Unexploded Ordnance: Don’t Touch!

This is a poster that is at the Phonsavan, Laos, office of UXO-Lao, the national demining organization. As you might expect, more boys than girls are maimed/killed by the Vietnam-era unexploded ordnance left over from the Secret War, in which the United States played a major role (those are all munitions manufactured/deployed by the United States pictured in the poster).

Photo Unexploded Ordnance Haam Jap!

The red text in the upper left states Haam Jap! (roughly translated: Don’t Touch!). I’ll have a follow up post about a very cool film project done with the Lone Buffalo school’s students soon. Stay tuned!

Posted in Humanitarian Photography, Travel Tagged , , |

Buddha Tree In The Mist—In A Client’s Home

I met a wonderful couple, Tim and Lena, in Laos, he was working for the UN at UXO-Lao on unexploded ordnance (UXO) demining projects and she was working at COPE. They really loved my Buddha Tree in the Mist panorama. So, here are some shots of it hanging in their home in Oslo. The print is actually hanging straight on the wall, but after some champagne and Tim’s self-admittedly questionable skills with a camera… thank you both!

 

Buddha Tree In The Mist

 

Buddha Tree In The Mist

 

Here is Buddha Tree in the Mist:

Photo Buddha Tree In The Mist

Buddha Tree In The Mist, Plain of Jars, Laos

 

 

Posted in Client Purchases, Framing, Home Decor, Panoramic Photography, Print Mounting Tagged , |

Writing To A Photograph: Snow Like Razors

Another photo for the Writing To A Photograph project. Photo provided by my friend Jade in Japan. My writing to this photograph below.

Razors

I want coffee, well, no, I want clarity. The coffee can wait. I turn the key in the deadbolt so hard that I briefly think it is going to snap off. Wouldn’t that be a relief? Never go back inside that white cube of an apartment, locked out forever. I punch the lobby button and three floors down step out of that little rattletrap of an elevator, the fluorescent bulb flickering ever so slightly, making a faint buzzing sound. I despise that sound—and in my inner ears can hear a squeak as my jaws clench even tighter. The front door is partially frozen closed, which I’m not expecting. Instead of opening with a push of my arm, it sticks. My head hits the glass. I spit and rub the ridge over my right eye, a comma-shaped smudge left on the door. Outside. Into the snow. The snowflakes are swirling around, eddying around the building. They aren’t soft like a tissue, they’re hard and coming down fast, biting into my lips like small razor blades. I pull up my scarf, snarling underneath.

Her warm breasts are pressing into me below my shoulder blades, her arm around my torso, tucked between my ribs and the mattress. She kisses the base of my neck. I had to bring it up. I couldn’t let the goddamn thing go, could I? She retracts her arm and turns her head down into the pillow, her hair brushing across my back. I drift off to sleep and don’t even feel her get out of the bed; don’t even hear the door click shut.

My scarf blows down around my neck and I get hit with a face full of razor blades. I leave it down, squinting my eyes to slits. A tiny, sharp snowflake makes it between my eyelashes. It hits me square in the eye. My head jerks. No use wiping it out of my eye, it’s already melted, running down my cheek, a tear I can’t seem to cry on my own. I’m stumbling a bit as I can’t really see—can’t see the pain I inflict, can’t see the suffering I cause. The snow is getting deeper, I pull up my scarf and squint again.

Posted in Writing To A Photograph

Artistic Nudes of Nathan Blaney (NSFW)

Some very nice nudes by Nathan Blaney, courtesy of Photoblographer:

http://www.thephoblographer.com/2015/12/12/the-artistic-nudes-of-nathan-blaney/#.VobZQ5MrJE7

Nathan Blaney

Posted in Nude Photography

Writing To A Photograph: At The End Of The Alleyway

Another photo for the Writing To A Photograph project. Photo provided by my friend Jade in Japan. My writing to this photograph below.

Photo of Alleyway

I’m walking down alleyway after alleyway, but I can’t seem to find her door. Left, then right, then another goddamn left. Nothing. Do I go back to the bar? I turn around and there: the gas main on the corner painted yellow, the dumpster to the right, down a few paces. Recognition—like an old memory pulled suddenly from a dark recess. A few steps and one more left; I breathe out and calm myself.

I’ll knock on her door and she’ll open up and invite me in for tea. There is a lot you can learn just by sitting over a cup of tea—not talking—with someone. Then maybe I’ll understand why she left. Why she left me in that bar toying with my drink.

I turn the corner and there isn’t a door, there’s a goddamned vending machine. I stand in front of it, uncomprehending.

The harsh light from the bulb over the door to my right is shining on me—translucent, eggshell cracks riddling my shadow on the wall to the left. The bulb is moving in the breeze, my shadow swaying faintly. I’m fragile and I’m slipping.

I turn and make my way back past the dumpster and gas main. Tomorrow night, yeah tomorrow night—bar, gas main, dumpster. I will find that door.

Posted in Writing To A Photograph