Like something from a Fellini movie by Keef Charles

Beings looking like they’ve just landed from an unknown world.

Objects strewn cross pebbly landscape, looking like they’d just dropped from the sky.

This is a strange place.

Tis a bleak beauty.

Film director and artist Derek Jarman put this place on the map, so to speak, when he bought a wooden shack here in ‘86. It wasn’t just some holiday home, he lived in it until his death in ‘94. He even used it for his film The Garden, released in 1990. This place became a draw for tourists, who come in droves to see it for themselves. A friend of mine, showing an interest in my pending trip, had sent me a link before I visited but I preferred to see it for myself, keeping my experience clean of influence. Glad I did. I prefer to form my own impression of people, places and things. What an impression!

What makes this place feel so strange? What is the attraction?

This is no quaint fishing village, nestled by water’s edge, cottages climbing steep hill, part of some geological feature that helped form tiny inlet and natural harbour. No. Sat on the south coast of Kent, aside the English Channel, this is an almost random scattering of buildings and such. There’s a line of houses to the west and then a more sparse spread of dwellings as you go east into the estate. I mean dwellings rather than houses. They’re a mix of huts, glorified sheds, wooden shacks and chic designer modern buildings. It stretches a short way along the south coast of Kent, safe distance from the English Channel. A sea of pebbles adding a further divide.

I have to say that the atmosphere was palpable. A lady was pushing pebbles ahead of her with toes clad in soft black shoes as she ambled slowly; these strangely rounded but misshapen stones crunching beneath each tread she took. She stopped to pick one up. Felt it’s shape, almost caressed it between fingers and thumb as it nestled against her palm in warm grip. She’s been here several times before, loves the place. Knows to wrap her head in beautiful scarf; the scarf that attracted my attention from way away. She knows the wind bites hard enough to make susceptible ears ache. Her friend, sometimes frustrated with her, goes off and does the photography thing. But this lady? She’s just happy to smell the sea, feel pebbles beneath feet and bend now and again to fetch into her grasp one that she knows will feel right.

Looking beyond the dwellings in the estate, with your back to the sea, you see again the huge power stations; all three of them! Not something you’d fail to notice as you got close to Dungeness. They’re skyline blockers. I suppose on another day, if the sea mist formed some barrier like pea soup, as we Brits say, then they might not be so visible; but they’d still be an eerie presence.

But there’s more to this strangeness. It’s not some stretch of coastline suitable for bathers. So a few sea faring boats line the shore. Some fishing boats, others for fishing excursions. So, of course, you’ll find the odd shack used as store or booking office; safe haven in stormy weather. Naturally, there are fishing baskets, nets and so forth too. But there’s more. Old cargo containers and shacks are scattered randomly between shore and road that leads to the lighthouses, more conventional houses and power stations. Not only that but many, many old engines used to haul boats or catch from the sea and drag further inshore. Add to that boats discarded, sometimes upturned like stranded whales and image is complete. A strange mix indeed.

This is no place for the average beach attracted holiday maker. Certainly not the bucket and spade brigade. Ain’t no sand. No, a good number of the people I saw were contemplative, all kinds of things going through their heads. Like the camera was rolling and they envisaged themselves in this significant moment ...in significant landscape...insignificant film.

Bleak but beautiful.

One group of five people, in their early thirties, looked like thespians, out for the day. They weren’t dressed like people normally would for a coastal hike or perusal. Posh picnic or birthday celebration perhaps? I spotted them from far off. Made my way toward them, my interest piqued; alas I got to them as they were packing up, party over. They folded up the director’s chairs and packed up their other paraphernalia and headed back across the pebbles towards their cars. I did manage to capture two of them by the old boat though; inspiring amica italiana to think of Fellini’s film. So fitting. Result.

I was supposed to be with others this week but for this pandemic. Fuck Covid! I couldn’t take the planned flight, nor could I meet up with my brother instead. Yeh, I know, I’m luckier than many. Just found out my eldest son and his wife are suffering in isolation with it, tested positive. I couldn’t concentrate properly on my research of my Kentish childhood, I felt alone. But it’s ok, this strange and desolate place suited my circumstance, answered my call. I was better able to absorb the chill of loneliness that this desolate scape offers. Feel it, accept it, rejoice in it almost and head home. Happy to return to the warmth and love that I know.

It may be a beautiful place but even in late summer it sure is bleak.

Keef Charles

EDITOR & PROOFREADING of PPH

I’m English and live in Britain but I have lived in many places, home and abroad. It has made a difference to how I perceive things. My dad used to take a lot of photographs as we grew up. There was something special about that moment caught. However, I didn’t get a proper camera until I was a young man. I didn’t get serious about my photography until I discovered Street, four years ago. I’m not limited to this genre but it has propelled my passion forward. I love to capture slices of life, moments, moods and memories. Both story and keepsake. They are not simply images but layers of life...mine and sometimes theirs.

“Hell is truth seen too late.” by Michael Kennedy

116293421_627711011193018_7162575122544493119_n (1).png — **“Hell is truth seen too late.”**

**by Michael Kennedy**

These are two letters that Michael sent me after his photograph was banned by some street photography groups.

P, Batsceba

I seem to offend people without any serious effort. Perhaps it is a talent.

Today’s example is from a FB group I thought was a natural fit for me. I was wrong.

A few months ago, I posted the image labelled New York City - 2018. See attachment.

This generated over 100 comments - the majority not favorable. I was denounced for showing “Poverty Porn,” with several other choice words and phrases in the mix.

Not long afterwards, I posted the image labeled Old Delhi - 2019. See attachment. This barely registered any comments.

The different reactions require no serious explanation. A white person - or at least a Westerner, should not be depicted suffering or struggling with everyday circumstances. Someone from a Third World country, however, was acceptable to be shown this way, as if somehow they deserved their plight.

Today I posted the same photo I posted to P-S the other day - the man on the street with his dog in Times Square, of New York City. The knives were out within minutes. One person asked me to stop referencing politics. Another person told me that if I didn’t appreciate Trump, then I was insane. I assumed these were primarily Americans - based on stereotypical names. I told myself that I would not engage in any replies. Yet the photo was stripped off the page within 20-minutes after I posted it.

So, enough is enough - and that was too gutless for me … “chickenshit,” as Americans say. Yet I could not resist sharing my opinion with one of the administrators.

Naturally, I quit the group after I sent him my thoughts via messenger.

If the essence of the Romantic Movement is spontaneity and emotions in response to The Age of Reason, I’m all in. Yet I require a modicum of order as a social creature, and this explains why I value language as a way to control the narrative of my existence.

Whoever tells the story best attracts an audience.

Photography enraptured me in my early 20s as another way to impose order on the chaos all around me, while trying to capture the fragile beauty of the human experience.

Yet control of the narrative is often illusionary, especially as the COVID-19 pandemic upends everything

The British political philosopher Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679) said: “Hell is truth seen too late.”

That’s one way to view life, yet truth in the rearview mirror is cold comfort. We must do better than resign ourselves to Une saison en enfer - the title of wunderkind Arthur Rimbaud’s (1854-1891) massively influential prose poem, written when he was 19, before he took up a life as a gunrunner in Ethiopia.

“Alex, let’s skip 19th century French gunrunners in Ethiopia, and go for late-20th century photojournalists for $800.

Answer: Daily Double.

Here is the clue: Who is regarded as the finest war photographer of the post-World War II era?

Answer: Who is Sir Don McCullin?”

McCullin (b. 1935) has experienced his share of hell many times over, both in the rearview mirror and straight ahead. One of his most quotable quotes is: “Photography for me is not looking, it’s feeling. If you can’t feel what you’re looking at, then you’re never going to get others to feel anything when they look at your pictures.”

The importance of feelings in photography makes McCullin a Romantic; not to be confused with Morris Albert’s nauseatingly sappy song about “feelings” from the mid-1970s, covered by every lounge singer from Las Vegas to the geriatric crowd on the Love Boat.

If you value masterful documentary photography, photojournalism, street photography - or simply those extraordinary insights about both our uniqueness and our commonality, which deserves to rightfully be called art … McCullin is the real deal.

We are at war now and whether the enemy is labeled the Wuhan virus, the Chinese Corona, the Trump virus, or more acceptably: COVID-19, our fundamental way of life and all important social institutions are under attack, on the ropes or ready for The Last Rites.

I’m losing count of how many times other photographers have condemned me for posting photos of homeless people, the down-and-out, the defeated to FB street photography groups. And I’ve lost count of how many FB street groups have stripped my photos of homeless people off their respective pages for being #PovertyPorn … and, in effect, telling me to get lost.

At the height of his distinguished career, did McCullin merely produce #WarPorn?

If I pursue selective reality and ignore the heartbreaking aspects of life in favor of happy, idealized images of the new Ward and June Cleaver with Wally and young Theodore, the Beaver (what the hell kind of name is that for a kid?) is this going to be dismissed as #HappyPorn.

And what does all this say about my obligation as a photographer to try and capture the human experience in all its many uplifting and soul-crushing dimensions?

Is street photography going to shy away from truths we hold to be self-evident because they are uncomfortable, inconvenient and politically incorrect?

If this applies to street photography than how long before this extends to journalists, novelists, film directors, musicians and artists producing valuable work in other mediums?

The irony is that we have all become enslaved by our technology and are on camera every day - all damn day, everywhere we go. Issues about what is appropriate for street photographers to document and to post or publish become moot when faceless clerks and bureaucrats spy on us round the clock - and not simply in public, but in schools, stores, the workplace, airports, subways and on nearly every major street corner in the world.

To degenerate into schoolyard posturing over photographs of homeless people, Wall Street racketeers, Bangkok ladyboys, couples strolling hand-in-hand along Kuta Bay in Bali, the winos of Paris, the Chinese knock-off hustlers on Nathan Road in Hong Kong is pointless and only serves as a vivid reminder of how we divide-and-conquer ourselves better than any government censorship.

We are at war now and in my country - the United States, there are 166,878 people dead already from COVID-19, with the death rate at 1,000-per day. To assign blame to Donald Trump, is quite proper. “Everyone knows the captain lied.”

Yet the boat is sinking and so this is not the time for blame; another day, another time.

The unemployment rate in America is now at 12%. This is a recipe for disaster. The worst ever was 25% in 1933, when Franklin Roosevelt took over from Herbert Hoover, a vastly better educated and vastly more decent man than Trump - who still thought government should not help provide a safety net for Americans during the Great Depression.

In America, there is no national health insurance and so most people have coverage through their employer for the benefit of a group rate, which still results in high premiums and hefty monthly salary deductions. Yet no job, no health insurance. For hospitals, this means you must pay-to-play, and no payment means you lose in the Beat the Reaper Game.

The U.S. Congress can provide tax cuts for the white ruling class - known as white collar welfare, and can earmark money for the Pentagon to have new weapons, but cannot agree on how to provide a safety net for both the middle and lower classes.

Ivanka Trump, channeling Marie Antoinette, advocates beleaguered and busted Americans: “Find something new.”

For starters, a new President with the ability to think rationally with at least some empathy for others.

In the months ahead, more and more Americans will be out of work, out of luck, out of hope and will be sleeping in cars, in parks, in subway stations … on the streets from New York City-to-Seattle, Trump’s heavy handed enforcers be damned.

Yet America is hardly alone in this horror show. There is no escape from this plague. The ships are sinking everywhere.

The importance of documentary photography, photojournalism and street photography is to provide a record of our existence so that our time on this mortal coil stands for something meaningful.

To trivialize the plight of the homeless with terms like #PovertyPorn is a cheapshot to sidestep the inconvenient reality of our responsibility toward each other. It is a cop-out.

The photographers who first opened new worlds for me were Dorothea Lange, Walker Evans and Arthur Rothstein - from FDR’s Farm Security Administration (FSA) during the height of the American Dust Bowl in the mid-1930s. This was no #DustBowlPorn or #GreatDepressionPorn.

This body of work by 11 FSA photographers in all remains monumentally important, an indelible reminder of how the hand of fate can upend our world almost overnight, how we must never lose hope even when the light seems extinguished, how the ability to regain moral courage and physical strength and overcome hardships is always possible.

Equally important, Americans had a President who encouraged this photography project without censorship of any kind because he was not afraid of the truth - which was that America had fallen from a First World country-to-a Third World country - just as Europe gave way to fear and embraced fascist dictators in Italy, Germany and Spain.

What the FSA photographers achieved was a strong reminder that a true reckoning of what was happening in America was not some damn fake news, but real and traumatizing, and liberating at the same time because Americans can overcome so much adversity when united. This is true of all people. And this was no #PoliticalPorn.

A universal trait that is deeply embedded in our character is the belief that the blessed should give back - that the fortunate have a debt. This view graces all five major religions - and goes beyond any faith-based philosophy.

Street photographers must do what they do best, and that’s produce visual documents that add to a better understanding of our times - and without the censorship of FB page administrators acting as the arbiters of politically correct standards.

In the role of street photographer, I do not deliberately look for anything - except slices of life. Since I do have standards, everything is not “fair game.”

Off limits for me are children - not simply because it is too easy for a photograph by an older man to be misconstrued as something tawdry, but because children deserve their innocence and any visual documents for posterity should be rendered by parents or close family members. As an extension of childhood, a person under the age of 10 is damn hard to photograph because the face seldom offers any sense of character. But life takes care of this soon enough.

Off limits for me are people using drugs, or having sex in public - or doing both.

If you want to know about the life of a drug addict, read Junky by William Burroughs.

If you want photographs of people shooting up, check out the work of American photographers Mary Ellen Mark and Larry Clark.

If you want to see people shooting up drugs and having sex, there is Nan Goldin and The Ballad of Sexual Dependency - though most of this occurs behind closed doors. It is no surprise that Larry Clark is a significant influence on Goldin’s photography.

It is a surprise that Goldin collaborated on a photography book with Tokyo’s bad boy, Araki Nobuyoshi, called … Tokyo Love (1994).

Off limits for me are people involved in physical or verbal violence toward each other, and the surrounding environment.

Everything else is fair game for me as a street photographer.

With the exception of some material from New York City in 2018, everything else is really from Paris and Madrid, with a few examples from Barcelona and Lisbon.

I didn’t go looking for any of these photographs. These circumstances were simply in front of me. If I were inclined to being political correct - a self-censoring trait … self-neutering, really … that spares a tyrant the hard work of controlling the masses … I might get in line with so many other people and say 2+2=5, which is what O’Brien finally gets Winston Smith to do by the end of 1984.

I have resisted Winston Smith’s capitulation to the party line, and it has cost me more than one career, a lot of money and numerous friends who told me I could count on them … before they fled the scene to save themselves from being a cautionary tale like me. Given a second chance, my life would still be no different.

What I dislike most about myself are the fleeting self-delusions that help propel me through life. Whenever possible, I know it’s important to face inconvenient truths - and some times a camera provides a passport into worlds that offer insights that make me better as a result. Every photograph is a self-portrait.

The down-and-out, the homeless, the dispossessed, the wretched of the Earth are an inconvenient truth. I have no remedy for their plight. I have no words of quick-fix encouragement for these people. I just know that my fortunes have changed for the worst more than once, and I could easily be with them on the train to nowhere.

I can’t be like the current American President who reacts to the deaths of 166,878 people in the United States with an off-hand nonchalance: “It is what it is.” All lives matter.

The majority of these photographs were taken with a Nikon D5300, my camera of choice until mid-2017. The acquisition of a Ricoh GR II - and then a Fuji X100F changed my approach to street photography. I could travel light and fast, and no one could see me coming.

These photographs were all taken in late spring and summer conditions. The fact that many of the subjects are wearing winter clothing must speak of a lack of nutrition, and the need for warmth.

It is glaringly obvious that women are largely absent from this portfolio. I did not avoid them. They just were not visible. As an armchair sociologist, I assume that women living in the margins experience more protection from their families than men - who are expected to toughen up, figure it out, get a job … or get lost.

There is a small army of homeless men outside Seoul Station, the largest in the city where I live. Yet there are very few women.

The main subway station is a natural for the down-and-out crowd: access to public bathrooms, shelter from the cold and the rain - and enough shadows along the walls to take comfort for the night. The Korean police take a humane view of all this, and tolerate this small world within the larger world. Even with a language barrier, it’s possible to tell that among the bums and derelicts there is an alpha male, and the police confer some respect on this man, and let him take charge. There is a hierarchy in every world. But women are not really part of this scene.

Madrid

Barcelona

Lisbon

Paris

Michael Kennedy

Rhode Island in the time of the pandemic

America’s smallest state responds to a world wide catastrophe.

In March of 2020 everything as we knew it, everything we did, everything we loved, was changed. The major events of our lives were simply not to be. Weddings, graduations, gatherings of religion and peace, even funerals, were postponed and then done away with entirely.

Were you to experience a major life event in 2020, your experience would not and could not be shared. The celebration became a personal quiet circumstance conducted without the inclusion of family, friends or colleagues. You celebrated, you worried, and you mourned in solitude.

Events which bring communal happiness and joy, entertainment and the passion of sports, were cancelled. Entire seasons were simply called off, your favorite restaurants and bistros were closed, and theater was no more- all shuttered against the omnipresent black veil of Covid -19 and the wave of fear on which it sailed.

Grown children, important loved ones, and dear friends became distant voices on the telephone, or virtual faces on your monitor, laptop and iPad. This was our new existence, our new reality. Smiling faces and café with friends were replaced by a series of empty shops and lonely masks, each person isolated in a container of their own design built to prevent human contact. The very thing which we all crave and need in times of trouble was taken from us as well. These new truths were delivered by the pandemic, our new normal had arrived.

For many years I have been inspired by, and still turn to, the great masters who documented the Dust Bowl. Working under the direction of Roy Stryker of the Farm Security Administration, a group of incredible photographers set out to record the human, natural, and economic devastation of that event in 1939. If you have not seen the work of Walker Evans, Dorothea Lange, Marion Post Walcott, John Vachon, Russel Lee and the great Arthur Rothstein, I urge you to look.

I have been trying to make photographs since 1967, at the age of 15. Now, close to 69 years old with 54 years of photography behind me, I continue to try. Considering the influence that the above greats had on my love of photography I felt the strong desire to attempt the documentation of our shared condition.

Providence is the capital city of the smallest state in the USA, and as such it can become a microcosm of things gone right, and things gone wrong. With that in mind, I set out to make images of the current conditions, the people when there were some, and the emptiness when there were none.

My automobile filled with disinfectant, masks and rubber gloves, wrapped in my own cocoon, I began to walk. I walked through Providence and several of the small cities surrounding it (Pawtucket, Central Falls, East Providence, Warren and Bristol), and observed each geographical location and its inhabitants struggling to find their way. These are some of the images from those walks, which continue still, and my humble effort to document them.

Now each day is a day closer to a vaccine which will hopefully bring the return of the human touch, and human kindness delivered in person. We eagerly await the reemergence of events shared with family, friends and colleagues and the joy a communal meal, a live theater production, or a public display of affection can bring. Until then, we live with the new normal.

facebook

Do we need to redefine what we call the past?

I ask the question because I’m finally writing about an event I attended last year but the whole emphasis has changed. Things aren’t what they used to be. Here’s a definition to help put things in context:

Nostalgia. A sentimental longing or wistful affection for a period in the past.

A few decades ago, if you saw someone dressed in 40’s garb, they’d have seemed almost punk. Was it to shock, a statement or maybe just a choice? Not so today, in recent years the proliferation of 40’s and similar events have heralded a new acceptance of many things nostalgic.

I’m not an aficionado as such but I did attend a few events last year and get a feel for what really worked. Like anything in life, it’s not enough to just do it. Much better if you put your heart and soul into it. I subscribed to the notion that if I got dressed up, like so many of the participants, I’d be better able to immerse myself in the event and better feel the atmosphere. So it was that I bought myself a 1940’s Home Guard outfit. It wasn’t cheap. Not only that, I felt awkward. Roles were reversed for this Street Photographer, as he made his way from overnight lodgings to major open air museum. Awkward doesn’t really describe it well enough. I was uncomfortable, being scrutinised and uncomfortable physically. This outfit, worn in July, was comprised of thick woollen garments. Hey, there aren’t any guarantees but we do sometimes get a summer in Britain. It was hot and sweaty!

Anyway, the dressing up worked. I must have done a decent job. I almost gained entry through a side entrance to the Black Country Living Museum, until they asked me what re-enactment group I belonged to. Too honest to try and steal my way in without paying, I held my hands up and told the guy on the gate that I was not a part of any; just dressed in character. So, I headed to the main entrance, got pointed to the back of a long snake-like queue and waited my turn. Hmmmm, my honesty was costing time as well as money. Oh well.

I have to say, when I did finally gain entry, I was more than pleasantly surprised. You see, many such events are poorly organised and unconvincing; just people trying to make money out of others’ needs. This, however, was remarkable. I found myself wanting more than just shots of people similarly dressed or re-enacting. I wanted to try and get ‘scenes’ that told stories. Shots cinematic. It’s not that easy to do. Despite there being so many people dressed in 40’s gear there were plenty of others who weren’t. I’ve a few shots ruined by people in contemporary gear walking into the frame or, worse still, semi hidden until I got back and edited. Oh, never mind. It was about grabbing the right moment, looking for luck.

Anyway, cooking in my woollen threads, I walked around for hours; visiting and revisiting locations for something that passed as authentic. Of course, those real aficionados would tell you that this button on the lapel or the way that cigarette was held, weren’t authentic; they were ultra picky about details. I viewed it differently. If it wasn’t absolutely true to the period, so what; if it was convincing, it worked. I was looking for soul and story, not perfection. Hopefully, that’s what I achieved in some cases.

I thoroughly enjoyed this day and the subsequent meets that I attended but unfortunately and understandably, they have been cancelled this year; owing to the blight of this pandemic we call Covid19. Will we ever get back to what we thought of as normal? A time when you’d associate face masks with dentists, surgeons and the like. I can’t imagine things will feel the same if we have to watch them act them out with protective face coverings, disinfecting hand gels stashed behind seats, protruding from handbags and pockets.

Nostalgia now is far more than historical events, looking back decades or centuries. It’s about what most of us took for granted at the time; without the glorious benefit of hindsight. A longing for times not necessarily better in every respect but certainly simpler.

2019: the last year of normality, for now at least. We live in hope.

keef Charles

Couldn’t resist “Black Country” by the Black Country Communion, given the name of the museum. It ain’t 40’s but it rocks!

Vertical New York by John Gellings

Robert Capa once said: “If your photographs aren't good enough, you're not close enough.”

I took his quote as a challenge to see if I could make photographs from far away (both in proximity and intimacy) and still make compelling photographs. Since I was living in New York City (Manhattan specifically) at the time, I had the perfect backdrop due to what I view as the verticality of NYC.

Space and spaciousness but vertically speaking within continuous layers of buildings. Manhattan is only 13.4 miles (21.6 km) long and 2.3 miles (3.7 km) wide (at its widest), but it packs a lot into that space due to the number of larger and/or tall buildings. Around 1.6 million people live in that space and Manhattan is one of most densely populated areas in the world, with an estimated population of 73,000 residents per square mile (or 28,154/km2), higher than the density of any individual U.S. city. It has the third-largest population of New York City's five boroughs, after Brooklyn and Queens, but is also the smallest borough in terms of land area.

Walking is also important in NYC and the City is the epitome of the word pedestrian. People who otherwise do not walk in their daily lives travel to NYC and walk the streets. There is something poetic about walking the streets of NYC. There is also anonymity and loneliness to walking the streets. Millions of people walking around, but still, for the average person, anonymity. I try to convey that in my photographs as well.

It should be noted that the use of vertical framing was another challenge. A few of my friends that I photographed with said they hated it and considered it ugly. In my stubborn head, that meant that vertical framing is exactly what I needed to use in my photography. What started out as a personal challenge ended up being my preferred way of framing and also served a purpose in this project. The verticality of the city shown in the vertical frame. A perfect fit.

Lastly, while I do not specifically do Architecture Photography, my photos do use some of the language and methods of Architecture Photography. I would say that my photography is a convergence between street photography and architecture photography while not completely conforming to the style of either.

While the two “challenges” that led to this body of work are simple, and not overly intellectual, both were integral to my development and were personally important to my way of seeing in photography. When people say you should not do something in photography, I think it is worth exploring if it is true or not. It could lead to personal discovery. Of course, Robert Capa was right as well… so I never abandoned his philosophy completely. If I need to be closer, I get closer. Still, the general spirit of these challenges and my attempt to meet the challenges, I believe, are conveyed within these photographs.

I was born in New Jersey, USA and I started photographing at age 17. I had always been interested in art throughout my primary and secondary school days, but it wasn’t until bought a Pentax K1000 with my graduation money that I found my medium. Still, it was mostly learning the basics without any direction or influences. I was learning technical concerns, but not conceptual matters. However, the first time I viewed the book “William Eggleston’s Guide” in the mid-1990s, I was truly hooked on photography. I switched from B&W to color photography immediately and started focusing on the ordinary everyday elements of life or, as some call it, the banal. The book was an epiphany to me and it is still influential in my photography today. Once I moved to New York City as an adult I found my content, like many others, on the streets. I lived and photographed in NYC until 2017. Since then, I have been living and photographing in Santiago, Chile. A new city with new content to photograph. I graduated from Mason Gross School of the Arts (Rutgers University, New Jersey) with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Photography in 1998.

Influences: William Eggleston, Lee Friedlander, William Klein, Saul Leiter, Sergio Larraín, Alex Webb, Gerry Johansson and the large format photography of Eugène Atget, Walker Evans, Stephen Shore, and Joel Meyerowitz.

John Gellings

A case study of Havat HaShomer

**An Israeli army base for empowerment** -

**by Corinne Spector**

The basic training camp looks like a kind of agricultural village– it seems to be a green paradise, but as I meet the young people there and say "Wow! This looks like a hotel, not like an army base", they laugh and say "It’s not a hotel here. It doesn't even have a half-star rating!" While it's true that it is very basic, with some parts heavily used and run down, the setting among the olive trees is beautiful.

At the gate, there is an arch that reads: "The future starts here".

On the walls of the buildings, there are motivational murals and sayings that participants over the years have created together with local artists. These "Talking walls" tell about the experience these young people go through here, and help make the place into their home. It's written: "If you can beat your challenge, that success is yours forever".

The young people who arrive here are from populations with various kinds of coping problems: they are often from lower socio-economic groups, perhaps from immigrant families, maybe have drug or alcohol issues, or problems with the police and courts. Most of them were already not in school at age 16 when they received their first draft notice. They may have social or interpersonal difficulties or both, which may lead to violence and crime, little or no family support, and further alienation from society.

This is not a regular army base; it is both a secure base, and one that provides a different kind of security to those who stay here. The commanders, chosen from the Education Corps of the army, come here with the motivation and training to hold out their hands to others, with the goal of pulling these troubled young people upward.

Those who come here have often been affected by multiple life traumas, yet they gradually learn both that they are not alone in their past experiences, and that they are not alone now –the guides here support them by teaching them tools for life. Sometimes it will be slow and hard to advance, and they will only move forward with baby steps. Their challenges may be physical and mental, even spiritual. The young soldiers here often undergo powerful growth experiences – both within this group and on an individual level.

The commanders tell me that these kids have dropped out of every framework.
Now they are soldiers yet they tell me how they have a hard time coping with limits, and don't have meaningful reasons to get up in the morning; they lack motivation for even simple things. They are sometimes embarrassed in front of the others, or make fun of everything, sometimes imitating their commanders. They joke and give their own names and meanings to each command, and of course, they swear, smoke and hit one another at every opportunity…

The goal of this program is to give them the coping tools they need to integrate into the army, and into Israeli society. The idea is to give these young people the opportunity to turn their lives around here and now, and to empower them for their future. They are adopted into a framework that gives them equal standing with the rest of society -some for the first time - by providing each with individual attention and support, while both training them as soldiers and teaching them life skills.

They are placed in a special group for 2 and a half months of Basic Training, where the commander tells me about special lessons they receive: anger management, how to ensure their messages are clear and received, coping with change, overcoming difficult situations, and finding motivation in their lives.
They learn about Israel by touring the country – going to Jerusalem and to the desert. In season, I hear about how they pick and press the nearby olives to make the oil they use.
And all along, they are working on improving their personal efficacy and strengths.

They are then provided options for training in various trades that they can do in the army: cook, driver, electrician, hair-dresser and so on, jobs in which they can also work after the army. The hope is that they will be able to become soldiers who contribute now, and also become a part of Israeli society later, rather than hurting themselves and others.

The commanders here are mainly young women, in order to reduce friction that may arise between male commanders and male soldiers. Often these young soldiers come from places where the women in their lives have little power, but ultimately they come to accept and respect their female commanders.

Commanders in this program tell me they believe that within each of these individuals lie abilities and strengths, and that they help them discover these for themselves.

Participants begin to understand that even though they have one arm tied behind them – a difficult past, little family support or self-discipline problems-- this is a place where they can put their best foot forward and discover their personal potential, both for the army and for life afterwards.

The program also promotes excellence. If you can turn your difficulties around, you can achieve great things if you wish and if you are willing to work for them. The success rate of this program is about 75%, and 10% even go on to become combat soldiers, with some even going to Officer's training school, both of which are considered the highest in terms of motivation in the Israeli army.

It is hoped that they will understand that this is a gift given to them. Ultimately, it is also a gift to society because if these young people don’t find a positive way to contribute, they may cause great harm through criminal behavior.

One of the commanders said: "The path to building one's future begins here. It will not be easy; in fact, it will be very challenging, but the sky is the limit. Here you have all the conditions to succeed, it's all about the choices you make from here on out.
We believe that you have the ability and desire to improve, as it says on our symbol:
"We believe in the human spirit".

As a photographer, I found this place touched me deeply and I hope to take it on as a long-term project. This was the first chapter.

- Corinne Spector February 2020

Cavorting with the Rats by Keef Charles

I’ve a yearning for the pulse, the rhythm, the flow. To hook up with a mate. These things to fix, some place to go.

I don’t live in town or city, just quiet village with a gallows pole for any street shooters. I have no valid excuse to break the rules of lockdown and visit somewhere busier, more populated, where I’m just one of thousands; for the most part unnoticed.

So, here I am, like so many, reflecting on a time before. A time when much of what I saw translated into black and white.

Manchester, moods and moments...

Kids, spirits high, excitable, the school day done. Passer by perhaps not so full of beans as his bag would have you believe.
Lovers talking earnestly, at quiet juncture.
A local band getting a cover shot for their latest release.
All kinds of people crossing busy streets, all kinds of fashion on show.
Young kid enjoying the freedom, the grownupness of being out of the pushchair.
Stylish dude waiting for the bus, his young son alert to camera.
A smile through the glass of bank, from a lady who’s life feels in balance.
Graffiti telling of irony and dissent.
A couple’s conversation interrupted as she can’t help but smile for the camera.
People waiting for the tram, the working day over, the shopping complete.
Many the legs and faces of people traversing this world, but lost in their own.
Friends who’ve met up, cool and relaxed, cigarettes and chat. Another spies the camera.
Guy finished with his paper, his paper cup and pay per call. A melancholy gaze out of window. Looking for all the world like some blues legend.
Young woman, bike parked, bench seated and waiting. Music the company for now, til rendezvous calls for headphones removed.
The girlfriend of graffiti artist clutching tight the rollers he’ll use to blank new canvas.
A cold hug of acquaintances or friends with differences perhaps.

All these stories, saw I, and more. Profound or profane, does it matter? Some background stories known through the asking or mate telling; others merely guessed at. It really doesn’t matter.

In black and white, so to speak, the city gave me mood, it gave me moments.

But then I saw in colour, something more.

I’ve seen quite a few street performers and noted the response from the passers by. More noticeable, of course, is the reaction of those that stop. Couples may hold each other tighter, on occasion. She may squeeze his arm. A knowing look into each other’s eyes perhaps. That’s their special song.

But rarely have I seen street performers elicit the response I witnessed that day with The Piccadilly Rats. Four guys set up in front of a wall they’d festooned with flags of the world, football banners, things that spoke to them of their lives.

Not your typical ensemble of street performers. A guitarist/ singer, drummer and two dancers. Well, one dancer and a guy in a policeman’s helmet; who remained pretty much rooted to the spot. Real characters and small time local celebs. Gaz on guitar, nameless on drums. Then there’s Tommy, the one sporting police helmet. A star of Judge Rinder. He’d been had up in some TV courtroom show for wearing a mankini at an open air gig they played. Seems he’d put it on back to front! Ohhhh. And finally, there was Ray, the more energetic dancer. At least, he used to be. Sadly, he got run down by one of the city’s trams about a year later.

These characters were a part of Manchester’s vibrance for me that day. Many would simply walk by, untouched by the vibe, the music. Others would stop. Listen. Perhaps make comment to a friend behind a cupped hand. A joke, a smile.

On this occasion, three girls in a celebratory mood, made themselves honorary members of the group for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Adding colour, stilettos, makeup and more. It was a joy. Not the finest rendition of “Wonderwall” I’ve ever heard but they added something to the day. Gaiety, life and a passionate display. Quite possibly fuelled by a midday drink. Who knows, who cares. They were fun. Kept me fixed to the spot for the duration.

I love the streets. For these things, I yearn. These things and more.

I’ve booked my ticket, so to speak. I’m just waiting for day to arrive. For now I’ll love from a safe distance. Uffaaaa ! Patience may be a virtue, but it ain’t my middle name.

Keef Charles

"Lavapiés" by Andrea Ratto

Lavapiés is a neighborhood in Madrid and it is not just any neighborhood. Its history tells us about a place of working-class tradition, which was previously a place of reception for immigrant labor from the rest of Spain, and then the nerve center of several foreign communities that settled there. Its present tells us that it is one of the neighborhoods that stand out worldwide for their power of attraction in terms of tourism, culture and leisure.

What has happened is called gentrification. Although at first you may think that everything is positive, there are many side effects. First and certainly the worst effect is the displacement of the most fragile social classes towards other areas with more accessible and peripheral prices leading to the breakdown of informal aid networks that are so important in the day-to-day life of communities.

Lavapiés has gone from being a cheap neighborhood to having the same rental prices as the most expensive neighborhoods in the Spanish capital, also driven by the emergence in recent years of tourist flats and platforms such as Airbnb.

When I made the trip for my photobook "Europa" I passed through Madrid and it was easy for me to compare what was happening in Lavapiés with the reality of other European neighborhoods. It was clear to me that if I wanted to do a work about gentrification then it was the right place to start. Walking through its streets you could see how different souls lived together, traditional bars and modern bars, shops for African, Indian, Chinese or South American products, art galleries, many theaters and cultural self-managed spaces.

So I started without much thought and spent there a week, then another two and several times more between 2018 and 2019 to get images that were able to document the process critically.

Gentrification perfectly expresses all the bad things of our western society, it is a wild speculation on some of the primary goods that should be protected like the right to decent housing, and that ends up making those who already have large capitals richer, and sacrificing who are most economically and socially fragile. And the worst thing is that, to achieve its objective, it uses to its advantage positive values such as multiculturalism and culture in general or the demand for more security and the improvement of citizen infrastructures. All the improvements that are carried out in a neighborhood in a ongoing gentrification process are not for its inhabitants but for those who will arrive when the first will be forced to leave.

All this is explained in the book / fanzine "Lavapiés" that I self-edited together with the sociologist Marta Morán, author of the texts that, together with my photos, aim to create an informative set to understand the gentrification process in general and in the Madrid neighborhood in particular. Link to buy the photobook/fanzine "Lavapiés" :

"Lavapiés"

Andrea Ratto

Europa

progressive-zine #11

I was born in Genova (Italy) in 1976, but I have been based in A Coruña (Spain) since 2005. In recent years I have been drawn to street photography, which to me now means a way of documenting society with a critical view. In 2017 I visited 26 European countries with my camera in search of European society. I published the photobook “Europa” thanks to a crowdfunding campaign in the Kickstarter platform. Now I am working to complete the project about Gentrification in Lavapiés, Madrid.

At the end of 2018, a survey by Time Out magazine designated Madrid’s vibrant and wonderfully diverse Barrio de Lavapiés as the top choice on its list of “50 Coolest Neighborhoods in the World,” after surveying over 15,000 people.

Zero contact by Mark Guider

In some ways I’ve been preparing for this pandemic for 10 years. When I bought my van in 2010 my plan was to have the ultimate road trip vehicle, a vehicle that would provide me with total independence from civilization. My goal was not to isolate myself from society, but to give me the ability to go anywhere I wanted and to spend some amount of time in that location while having all of my needs met. These trips were likely to be made primarily in pursuit of the things that I am most passionate about, exploring the wilderness, rock climbing, and photography.

Until recently the greatest limitation that was placed on my ability to stay “off the grid” was my lack of a refrigerator. My dependence on ice, or cooler packs meant that I had to seek civilization every four or five days in order to keep food cold. I adapted to this limitation by consuming mostly non-perishables. Late in 2019 I finally purchased a 12volt refrigerator and quickly realized that my single deep cycle auxiliary battery was not sufficient to meet the demands of the new fridge. In January I purchased two solar panels, and two new deep cycle batteries. This would allow me to not only have more energy storage, I would not have to rely on my engine running to charge the batteries as I had in the past.

Cue the pandemic. As the news of the growing threat of the CoronaVirus became more dire, and the date of my long anticipated Spring Break loomed closer, I was faced with an ethical question. Could I responsibly travel without posing a threat to others or myself? The answer lie in the yet to be installed solar panels and batteries. Eliminating the need to visit grocery stores during my travels was the key. This, combined with the careful selection of destinations and pay at the pump gas-ups could (I believed), eliminate all human contact during the trip.

I set to work on the improvements to the van. I worked for roughly five days, cutting, drilling, soldering, and fabricating. Nothing about this installation was “plug and play”. I was finished two days before my planned departure. No time for a test run, it would be baptism by fire. Street Photography was out. This would have to be a solo trip of exploration, and a bit of landscape photography.

By the time I was on the road people in the US were finally starting to take the pandemic seriously, and almost all campgrounds in the country were closed. This led to several surprise access issues, and finding solitary and legal places to camp was more challenging than normal. I was alone everywhere I went. The new solar power system worked perfectly, and I ended up with enough supplies to stay out for a week longer than I did. I had to cut the trip short due to closures by the Navajo Nation, but I must respect their wishes. I had no human interaction or contact during the trip. The closest I got to another human was at a gas station, approximately twenty feet away. I look forward to the day we can all travel freely again. Stay well.

Locations; Arizona , Nevada , California.

Mark Guider

one day in Boston

Issue 2

Covid19 ... by Shimi Cohen

In her book "The Eleventh Station," author Emily St. John Mendel describes a post-apocalyptic world in which a fatal plague that destroyed nearly all humans were passed through the world.

In one of the chapters at the beginning of the book, she details some of the things that have disappeared from human existence, twenty years after the epidemic, when there were almost no people left to turn on the technology and maintain the power plants.

Mendel provided only a partial list of the things that disappeared from our lives in the post-apocalyptic scenario, as she herself admits.

I would like to add one more important item that may disappear, and one that will be added: democracy and equality will disappear, and slavery will be part of life again.

Oh, and slavery will probably reappear. Why? Because in the past, the slaves were the 'robots', that is, the workers who did work without having to pay them for it. They only required food, water, and storage (i.e., basic living). Any company that wanted to enjoy a high standard of living at a low cost to citizens had to rely on slaves.

When did slaves start being superfluous? Only when using technology that can replace them effectively. But if we don't have more electricity or even enough people who can mine coal as a good source of energy for machines, then in the post-apocalyptic future, survivors will begin to enslave some of the other survivors.

It is unbelievable how obvious we are - the almost complete certainty that we will survive, the ability to take pictures anywhere by phone, the cheap flights - are the product of a scientific-technological society whose members must continue to work hard to make sure that technologies continue to be available to everyone. And if that is not enough, many of the technologies on which the company is based today, have also brought dramatic social and cultural changes - which may disappear if modern technologies cannot be preserved.

I am realizing how important science and technology are to humanity, and how critical it is to fight ignorance. And please don't release deadly epidemics into the air.

Health for everyone !!!

Photos from an apocalyptic party, Galaxidi-Greece 2019.

Flour Throwing Festival in Galaxidi

The little harbour town, Galaxidi (Γαλαξίδι), is located on the south central part of Greece, north to the Peloponnesus. The city is covered, every year, with more than 1.5 ton of coloured flour which is thrown on the locales and the mass of tourists who attend the most insane battle.

The traditional flour battle symbolizes the end of the carnivals’ period. The historic legacy and the causes of these fights are unknown. According to local tradition, in the 19th century, when Greece was ruled by the Ottoman Empire, carnivals were forbidden.

In spite of the prohibition, the locals danced in the streets with their faces coloured with coal as a protest against the government. later on, they added the coloured flour tossing.

The flour battle takes place on the day which is known in the Eastern Orthodox Churches as Clean Monday, the day that marks the start of 40 days of Lent until Easter.

During the holiday, hundreds of people, dressed in plastic cloths, their paces are coloured with black coal and safety goggles on their eyes, fill the streets. Due to the numerous visitors during the festival day and the high demand for accommodations, it is recommended to check hotel rates and book rooms well in advance.

They dance in the streets and toss large amounts of coloured flour on one another.

Monday, March 15, 2021, is the next one, hope we can meet there ...

Purim by Shimi Cohen

Every new year comes this painful moment.

After weeks of preparation, shopping and planning, the Purim holiday is coming to an end, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth, a bit sad, of something that was and will not be back in just a year.

The disappointment is twofold, both for the wonderful day that has already passed and for all the much investment we have made on the way to it. Did it all go down in the sunset without leaving an impression?

Suddenly I realized that even if Purim's day cannot be traced back in time, the joy and insight of Purim is still possible. Not only is it possible, but it's also very practical and meaningful.

Rejoicing on Purim itself is not such a difficult job. It seems that being sad on Purim itself is more difficult. But to take away Purim's special insights, the ones that bring us the same joy, that's the real deal!

What practical way should the meaning and joy of Purim be preserved?

When you see someone disguised as a Purim, immediately and easily recognize that it is not really him, that there is someone else here completely hiding behind the mask. Now that the costumes are already behind us, the challenge is to recognize costumes even if they aren't really visible! For example, if you see someone doing the wrong thing, there are two options before us. The first and easiest thing is to think that that person is really wrong, and that's it.

The second, more significant option is to think it might be a costume. Maybe the man acted unintentionally, or in good faith, maybe we misidentified and thought it was a negative act, without realizing the exact situation at the time?

Do we think this time is not a very successful costume that managed to knock us down too?

The same goes for things that happen to us in life. We often have to deal with failures and falls, with losses and disappointments. Here, too, is our choice, do we just see bad, and be disappointed again and again? Or we choose the costume option. Knowing that negative things sometimes cover things that are often good.

In other words, anything that happens to us, which seems to be harmful and unhelpful, in our ability to decide whether it is real, or is it only a temporary costume, will eventually become an important and significant thing in our lives.

Taking that to our attention, we can really rejoice all year long. Not just Purim!

Mea Shearim, Jerusalem 2020 - Purim

What Is Purim?

"Angel" by Shimi Cohen

The word "angel" comes from the Greek word "anglos," which means "messenger" in Hebrew. Angels can take many forms, usually appearing as human or a glowing light or aura. Often — especially in cases of averted tragedy or disaster — angels will not be seen at all, but instead, their presence recognized by their actions. If something good, unexpected, and seemingly inexplicable happens, it's often assumed to be the result of divine or angelic intervention

In Christianity and Islam, angels function mainly as God's messengers (mostly announcing births and deaths), but in modern times they function more as guardians. Indeed, the word "angel" has come to describe any hero or benefactor. Though angels, by their nature, serve God, they also serve mankind directly. Angels perform a wide variety of tasks, from healing the sick and finding lost keys to smiting enemies and, of course, winning football games. Many believe that angels come when summoned, and there is a long tradition of people using magic spells and charms to bring angels to them

Sometimes we think we hear clean angels singing. The angel is portrayed in our imagination as a white creature, fresh as snow, immaculate, pure, well-intentioned, his scapegoating and upward-growing, right, hello to you supreme angels.

In all ancient paintings and myths, the angel appears as a man. Every reference to angels is made in the male language. A female angelic (angelic) form does not exist in the holy books. Even when angels appeared, to help women, or to assure them that they were carrying a uterus, they were described as males. The ultrasound angels who visited Sarah Imano and Saint Mary, the mother of Jesus of Nazareth, were men. In many appearances of angels in the Bible, an angel is called "he" or "it." When angels took on a human form, they were dressed in human male clothing, and no angel ever appeared in female clothing.

So why is the angel a man, for God's sake ...? After all, they refer to celestial beings, as to men - this is the deception, it is wrong, and unjust. It is not clear that such a royal power must only be entrusted to the hands of a responsible, mature, disciplined creature who knows how to use his abilities properly. That is a woman. Only a woman can be an angel!

An angel woman is a broad-hearted fairy. She listens. She knows how to listen. She did not come to speak but to hear what was bothering you. In her mind, she does not see the current crisis, but the future solution and welfare. It will guide you in achieving success and prosperity.

Answer your questions patiently. Provide angelic guidance and support in all walks of life.

Only if you ask. Help you make the perfect decision for your future, how to experience finding a way in life. In meeting an angel woman you feel energized and enjoy a new perspective on life. She is attractive and feminine even in modest clothes.

Everyone wants to communicate with such an angel on a regular basis to identify the really important goals. The angel acts fairly. When it comes to receiving a crowd, or patients, it contains excessive complaints and false criticism, misery and derogation of people who are mentally ill and impatient.

She knows how to drive aggression from gun-seekers and war killers. She looks like a multi-armed machine that at the end of the workday awaits her a children's home and a partner.

Angelic women do their sacred work for those who deal with their pains and fears.

They can be found in diverse roles where a good word at the right moment, moves mountains and dispels disapproval. Connecting with their angel supports you in routing your life. She is heartbroken and obsessed with seeing happy and happy people, because that is what drives her. She knows that this is how the world will see a tolerable and possible place. Be clear: she is not a sucker, knows how to cut time, and will not use her patience to get her head on.

When a dear and close person leaves, she does not allow herself to fall apart, and immediately fills the immediate void that opens in the heart.

When fate causes her to leave the world before you - you suddenly realize how much you depended on her and need your angel.

Happy Purim

Hebron by Shimi Cohen

Today, with about 250,000 people, Hebron is the largest Palestinian city and the commercial capital of the West Bank. It's a commotion of ramshackle commerce as its population generates about 30 per cent of the West Bank's economy. Just about an hour's drive from Jerusalem, it's a rewarding place to visit.

Hebron feels like a thoroughly Arab town, except for a small community of a few hundred determined Zionist Jews who live mostly on the high ground in the town centre. While it's not an easy place to live, they're driven by their faith, believing it's important not to abandon the burial site of their patriarch. And they're protected by a couple of thousand Israeli troops posted here for their security.

The Arab market was a festival of commerce, but checkpoints, security fences, and industrial-strength turnstiles are a way of life here. Walking down Hebron's boarded-up "ghost street" was not enjoyable. Meeting Jewish settlers, so vastly outnumbered, I felt a sense of embattlement on their part. A no man's land (with pro-Israel political art decorating shuttered buildings) divides the two communities.

The tomb of Abraham sits on a holy spot under a Crusader church. Its foundation wall — which dates back at least 2,000 years — is made of "Herod Stones," quarried and cut during King Herod's reign. Each stone — like the Western Wall so beloved by Jews back in Jerusalem — has a distinctive and decorative carved border.

Today, the building — called the Tomb of the Patriarchs because it houses Sarah, Isaac, and Jacob as well as Abraham — is divided to serve both Jewish and Muslim worshipers.

The site, tragic as well as holy, is split because of its bloody history. In 1994, during the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, a Jewish settler gunned down 29 Muslim worshipers here and wounded another 125 people. Since then, the holy spot has been divided — a half mosque and half synagogue — with each community getting a chance to pray at the tomb of Abraham separated by bulletproof glass.

On the mosque side stands a venerable "mimber" — a staircase from which the imam gives sermons. A standard feature in mosques, the mimber represents how teachers, spreading the word of the Prophet Muhammad to a growing number of followers, had to stand ever higher on a staircase to be heard. This one is a rare original from the 11th century made of inlaid wood with no nails, one of the oldest Islamic wooden pulpits in the world. And above the Muslim worshipers was the silent but very present Israeli security camera keeping a wary eye on things.

In this land — so treasured by Jews, Muslims, and Christians — I'm reminded that the prophets of each of these religions taught us to love our neighbours. Here's hoping the lessons learned while travelling in the Holy Land can inspire us all to strive for that ideal.

And each one has his own private god ...

To me it really doesn't matter, we're all human beings.

And there's nothing like finishing with the Personal Jesus song

Shalom. Salaam. Peace.

From fire to ashes…

… straight to Paradise after a stopover in Purgatory

Today let’s eat and drink

And let's sing and laze,

For tomorrow we will fast”.

Juan de la Encina - Spanish - XVI Century

As the poet would put it, “on February’s lap, summer swings back and forth”… enjoying his ill humour, which is punished by the scorching heat, which lashes us day after day.

It was very common to listen to our parents tell us: “Do not go out at siesta time; even lizards can’t face up to that blistering heat”. As you can imagine, it was not a real threat and not one that we would heed. It was said in order to deter us from taking on the desolate, dirt streets back then, in our little town. Especially, at Mardi Grass. Once assembled, gangs of children would commence a water fight, with filled buckets and water balloons, which was the best possible deterrent against the sizzling siesta time heat. After spending all our energies in this battle, we would come home hungry to clear out the pantry of whatever we found.

When I entered my house, it was completely full. The living room, dining room, workplace and study were all full of young people queueing for my mother. She was a true master of the art of sewing, taking his or her measurements to put together the most intricate outfits. These were worn by those funny people to play strong and beautiful instruments in their respective orchestras, since their so-called "Comparsas" would march down the main avenues main to accompany the hundreds of dancers who offer a magnificent parade every night until Fat Tuesday, just before Ash Wednesday.

Every night, the city would almost divide itself in two, in order to cheer on their favourite Marching Band and the accompanying dancers. Everyone was completely oblivious to social differences, political ideology or the state of the ever looming bad economy, that has marred Argentina now for so many decades. It was a feast for all, where the demons of the reality of every hard day, were forgotten. The sting in everyone’s flesh numbed, for the moment. Once Lent began, the shiny dresses, the elaborate feather costumes, the exaggerated high heels, the tambourines, the trombones, trumpets, and all instruments of so much fun music would be put away ...until next year, since all would embark on a journey of purification for sins.

Interestingly enough, for some years, that beautiful custom was archived in some unknown place to remain only alive in our memory. Fortunately, a few years ago, the custom was revived, by those who could no longer refrain from the joy. Everyone’s patrimony, lovers of music, fun and contagious happiness, were found in an overlooked trunk, the memory of our Mardi Grass custom. And so, the city once more, filled itself with the longing to bring us all together as of old.

Those siesta battles are not as common anymore, water is now a costly commodity that everyone makes sure nobody wastes. But the dancers and their bands go marching down the same big long avenue in style as ever before. Paradise is waiting for us all, and we know that sooner or later, we will make it there. However, we also know that once there, no flashy custom will be able to hide our sinful nature.

From Purgatory… you sincere friend Pacho Coulchinsky

Pacho Coulchinsky

EL FONTÁN, OVIEDO by Fran Balseiro

The markets have always been and still are the driving force behind the social and commercial life of the villages.

The markets are an ideal setting for photography fans as they mix tradition with modernity and offer a great variety of colours, allowing you to play with light and colour.

I like to walk the streets of Oviedo, every corner and especially the Mercado del Fontán and its surroundings. This market is one of the most historic in Asturias. It's one of those magical places that I don't usually miss, wandering the streets and connecting with the spirit of the city through its market, going around every corner in search of the contrast of the best light and colour. Market and square currently make up a complex in the heart of Oviedo's historic quarter.

In the surroundings of the Fontán, there is the main covered square of the Asturian city of Oviedo (Spain), which is located next to the Church of San Isidoro. Inside the market itself, there are numerous stalls of fresh produce and local restaurants. Also in its surroundings, where every Thursday, Saturday and Sunday, the market is held in the square where still peasants are placed to sell vegetables with boxes on the floor and portable scales.

There is a great variety of stalls that are placed getting to visit all its surroundings.

I like to walk around each of its corners and photograph the connection between the people and the market. I usually carry a small, discreet camera so as not to attract too much attention, since I don't want people to feel uncomfortable. It is usually very accurate and I am very comfortable with a small fixed lens equivalent to 35mm. I like to get close to each situation with the camera and be close to the people I photograph, have a direct close-up connection.

Desde siempre los mercados han sido y son animadores de la vida social y la vida comercial de los pueblos, antiguamente eran una auténtica fiesta y un acontecimiento de la ciudad.

Los mercados son un escenario ideal para los aficionados a la fotografía ya que mezclan tradición con modernidad y ofrecen una gran variedad cromática permiten jugar con la luz y el color.

Me gusta recorrer las calles de Oviedo, cada rincón y en especial el Mercado del Fontán y sus alrededores. Este mercado es uno de los que cuenta con mayor historia en Asturias. Es uno de esos lugares mágicos que no suelo perderme, callejear y conectar con el espíritu de la ciudad a través de su mercado, recorriendo cada rincón en busca del contraste de la mejor luz y color. Mercado y plaza componen actualmente un conjunto en pleno casco histórico de Oviedo.

En el entorno del Fontán, existe la principal plaza cubierta de la ciudad asturiana de Oviedo (España), que se sitúa adosado a la Iglesia de San Isidoro. Dentro del propio mercado, en su interior, alberga numerosos puestos de productos frescos y locales hosteleros. También en sus alrededores, donde cada jueves, sábados y domingos, se celebra el mercado en dicha plaza donde todavía paisanos y paisanas se colocan a vender verduras con cajas en el suelo y básculas portátiles.

Existen una gran variedad de puestos que se colocan llegando a recorrer todos sus alrededores.

Me gusta recorrer cada uno de sus rincones y fotografiar la conexión entre la gente y el mercado. Suelo llevar una pequeña cámara discreta para no llamar mucho la atención, ya que en ningún caso busco que la gente se sienta incómoda. Suele ser muy acertado y me encuentro muy cómodo con un pequeño objetivo fijo equivalente a 35mm. Me gusta acercarme con la cámara a cada situación y estar cerca de la gente a la que fotografío, tener una conexión directa de primeros planos.

Elections in Israel 2020 round III by Shimi Cohen

About 600 people attended the first "Yellow Vests" demonstration in Tel Aviv.

Ten protesters were then arrested in clashes with police.

Among the cries that were heard: "We will not give up", "Until now", "Mafia", and "It's a robbery".

It is easy to describe the costly protests in Israel as a political left protest, but a world view reveals that this is a global phenomenon of rebellion against the elites and fears for the future.

So it is true that in the state of Israel, where everything is painted black and white and divided to the right and left, it is easy to turn any matter into a party issue and blame the heads of the vests of protest they are familiar with from previous demonstrations and sponsored by foreign bodies, whose sole purpose is to overthrow Netanyahu's rule. But if the yellow vests movement is not only that much more - a movement of rebellion against the political and economic elites and against the existing order, a movement that is part of both local and global phenomena - these statements are foam on the water.

Boycotts, demolition of shops, tear gas, detainees and wounded are most often the result of large demonstrations around the world. Governments are trying to suppress or resolve the crisis - but sometimes the protest is greater than any issue, government or even the protesters themselves, and can gain momentum that no one can predict.

The State of Israel is going for the third time in a year!

Fighting rounds like the one taking place in recent days around the Gaza Strip tend to strengthen the right-wing parties in general and the Likud in particular, especially when it comes to the last days before the elections. At this point it is a cease-fire, but there is no telling what the next few days will give birth to.

In any case, life in Israel seems to have turned into a sequence of rounds - a round of elections, a round of fighting and a recap. If the situation in the south escalates, and at the same time the Corona fright increases, we may face an election campaign with a particularly low voter turnout, which may also bias the results in one direction. In any case, at this stage we do not seem to be heading for a decision.

Bottom line, US President Donald Trump's Centennial Plan, also known as the "peace plan" even though it completely ignores the existence of the Palestinians and is therefore unclear who is supposed to make peace, has not caused the Israeli public to wake up from its slumber.

I chose to translate a song from "Mashinah" which, although written years ago, still felt relevant to me today, Why Why Politics Now?:

Thousands of mercenaries gather in a mosque

They talk about me but not with me

And my neighbour's uncle got his rank

My wife's son's wife said:

“Ahh my sister, ah my sister”

Shamir and parsley meet in the dark

Solve the current situation

And in New York they invented a new strain of disease

And one man claims to be my brother

“Ahh bro, uhh bro”

I lied that I said everything was so wonderful

Because nothing was really right

Our ball turned square too

Forget about it being round

The rock 'n' roll business.

In San Francisco, bridges need recovery

In Russia another train disaster

The masses dropped the wall in Berlin

And I and you just have to hope

“Ahh hope, ahh hope”

I'm rock 'n' roll

Why does a stone in Ramallah deviate from its course?

You and I are in a crate

Sing and dance in the centre

I lied that I said everything was so wonderful

So why do I need to have politics now?

Istanbul and the Prairie Wedding by Keef Charles

A few months ago, I travelled to Istanbul. A fabulous city with a colourful history and cultural diversity; contrasts everywhere. I took many shots; the vast majority in the company of friends. I was asked to write about the city to accompany these but I felt that others were better able to do so. I’ll try again, another time. A time when I can do justice to these new found friends; the city of the river; the trading; the markets and competing calls of the minarets.

I have shots, shots aplenty to accompany such an article but for now I’ll write about something that seemed to pervade the majority of my photos. The ones I’ve chosen this time around.

Smartphones, smartphones...and yet more smartphones!

It shouldn’t be a surprise really; Istanbul is a thriving, largely modern city. I was surprised though; you get so used to seeing them that they become almost invisible. I can’t fathom what was so different this time; why they seemed far more evident and grabbed my attention. I thought it was only when I had got back home and reviewed the shots en masse that I realised fully how often these smartphones were in my frame...but perhaps, they were a subconscious focus.

Don’t get me wrong though. I see, and feel, both sides of the argument. Perhaps in the same way that the city of Istanbul straddles the river Bosporus; to link Asia in the east and Europe in the west...so I feel both sides of the argument about the Smartphone.

To start with, without modern technologies, FB, smartphones and the like ...I wouldn’t have found many of my Likes, Laughs ...and Loves. As sad as that may sound, it’s a fact of modern life.

Moreover,

If,

Through the power of this technology,

..two people

..in separate rooms

..in different countries

..can converse as lovers

It’s not all bad, is it?

People decry the influence of smartphones

Sure..

But then there are televisions, tablets, computers, gaming consoles,

and, and, and...

It’s an excuse not to interact, people say

Tis true but..

Picture this, the breakfast table of yesteryear...

One watching on, perhaps bored and slightly ill at ease

While the other reads the paper,

Other’s hand reaching out to pick up coffee cup, sip and replace

Eyes still glued to the paper

A moment later the arm astretch, bring pages together, pinch the edge of page just read, reopen on page anew...

So to continue the reading

Without regard for partner.

So, I ask...

Was this so different? So different from someone forgotten or ignored because of a Smartphone?

It’s too pervasive; there’s no getting away from it.

Well there is...if you fight the addiction, that adrenaline spike each time it tings. It’s said that endorphins are released at the sound of notifications and alerts. It has become a drug for many.

But you can switch it off...get away. If you fight the addiction.

There is something to be said for the convenience, however:

As a kid growing up we didn’t have a phone...

If you wanted to talk to someone down that heavy black handset, it was a walk out of the house, down to the corner of the street. To the iconic British phone box. Sturdy later model of the Doctor Who Tardis. No longer blue but red. Signal box red.

Hey...

Lucky if you didn’t have to queue in the freezing cold rain.

Lucky if you didn’t have to wait for the soldier’s wife, hungry for more than the occasional letter from the field of action.

Lucky if the stale and acrid smell of urine didn’t assail your nostrils.

Lucky if the huge book of phone numbers listed the one you wanted.

Lucky if that relevant page hadn’t been hurriedly torn out to scribble some note on.

Lucky if the person you were calling was in; no green dot showing them as available.

Lucky if the coins weren’t gobbled up before you’d said what you needed to say, after you finally got through.

Mobile phones, now in the guise of smartphones, are definitely more convenient.

Advances in technology are good in certain other respects too:

I’m put in mind of Mark Knopfler’s Prairie Wedding..

We only knew each other by letter

I went to meet her off the train

When the smoke had cleared and the dust was still

She was standing there and speaking my name

I guarantee she looked like an angel

I couldn't think of what I should say

But when Adam saw Eve in the garden

I believe he felt the selfsame way

Bride to be takes the train, from the east, all the way out west

Taking chance on a new life

All that they had to go on was the letters

What clues lay in the parchment, the ink, the hand?

Were they ghost written? Could some other stranger have leant themselves to the telling?

Least with the phone you can start to build more of a picture

Sense, through the language, the pauses, interruptions, frequency

The words, the sentiment

Feel the longing...and that’s just the messaging

What then the delight when the voice is heard?

Sweet as honey

Accent, dialect, whatever...

Could be anything, some nuance you couldn’t detect simply through written word

Maybe new texture and colour comes with actually hearing...a pause, a sigh, a giggle and nerves

It’s enough to stop your heart for a moment

Just a moment...don’t worry

That’s just the beginning

A few more words and the melting starts

Of one seriously compromised body organ

That’s not to mention the selfies!!

There’s intensity

I love the intensity

It’s like the breath of life

Hot, rasping

Never sure how long it will last.

So often the subject comes up about how these small devices have adversely affected our lives ..and ruined so many shots.

I guess I’m mostly happy with how smartphones have enriched my life. There’s no getting away from the advances of a lover destined to be; I’m ready to embrace.

So...here are my shots.

I’ve always been fascinated by Social Psychology. I love body language, expressions. I was just drawn to Street. So... I got back from an holiday in November ‘16 and had to find an outlet. I’d taken hundreds of shots my family weren’t interested in. What the heck!? Who are they? So... I went online and posted in a Street Club.

That Christmas I got a book on Garry Winogrand.

At the risk of sounding melodramatic, my world changed. I’ve made many friends, near and far. Learnt a phenomenal amount by looking at and analysing others’ photos. Developed a recognisable style and then largely abandoned it; for the sake of artistic growth.

I don’t know what my style is. I’m not sure I want to be categorised.

I do know, however, that I love Street and the friends I have made.

The ritual bath, the mikveh by Shimi Cohen

The ritual bath, the mikveh (gathering of waters), is an ancient Jewish tradition relating to the concept of taharah (ritual purity) and tumah (ritual impurity).

In Biblical times, the ritual purity system related to Temple worship.

Taharah (purity), in its original meaning, referred to a state of being able to approach sancta (such as the Temple), and tumah (impurity) referred to a state of being unable to approach the same sancta, because of contact with death, illness, or with mysterious forces of life such as semen or childbirth .

Impurity could be contracted by approaching a corpse, by having a seminal emission, by certain illnesses, and by childbirth or menstruation.

In modern times, the condition of tumah is now usually used to refer to women who have menstruated, given birth, or had an unusual vaginal discharge (a woman in a state of menstrual "impurity" is called niddah).

Immersion in a mikveh can remove certain kinds of tumah, including the kind caused by menstruation and childbirth.

Since Talmudic times, Jews no longer relate to the laws of purity as a preparation for Temple worship.

Anyone may approach a synagogue or a Torah, even if he or she is ritually impure.

A Jewish man does not need to ritually immerse in order to pray if he has had a seminal emission, though in early Talmudic times this was required.

However, according to Biblical law, it is forbidden to have sexual intercourse with women who are menstruating or have recently given birth, until they have ceased bleeding, waited a certain period of time, and ritually immersed.

Since rivers are not the most modest or comfortable places to bathe in the nude, specially constructed baths that collect rainwater have been part of Jewish communities for millennia. Women go to these baths accompanied by a mikveh attendant, or shomeret (guardian), who checks to make sure that there are no stray foreign substances on the body before immersion takes place.

Mikveh is also used as a ritual "changemaker" to effect the conversion of non-Jews to Judaism. Because of its uses, mikveh is associated with spiritual change and renewal – it is, in effect, a rebirth ceremony.

Men sometimes use mikveh as a cleansing ritual prior to Shabbat and holidays – this is a mystical practice observed by mystics and hasidim, among others.

As a rebirth ceremony with ancient roots, mikveh connects Jews with their earliest spiritual practices.

I am 47 years old, based in Israel. I live in Kibbutz Givat Brener. Photography has been an important part of my life for the last five years. I roamed the streets taking photographs and developed my skills as a street photographer.

Photography gives me a different way to observe the world. 18mm is the way to see the wide of the universe, 35mm is the way to see the life of the human.

To take photos is my true love and passion and I strive to use my photos to tell a story. I am inspired by the life rhythms & constant flow of everything around me. I aim to expose the emotional side of human beings in the city streets, pushing the final image into a story. These days I concentrate most on documentary photography in series.

Photography is a very important part of my space... it is to discover, it is to capture giving flow to what the heart feels and sees in a certain moment, it is being in the street, experiencing, understanding, learning and, essentially, practicing the freedom of being, of living, of thinking.

I have won awards; and lost awards, but that isn’t what matters. What matters is chasing the light and sharing it!

EDUCATION : Technion, Haifa—A eronauticalEngineer TelAvivUniversity, TelAviv—B achelorofBusiness Administration

AWARDS: Local testimony 2017 Local testimony 2019 Local testimony 2020

Publications "Eye Photo Magazine", June 2019, May 2019 · Publication on 1X site, ProgressivEzine #12, Progressive website

PROJECTS : My work has been featured as part of the Fujilove magazine project: 12 Photographers Explore Israel Through Their Fujifilm Lenses: https://fujilove.com/12-photographers-explore-israel-through-their-fujifil m-lenses/?fbclid=IwAR3OBe_v0Ng0vOTfJpRtOEFixmtcIHJIp22QQbGVv8uTu -Kzcm4cPKpCWek

Took part in the project Day on the Streets of Jerusalem in May 2019: https://www.facebook.com/ dayonthestreetsof/

Something for the weekend? by Keef Charles

Mods and Rockers.

Hippies and crew cuts.

Hairies and Skinheads.

Over the last few decades, hairstyles have definitely helped define how we see ourselves and how we want others to see us. Yeh, I know, it’s been a social phenomenon for centuries...but I’m referring to more recent history; that to which some of us can relate. How we choose to wear our hair is part of our expression / our mantle. Ironically, helping us to portray ourselves as individuals. Simultaneously, hiding us behind a collective style and image.

How do you feel about haircuts? Is it for you a necessary evil? Or are you one of those that revel in the whole experience? There are some really class hairdressing salons around and for some people, this grooming is an integral part of their week. Things have moved on considerably from the days of the old barber. Fag in the mouth. Naughty wink as he asks if the guy in the chair wants “something for the weekend“. Guys are more open to the experience of ‘gentleman’s grooming’.

Alas, not me...

I don’t frequent barbers or hairdressers these days, on account of not having enough hair up top to justify it. I just shove a hair trimmer into the palm of my hand and get on with it. So long as I run it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth enough times, it ends up reasonably tidy.

Sure!...I’d like to have a full head of hair but thinning and balding can have its advantages.

You see, I made the mistake, a number of years ago, of asking my wife to cut my hair on a Sunday evening. I had a mild panic about looking scruffy for a business trip to South Africa and insisted she gave it a go, even though she had drunk a couple of beers. She did warn me. Anyway, to cut a long story short, if you’ll pardon the pun...I made an emergency stop in a barber before heading for the airport. The only way to redeem the situation was for them to give me a Grade 1 all over. Sheesh, that was the shortest it had been for a long time.

Maybe you did a better job of controlling your fate. Not me...

Going back considerably further, I recall the time my brother Andy and I persuaded our mum that the Autumn School Term didn’t start until Tuesday. We must have been 12 and 14 years old, respectively, at the time. Wow, did that backfire! My mum said: “Well then, if you don’t have to go to school, you can get your hair cut instead”. We weren’t happy about that but didn’t think it wise to push it, seeing as we’d got the day off. Well, you know what? We both wished we’d gone to school instead. The barber was the sort that wielded not only his hairdressing scissors but an evil power as well. Despite our request for minimal shearing, he gave us both a short back and sides. We were mortified!

Going back further still…

We were stationed in Singapore; back in 1969. It was here we suffered at the hands of this Malayan guy who would ply his trade around the camp. Generally speaking, only Air Force personnel were allowed to conduct business on the camp but his grandmother had bravely put her life at risk during the Second World War. RAF Changi had an ominous past. The occupying Japanese forces had turned the base into a large scale complex to detain Prisoners of War. This barber’s grandmother, and I use the term ‘barber’ very loosely, had gone into the camp each day with a wooden handcart; selling vegetables to the prison kitchens. Unbeknownst to the Japanese guards, the handcart had a false bottom. Inside this cramped space, a lucky prisoner would clamber and curl up, remaining as quiet and motionless as possible, until safely outside the prison gates. If their ruse had been found out, both prisoner and rescuer would have been put to death ...after some excruciating torture.

So, unfortunately for me and my younger brother Andy, by way of thanks for his grandmother’s heroic efforts, this guy had a licence to stroll around the camp, yelling “HAIRCUT! HAAAIRCUTT!” at the top of his voice. His tools and stools were pushed around on a wooden handcart. I doubt that it was the same one as his grandmother’s, complete with concealed escape compartment. Shame the guy wasn’t selling vegetables or even fruit. He was selling haircuts. “HAIRCUT!”

He was unbelievably bad! I swear Andy and I could have done a better job with a bowl and blunt knife. Even at the tender age of ten and eight, we knew it was shocking. The only saving grace was that it took place one day during the primary school’s half term break. That gave us about a week’s growing time before we went back. A week was nowhere near long enough for it to grow to a decent length but at least it didn’t look quite as dog chewed. It still ruined our holiday though, to a degree. We had to be very choosy about which friends to go and call for. Kids are like mini adults, they can be awfully cruel; especially when they had they managed to escape the same fate. Didn’t happen again, I can assure you. Next time we heard “HAIRCUT!” bellowed somewhere in the distance, we ran. We legged it quick as we could, out of harm’s way!

My last haircut… more of a neck and beard trim really…

“Play gives us learning. Learning gives us voice.”

Play is certainly one of the main ways in which children learn and develop. Importantly, it helps to build self worth by giving a child a sense of his or her own abilities.. and to feel good about themselves. Very often, because it's fun, children become so absorbed in what they are doing, they are perceived to have entered their own world. The world of play.

Do you remember those beautiful warm and sunny spring days of your childhood?

Awaking to the sound of birdsong while the air still carried a hint of night’s cold bite?

I was five years old and eager to get downstairs first and grab the milk from the doorstep. We were still in the era of the milkman, back then. The guy who delivered fresh milk each day, according to the note left out the day before. He was also the guy blamed for any offspring who didn’t look like the rest of the family, poor bloke.

It was important to be first to the milk as it meant you were allowed the cream off the top. What was left of it, that is; after the sparrows had pecked through the foil. I swear they knew there was more cream in the gold top bottles. Maybe back in those days the silver top was half fat or something. I could find out, I suppose. Anyway, I digress.

After a hurried breakfast of cornflakes, creamy milk and as much sugar as I could get away with sprinkling on top, we’d scrape our chairs away from the table...eager to get outside. I say ‘we’. I had three brothers; hence the competition over the fresh milk. Dave didn’t have much chance though; being just a baby at the time.

“Oh, not so fast”, my mum would say; halting our escape. “...back upstairs and do your teeth before you go out, you two”. My accomplice at the time was another brother Andy, two years younger.

I remember that house and Air Force camp particularly well. Very fond memories. My dad did a year’s unaccompanied service in Aden, at the time; meaning my mum would have to look after her four boys on her own. Sadly, a practice run for when my parents split up seven years later. Anyway, moving on...

Our house was in a dream location. Swing park and playing field out the back; plenty of friends in the neighbourhood ... and the beautiful Bluebell Woods, across the quiet road, at the front.

Teeth finished as quickly as possible, thud, thud, thud...we’d run downstairs, shaking our hands; no time to dry them. Through the house, past mum who was probably tending to Dave; or doing laundry ..or one of a hundred things she had to do each day.

The park was small, fairly makeshift.. but our favourite piece of playground equipment was the slide. Not a big one ..but big enough for our little bums to slide down fast; if you polished it. Long trousers were better, bare skin acted as a brake. Of course, young boys had to wear shorts and so we’d pull our legs up to minimise contact.

We’d play for hours. Interrupting our games when our stomachs got the better of us, resuming when told it wasn’t lunchtime yet. Kids are always hungry.

This particular sunny day I was practicing my spitting skills. Not a party trick to impress the ladies, I’ll grant you...but I was getting rather good at it. Trouble was, I over committed my efforts to spit directly onto a particular stone or some such. I leant out over the side of the slide...further, further, further still....Woah!!...so far, I fell off it.

I don’t recall all the details but my mum recounts that a workman saw events unfold and lifted me carefully off the stony ground and carried me the short distance to my house. “Better get the doctor to this one Mrs”, he helpfully suggested. So, she went to the phone box after tucking me in bed and waited for said doctor to arrive.

No idea how long it took for him to make his ‘emergency’ house call but I think I’d recovered fairly rapidly.

On entering my room, mum and the doctor saw my little pyjama clad bottom just this side of my open bedroom window; the top half of my body hanging out ...as far as I dared. Oh dear! I was spitting onto the porch below. Lesson learnt? Maybe...but I hadn’t finished my game.

“I think he’s recovered well enough”, the doctor said ... with a rue smile.

Keef Charles