I find Brenda, 25, at a park bench, enjoying a snack. She’s in blue scrubs. I ask if I can talk with her for a bit. She tells me she only speaks Spanish. I figure Google translate might do a good enough job. We struggle a bit to converse but we manage.
She tells me she’s only been in the US for a month. When I tell her how long I’ve been here, she tells me I must learn Spanish. When I ask how it’s been, she moves her hand in a gesture I interpret as “so-so.” She’s adapting, she says. She came here, alone, single. I enjoy the way she refers to Dominica Republic as “my country.” She tells me in her country, she worked as a nurse and she loved it. Here, she’s working at a hotel, eight hours a day and she’s made a few friends at work. She tells me soon, that she’s tired, both of talking and typing.
We sit for a while and soon, I make a few photographs. We agree that I’ll send them to her. I want to ask a few more questions, about what it’s like back home or what she makes of the future, but for a common language. I leave her still sitting on the bench.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
I meet Alison and we share a smile. I nod as if to acknowledge but she begins to say something. I take off my headphones. She asks if I’m listening to music and we enter a conversation about music. She asks if I rap myself. I don’t. I tell her who I’m listening to but she doesn’t know them. She prefers hardrock herself. She mentions one or two but I don’t know them either. We agree that we’re from different times. She’s 55. She guesses that her youngest son might be around my age. He’s 29.
We talk about other things, about Manchester, how many streets bear names of trees – Pine Street, Beech, Elm, and so on. Neither of us know why it’s so. In the middle of a conversation, I blurt out that she has beautiful eyes.
She tells me about herself too. She feels free, the happiest she’s been in her life. She tells me of her history of abuse when she was a child and how her mother had her own demons too. She tells me about her Bachelors in Psychology, her job as a GED instructor, a place she lived that had fault lines, another home with her ex, and her neighborhood getting flooded with meth. She tells me these as if narrating events from a past life. I don’t ask what happened.
She tells me of her interest in the camera. Once, with her 35mm film camera, she took a photograph of a butterfly. When she developed it, it turned out to be tens, maybe dozens of butterflies perched on each other. It’s a small story that feels out of this world. I tell her it must have been a beautiful photograph. I would have loved to see this.
I ask for a photograph and she helped to suggest a good place to make one. We settle on this one.
As I leave, she tells me to be careful. She tells me this just the way my mother would.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
On the opposite side is a church and what I see first is a flashing light. It partially illuminates the door on the side of the church, and the makeshift camp – a chair, some clothes, some bags, no tent. I also see the legs of two people huddled together before they turn off the flash. I start thinking, not about homeless people, but the state of refugees in camps. I think of their makeshift tents and how families must huddle together. This is a scene fit to be a photograph not made.
Instead, I turn and find this building, hut like, detached from the main complex. And lit, most likely from a bulb on the main building. I make a photo, and another. And I keep walking.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
On my walk back from the Currier museum, I spot a classic VW beetle car and I become curious about it. It’s not in the best possible shape but I’m certain it still works. It doesn’t look abandoned, only parked for a moment. Just then, he arrives and settles into the car, ready to leave.
I hurry up to him. I tell him I’m curious about the car. There are a few questions I want to ask; how he came into the car, why this particular car and a few others.
In a small way, it reminds me of my childhood. Previously affluent streets now littered with brightly colored beetles and their owners often with stories of when the country was great.
I hurry across the road to meet him and I see the interior. There are a few empty disposable cups from chain restaurants, a couple of suitcases and a pillow. My mind wanders, forgetting my initial questions. I ask instead if he lives in his car. He tells me he doesn’t. He’s a software engineer, mostly because he found he had good computing skills. I ask for a picture and we part.
As I leave, I think of the questions left unasked but by now he’s gone.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
q: What is it that really makes a city?
Is it what or who you find in its corners?
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
I hesitate to go talk with him. I keep walking until I see him, more clearly now, scribbling away in a book. I don’t want to bother him but I do anyway. It takes a bit of back and forth before I sit with him. He finally asks me what I want to talk about. I ask about what he’s writing.
He writes everything that’s going on in his life. His anger and frustration. He writes instead of taking it out on someone or himself, or doing something foolish.
He tells me more about himself. He’s been homeless since he was 18, that’s near a decade. He tells me he’s trying to do better now. He wants his girl back. She loved him. He took it for granted. I think that’s a very relatable story. I ask where she is now. He points at her. On the other side of the park. She has a baby now, with his cousin. They’re all at the other side of the park, he glances at them periodically. It’s too far too see. I wonder if they’re glancing at him too. He was there for her when he was in jail. “Valley street is the worst. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” He was there for a year in 2022. He’s been in the hole too, where you only get one hour of light and 23 of solitude. He was in for possession and assault. He cut her off so she wouldn’t worry. When he called her mother, wondering if he would still have a girl when he’s out, she told him she didn’t think so.
He wants her back. He loves her, he tells me. He still does.
He has to go. I ask for his name. “Junior,” he tells me. He thanks me for listening to him. I thank him too. We agree to meet again.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024
I spend a little bit more time than I’d like framing the photograph. He spots me after this snapshot. He smiles. I wave. He waves back. He returns to his alone game. I return to my walk.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
I’ve seen him before, just outside a cafe I frequent. He had his guitar case open on the floor to collect as he played. He must have been there all day.
Yesterday, I walk into a bar. There’s a live band playing. It’s great music and I turn my camera towards the dancing people. I see him walk in with his guitar. Soonafter, perhaps inspired, he walks out, guitar now in hand. He sets up stage just outside the bar and rocks with the band.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024
First, I take photos of him just as street photos. He’s unaware. I trail him for a few seconds, looking at him through the viewfinder before I approach him. I ask directly for a photograph. He asks me what it’s for. “I’m just making street photographs.” He obliges, asks if it’s okay where he’s stood. I tell him yes and take a snapshot.
I ask him if he would mind taking off his sunglasses. He queries me now, “Is this a mugshot?” I go on to show him the previous photos I made of him. I tell him I like the first one in this frame. He takes off his sunglasses and pose again.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024
Another rainy evening, I take a walk as it reduces to light drizzles. What I find the most interesting is merchants in their stalls; very brightly lit, sometimes alone, awaiting the next customer. Perhaps one last sale before closing time. I make a few photos of the lonely night merchants amid many closed stores.
I keep walking. I have my headphones on but over the music I’m playing, I hear even louder music. It’s 10:00pm and I don’t expect to see a club in this part of town. I remove the headphones and allow the music lead me. It leads me to this photograph.
The music blares from the car. There are about five young men in a shop but it’s not open for business. They’re having a good time. They have drinks in red cups, shisha on a table and a couch, a scenery which reminds me strangely of the song, Lagos boys. I wonder if this shop turns to a mechanic’s workshop on Monday. I notice they glance at the TV monitors occassionally. It’s feed from a CCTV. There are cars on the feed. I can’t tell if the feed is a capture from just this shop or other places too. I would guess the second.
I walk in and the music – Spanish hiphop- reverberates through me. It takes a couple of seconds to get used to it. Another couple before they notice me and turn down the music. I ask for a picture, they oblige. One of them, a barber, gives me his card. He’d like a photograph of his store. Perhaps, I’ll visit. After the photograph, I stay a little while, watching the scenery from across the road, then I leave.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
First, I stay across the road and make a photograph. I make one of the building in contrast to the little shop and the four black men I’ve seen sitting outside of it the past few evenings on my walks. I take a few snapshots. More than just noticing or seeing, they become aware, and cautious. Not the most willing participants in my enterprise but they don’t accost me. I walk across to them and begin a conversation, telling them my plot. They don’t care much for my explaining.
The man in the baseball cap asks me why I’m invading their privacy. I try again to explain. It’s futile. He’s not aggressive. He’s irritated, perhaps frustrated. I can tell from his accent that he’s African. I suspect that perhaps they’re west african but they could be from the east. I understand the irritation without aggression.
A young man comes later. He resonates better with my plight. I take a close snapshot of the shop now. I try again to explain to the men and have a conversation too. Perhaps we can understand eachother if we’re from the same place. The man in the hat tells me to leave, that he doesn’t want to hear it and I don’t need to come close to him.
The young one that’s just arrived tells me it’s night. I would have more luck during the day. Maybe I’ll go back during the day.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
There’s a tornado watch but that seems to have passed with only some rain, lightning and thunder. It’s night and I’m outside looking for portraits to make. I don’t find much success. I turn to the interaction between lights and architecture. I pause at this building and make a few photographs. I enjoy the symmetry of two backlit windows with a door in the middle. It’s an almost perfect symmetry.
It’s about 10 pm. The door creaks open and two middle aged hijabis are revealed in the light of the shop. They share a very hearty laugh. If I knew them, I would probably call them alhajas. My mother has a friend down the street. Often after dinner, she would go visit her friend and return just about the same time as these women here. I wonder how long they’ve been friends.
I make a few photographs before they spot me. They ask me if I have a friend in the building, if I’m spying on them. I introduce myself and show them the photos I’ve made. They don’t mind. I say goodnight and leave. I don’t remember if only one of them leave or if they both do.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
“How do you photograph someone without focusing on one aspect of their lives?”.
On Pine street, I walk up to him, “I like your hair”, I say. It has a bluish tint just at the top. He accepts the compliment and I ask for a picture. He tells me his name is Joseph. Mine’s Samuel, I say. I wonder if it’s a half-lie. Samuel’s my middle name, but I never introduce myself as this. I don’t dwell on it.
I make a few photographs. I want to show them to him but he waves me away, “I never look good in photos.” I argue that that’s not true. Later, I wonder if there might be another reason why he doesn’t want to see the photos. I wonder why then he’s allowed me to make them at all.
We don’t converse much. We bump fists, I leave. I imagine he continues to light the cigarette he’s been holding the whole time.
Manchester, New Hampshire, 2024.
Like life and everything else that’s a constant battle, first you must learn to move your feet.
I am conflicted about what project to do here. I think I’ll like to photograph boxers and dancers for a side project. I search on Google Maps for boxing gyms close to me. I walk a mile from the residence to one. The director welcomes me. I try my best to tell her what I’m looking for while asking myself “what am I looking for?”
The gym is a beautiful place. An old factory they’ve taken the pain to turn around. In the new space is a boxing ring, and ropes. It’s a place for boxers and dancers, and many more types of art. I don’t take a photo but I seek permission to return.
I return the next day. In the basement is the training space for boxers. They go up when it’s time to spar. On this day, I take many photographs. I look through them. I select a few. I don’t know what this one says but it says something – the pose, the covered up tattoo on the arm, the stillness, the motion, the rocks, the wall hangings – they say something. I am still listening.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.
R. excerpt: “She misses him. When she woke up, the first thing she did was look for him”.
I meet Denise, 20, on a walk. She’s with her daughter, 1. I ask to take a walk with her so we can talk for a bit. I introduce myself. We settle at a closeby park where we spend some time talking.
She’s a tattoo artist in training but she used to be a nail tech. I make a quick portrait of her. She has a look and responds with something like “So Dominican Republic.” I figure that must be where she’s from. I can’t tell and I forget to ask if she was born here or if she migrated here at some point, perhaps with family. Her accent is American so I’m fairly certain she’s been here for a long enough.
I ask about her family – her daughter’s dad. He’s been gone for a little bit; maybe a few days. A post she made on snapchat about relationships upset him. She was hoping they might spend father’s day as a family. She tells me their daughter misses him. I think they will reconcile soon.
Manchester, New Hampshire, 2024.
