The people of Mumbai are outgoing, friendly, and welcoming. Which sometimes makes it difficult to know who is scamming you. If the honest people were less friendly the scammers would be easier to spot, but what fun would that be?

When I was a kid one of my favorite books was a tired old copy of O'Henry's short stories. Story after story of con men and the schemes they pulled. I should have brought it on the plane for a refresher.

Yesterday I was in a park across from Mumbai University watching cricket when I was approached by a man asking "Hello, where are you from?" This was moments after three kids offered to sell me hash so, my guard up, I said U.K. "Oh, I know U.K., we have many visitors here from U.K. I am with the tourist office, you know the tourist office?"

He introduced himself as Ronnie. He was wearing an open warmup jacket, a tee shirt with a sports team on it, and rough blue pants; not the uniform of a tourist office representative but his manner was so warm that I went along with it. At heart I'm still just a midwestern rube from Michigan.

Ronnie began schooling me on all the things I should watch out for. "Don't take any food or drink from anyone. Don't let them touch you. Be careful they don't snatch your things and run. They will ask if you need them to take your picture, then they will run with your camera." Also, "you should take a trip out of Mumbai. Perhaps Goa. You need to see more of India. If you come to desk 28 I can help you book tickets for a day trip."

"Ronnie, what are you doing today? Is this your day off, why aren't you in your office now?" "Oh, sir, I'm doing what we call field work today. I walk around looking after India's guests. You are a guest of India, God bless you." And then before I could stop him he patted me on the head for emphasis.

I made a portrait of him and while I was doing that he kept shooing the snatch and grab guys away from me and my gear. They would lean in close and start looking eagerly at my gear making me happy I had everything tied in with clips. Meanwhile he went on "I am a school teacher in Goa. I teach English and The Accounts. I come here for three months each year to work in tourism. But also, in Goa, I work for an NGO. Right now we are working with a girl who has luekemia. She is only this high and lives on the street, on a footpath."

Portrait complete, and the outline of the scam coming more clearly into focus, I decide it's time to go. "Sir, perhaps I can accompany you for a while, help you see the things in Mumbai." I decline and he continues "Ok sir, it was nice to meet you and God Bless you (again the palm on the head while I'm packing my things), perhaps you would like to give a small donation for the girl I told you about. I am highly credentialed." I tell him I'll stop by the office later and make a donation, I don't want to do it here because it will attract all the people who want to scam me. "Oh, of course sir, good thinking. What time will you be there (so he can make sure he intercepts me out front). I have no idea I tell him, thank him for all of his good advice, and take my leave. He looks crestfallen but never breaks character. He would have fit right into 'Henry's panthenon.

Earlier the same day a guy "on his day off from the flower shop" offered to show me around. "You won't even have to pay me one Rupee." An hour later I see him selling flowers and ask him "How was your day off?" He smiles, but a genuine smile, not the smile of the just busted.

When I first arrive I got the "I'm a shoe shine boy, but all I have is this bag. If only you buy me a shoe shine box then people will think I'm real shoe shine boy and I will make many Rupees. Give me your address and I'll send you the money when I make your money back..." I thought, what the hell, I'm never going to see this kid again (I read about this exact scam in my guide book) but I gave him $5 anyway. I knew it wouldn't be spent on a box but whatever. I told him "come back tomorrow with your box and I'll make your picture with it." Naturally I haven't seen him again. I have a rube's heart but I'm not so dumb.

In Mumbai I am learning that geography factors into the question of trust and confidence. Near the tourist centers downtown the probability of confidence equaling con are much higher. Away from there in areas where the tourists less frequently venture, things get much better. People will still ask for money occasionally, but if they say hello and start to make conversation odds are better that they are simply expressing friendly hospitality. The problem then is figuring out how to politely reciprocate their kindness of a cup of tea or whatever. I have offered to buy people a cup of tea but they will hear nothing of it, "you are our guest here!"

The Hello Game and Talking Politics

Jan 6, 2009
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On Sunday I met two people in rapid succession while playing the hello game in the area around Fort in Mumbai. It's not exactly a game I guess, it's just me smiling broadly and saying hello to pretty much anyone and everyone just to see what happens. About two thirds look at me exactly like they would in New York, like I'm a loon. The others hesitate for a moment and then suddenly decide to smile back and, perhaps they'll even ask me how I'm doing. And then, every once in a while, someone stops to talk (or maybe just stand there looking at me for a while, maybe to see what I'll do?).

Santosh heard my hello, looked over his shoulder, and immediately stepped into conversation. He played the hello game his own way. He was quite serious and didn't smile, there were things he wanted to know. The economy in the United States; how bad was it? How long will the problem last? Will it get worse? We chatted for a bit on the street but then, as usually happens, we started attracting a crowd so he asked me to tea.

We stepped into to a restaurant around the corner. Heading up the rather narrow stairway was a minor act of faith but fortunately it was a legitimate invite to tea, not the prelude to a Robbed Overseas episode. Once seated with our chai it didn't take long for the topic to veer to politics. He declared that politics in Mumbai were all messed up (or words to that effect). I asked him which party he supported and after that "all messed up intro" was surprised when he responded with BJP and Sena. He cared about jobs for Maharashtians and that seemed to be his key reason for his political allegience. "Other people can come here, anyone can make a living in Mumbai, but they shouldn't look at us." I asked what that meant, "shouldn't look at us." It was an aphorism for knowing their place.

I asked how newcomers should make a living, and how long it might take them to become established. "Anyone can make money here, by picking up scraps and selling them for example. If you are willing to work, you can be on your feet making a living and have a place to live in no more than two months." "What Mumbai needs is greater regimentation. People need to do what they are supposed to do."

He wanted to know if I knew who Bal Thackeray was and seemed pleased that I had read about him in the States. He acknowleded that Thackeray was in decline but wanted to know "What do you think of him?" I was his guest so I just told him, "I'm an American and this is your country, my opinion of Thackeray is irrelevant."

After Santosh and I parted ways, I ran into David playing soccer with the kids in his neigbhorhood. He responded to my hello by asking about the cameras I was carrying. He's a photographer, runs his own business, and is a Christian which is what I imagine accounts for his western sounding name.

After he showed me his pictures (including rather dramatic shots from inside the Taj in the days after the attacks) we also ended up talking politics. In fact, now that I think of it, most of my conversations here eventually seem to find their way there. David couldn't be any more different in his opinions from Santosh. "Sena ruined this city." As a member of a 2% minority he is acutely aware of the ethnic political calculus now in vogue and he's aware that at 2% none of the parties are going to be catering to him. He also understands that this style of politics is focused on the acquistion of power and has little to do with governance because the source of power isn't good government, it's a large angry ethnic block. Keeping it angry is the way to keep power.

Today the hello game was played on me. I stopped on Bhuleshwar road and some taxi drivers on their lunch break said hello to me. Deepak was the most gregarious of the group and the only one whose name I remember. He wanted to know if I was walking around taking pictures of poor people so I could show everyone back home how poor India was. I told him I didn't focus on the poor, I liked to take pictures of the people I talked to. I'm not sure he believed me but he dropped it and started in on politics. "If you make a picture here, put a caption under it that says 'You want to end Jihad, then destroy Pakistan.'" "But don't you think Deepak, that if Pakistan were attacked it would only make more Muslims angry?" He looked at me like I was more than a bit slow, like he felt sorry for me. "Just destroy Pakistan, that's all you need to do." Then he went to take a fare.

While he was gone a more reserved driver who owns not only his car, but a second car as well, offered me tea. We went into a nearby place and had drinks. He wanted me to know that he didn't agree with America's policies toward Pakistan, that our involvement in Afghanistan was making us too accomodating to the Pakistanis. However, "We love Americans and it is perfectly safe for you to come here. If anyone does give you trouble, you come back here and let us know, we will take care of it."

While Deepak was gone I made some pictures of the guys I had been talking to. When he came back he thought I might be able to take his picture, but first "tell me straight, what are you going to do with the picture. If you make money from it, you must send me some. I'm saving to move to Florida." I told him there was no way I'd ever make money with a shot of his mug (his friends cracked up) but that I would be happy to send him a copy of it. So, address in hand I made the shot. He was a character. When I got in the cab from there to head home, there was warm hand shaking all around and then my new friends started the meter and told my driver to make sure I only paid the metered fare.

Run to the Noise

Jan 4, 2009
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I meant to make this first post before I left but there were pressing things to do. Now that I'm here I can waste some of the hottest part of the day here in my room with the A/C on.

In 2001 I was working frequently in New York City. I was on a New Jersey train heading into the city on the morning of 9/11 when I began to notice people talking seriously into their cell phones while the conductors huddled up in one of the vestibules to confer. Within a few moments I learned that an aircraft had struck a World Trade Center tower from an overheard cell phone conversation.

My first thought was of the Army Air Corps B-25 that had struck the Empire State Building in 1944. At that point terrorism hadn't even entered my mind.

We continued toward the city and then another wave of cell phone conversations and murmers broke out. Immediately afterward the conductor announced on the IC that the second tower had been struck and that it was clearly a case of terrorism. Minutes later we pulled into Elizabeth station where I hopped off the train and grabbed the first train heading the other direction.

During the weeks that followed I spent considerable time in NYC and, when the wind was right, the entire city smelled like burnt electrical insulation. I was never in any danger during or after the attacks, but still I was greatly affected by them. I had never experienced the kind of anxiety I felt then every time a news flash of some kind or another came on the news. Eventually I had to unsubscribe from news feeds on my blackberry because each time it buzzed for one I felt my stress level peaking.

One thing that really stood out in a positive way during that time was outpouring of support from around the world. It's difficult to imagine it now, but during the period immediately after the attacks much of the world sent its condolences and reached out a friendly hand.

My mind returned to these thoughts as I followed the news of the recent attacks in Mumbai. 26/11 figured to be to Mumbai what 9/11 was to New York - at least as representative of foreign terrorismn (the riots of '93 won't be easily replaced as the defining cataclysm). In any case, the second to last paragraph call to actoin in Op-Ed Contributor- What They Hate About Mumbai is what instigated my being in Mumbai. I kept re-reading that piece and found myself compelled to go.

The goal of the trip, if there is something as concrete as a goal, is to simply connect with people to offer some of the support I felt from around the world after 9/11. I want to meet Mumbaikars, make human connections, and make pictures with the idea that I might do a show called New Year in Mumbai, or perhaps stealing an idea from Mehta's Op Ed piece Run to the Noise.

The odd thing is that, now that I'm here, I'm not completely sure that the premise of the trip makes sense. Excepting some occasional evidence to the contrary, I suspect the attacks are more on my mind than they are on the minds of Mumbaikars. Everything seems quite ordinary and when asked about the attacks, cab drivers, hotel staff, and people on the street have all said the same thing, "No problem. Back to normal in four days."

New Year Sentiment

The Camera that is Always With Me

Aug 31, 2008
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I like to have a camera with me all the time and since about 2000 an old beat up Lomo LC-A is usually the one (or at least one of the ones). It's small, has a nice lens, and really takes a beating (you should see this thing, I can't believe it still functions).

I've been quite behind in my sorting and filing and am finally going through about 200 rolls of film. As I go, I'm identifying images to scan. I guess about one image per roll on average. That's a lot of scanning and it's going to take a while.

I like immediate gratification so in the meantime, here are a few images I've scanned so far...

Diana and My Indiana Road Trip

Aug 30, 2008
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I drove to Indiana this month to visit my parents and much to my surprise I shot almost no film. I took a car load of equipment with me but then just never got the urge to drag it out. I did shoot a little bit of film through my Diana toy camera though, mostly while wandering around in South Bend.

I like these four pictures, but they aren't really capturing the moment the way I hoped they would when I shot them. This next picture does though. As soon as I looked at the negative I knew that I was going to like it; but when I scanned it I loved it. I love the textures, the movement, and the color in this image.

Falls

This last shot was made somewhere in Ohio on the drive home. I hope that there will be many more scenes like this in the near future. I realize there are more than three windmills on the hill, but I guess the imagery from recently reading The Master and Margarita is still fresh in my head because I thought of Golgotha when I first looked at this negative.