Spring! I’m certain of it.

Late April, and it finally feels like Spring. I’m a Spring child and I’ve known in my heart that it was Spring in spite of the continual snow and gray days. Finally, we have a day pledged to hit the 60′s. It’s here and I won’t let go.

Spring sets my internal clock to optimism. It’s a time to reassess where I am, and where I want to be. I’m filled with a certain romance and ready to declare a path, make things go. So I think naturally about photography, about legacy, about what it’s all about, really.

I was in the commercial photography business for over ten years. Mostly weddings, but a smattering of other assignments that made for an eclectic business. But weddings were the backbone of that existence, and I grew to love them after a lot of initial anxiety. In my best year, I had over 50 weddings, and more calls for consultations than I could respond to effectively.

It didn’t last. This was the tail end of the film era and the burgeoning of digital photography, and the market underwent a huge realignment. I think a lot of non-wedding photographers, lacking business in their own markets, became wedding photographers, and a lot of newbies started offering weddings for cheap on Craigslist. Those of us who priced ourselves in the mid-range, and frankly, offered similar packages, were lost in the crowd. I was terrible at networking and social media, and just didn’t know how to respond to this new environment. I got out. After so much stress about everything that wasn’t actually photography, it was actually a relief to put an end to it.

I now work in the digital print industry for a living, and make pictures for my own documentary/ fine art projects. I thought I would be content with this. Steady paycheck, benefits, the freedom to make pictures at will.

But for the past few months, I’ve wondered if that is what I really want? Or, should I say, all I really want?

Even as my business slowed down, my eye (talent? ability?) and love for shooting weddings continually evolved and I think I got quite good at it (at least in my humble opinion). Think about it: the wedding day is a perfect match for a documentary photographer. It’s not a stretch of skill to try and capture a story that plays out in a single day. A story that involves ambiance, emotions and intimacy. Photography that includes elements of landscape, portraiture and, especially (for me), story telling. Photography and story that is ultimately best displayed not as a single framed image on a wall, but contextually, in a book of its own.

I mentioned legacy. It’s not about fame. It’s what we leave behind that shows we’ve lived a useful life. I am a parent, and my children are, in a great sense, that legacy. But for me there’s the need to produce art that also has a useful life of its own. For a long time, I’ve believed art was something other than what I produced for pay as a wedding photographer. Now I’ve come to realize it’s perhaps what I am best qualified, or suited, to create.

A long time ago, I was a photographer for a small town daily newspaper. On those occasions when one of my images was nicely printed on the front page, it was more than a thrill. It was the sense that anyone taking a moment to appreciate that photo was standing in my shoes, looking through my eyes, at something I had momentarily witnessed and finessed into just that composition. They didn’t know they were doing that, but it was a secret pleasure of mine to imagine it that way.

If at least a few of the wedding albums I have created over the years are preserved into the future, properly kept as family heirlooms, then my vision lasts. One set of eyes at a time. Whether my name is known or not.

So, the question before me on this great spring day, is how do I start anew? How do I expand and focus on what I most liked about wedding photography (creating purposeful imagery) and tackle the issues I was worst at (marketing, bookkeeping)? And create a business model that thrives on honesty and personal integrity all the way through?

I’ve created a list of hopes and fears about re-entering the market. It was a really clarifying task to lay it out on the page, rather than feeling high about it one minute, low the next. My hopes included necessary business structures, like modernizing equipment, renewing insurance, seeing an accountant and exploring the concept of incorporating. I also have ideas about marketing and social media that I’d like to try. And it was especially gratifying to be able to counter every one of the fears on my list with a positive and natural solution.

It will be a long road, and I expect to take this blog along for the ride. Hopefully, I’ll post more often about things outside of my own head, too. I’d love to hear from anyone on a similar path. Drop me a line in the comments, whether you’re an experienced wedding shooter or just starting out. I’d love to hear your perspective and story.

So there.

“I am searching for evidence of the divine…” just came across this phrase on another website, as sort of an artist’s statement, and, while I don’t intend to inflict serious injury on another well-meaning photographer, but what a bunch of hooey. Ick. This statement was accompanied suitably exotic, timeless, monochrome images of China, beautiful and all, but if you don’t know there is evidence of the divine in us all, and everywhere, you just ain’t looking. I mean, go ahead and travel to China if you have the means, and make nice black and white photographs. But don’t have me believe you’re on the high road to Zen just because you’ve found a nice word like “divine” to use in your artist’s statement.

Four doodles. Nothing important, just noticed I could create a theme…

Abstracted images from unnumbered days.

 

I am still ensconced in the process of scanning old black and white negatives. It is frustratingly slow and the results can’t equal a true darkroom print, but I’m looking at images I’ve never processed before. God, what a blast. I have never been a prolific photographer, usually hewing to projects rather than random image making. Yet, I’m finding scenes that reflected my living environment, friends, family, ambient feelings. More than I remember taking, so little did I think about this type of photography. And everything– from an old couch on the street to my newborn son– feels connected now. At the center of every photograph– every honest photograph and not just me trying to be artsy– is me. I’m there, in all of them.

It’s a forest for the trees sort of thing.

Wish I had taken many more. It’s not too late to dive in, is it?

Copyright, all rights reserved, Greg Thompson

A binder or two of black and white negatives, covering several years of family history. A french press full of dark roast and cream. A slow but capable negative scanner. A lot of delicious work ahead of me, trying to get all of this living digitized and into some manageable shape. I’d like to create a set of family photo albums, put this period of living into perspective. What a joy to rediscover these moments– many images never printed before and new to me again. I’m basking in the glow of life lived and wondering how the time went by so quickly. It also makes me a little melancholy.

There has never been anything so vital to me as being a dad. I’m aware, as I view these images, that this was the time of my life, the pinnacle of my existence. I mean, don’t get me wrong– I must still be of some use around here!  But having an infant, attempting to blend into my wife’s already established family and make her children my own, too,  and all the other stuff of life in those years… whew! I’m not sure how much of it I did right, but I sure tried. The kids tried, too. No one tried harder than my wife.

The choo choo train of thoughts… Every morning I drive my son to school. We pass over the Mississippi River north of downtown. It’s usually an impressive sight– a mix of industrial chaos and clutter, leading to the wall of pretty skyscrapers sparkling in the near distance. Lately, though,  in these gray winter days, it all seems fairly flat and you have to force yourself to remember that this is the mighty Mississip, not just a lifeless trench of water under the bridge. I like to think about that, that there is life down there, going on all the time, regardless of our recognition or attention. It carries on, just as we carry on. I fantasize about going to the river’s edge  with a bucket, scooping out a pail of water, and looking at it under a microscope, just to see what I would see.

Life is always going on, always flowing, always changing. It never stops, hopefully never really ends. You think you’re cognizant and making choices, but sometimes it just throws itself at you and you cope as best you can. I think, in the early years of our family, I was often overwhelmed and fearful of making wrong choices but always carrying on, nonetheless. I look back on it now, in these pictures, and see something else. A lot of love and hope going on. What seemed so tentative at the time is now set in place, more certain and safe than it seemed at the time. I loved every second of it, still do… even the hardest moments… but I wish I could have relaxed a little more, too. Same goes for right now. Ah, well. We are what we are.

Chicken soup.

 

 

Sister Katherine and I recently had chicken soup and a nice conversation towards this project. I truly appreciated her insight and enthusiasm toward my goals in expanding it to include other faith groups throughout the Northside. Sometimes, just saying something out loud and getting some feedback makes all the difference. ( I shouldn’t say “sometimes”– would be nice to operate in that world all the time, but I too often isolate myself.) She pulled out her phone books and searched her contacts with other churches, giving me as much information as she could. I really feel that I am on firm ground here.

Toward the end of our conversation, she asked something of me… something that seemed to weigh heavily on her mind. She asked that I keep the Sisters in my prayers, that I would hope for their continued presence here. What I took away from it was that it was growing harder to find new, younger sisters willing to take the reigns in the order. I was touched that she would share that moment with me.  As vibrant as these women are, it can’t be denied that they are aging, and must prepare for the future. It seems that she and the other sisters are worried about passing the baton, ensuring that their work here continues.

Unconsciously, I thnk I’ve been photographing with that in mind… something about the compassion and wisdom that emanates from this house, how it is tied to maturity, lives lived. Each sister brings a unique herstory to this place, contributing to the vitality and structure of their presence here. And yet life here– as everywhere– is very fragile, dependent on grace.

The tribulations of a street photographer

So there I was, snapping photos over the freeway. Not sure how I got there, exactly, but it felt right: beautiful day,  interesting view, out of my ordinary bubble.  Just seemed like the right place to be, to see what was there. And then, it occurred to me what it might look like, to the driver of a vehicle behind or below me. It might seem suspicious, nefarious even– a solitary man on an overpass, making photos of a bridge column, hmmm… How long would it be before someone called 911? How many traffic cameras were already recording me? I had nothing to hide, but that wouldn’t necessarily be the end of it. I’d been questioned before and at the very least, it’s an icky feeling. You feel dirty. I looked back to the end of the overpass, the long, long open journey back to my car. The distance unfurled like a reverse zoom shot in a cheesie movie scene. Had I really walked that far? I tucked my camera behind my arm like a dog with its tail between its legs and started walking back, as fast as I could, but not so fast as to imply guilt. I think I was even humming, trying to be as casual as possible. That final 40 feet or so to my car was excruciating and I was certain a team of squad cars was already circling in behind me, but I didn’t break my cool, even stride.

I didn’t look back until I started my car. Somehow, the path was clear. And though I calmed down quickly and realized my mind had really done a number on me, there was this: as I drove back over the bridge, a squad car tooled slowly past from the opposite direction.

Which way to go?

Some late morning coffee and thoughts…

I hover around the ‘Sisters’ project, knowing something is here. Something beautiful happening, something beautiful to be made of it. I think I’ve said it before, that access is all. I’m attracted to access like a moth to light and sometimes, in the bliss of that attraction, it is difficult to make other creative decisions. Allow me to enter your life to photograph you and I may never want to stop. However, a project needs a focus, a plot, a motive, something that makes others realize what they’re looking at and want to look at it. I still need to find that equation. I can’t just collect images to no apparent end.

The Sisters represent to me just the tip of an iceberg. So much more below the surface that waits to be explored. Or, the metaphor that I often use in describing project work, threads to pull and follow. A good project will thread you through a long, interesting chunk of the sweater. Which thread do I pull? It seems to me I can go in a few different directions with this. I can stay focused solely on the sisters’ lives and their work in the city, creating a rumination on the interesting balance they maintain between  monasticism (interior) and community involvement (exterior). Or I could follow the paths of their work… their connections with other groups, individuals throughout the north side. I had a small taste of that last week, as Sister Katherine joined a demonstration of “Code Red” mothers and volunteers along Broadway Avenue. These are mostly women who have lost children to violence, and seek to change hearts.

Another path to follow, and one I am leaning toward, is a combination of these ideas… a documentation of spirituality itself on the north side. The north side is what I have ready access to, a microcosm of the city and even the world. I can find a broad swath of the world’s faiths here, and to me, that is very interesting.

Obviously, religion can be used to separate people, dividing us into camps of theology and politics. As I write, right-wing religious fundamentalists in this country (through promotion of a stupid “film” that ridicules Islam) are stoking anger in right-wing religious fundamentalists in the Middle East, leading to riots, hatred of Americans and death. It’s true that bigoted people of all faiths use religion to nefarious ends.

But the north side, like many urban communities, is a swirl of culture. It’s where many first-generation immigrants land on their way to citizenship in America, bringing their religious faith with them, and of necessity, must co-exist with a lot of other ideas. There’s no rocket fire here between religious camps. Gunfire between gangs, yes, but not religious affiliations. As troubling as religion can be when it’s held in the wrong regard– used to control rather than bring someone to their own innate spirituality–I find it an intrinsically interesting aspect of human behavior. I hate to sound like an anthropologist here, but religion/faith/spirituality is a key component of being human. Not that we all believe in something, but it seems like you could take a cross section of any time period in human existence, or any civilization on any land, and you would find evidence of a culture-defining faith practice. Or a faith-defining cultural practice.

Honestly, it’s not religion I am interested in. I’ve got a lot of spiritual things to figure out for myself, but I haven’t been “religious” for a long time. I just find it fascinating and beautiful when people do these fundamentally human things. It’s like I’m looking into the core of the human soul and the vortex of human history at the same time.

Getting ready

Ahhh… the joy and fear of beginning a long term project… The water is cold, at first. Do you jump in or take time to acclimate?

 
Access  is everything, and getting access means gaining trust and permission. It is central to the way I work. I can’t “steal” photos. I need to feel invited to the scene in order to do my work.

 
I’ll be visiting the sisters this morning for a mass at their residence. It will be my second visit with a camera and I still need to be careful, not overplay my welcome with too much commotion or movement. I need to spend more time listening and plumbing for depth. I don’t think the photos I make today will be central to my project… this is only the beginning. My demeanor is more important, I think. It will determine just how far the sisters will accept me into their living space and the work that they do.

Threads

1995. I had just moved to town, knew almost no one, and it was one of the coldest winters in recent history. I took a job at a depressing and hopeless facility on the north side.  I might have tried harder to find a better job, but it was all I knew, and all I really wanted to do on a daily basis was get out of the cold and back into bed. At the time,  pundits had taken to calling our fair city “Murderapolis,” due to a crime wave that emanated from blighted areas like the neighborhood I worked in. I hated driving  to work, and at times was plain scared to drive home at midnight or 2 AM. The lure of Minneapolis– what brought me here– was Lake Calhoun and Uptown in the summertime, the clean, glittering skyscrapers downtown. Cool coffee shops, bars and art galleries I had seen while visiting friends. This is what Minneapolis was supposed to be, not stone cold urban depression.

I worked in the neighborhood for seven years, though, and eventually got to know a few people who lived nearby.  Driving around and observing life, with my hands less clenched on the steering wheel, I began to realize not all was bad here, and summertime was lush on the north side, too. Moreover, I began to realize there was no clear delineation between “good” and “bad” parts of the city. Go a few blocks in either direction and you could find a green area, a revitalized area, a small business fluttering in an otherwise forsaken building. A flower garden bursting next to an unkempt yard. What mattered anywhere were people who cared, vs people who didn’t care. There were families here, too, not just men with guns.

I live farther north now, though to most people, when you say “north Minneapolis” it’s all the same: you live in a dangerous place. It may be true… crime is everywhere in a country full of guns… but I don’t want to be afraid. For one thing, at least until the housing market improves, I’m indentured to my mortgage. I couldn’t move away if I wanted to. And I don’t. I also don’t want to simply ignore a complicated mesh of issues that surround life in a poor and lower middle class society.

The Sisters of the Visitation is a small two-home monastery right in the heart of the north side. The sisters have deliberately chosen to live in a community that needs support, and to help everyone they encounter as best they can. As one sister put it to me, “Our agenda for the day is set with the first knock on the door.” People show up with practical needs– financial, legal, emotional or spiritual– and the sisters try to find a practical solution, as well as offering solace and a safe space.

That alone was interesting to me: people living their faith instead of simply preaching it. Theirs seems a deliberate, thoughtful and conscious life. They have tentatively allowed me to visit and attempt to document their lives. That was the initial plan. However, in talking to them, I am beginning to realize there is a real network of support threading through the north side. People sharing resources with one another from the inside, trying to find solutions to the pain of poverty and violence. The sisters may provide an opening for me into this world. It’s very early in the process and I don’t know how successful I can be. There’s something here, though.