Notes From Hong Kong by Michael Kennedy

Hong Kong - June #830 BW-PC.JPG — **Notes From Hong Kong**

**by Michael Kennedy**

When my wanderlust flares up and it’s time to answer the call, a plane flight from Seoul-to-Hong Kong is 3.5 hours, and a 90-day visa for the former British Crown colony is free.

For an American to visit Beijing or Shanghai - even the island of Hainan, China’s version of Hawaii, a 30-day visa is $140.

What’s not to love about Hong Kong?

Besides, English and Cantonese are co-official languages of the city, so it’s easy to get around.

If one lives in Seoul, it’s no problem to hitch a ride with a cut-rate tour group and make it to Hong Kong on a whirlwind two-day tour for $300 …which includes airfare, hotel, all meals and a tour guide and a driver in a private van.

For reasons too lengthy to explain, I have a tourist status in Korea that’s good for 90-days. Then it’s time to leave - yet Korean immigration does not care if you leave the country in the morning and return later in the day. You just have to leave the country.

How far can one go beyond Korea, and make it back in a day? Tokyo is one answer, which is what General Douglas MacArthur did every day during the Korean War - before that former hat salesman from Missouri fired him for being insubordinate.

The answer is to hop over to Fukuoka on Kyushu Island near Hiroshima. A plane ticket for the 1.5 hour flight goes for anywhere between $200-to-$250. I’ve gone out the door at 9 a.m. for the trip to Japan, and been back in Seoul by 9 p.m. It’s way crazy.

The truth is Fukuoka is a cure for insomnia. It’s not Tokyo - with the buzzing energy of Shinjuku and Harajuku.

This time I threw in my lot with the Korean Tour of Hong Kong. Do I speak Korean? I’m lucky to muddle through English. It so happens that I live with my favorite Korean translator, and she speaks reasonable English. Thankfully, this eliminates most language problems for me. I’ve lived in Europe, the Middle East and the Orient - and the best I can do with foreign languages involves basic salutations, menu items and useful obscenities.

Hong Kong - June #130 BW-Skylight-TC.JPG

As someone with a street photography habit - an addiction it seems, Hong Kong fits the bill perfectly. While regarded as the world’s most cramped city with 7,280,000 people, Hong Kong rings in at #6 as the most densely populated city on the planet - with an average 66,200 people per square mile.

What is considered the most densely populated city in the world? Try Dhaka, Bangladesh - with a comfortable 114,300 people per square mile. Everyone interested in a vacation to Dhaka, please raise your hand. That’s what I thought … no one.

Like New York City as a collection of five boroughs, or cities - Hong Kong is comprised of numerous cities and small towns, with Kowloon being the most prominent, much like Manhattan is to New York City.

As a street photographer, Hong Kong is a visual feast and Nathan Road in the heart of Kowloon near the harbor is a good place to start. The sidewalks are choked with tourists from all over the world, and about every six feet is a hustler from Pakistan ready to make your wallet lighter with enticements to see “my friend the tailor,” or “my friend the jeweler,” … “he make you good deal.” Further into Nathan Road are the Kowloon hustlers ready to provide the debauched Western man with a young Chinese woman as “a companion.” These hustlers also give quick directions to the nearby massage shops populated by faded hookers on the downslide who offer a happy ending for the right price.

The appeal of Hong Kong as a street photographer is the constant movement of people, and people from everywhere. I’ve been to Hong Kong three times in the past six years, and each time I work with less and less camera equipment. A Nikon DSLR even with a scaled back 18mm-55mm wide-angle zoom is almost too much.

For this trip I used only a Ricoh GR II - with an ample supply of batteries. Sometimes I will stand in one place, stake out my territory and essentially advertise that I’m taking photographs. In Hong Kong this is asking to be trampled, so I just moved along, using my camera in almost a brazen fashion. With such a glut of people and so many tourists, if anyone is offended - by the time they react, I’m already a block away.

Soho is another Kowloon neighborhood ideal for street photography. This trendy place is known as an upscale entertainment district with swank malls everywhere. As always, the streets are filled with locals and tourists alike. Food is priced for every wallet, from places for the nouveau riche-to-tourists on a budget-to-locals interested in authentic street food.

The late, great Anthony Bourdain opened the eyes of Americans to the glorious adventure of experiencing the world and other cultures through food - especially street food. Bourdain was spot on about his appreciation for this aspect of life, and his recent death is still a shock. Yet to honor his zest for life is to mingle with people everywhere and become acquainted with them through their food. Bourdain could have easily rested on the strength of his memoir, Kitchen Confidential - yet he continued on as long as he could.

A good street camera and good street food in the Soho District of Kowloon in Hong Kong makes for unforgettable memories. Buy the ticket, take the ride.

a day prior to the elections by Alphan Yilmazmaden

Photos from the last rally of the opponent presidential candidate Muharrem İnce

on 23 June 2018, Maltepe/Istanbul.

It was just one day prior to the elections.

Millions of people is to be expected to participate.

Gathering started under a heavy rain, it is still not clear how many people attended.

But it is clear it was a significant amount.

Elections resulted by the victory of the former president.

Everything is possible in India by Michael Kennedy

Report from India by Michael Kennedy

I'm retired and without respectable ambition, yet my appetite for novelty, photography and travel impels me to different parts of the globe.

Some of my friends are still wage-slaves, paying off ex-wives, sending spoiled teenage progeny to expensive colleges where they excel at academic dishonesty and major in garden-variety hedonism.

When I come in off the road, I meet with the people who matter most and try to regale them with a delightful narrative of copy and visuals that try to combine the best of Bruce Chatwin and W. Eugene Smith, like the most recent time in India.

My weeklong driver from the Punjab in Rajasthan, a splendid 41-year-old fellow with the improbable name of Vicky, met any cultural curiosities with: "Everything is possible in India.

While this outlook applies to other parts of the world, Vicky had a distinct point about his country.

In my travels from New Delhi-to-Agra-to Jaipur (the classic Golden Triangle) and back to New Delhi, and then onto Varanasi for the experience of both ongoing public cremations along the banks of the Ganges River and the sunrise ritual of the locals bathing in the ash-covered water, I experienced one example after another of both stark contrasts and an unfazed acceptance for all manner of existence. I was fascinated and repulsed by what I noticed in almost equal measure.

I went to India for the photography, and I wanted a dependable guide and a driver. I was not going to experience India as part of a bus tour with unbridled bores and ride for three hours for a quick 35-minute view of a temple that I can see in a book for free, and the obligatory shopping junket and tour of the sweatshops for pointless jewelry, scarves, carpets and just worthless knick-knacks.

To this end, my arrangement was ideal. I dropped some pretty polly for this experience, but I have no regrets. I got what I wanted – and the tour guides were very useful for me by running interference with the locals … especially the beggars, who are not all down at the heel; many are children instructed by their parents to go hustle some money. Of course there were the women who pounded on the car windows at intersections, imploring for money. I was cold about it all – for there is nothing to be done.

One simply cannot engage in any conversation with a beggar – yet I made the mistake just once, and in all these places through Southeast Asia and Southern Asia, it starts with a well-prepared script:

"Hello," the con artist said. "Where are you from?"

"I'm from nowhere," I said.

"Is it cold there? I hear it is very cold."

He thought I meant Norway. And I faded fast.

Whether in Agra – site of the Taj Mahal, or Jaipur – site of some dazzling palaces that the British Empire left largely unmolested …. except, of course, for the abundance of art work now on display in London museums … one simply must accept cows strolling down the streets, cows pissing and shitting in the streets, cows sleeping in the streets. … and then the beggars – or homeless – or derelicts; take your pick of the proper word … are just like the cows; they sit on the sidewalks, curbs, in the streets; some look shell-shocked, if not dead.

Vicky laughed cynically and cautioned that the female beggars literally "borrow" children from neighbors to panhandle at car intersections and pull the pity act.

Twenty years ago, when I spent time with my father – the Old Gringo, in his former Aztec village in the mountains of the Sierra Occidental of Mexico, I thought … as the Flecha Roja bus made the 14-hour drive from Nuevo Laredo-to-Chapulhucan … that I had seen some rock bottom, end of the world dwellings - until I arrived in Varanasi, a holy city for both Hindus and Buddhists – for this is where Prince Siddhartha made his transformation into Buddha, and gave his first public sermon.

The places along the road from the airport to Varanasi were like a drive along Bob Dylan's Desolation Row ("They're selling postcards of the hanging"), with a crazed Warren Oates for good measure in a beat-down Chevy Impala careening along the shit-splattered dirt roads with the head of Alfredo Garcia in the front seat, across a landscape that reeked of American film director Sam Peckinpah at his peak. Of course, there were the cows everywhere: pissing, shitting, sleeping, and foraging for anything halfway edible – along with feral dogs and filthy pigs. There were men urinating against walls, trees, cars, themselves and each other.

My guide in Varanasi, a local lad, seemed to say in his broken English: "It's all good."

While sitting in a wooden, one-man row boat, on the Ganges River at sunset and being close enough to shore to watch dead bodies set alight on funeral pyres was disconcerting – and a fine example of simultaneous fascination and repulsion. I could not stop viewing the spectacle – and yet I didn't want to see it. This was like the last line of Samuel Beckett's The Unnameable ... "You must go on. I can't go on. I'll go on."

Noting some discomfort on my part, the guide explained: "These people are not really dead. Their bodies have failed them, and they are moving on to other life forms. It's like they are changing clothes."

Maybe. But his explanation sounded like some bad Orange Sunshine at a Grateful Dead concert in 1970 at the Fox Theatre in St. Louis.

And then next morning, I returned to the same area to watch people bathe in the same water that … had been … is … will be … strewn with the ashes of the dead.

Within you, without you. Same as it ever was.

I wanted to spend a fair amount of time in Old Delhi, a place where you don't usually find tourists – and Delhi is divided by a river … not the Ganges, with a bridge connecting new and old. This is where the local guide came in very handy. I wanted to plunge into the thick of things, into the market areas, down the weirdly winding warrens (how's that for alliteration?). No one bothered me.

I was in-and-out of New Delhi three times during the week, always at the same hotel. I had no problem walking around the neighborhood early in the morning, I just had to mind the bums curled up asleep on the sidewalk outside the hotel. There are no cows wandering around New Delhi; across the river in the old section … yes.

I stayed in first-class hotels all along the way, but there was no reason to wander around the neighborhoods in Agra, Jaipur, or Varanasi. The areas immediately beyond these hotels were pure scum, replete with the usual trio of cow, dog and pig wandering around, and motorbike repair shops up-and-down the main road. In India – much like Vietnam … at least Hanoi, everyone gets around on a motorbike, though few people wear helmets. And it is so common to see dad driving the motorbike with two young children sandwiched between the patriarch and mom riding sidesaddle at the rear of a very small seat.

Perhaps the two strangest sights I saw all week – aside from men urinating against the walls in Agra, Jaipur and Varanasi … was a) a motorbike in traffic with two cats and a dog on the back … totally unsecured; b) a motorbike clipping along the highway with a driver and a passenger holding a struggling lamb.

Vicky explained that the men were taking the lamb to some damn temple as an offering to one of the 2,000 gods in the Hindu culture. They would slit the creature's throat and drain some blood to appease their god, then go home and devour the lamb.

Q: What year is it in India?

A: Whatever year you want.

Everything is possible in India.

“So India’s problem turns out to be the world’s problem. What happened in India has happened in God’s name. The problem’s name is God.” ― Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

“India has always had a strange way with her conquerors. In defeat, she beckons them in, then slowly seduces, assimilates and transforms them.” ― William Dalrymple, White Mughals: Love and Betrayal in Eighteenth-Century India

"There are some parts of the world that, once visited, get into your heart and won't go. For me, India is such a place. When I first visited, I was stunned by the richness of the land, by its lush beauty and exotic architecture, by its ability to overload the senses with the pure, concentrated intensity of its colors, smells, tastes, and sounds... I had been seeing the world in black & white and, when brought face-to-face with India, experienced everything re-rendered in brilliant technicolor." ― Keith Bellows, National Geographic Society

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OLD DELHI

VARANASI

AGRA

NEW DELHI

JAIPUR

Vintage Day by Robert Bannister

It is estimated that over 60 million people were killed during World War II.

In the face of such unimaginable horror and heartache, people resolve to be optimistic about the value of life and find positive ways to move forward.

What followed in both Europe and the Pacific at the mid-point of the 20th-century is a testament about the will to live in a better world.

Many great photographers - too numerous to mention, were shaped by circumstances of the post-World War II era.

Hungarian photographer Robert Capa (1913-1954) is perhaps one of the most influential of his time - certainly one of the most prolific. Through his work with a camera, Capa revealed both the beauty of the human spirit and the gruesome cruelty of man’s inhumanity to man.

Capa’s most notable quote is: “If your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough.”

With this in mind, I recently decided to experience Vintage Day at Howden Market Place near my home in Yorkshire. The annual event celebrated life in England from the late 1940s-to-the-1960s, a time of profound change in my country.

For the occasion, I dressed as a 1950s news reporter, Panama-type trilby hat with a press card slipped into the rim. Waistcoat, slacks, white jacket and a Dickie bow to compliment the look. With my retro-looking Fuji XT10 in hand, I set off for Vintage Day.

It always helps to blend, when taking street shots, no matter the era.

On arrival, I felt like I had gone through a time portal. Bunting criss-crossed the street, greasy 1960s bikers chatted around their machines.

Event photography is good for getting in close, and people expect it.

I drifted into the market place, slowly merging with history, taking a myriad of shots from all angles.

A 1940s female duo sang on a makeshift stage, using an old wagon trailer for cover.

Couples from this wide-ranging period jived in a spring, overcast market place. The clouds seemed to reflect the foreboding doom that once loomed across the landscape during the war.

Vintage cars and fair rides lined the streets. The French Resistance were everywhere. Soldiers were home on leave, chatting up the lovely maids.

Indeed, it was a gay, swinging atmosphere. I felt part of a film set. I had sampled the dress and heard the music.

But had I sampled the anguish? Lovers, husbands, girlfriends, brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers never to return.

I think not …

That anguish can never be extinguished, and continues throughout the decades, yet we must always find a way of keeping a smile on our faces. In this way, we honor the dead and keep our memories of them alive by documenting the passage of time.

I got some great, retro-feeling street photography, and I hope they draw a smile …

Like Father - Like Daughter by Omri Shomer

“White cottage cheese with bacon and an omelet, this strange combination is very familiar to me,” I said while sitting with my wife, Tamar, for breakfast in the Hyatt Hotel near Sixth Avenue in New York City.

Tamar laughed. She knew exactly what I meant, and immediately recounted the well-known story about how she and her father, Yitzchak, would enjoy themselves over a pastrami sandwich with white cheese.

A family with no sensation in their palate, I always thought to myself. This was how we began our trip in the Big Apple.

At age 35, I had flown to New York City for the first time, and didn’t know what to expect.

Tamar knew from previous experience, and she enthusiastically prepared our trip like a veteran tourist guide so we wouldn’t miss any special sites or events.

We traveled to New York City to celebrate her 30th birthday overseas. Three of us boarded the plane – Tamar, her father, and myself.

Yitzchak had visited the city many times with his daughter. Yet this time was quite different. He didn’t need a seat on the plane; neither by the window nor by the isle. He was simply with us.

“Do you remember the video where we’re playing word games with my father?” Tamar asked. “That was from here,” she said as we strolled through Bryant Park.

I had the privilege of knowing Yitzchak for only three months until he lost his battle with cancer.

Today it feels to me as if it was three years. Perhaps it’s because I now have a face to put with his spirit, and his personality. And then there are Tamar’s stories of her father.

Each time they visited the city, my wife’s family switched apartments with an Israeli family that lived in the city. They would stay two weeks and enjoy every moment together.

This trip was very special. Yitzchak was going on 60 that year, with his birthday coinciding with Tamar’s, which almost added a feeling of sanctity to the whole event.

All the traffic noise snapped me out of these daydreams, as we crossed the street with the crowd. I passed by everyone quickly, slicing through the steam that poured from the manholes, and tried to keep my eyes on Tamar so we didn’t lose each other in the sea of people surrounding us.

When we finally reached Times Square, I stopped and looked up. Until that moment, I had never encountered such intensity in my life. All the flashing lights flooded our faces and there was a profound sense that anything was possible, that we could be anyone or anything.

During our last six remaining days of the trip, we visited all the great sites New York City offers. We went to SoHo, Chelsea, Williamsburg, and even accidentally found ourselves in Chinatown, where an old man yelled at us in broken English that we couldn’t possibly understand.

Is it really possible to make all of one’s dreams come true here? I wondered, as we passed a very long line to the Jimmy Fallon show outside NBC studios.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a man standing behind me wearing a cowboy hat and holding a book with Donald Trump’s photo on the cover, as he yelled:

“There’s only one way! Either you’re Americans or you’re not!”

Only afterwards did I understand that the man was upset about the lack of support from New Yorkers regarding the man who owned the biggest golden tower in the city.

Another homeless man emerged from the nearby street corner, looking as if he was almost frozen to death. A car was honking at two people arguing over a few dollars next to a pile of garbage bags.

Is this what the big dream looks like? – I asked myself in genuine disappointment.

Silence overcame Tamar and me as we sat in the subway car on our way to the hotel after a day of endless walking. I wondered what my wife thought of all this. A train of yearning passed through a long dark tunnel, among so many people who were all chasing an impossible dream.

Sometimes the most important things are the smallest things, such as a smile, or the memory of a smile of a loved one who’s no longer with us. If only I had been able to experience this kind of trip, even if only for a moment, the same way that Tamar experienced it, in a way that’s deeper and more significant than even the most magnificent skyscraper.

Finally, a moment before we boarded our flight home I understood the significance of real dreams and how they enhance our lives.

Tamar glanced distantly at the city as the plane slowly prepared for take-off, and for a moment I imagined Yitzchak beneath the plane wing, preparing for a long morning run, waving and smiling.

There are those who want to be everything they can - and there are those who want nothing more than for those they love to simply be present.

Omri Shomer

Semana Santa de Sevilla by Michael Kennedy

Semana photo #1.JPG — **Semana Santa**

**by Michael Kennedy**

As an antidote to boredom, I travel and use a camera as a passport into other worlds. Last year I boarded Qatar Air 859 in Seoul and flew non-stop to Doha for a two-hour layover, before moving on to Madrid.

My destination: Seville for the annual Semana Santa (Holy Week) festivals.

I am a recovering Catholic, and have zero interest in dogma. Yet public rituals, almost a form of social anthropology, fascinate me completely. Whether the subjects are Montana cowboys at the Wolf Point Stampede, Chicano low-riders in southwestern New Mexico, or Roger Corman-styled biker rallies in Bible-belt Oklahoma, I cannot resist documenting these scenes with a camera.

I want big bonfires in my life to make me feel alive. At times, this means dropping my mask of conformity and no more walking the wheel like a docile rabbit, nibbling at the empty bait. It’s time to hit the road.

My budget always means traveling in the economy section of an airplane, which frequently makes me feel homicidal.

Behind me, there’s often a non-stop crying-and-kicking infant, or a young woman who talks as if hell-bent on reciting Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake from start-to-finish.

In front of me, there is the passenger who insists on reclining in the barebones seat to the point that I can smell all the rank rubbish he has consumed over the past day – or, in the case of a female, the smell of her cheap shampoo sometimes makes me actively nauseous.

Once, on a long-ass flight from Paris-to-Seoul, the man sitting next to me fell asleep and alternately snored like an overweight bear or slumped beyond the arm of his seat so that he invaded my space enough that he seemed nearly on the verge of performing a lewd act.

The celebration of Semana Santa in Spain to express popular piety relies almost exclusively on the processions of the brotherhoods or fraternities. These associations have their origins in the Middle Age, but a number of them were created during the Baroque Period, inspired by the Counter-Reformation.

Membership is usually open to any Catholic person, and family tradition is an important element to become a member or “brother” (hermano).

A common feature in Spain is the almost general usage of the nazareno or penitential robe for some of the participants in the processions. This garment consists of a tunic, a hood with conical tip - or capirote used to conceal the face of the wearer, and sometimes a cloak.

The exact colors and forms of these robes depend on the particular procession. The robes were widely used in the medieval period for penitents, who could demonstrate their penance while still masking their identity.

For an American, the spectacle of men gathered together in white robes wearing hoods requires a serious cultural adjustment. Such appearances instantly evokes an association with the Ku Klux Klan (KKK), a disgusting secret hate group founded in Tennessee six months after the Civil War ended.

A one-time political arm of the Democratic Party, the KKK was in business to help perpetuate a form of slavery during the nearly 100-year Jim Crow era. Ironically, Barrack Obama, the first American President with African heritage - Kenyan, to be precise, was a Democrat.

While Semana Santa processions are held throughout Spain, Seville is the scene of some of the most spectacular festivities in the country.

During my four-days in Seville, I stayed at a hotel about six blocks from Plaza del Salvador, where a great many processions gathered before moving through the city streets.

Throughout Holy Week in Seville, crowds jammed the sidewalks at all times of the day and night to glimpse the procession - sometimes including three generation families, because very young children often wore the traditional brotherhood attire for the processions, and family pride was undeniable.

These days Spain is light years removed from the fascist regime of Franco, especially in the grim years of the post-World War II era when the country was isolated by the Western allies.

Yet the procession of men wearing medieval costumes, marching slowly through narrow cobblestone streets - even in a large city like Seville, evoked the work of W. Eugene Smith and his classic 1951 Life magazine photo essay, known as The Spanish Village.

The entire spectacle of Semana Santa lent itself perfectly to B&W photography - and primarily with a lens that ranged from 28mm-to-35mm. To cover all bets I used a Nikon D5300 with an 18mm-300mm zoom lens.

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Semana Santa and shadows #50 - re-edit.JPG

Semana parade material #20 - re-edit.JPG

Three boys in black hoods #4 - re-edit.JPG

Semana parade material #10 - re-edit.JPG

Alexander Merc:

Social activist and street photographer by Michael Kennedy

You can’t be neutral on a moving train.

Ask Ottawa-based street photographer Alexander Merc, who came of age in the turbulent late-1960s and early-1970s.

Pressing social issues were not confined to any one part of the globe, and people everywhere were faced with some hard choices.

Merc’s sense of social activism was forged in this period, which continues to explain his character, and shape his street photography.

Bob Dylan crystalized the beginning of 1960s with The Times They Are a Changing (1964), and The Rolling Stones put things in sharp relief with Street Fighting Man (1968).

Merc is from the Philippines, and rightfully proud of his heritage. Yet if the United States and France were racked with social upheaval - especially in 1968, the Philippines were not spared, either.

"In the early 1970s, my country was plunged into martial law,” Merc said. Marcos proclaimed martial law on September 21, 1972. I was in college, and this policy lasted 14-years. Marcos ruled the country with an iron fist, imprisoning all those who opposed him.”

Merc saw his country descend into chaos, and opposition leaders, workers, farmers and students were picked up in the middle of the night and tortured. Newspapers and TV stations were closed, free elections suspended, human rights were trampled, lawlessness prevailed, and the economy collapsed.

For Merc and millions of Filipinos, democracy died at the hands of Marcos - who imposed a harsh totalitarian regime.

“During this period,” Merc said, “my eyes were opened wide to the suffering and hardships of my people. This ignited both my heart and spirit to become a social activist.”

Merc joined the movement that opposed Marcos and his martial rule, and since that time he has been actively involved in the advocacy of human rights.

People who have shaped Merc’s sensibilities as a social activist include some of the most controversial figures of the 20th century, who were not willing to be neutral on the moving train.

These include Gandhi, Lenin, Mao Zedong, Martin Luther King Jr., Ho Chi Minh, Kwame Nkrumah and Che Guevara.

“I admire all kinds of social activists,” Merc said, “pro-democracy activists, pro people activists, environmentalists, internet activists. Everybody whose agenda is to make this world a better place to live, I am with them.”

For Merc, Brazilian Sebastiao Salgado is the Gold Standard of street photographers.

“Salgado is a self-described activist,” Merc said. “And one of the most important photographers of the past 50-years. Salgado describes photography as an ideal expression of activist ideology - and everything that happens in the world must be shown to the other people around the world.”

According to Merc, the most compelling function of this kind of street photography is to provoke public debate about how we can best use this medium to address social inequities and move forward in a better world.

“The street photographer,” Merc said, “has a responsibility to be involved in this on-going debate.”

Merc’s baptism in social activism did not happen overnight, but certainly owes its genesis to the ruthless Marcos regime in the Philippines.

"As a witness to the successful overthrow of Ferdinand Marcos in late February, 1986," Merc said, "this was a result of wave upon wave of street demonstrations and protests that were carried out by the workers and students that culminated in the three days People Power Revolution.'

Everyone knows that social change occurs from the bottom-up, and not from the top-down.

Merc gives large credit to the influence of prominently displayed photos and posters depicting the brutality and oppressiveness of the Marcos regime for toppling the corrupt dictator, and sending him into exile in Hawaii, where he died three years later.

“These powerful visual works touched the soul of the nation,” Merc said, “and moved people to act with an urgency that well-reasoned speeches and newspapers articles could not have achieved.

Merc pointed out that not long after the People Power Revolution in the Philippines, “the times were a-changing” in the Soviet Union and many of its colonies in East Europe and Central Asia.

Perhaps the turning point that led Merc to embrace photography as an expression of social activism actually has quite innocent beginnings.

“I started taking photos of people right after our first child was born,” Merc said. “I bought a Pentax K1000 with a standard 50mm lens, and studied its intricacies. And, oh boy! I was so fascinated with this little toy instantly. Since then, there’s been no turning back.”

With the onset of digital photography, Merc graduated to a Canon 5D DSLR - but now he is a confirmed Fujifilm fanboy, and has used the x100s for the past several years.

“I really like the mirrorless cameras because they are small, lightweight and very fast,” Merc said. "I also have the Fujifilm xt1, which is my favorite because of its flip-able screen."

For Merc, these cameras permit him to remain unobtrusive - almost stealth when he’s on the streets of Ottawa and Montreal, documenting the pageant of life.

“As much as possible,” Merc said, “I don't interact with my subject. I don't want to alter that important scene unfolding in my eyes - not unless i am doing a street portrait.”

In street portraiture, a photographer must be as close as possible to the subject. Consequently, Merc feels that permission is appropriate on this occasion.

Social activism and street photography go hand in hand for Merc. As one activist photographer said, “Don’t mourn about social injustice, try and change the world for the better through the power of photography. Stay faithful to truth and pledge allegiance to photographs that are not contrived and manipulated.

Michael Kennedy

walking on the sidewalks of Berlin

"Berlin is the modern-day Phoenix that has arisen from the ashes. People may think the city is now a mecca for culture and prosperity."

It is said that everyone in Berlin is happy. Yet if you walk the streets, and note people in the U-Bahn, you will find many sad faces: eyes that stare at the air, mouths that eat without tasting, hands that hold the void, a people profoundly unhappy.

One day I sat down for a coffee in a small sidewalk cafe, I was tired and I had not eaten. A young woman in front of me ordered a plate of gözleme, with tea. She passed me with a sad look, a face with dark, blank eyes.

The woman pecked at a doughnut, then answered her mobile and at the end of the 10-minute conversation was silent and inert, like a lobotomy victim.

When the woman stood to leave, I noticed her full plate. As she slowly receded into the pedestrians passing along the sidewalk like bored fish in an aquarium, she extended a sweet, demented smile to the two women who took her table, leaving an indelible sadness in the environment.

Moments later, I also left the café to make my way home. I passed through a nearby park, looking for a shortcut, when I started to follow a non-descript woman. She walked with a strange but sure step. I thought she would lead me to the exit, but instead she went to hide in a grove, at the top of a hill. The woman sat quietly on a bench and, with her hands in her lap, she stared upward at the infinite sky above Berlin.

It was at that precise moment, I felt all the pain and suffering of this city, the weight of the awful history from the last century, especially the mass deportation of German Jews to the living hell of Auschwitz and other equally unspeakable death camps for The Final Solution in World War II.

On that day a decade ago, I dedicated myself to photograph, every time I met them, the plates that mark the places where Jews were deported - because a city on whose sidewalks you can find the signs of a past so wretchedly terrible can never be carefree.

B.H.

In the first half of the 20th century, Berlin is bookended by the mass starvation from the British blockade of the Baltic Sea during World War I, and the utter savagery of the Red Army in May, 1945 when the Russians ended World War II in Europe by tearing the city apart brick-by-brick and raping the women in payment for the Battle of Stalingrad. Yet the stain of the Holocaust on Berlin will never diminish, and must be remembered reverently for all time. It is trite, but true: the cruelest animal is man.

thanks to Michael Kennedy

In Berlin more than five thousand 'stumbling blocks' on the pavement recall the Nazi deportations

Stolpersteine, the stumbling blocks of Memory in the streets of Berlin. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stolperstein

tutti parlano di Berlino. tutti la sognano. si dice che qui siano tutti felici e contenti. eppure se cammini per le sue strade, se osservi le persone nelle U-Bahn, trovi tanti volti tristi: occhi che fissano l'aria, bocche che mangiano senza assaporare, mani che stringono il vuoto. un popolo di infelici.

oggi mi sono seduta per un caffè, ero stanca e non avevo mangiato. la ragazza di fronte a me ha ordinato un piatto di gözleme, con un tè. mi ha oltrepassato con il suo sguardo triste. gli occhi scuri, caldi. ha mangiucchiato una ciambella, poi ha risposto al celulare e alla fine della telefonata è rimasta dieci minuti immobile. quando si è alzata, ho notato il piatto pieno. andandosene via, come tutte le persone infelici ha rivolto un sorriso dolce alle due donne che si sono sedute al suo posto, lasciando nell'ambiente la sua tristezza. anche io mi sono alzata e ho ripreso la mia strada. ho attraversato un parco, cercando una scorciatoia e mi sono messa a seguire una donna. camminava con un passo strano, ma sicuro. ho pensato che mi portasse verso l'uscita, e invece si è andata a nascondere in un boschetto, in alto, si è seduta su una panchina e con le mani in grembo si è messa a osservare il cielo. il cielo di Berlino, infinito e in quell'attimo impenetrabile. in quell'attimo ho sentito tutto il dolore di questa città. e anche il mio sguardo si è riempito di tristezza.

2007 B.H.

Karlo Flores: On the Streets of Vietnam

by Michael Kennedy

Street photography is neither a profession nor a hobby for some people. It’s existence. Ask Karlo Flores.

Like all art, a photograph needs to touch us, give us an emotion, bring us a memory, give us a dream, and lead us somewhere fulfilling.

The 39-year-old Flores recently went to Vietnam to be on the streets of Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City for authentic experience. It was as if he had no choice.

“I wanted to know how a street photographer is regarded on the streets of the major Vietnamese cities,” he said.

Whenever Flores steps away from Davao City in the Philippines, and travels abroad, he relishes the persona of the tourist.

“I always do this,” he said. “It’s the truth: I am a tourist on these occasions. Yet I feel energized and my senses are heightened. I can take photographs of everything that fascinates me - even in a slightly intrusive way.”

What Flores discovered in Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) is that the Vietnamese are very relaxed about street photographers - so there is a freedom to shoot everything with respectful consideration.

“It’s also very comforting to see other tourists doing the same,” he said. “This eliminates the fear of shooting strangers in an unfamiliar place.”

Because street photography is such an integral part of his life, Flores went off the beaten track numerous times and explored the alleys and warrens so common in Oriental cities - spots where tourists are rarely found.

“Many times, the locals were surprised by my presence,” he said. “I think they admired my sense of adventure - yet I always smiled, waved my hand and lifted my camera as if to say: ‘Hello, I’m just a tourist.’ Most of the time, they give me a welcoming nod and smiled back.’

Flores credits his modest demeanor as one of his best assets in the role of street photographer.

“This approach works wonders,” he said. “People are not threatened by my presence with a camera, and they become very accepting.”

After his recent visit to Vietnam, the radiographer from Davao City is quite impressed with Ho Chi Minh City.

“The place is a street photographer’s haven,” he said. “Everything about the city is a sensory overload.”

According to Flores - from the bustling city life-to-the countless interesting characters of Old Saigon, a street photographer cannot possibly be disappointed.

“But watch out for those motorbikes,” Flores said, “and be extra cautious with your belongings - cameras for instance are very expensive, and no one wants to lose equipment along with priceless photographs.”

Short Profile

Home: Davao City, Philippines
Age: 39
Profession: Radiographer

Calling in life: Street photographer
Hobby: Video games
Last book read: Choose your own adventure: Return to Atlantis by R.A. Montgomery
Last Accomplishment: Eyeem Street Photography Awards 2017 finalist

Favorite quote: Perfection is the enemy of creativity and success.
Profile: A hunter … I always find the right ingredients. I hunt for images that are evocative, meditative and, most importantly, reflect my thoughts and feelings. I always allow my state of mind to be the source of my vision and creativity.
Favorite drink: Jack Daniels

The Seoul Scene by Michael Kennedy

March #3.JPG — **The Seoul Scene**

**by Michael Kennedy**

Following historic talks on Friday between South Korean President Moon Jae-in and North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un, residents of Seoul took to the downtown streets Saturday afternoon for a peaceful demonstration of their contempt for the newest overtures toward peace on the Korean peninsula.

Many of the protesters regard Moon Jae-in as a communist sell-out. Jae-in’s ties to North Korea go to parents originally from that part of the peninsula.

The recent Saturday march, like so many in downtown Seoul for months now, are an outstanding example of a collective will on public display without disorder or violence.

This is quite amazing - for South Koreans, a very conservative people who value civility and long-standing tradition, can also become vocally passionate about perceived injustice and - as Americans say: “go off the chain.”

There is no media coverage in South Korea of these near-weekly demonstrations. This is forbidden by an understanding of the ruling elite. South Korea may boast that it is a democratic republic, governed by the rule of law - with a three-branch government like the American system. … and then there is reality, like in any political system.

Whether President Moon Jae-in is the man of the hour with a pragmatic vision of the future, a communist lap dog of the Chinese, or just an inept grifter like the current American President, this peninsula is a tinderbox … and a perfect example of how geography is destiny.

There is the growing power of China to the left, plus the bitter memory of Japan to the right, and what that country did on the Korean Peninsula from 1910-1945.

“Trying to make some sense of it all,
But I can see that it makes no sense at all,
Is it cool to go to sleep on the floor,
'Cause I don't think that I can take anymore
China to the left of me, Japan to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.”

- Stuck in the Middle With You (Rafferty and Egan)

Steelers Wheel (1972)

We tell ourselves - and each other: “Let it go. Forgive and forget. What’s past is past, and what’s done is done. You can’t push the river. One love.” All these platitudes are meant to direct us toward a better light … a better world. Yet after a time, these viewpoints are just banal bumper stickers. The truth is some things cannot be forgiven and forgotten, neglected and assigned to the dustbin of history. Justice is often a slow train coming.

The Koreans cannot forgive Japan for essentially overthrowing the 700-year-old Joseon dynasty, assassinating the last queen and rounding up thousands of young Korean women to be sex slaves for the Japanese army … not prostitutes, but sex slaves.

The Chinese cannot forgive Japan for one of the most wretched atrocities ever conceived, and this is what’s known as The Rape of Nanking in January, 1938 - when the Japanese army raped Chinese women in front of their husbands and sons, mutilated their bodies and then decapitated the men.

Now the Japanese and at least the South Koreans fear China, which has dusted off Japan’s military playbook and has taken control of the South China Sea with artificial islands that are military bases.

And then there is the wild card of North Korea, which fears the United States - and rightly so.

To say that the Korean War occurred 1950-1953 is not true at all. The war has never ended officially. In 1953, both North and South Korea signed an armistice to end hostilities - perhaps the longest time-out in recorded history. Yet during that three-year period at the beginning of the 1950s, President Truman called off General Douglas MacArthur from invading China, and instead chose to limit our UN-backed involvement to the Korean peninsula.

In this period, the American military dropped more bombs on North Korea than our combined effort against both Germany and Japan in World War II. For the past several years, the American military has been building up Camp Humphreys in Pyeongtaek - about 35 miles south of Seoul - and safely out of range of North Korean artillery. This is the largest U.S. military installation in the Pacific.

The facility - still under construction, is huge beyond belief. Never mind America’s crumbling infra-structure, a public school system that excels at mediocrity, a growing prison population, and once proud cities like Detroit and Chicago reduced to “poverty tours,” or “killing fields.”

We must have a first-class military base in South Korea to preserve our way of life, while Wall Street racketeers and the Sean Hannity’s that abound fleece the middle-class that carry the tax burden in American society.

What to do about Kim Jong-un? He is a third generation sociopath who knows how to manipulate and exploit people. Jong-un is not going to abandon his nuclear weapons. His father made similar offers - but always reneged. How many times can we accept a pledge of reform from the unfaithful lover? Some times leopards really cannot change their spots.

The Moon Jae-in controlled media in South Korea promotes optimism for a better future. After all, if Germany could re-unite, so can Korea.

Yet the demonstrators in the recent march through downtown Seoul want Kim Jong-un dead, and they hope President Trump will come to the rescue. This isn’t happening. Trump helps no one but himself.

Many of the people in the near-weekly protest marches are Korean War veterans. If not, they certainly came of age in Seoul when the city lay in ruins after the war - and they worked impressively to make this a world-class city. And this is a happening place with the impact of K-Pop - which goes beyond music and influences fashion, Korean TV soap operas, a new Wave cinema, a word-class subway system, and street food that can’t be beat.

In a sense, the South Korean protesters represent the three-generation cycle of social change. The first generation re-builds society as a result of war or revolution. Their children embrace the goals and standards of the new society, and enjoy a measure of achievement and prosperity the first generation could only dream about. By the third-generation - the grandchildren, the history that accounts for a First World standard of living is an abstract concept, boring stories told by old people.

The grandchildren of the protest marchers don’t understand why this peninsula is divided; don’t believe that North Korea is one vast prison camp; and why 20,000 American troops occupy their country decade after decade after decade.

During these Saturday afternoon marches through downtown Seoul, the protesters move orderly along a designated path that leads past Myeongdong - a trendy shopping area across from the Lotte Department Store. The police arte out in full force - and a particularly young group of policemen stand along the path at curbside.

The policemen are college-age Koreans who are fulfilling their 18-month obligation of national military service - and the protesters are old enough to be their grandparents.

There are always Korean spectators along the curbside - yet the majority of people are tourists, primarily from China.

For several years, Chinese women have been flying to Seoul for “shopping therapy.” And most of it happens in the Myeongdong area of downtown Seoul.

China may be the world’s factory - yet most Chinese cannot afford all those “Made-in-China” products that might be readily available in the stores of Beijing and Shanghai. It’s actually cheaper for Chinese consumers to fly to Seoul - or Guam, or even Honolulu to buy shoes and other clothing items actually made in China.

Chinese spectators

Needless to say, the invasion of Chinese housewives into Seoul department stores and shops carries over into hotels and restaurants. The infusion of Chinese money into the South Korean economy is very substantial.

A flight from Beijing or Shanghai to Seoul is around 2.5 hours, and a one-day shopping spree is easy enough. But - for the Chinese, a trip to Seoul represents a brief taste of freedom. There is no internet censorship in South Korea.

And for the Chinese, to witness peaceful demonstrations - especially by the geriatric crowd, must be a source of endless fascination … so this accounts for why so many of the spectators are Chinese.

There’s also a fair share of Americans who are tourists in Seoul - and not tied to the U.S. military in any fashion. They’re also drawn to the older South Koreans advocating both the assassination of Kim Jong-un and the imprisonment of President Moon Jae-in.

Americans may kvetch about Trump and his sordid life, gun violence, same-sex rights, the legalization of marijuana, how to make house payments and still save money … but most are content to fondle the TV remote control, surf dubious websites or blather about dry swill on Facebook.

Meanwhile, older Seoul residents keep takin’ it to the streets, demanding positive changes.

One wants to be optimistic about “peace in our time,” but then Neville Chamberlain is still the poster boy for being a hundred-proof fool at Munich in 1938.

A year later Germany invaded Poland, and it was back to the killing fields of Europe.

Streets of Seoul by Michael Kennedy

On Friday, former South Korean President Park Geun-hye was found guilty of corruption and sentenced to 24-years in prison. By Saturday, thousands of angry Koreans protested these
circumstances on the ... Streets of Seoul.

Notes from The Road: Italy

Seneca #10 BW-IS-TC copy.JPG — **Notes from**
**The Road:**

**Italy and Lucerna / Lugano By Michael Kennedy**

by Michael Kennedy

In my late 20s, I was on the train to Nowhere – always boarding yet never arriving. My life too closely resembled Henry Chinaski, the protagonist of Bukowski’s Factotum … except I was no serious barfly, despite Irish heritage.

Once during this period, I lived in a noisy Chicano trailer park in Silver City, New Mexico. My walls were decorated with National Geographic maps because that’s all I could afford.

Yet this allowed me to circle noteworthy cities, legendary cities, exotic cities and daydream endlessly of how I would be the next hot shit street photographer and move through streets teeming with people – documenting this amazing spectacle of humanity like the next William Klein or Robert Frank.

If the essence of the American Dream is upward social mobility accompanied by a modicum of comfortable prosperity, it finally occurred to me by age 50 that I would have to leave the United States to achieve the American Dream. How do you define irony?

Earlier I followed Horace Greely’s clichéd advice of “Go West, young man,” and gradually went beyond the Mississippi River, beyond the Rocky Mountains, beyond the great cities of the American West Coast and eventually landed in the Orient.

And now I have stopped walking the wheel and live a life of retirement in Seoul. I’m in this location for reasons that have something to do with love.

Recently, I returned from nine days in Italy with a Korean tour group. It’s a long way to Tipperary, but an even longer way to the Chicano trailer park in New Mexico.

For this trip, I packed light on camera equipment. I could say that:

A) I’ve embraced the Zen Buddhist proverb of “less is more,”

B) I’m lazy,

C) I’m weary of using three trays to go through airport security because of what I frequently take on these trips (two DSLR cameras, a laptop, an iPad and external hard drive),

D) all of the above.

The correct answer is obviously “D.” Any other choice is a matter of: “See me after school for detention.”

I’ve been to Italy several times in recent years, and I don’t speak Korean – except for basic salutations, food items on a menu, and a few basic obscenities – which are always the easiest words to learn in any foreign language.

My relationship to the Korean language is the same as any foreign language – I am lazy, and English is nearly a universal language. And if all else fails to find a new girlfriend who speaks the local language.

For me, this recent trip was an excuse to score points with a special person and to hit the streets of Rome, Florence, Venice and … and almost Milan, while being accompanied by the spirit of both William Klein (now 89) and Robert Frank (now 93).

In the past six months, I have fallen in love with the Ricoh GR II – and have not felt so enchanted by an experience since my first serious girlfriend in high school. Yet one cannot mention the Ricoh GR II without acknowledging Daido Moriyama (now 79), the Godfather of Japanese street photography.

Allegedly, Ricoh (now owned by Pentax) designed the GR model to Daido's specifications. He wanted a light, stripped down compact camera that allowed him to move both quickly and quietly through the streets of Tokyo.

Many of the younger generation of Japanese street photographers like Hiroyuki Nakada, and Tatsuo Suzuki have not bothered with a 35mm DSLR for several years, and certainly avoid telephoto lenses because of the weight and the conspicuous attention.

The same is true of contemporaries like Naoki Iwao, Atsuya Harukawa Kenichi

Chiyonobu and Ash Shinya Kawaoto – superb artists all mentioned by Gerri McLaughlin in his excellent Progress-Street feature, “Tokyo Story.”

Many of these photographers use the Fuji X100T, or a slight variation, yet there is a straight line to Daido Moriyama and his huge influence on street photography starting in the early 1960s.

I’m in his debt, as much as anyone else, for taking the work of William Klein and Robert Frank, and other worthy predecessors to show us a new vision and inspire us to shake off complacency and how to be bold and daring - yet respectful.

A specific choice of camera may help execute the vision, but it can never be a substitute for the concept. Would Dostoevsky have achieved a more superior version of “Crime and Punishment,” had he used a MacBook Pro instead of a hand-written manuscript?

Street photography always invites the question of how to appropriately approach subjects in public. One photographer, in particular, makes a very lucrative living offering

workshops around the world on how to “overcome your fears” as a street photographer.

None of his photography impresses me, so his advice falls on my deaf ears.

If you have such fears, try riding for eight-seconds on a 2,000-pound bull enraged by having his genitals roughed up by a cattle prod while trapped in a narrow chute at a Montana rodeo. That’s some tangible fear – and only appeals to hard-core adrenaline junkies. Street photography ain’t nothing.

Rightly, or wrongly, Italy has a solid reputation for petty thievery on the street. Being among a Korean tour group was interesting because everyone – except me, was equipped with a very small transistor and equally small headphone for the guide to babble on about this-and-that historical background. It also allowed the guide to inform everyone – except me, that the young fellow at the back of the tram was a street thief and to be careful of him. Yet we encountered no problems. A benefit of the “package tour” approach is safety in numbers. It’s difficult for the lone jackal to pick off a single prey when surrounded by the pack.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to use a camera to depict genuine human experience.

I’m very impressed with the advertising work of Irving Penn and Richard Avedon, and Guy Bourdin and Herb Ritts – but it’s artificial and not for me.

I want to document people in their natural milieu – without pretence and no confrontation. I despise the tactics of the paparazzi – named, incidentally for the news photographer Paparazzi in the 1960 film “La Dolce Vita” by the great Italian film director, Federico Fellini.

Rome

Sorrento

Centre Italy

Siena

Whether on the streets of Seoul, or Rome, or New York City – I usually stand in one place with my camera quite visible and make myself obvious. I have no conversation with anyone. Like marriage, I don’t ask for permission – but I am prepared to ask for forgiveness. In 40-years of street photography, I’ve never had any serious problems with subjects.

Six months ago while in Jaipur, India – I used my compact camera to photograph a common couple in their late 20s on a very public bench in a very public area of a popular tourist site. Other people were sitting on the bench, as well.

In retrospect, the frozen moment was not worth the time. Yet the young man of the couple sprang up to confront me. He spoke English with a decidedly Russian accent and it was obvious that he expected me to conform to his agenda, and delete the photo. I don’t roll that way.

As I listened to him, I quietly secured the camera in my pants … below waist level. I really wasn’t interested in a Harry Callahan moment – but, really, how would Clint Eastwood’s character respond?

“Go ahead, punk. Delete the photo, and make my day.”

The young man could see what I had done with the small camera – an impossibility with

a Nikon D5300. The fellow had a quick change of mind and instead insulted me in Russian. I do love 19th-century Russian literature but that’s as much affection as I have for that culture.

The camera was fine, because I practice clean living.

Street photography is a matter of common sense – which I try to use whenever available.

I’m not a drive-by shooter – chiefly because it’s not part of my character, yet also because I’m well past my 20s and can no longer move like a butterfly and sting like a bee.

But I’m still on the streets with a camera because I hear the sirens calling me like brave Ulysses, and I cannot resist.

Italy was a great experience, and I will return again. Perhaps to Milan next time. I really must learn Korean … some day soon.

Florence

Venice

Bergamo Alta

Switzerland

Lucerne

Lugano

Phone v Camera

Senza titolo.jpg — **Phone v Camera**

***by Robert C. Bannister***

INTRODUCTION

Why the image taker with a phone is to be feared more than the classic photographer.

The objective of this article is to highlight the fact that the person who carries a classic camera and equipment is not the only image taker. Indeed why the street photographer should be ratified and not vilified for being transparent.

Phone users or photographers?

Recently a fair came to my local town. With my backpack of equipment, Fuji cameras and monopod, I set off to get some street shots with colour and drama. I usually have camera in hand or on my mono pod ready for the shot. I am also a self proclaimed Fuji ambassador and proud to fly the banners.

Drifting around the crowds I enjoyed the ambience of colour mixed with squeals of delight. I looked for interesting people and moments of joy or interaction. I clicked away with what must have seemed like a huge banner over my head saying photographer. Well dressed and not afraid to be labelled as such. If anyone asked, I was only too willing to hand a business card, in the misguided hope that they may look at my work and employ me as their life documenter. Maybe they would give me enough money to escape the shackles of wage slavery and I would do what I enjoy forever more. But the point of the matter is that I am not afraid to promote the fact that I am a photographer who loves the genre of street photography.

As I clicked away amongst hundreds of people, I got the usual cursory glances as I tried to merge with the crowds. Whispers of camera, deceit, mistrust floated on the wind. Then a security person approached me and said he had had reports of someone with a camera! I gave a wry smile and looked around at the hundreds of people walking around with a phone in their hands. Which one is it I asked? Everyone in this day and age is capable of taking amazing images. Indeed it has been said many times, the best camera is the one that you have in your hand.

It was only myself advertising the fact that I am a photographer and indeed the only one asked what he is photographing. I politely gave my card and informed the security of my honourable intentions and was allowed to go about my business.

Everyday we receive brilliant images in progressive street taken on phones. With the quality it is very difficult to tell on a tablet, but the images are processed by a machine not an artist. A moment has been captured and essentially that is street photography, so that is fine. The operative has composed and got the shot. They are essentially photographers just the same as me.

So which should I use, phone or camera? I personally like people to get the shot, develop the image and produce the art.

I have seen many journalist pieces on so called photographers abusing the art of photography. Trying to take images up ladies skirts, down ladies tops and children enjoying water features semi naked. Shocking! But more often than not people with phones, and after all, that is what it is to the passing eye, a phone. Slimline, stealth, and instant access to social media. The chosen tool of the dodgy photographer who does not want to be identified as such. But then the photographer with all his equipment on show takes the wrap. Alert! person with a camera!

Of course it is true, not everyone with a phone has bad intentions. I myself take images of moments and selfies to post to friends and family. Even I am impressed at some of the images. Getting the image is still about composition and lighting. You can instantly post with no time at a computer. Then to top it off, it slips straight back into your pocket. Why would you bother with all that bulky stuff? To me it is like doing a painting by numbers, posting it on a classic painting forum and wanting painting of the month. Yes I am an artist of equal standing, Van Cock!

The fact of the matter is, that the phone is destroying the true photographer and artist, maybe even destroying careers. Definitely destroying the trust of the genuine photographer.

How many times do we hear now, we do not need a wedding photographer. Please just send all of your images, videos to my page and it will cost us sod all! After all, they are as good as the professionals any day of the week. Are they not? That is one career ended. The papers ask you to send your photojournalist pieces straight from your phone. Of course, we will make sure to give your name a mention. Oh, another career ended Mr journalist!

I recently was sat in a local social gathering point! Yes a pub, you got me. I was browsing some images when I was approached by a young gentleman who said his friend was dying and probably would not see the next Christmas. Could I take some stealth shots as he would not be one for posing for photographs? His friend shadowed him and pulled out his phone, he protested and said: “what are you asking him for?” “I can get just as good with my phone” Maybe he could, or maybe he could just destroy true art. I got the shots as requested and how satisfied the young gentleman was. All for free but with a sense of photographer ambassadorial conceited pleasure.

To me if you want to be a photographer be a photographer, no matter the genre you choose. Make the best camera with you a camera. Leave the phones to the selfie brigade and the family snap chatters. Let us change the culture of mistrust of the photographer together.

But if you decide to be a phone image taker, please see Davide Dalla Giustina tips and guide to getting the best out of your phone. Hey! Why not even use it to call someone and just say hi! They will thank you for it.

Tokyo Story

by Gerri McLaughlin

From the back of the car the Tokyo night slides by, immense and exciting it splashes my eyes with neon possibilities and shadow worlds yet to be found.

It’s late when we arrive in Senzoku, this is downtown as the Tokyo people say, Shitamachi, Yoshiwara and Asakusa are only steps away. The Seven Eleven across the way stays open to serve the stragglers, the hungry and the lonely at the closing of the day.

The room is photographer big, a bed, a place for clothes and a low table that will make a charging station for my travelling companion Fuji San, a perfect base for my 17 day stay.

Tokyo winter is often cold and sunny with blue blue skies, it has a special light on these days and being a huge city lots of action, contrasts and juxtaposition of ancient and modern and just downright photograph-ability.

Being so huge I have a rough plan of shooting the first couple of days based around my jet lag and the walk to, jump a metro circle of Asakusa, Okachimachi, Ueno, Senzoku. This is part of the Shitamachi downtown area of Tokyo and here you will find temples, markets, shopping malls, restaurants and vibrant street life! Like all major cities it takes a couple of days to feel your way into it, the temptation is of course to shoot everything you see and there’s plenty to see. After a couple of days I start to see my themes emerging, I travel with a WD Wireless Pro hard drive and can look at the shots on my iPhone in the evening with the MyCloud app, although not so much of a “shot planner” it’s interesting for me to see what emerges from my subconscious as I wander the streets of the city. I work intuitively mostly and don’t have a definite plan when out but here I’m interested in the meeting of ancient and modern.

The residents are cool and stylish people, I love the way Japanese people dress and express, from the fashionistas to the old ladies and men of the streets. You can work here as a street photographer, the people are on the whole not concerned with your camera, will often smile at you and a wave or a smile in return is enough to seal the deal I’ve yet to have any kind of confrontation in Tokyo. It’s clear though in some red light districts that you have to “shoot clever or discreet” and for me as an outsider that’s okay!

Alongside my daily shooting plan, I have arranged to meet some of Tokyo’s Street Photography community, starting with Naoki Iwao, one of the movers and groovers of Void Tokyo magazine whose exhibition is on while I’m in town! Naoki’s photos are essential Tokyo Street so to see them on the wall and in print was a real treat for me and also an inspiration to get out there and capture my Tokyo!

The very next day I spontaneously arrange to meet Atsuya Harukawa, the wonders of Facebook, he sees I’m posting from Asakusa and later that day we’re shooting street together round Ueno and Okachimachi with a firm arrangement to hit Shinjuku & Shibuya the next time. Shooting with a local photographer takes you to places you might not ordinarily find as a stranger and Atsuya san was very generous with his local knowledge and his time especially as it was holiday season. It’s a new thing for me to shoot with other street photographers and I found it really cool and inspiring to watch how others work and approach the shots and interestingly how my own concentration improves.

Next up is Kenichi Chiyonobu who's work I’d been following for some years on FB, a dedicated street photographer he is without a doubt the most relaxed street photographer I have ever seen, he has his style and technique down to a focused fine art, I learn a lot in our one day of shooting in Shinjuku and Okubo especially how to take you place in the street without fearer need for explanations, it’s very different from shooting in Europe, I like it!

Shinjuku and Shibuya are classic Tokyo venues for shooting and there is a reason, they’re bright and brassy and alive with a river of people and scenes unfolding at every moment. I have to admit to being a little overwhelmed at first, it's like jumping into a river of visual and aural stimulation. I compose myself and start shooting, hours flow by as they do in Tokyo. Out and about in Shibuya we meet Ash Shinya Kawaoto also from Void Magazine and later on we go to shoot with 深津友成 (Tomonari Fukatsu) san, these guys are there doing it every time they have a free moment and I realise that this kind of dedication is what is needed to really get the shots you are after, my dream of moving to Tokyo to live and work is taking shape. Every trip I learn more about myself as a photographer and a little piece of my human puzzle is put in place and I become clearer about my next aims as a street photographer, it’s a real learning by doing journey for me.

If you haven’t been and you have the chance to, I highly recommend Tokyo for street photography it is, in my opinion, one of the worlds greatest cities for street and this trip for me was made all the sweeter for meeting the warm, generous and dedicated photographers from their SP community, it was at once a humbling and inspiring experience.

Thank you friends and thank you Tokyo my darling city, until the next time sayonara!

The interviews and features I wrote on the Tokyo Street Photography scene are available online at EYE-Photo Magazine….

Takin It to The Streets

by Michael Kennedy

American political activist Howard Zinn said: “You can’t be neutral on a moving train.” He was right, and a moving train that demands a serious response is the Korean peninsula – where a civil war has resulted in one of the longest time-outs in history, beginning in 1953.

If we do not think for ourselves, some one will do the thinking for us.

Every week for the past two months, older people in Seoul have taken to the downtown streets of the city for peaceful marches to demonstrate that they have a lot to say – and they do not want anyone else thinking for them.

Social change always comes from the bottom-up, not from the top-down. When a generation old enough to be grandparents and great-grandparents voice their discontent with government policies by marching every week in cold winter weather, something is truly rotten in Denmark.

The moving train that affects South Korea involves many issues, though most importantly:

the quick impeachment and removal from office of Park Geun-hye, the first female President of the Republic of Korea – and a hard-liner against Kim Jong-un, of North Korea;
the quick installation of President Moon Jae-in – who favors rapprochement with the North;
and the undeniable fact that Kim Jong-un has developed nuclear weapons that are within striking range of Seoul, Tokyo and allegedly the U.S.

Protestors who have taken to the streets of Seoul are outraged by the impeachment and imprisonment of President Park Geun-hye. The essential charge: corruption and cronyism.

The former president awaits formal sentencing – and prosecutors are asking for a 30-year term.

The corruption scandal ensnared Lee Jae-yong, heir to Samsung, the mega-conglomerate, who was sentenced to five years in prison – yet released after only three months.

Lotte Group Chairman Shin Dong-bin was also sentenced to 30-months in jail on bribery charges – but given a 20-month suspended sentence. The Lotte Group is a major corporation in South Korea, with investments in department stores, hotels and chemicals.

Three people died and dozens were injured in violent protests that broke out in Seoul a year ago this month - after South Korea's Constitutional Court upheld a parliamentary vote to impeach Park over allegations of corruption and cronyism.

The protestors that gathered for the recent march through downtown Seoul this past Saturday (March 10) numbered about 10,000.

Two days earlier, U.S. President Trump announced that he planned to meet with Kim Jong-un sometime in May. He did so without consulting any of his advisors – or members of the U.S. Intelligence Community.

Many of the protestors were born before the Korean War (1950-1953), and recall all too vividly the hardships of growing up in South Korea – when much of Seoul was reduced to nothing. This older generation is anxious for the U.S. military to intervene in the issue of Kim Jong-un, and bomb North Korea until it is no longer a threat to anyone.

During the past two months of protest marches through downtown Seoul on Saturday afternoon, South Korean media has not covered any of these events – as if they have never happened.

Allegedly, the media is complying with the wishes of President Moon Jae-in, considered a Communist by many older Koreans.

You can’t be neutral on a moving train, and that train is here in Seoul.

Park Geun-hye, the only female President of South Korea - now awaiting sentencing for corruption - after being very quickly impeached ... has a life straight from a Shakespearian drama: - her father was both the first dictator and first President of South Korea. He was assassinated at a dinner party by the head of his intelligence service; - her mother was assassinated by a North Korean agent, who entered the country on a fake Japanese passport.

Dispatch from Seoul

On the street #75 - re-edit.JPG — **Dispatch from Seoul**

**by Michael Kennedy**

- by Michael Kennedy

Today, it’s All Quiet on The Han River Front as I enjoy some industrial-strength coffee from the comfort of my apartment in the trendy Mapo-gu neighborhood of Seoul. There are no worries here about regular school shootings, persistent crack addiction, drive-by shootings and … a serial liar, serial philanderer, serial sexual predator, serial tax cheat, and serial failed businessman who occupies the White House – which he’s turned into a shithole in record time

Of course Seoul – with its cultural boom time of K-Pop, New Wave Cinema and TV soap operas that have everyone’s attention in the far East and beyond … is only 40-miles from the DMZ and that deranged fat fuck Kim Jong-Un – with his firmly entrenched artillery guns that no missile shield can possibly thwart. It’s estimated that at least a half million people in Seoul would die within the first few hours of constant shelling. The city would be largely destroyed by the end of a week. The resulting humanitarian disaster would overwhelm both China and Russia.

In early school days, we are taught that two negatives make a positive, yet that law does not apply to examples like Trump and Kim.

With all this in mind, why does a dazzling urbanite (think Blazing Saddles) like me live in Seoul – of all places?

I know the answer, but Guildenstern … would you pluck out the heart of my mystery?

Many of my days are spent impersonating a carefree boulevardier with a Ricoh GR II camera to document the human pageant, and what I see on the Streets of Seoul reflects the delicate political climate at play in this part of the Far East.

To be sure, the streets are full of South Koreans – an extremely well educated and diligent people who continue to make their country an amazing success story after the ravages of the still unsettled Korean War.

Yet the streets are also filled with Chinese tourists, from a country that is on dramatic rise as a burgeoning world power after centuries of being politically dormant – a country that still bankrolls North Korea in a proxy war with the United States for influence on this peninsula, a geographical extension of China.

There are also Japanese tourists in Seoul on any given day, a 2.5 hour flight from Tokyo, and the bad blood between the Koreans and the Japanese is always just below a thin surface and the issue of the Comfort Women, young females rounded up arbitrarily by the Japanese during the Occupation Days of World War II to serve as unpaid prostitutes in special brothels for the Japanese Army. Many of these women are still alive, in their late 80s and early 90s – disgraced and haunted forever by horrors beyond imagination, an unofficial caste of untouchables.

And then North Korean spies and agent provocateurs who have slipped into the country on fake Chinese passports sometimes occupy the streets of Seoul. Some are in the city only briefly; others are part of sleeper cells to do long term damage to South Korea in ways where cyber espionage is no substitute for human subterfuge.

click on

This is not the seething cauldron of Cold War espionage in the Vienna of Carol Reed’s The Third Man, but is a definite cut above the ordinary 15-million-plus city of the Far East … of which there are plenty, especially in China.

I know why I’m drawn to street photography. And yet I don’t know.

This is how I’m wired, and introspection is only helpful as a cure for insomnia.

Fate v free will … nurture v nature … The Beatles v The Rolling Stones.

Who cares?

Buy the ticket, take the ride.

Meanwhile, life goes on in Seoul. Every week for several years now, China has been quietly sending an army into this city. It’s a very clever tactic: housewives from the growing middle class.

This army arrives every Tuesday on flights from Beijing and Shanghai, armed with money and credit cards – and leaves by Friday … after cleaning out the entire inventory of the Duty Free section that comprises the entire ninth floor of the upscale Lotte Department Store.

I’m old now – yet still intrigued by department stores that offer women’s panties half-off.

The Korean woman are easily outhustled by the bargain-crazed Chinese, who – ironically, are buying merchandize made in China, but is for sale cheaper in Seoul. And this huge influx of money into the Seoul economy – with spin-offs to the hotels and restaurants and local tours, has corrupted the scene here.

I spend a lot of time with my camera in Myeongdong – an upscale retail neighborhood right across from the Lotte Department Store. I’ve lived in Seoul for seven years, and I still cannot always tell the difference between the Chinese and the Koreans. Does this make me racist – or just genuinely confused?

My numero uno cultural guide in Seoul was born in Insadong, a traditional neighborhood in this city that survived the ravages of the Korean War, and she can’t always distinguish the difference between the Chinese and the Koreans. Does this make her racist?

But, hell, I can’t always tell the difference between the Irish and the Scots – and I have a lot of Irish antecedents.

I’ve had the great good fortune to use my camera as a passport into the world’s of other people, from Quebec City-to-Mexico City, from Dublin-to-Athens, from Tokyo-to-Singapore, from Bangkok-to-New Delhi – and all my experiences reaffirm the trite but true cliché: We are the family of man.

This truism will soon be put to the test at next month’s Winter Olympics, hosted by South Korea at Pyongchang – with the opening ceremony set for February 9. Both North and South Korea will field joint teams for limited competition.

Maybe John Lennon is right.