Categories
Street Photography

People Not Doing Things

There is a kind of street photograph that I try to avoid at all costs. It’s the “catch whatever’s walking down the sidewalk” photograph. People being people. People going to work. People going home from work. People waiting for the light to change. People walking at night. People walking in the morning. People walking in dull light. People walking in bright light.

Yawn.

I prefer to capture people engaged in interactions either with other people or with their environment. People kissing people. People yelling at people. People avoiding puddles. People protesting things that make them angry. People spray painting messages on walls.

In the first case, I could photograph a cardboard cutout on the sidewalk and you wouldn’t be able to say for certain whether it was a flesh-and-blood person or a poster from the print shop. In the second case, my photograph would capture a dramatic encounter impossible to replicate no matter how many times I revisited the scene.

However, every rule has its exceptions, as does the rule about photographing people only when they’re engaged in interactions. In today’s photograph, a man offers a pamphlet to a passing woman who emphatically ignores him. This documents a deliberate refusal to engage.

In a way, this encounter typifies all contemporary public discourse. Never have so many people had so much to say. And, thanks to universal literacy and social media, never have so many people had the means to disseminate their messages. At the same time, never have so many people found themselves the unwilling audience for so many messages. Never have so many people felt so overwhelmed by the sheer noise of others exercising their constitutionally protected freedoms.

Increasingly, this dynamic produces an exchange in which one person does their utmost to promote a message while another person, the intended recipient, does their utmost to ignore that message. As Janis Joplin never said: “Freedom’s just another word for making a nuisance of yourself.”

Categories
City Life

Black & White Photos Promote a Feeling of Nostalgia

A man talking on a cell phone walks on wet pavement past the graffiti-covered entrance to the Hotel Waverly.
Hotel Waverly, Spadina just north of College, Toronto

The Hotel Waverly doesn’t exist anymore. Even when it did exist, the word “Hotel” was a generous gesture. It was more like a flophouse. I had thought I’d write a short story someday about a family of tourists on holiday from another country, Germany for instance. Not knowing any better, their travel agent books a suite for the family at the Hotel Waverly. They arrive from the airport to some shock. Hilarity ensues as they share with the locals the German words for such phrases as “crack whore” and “meth-head.” They return to their home in Bonn with bedbugs and STD’s for souvenirs. Alas, I was too slow and a condo developer had demolished the building before I could get around to banging out my story.

Like so much real estate in Toronto, if I blink, it vanishes. While I’m out and about, I make a point of capturing older buildings so that I have personal documentation of what things looked like at that precise instant. It’s astonishing how quickly visual memory fades. Without the help of my photographs, I would soon forget the old buildings, the ones people like to say had character when what they really mean is that they were gross, dirty, and decrepit.

It feels somehow natural to offer these photos as black and white conversions. Black and white signals we are glimpsing a world that no longer exists. Black and white encourages a certain feeling of generosity toward the subject matter, too. However disdainful we snooty middle class types may have felt for the Hotel Waverly in its day, we can forgive its sins now that we look back from a safe distance. Such character!

After a few more years have passed, and we find ourselves growing weary of the endless rows of glass and concrete towers, we note a surge in feelings of nostalgia. The Hotel Waverly was not just a place with character. We realize now that it was somehow integral to the city’s life and personality. Its demolition is a lot like what happens when a senior loses brain mass. Memory grows unstable, and then follows the gradual slide into municipal senescence.

Categories
Street Photography

Pushing back against Susan Sontag: Cozy in Plato’s Cave

Man in tie and overcoat walks past the west entrance of Toronto's Fairmont Royal York Hotel.
York St., West entrance of Fairmont Royal York Hotel

The first essay in Susan Sontag’s book, On Photography, is titled “In Plato’s Cave.” I love Sontag’s writing. It does what all good writing should do: it provokes me. It doesn’t try to be my friend; it tries to make me think.

The trope of Plato’s cave—firelit shadows dancing on a wall—suggests the basic mechanisms of photography itself. Instead of firelight, photographers rely on sunlight or flashes; instead of shadows, they capture light reflected from their subjects; and instead of a wall, they cast that light on film or image sensors. Sontag invokes the trope the way clergy tell a parable: it has a didactic purpose. Like the dancing shadows, the reflected light we have captured on our image sensors is a dull likeness of a fuller reality that lies just beyond our apprehension.

But there’s something about Sontag’s tone that troubles me. She expresses her views in extreme terms:

All photographs are memento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing’s) mortality, vulnerability, mutability.

I’m troubled by her use of the word all. She lays this down as an absolute law of universal application. She leaves no room for variations in personal experience.

At the end of the essay, she offers another grand pronouncement of universal application:

Needing to have reality confirmed and experience enhanced by photographs is an aesthetic consumerism to which everyone is now addicted. Industrial societies turn their citizens into image-junkies; it is the most irresistible form of mental pollution.

First published in the New York Review of Books nearly 50 years ago, her words have taken on new life in the post Instagram age when people will produce 1.72 trillion photographs in 2022. How prescient! say her admirers. Well. Yes and no.

While I do agree that we are a society of image-junkies, our addiction goes beyond image-making. We are addicted to stimulation: binge-watching Netflix shows, road rage in GTA, Twitter hate-fests, Tik-Tok porn, live-streaming Ukraine gun battles. An image avalanche may well be the least part of our addiction.

What Sontag’s observations may miss 50 years after the fact is that, among the countless motivations for making images, many contemporary image-makers may use the process as a defence against over-stimulation. Like so many others, I answer Sontag’s invitation to turn around in Plato’s cave and stare at the world as it really is, only to find a world so saturated with stimuli that I find myself inundated.

My reality is a media-saturated reality. The only way I can cope with its overwhelm is to turn its tools on itself. I don’t make photographs to colonize the world, or to commodify it, or to fetishize it. I make photographs as a way to throw up a buffer between myself and a fuller reality. I tighten the frame and get rid of the colour to make the buffer more effective. Without that buffer, I would go crazy. I need Plato’s cave. I need the protection it gives me from a version of the real that isn’t interested in my well-being.

Categories
Street Portrait

How does The Amazing Spiderman go to the Bathroom?

Does Spiderman have a fly? (I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself.)

But seriously, if Spiderman struggles to find his eye holes, don’t you think he’d struggle even more to find his pee hole? I guess it depends on how desperate he is.

And what happens when Spiderman hits middle age? In the entire 60 year lifespan of the franchise, I don’t think Peter Parker has ever been more than 19 years old, complete with acne and cracking voice. But realistically, I don’t think the spider bite changed the fact that Peter Parker has a prostate gland which, like all prostate glands, enlarges as he ages and correspondingly reduces his storage capacity. By now, he probably needs to whizz every hour or so. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that his initials are PP.

Assuming Mr. PP does have a pee hole and has no trouble finding it, there’s still the problem of how to handle his equipment without getting sticky webbing all over it. Or maybe that’s not webbing.

Now you know why I never got that second interview for a job at Marvel Comics.

Categories
Street Photography

Plywood Canyon

I can’t speak to the way things played out in other cities during the pandemic. All I have for a reference is what I observed in Toronto. Based solely on appearances, Toronto looks like any number of large American cities. That’s why, in films, it often serves as a body double for cities like New York and Chicago. Of course Toronto isn’t an American city. While the features that distinguish it are often subtle, those features are real all the same.

Early in the pandemic, when everybody went into lockdown, most retail enterprises had to shut down. Unless they could hold themselves out as an essential service, they had to shutter their doors and send their workers home. As soon as this happened, most of those stores covered their doors and windows with sheets of plywood. By this gesture, these stores said, in effect, that they expected an end-of-civilization scenario complete with marauding gangs and looting and molotov cocktails.

I can’t say for certain, but I get the feeling the plywood order came from head offices in large American cities where end-of-civilization scenarios are more probable. Especially in those cities where (lack of) urban planning has encouraged (white) flight to the suburbs, downtown cores are less stable in times of crisis. But Toronto is not one of those cities. Say what you will about all the condominiums sprouting like mushrooms, these projects guarantee that the city’s core enjoys a vibrant street life which in turn promotes a greater sense of social cohesion.

In addition, there is a certain alchemy in Toronto that’s harder to nail down. Call it local culture if you like. The fact is: people in Toronto are extraordinarily compliant. Relative to other large cities, rates of violent crime here are extraordinarily low. (The 2021 Safe Cities Index ranks Toronto as the 2nd safest city in the world). Vaccination rates in the city have been high (almost 90% for 2 doses). And most people have accepted public health protocols like masking and social distancing.

Despite the evidence, as soon as Doug Ford issued his first state-of-emergency order in March of 2020, retailers with windows fronting on major thoroughfares covered those windows with plywood. As I discovered on my pandemic photo walks, the only people out on the streets at that time were the homeless and marauding gangs of photographers. I feel badly for all the trees they wasted.

Categories
Street Photography

Black & White Directs the Sight: a Post-processing Mnemonic

I’m standing on the southwest corner of Yonge & Dundas with my eye on a street preacher. He’s older, with a shock of white hair and a Santa Claus beard that makes him look like a prophet the way people look prophetic in Cecil B. DeMille movies. He’s gathered around himself a group of young people who look on as he shares the good news. He sways a little and I shoot a burst as he’s swinging through the full range of his sway. Well that was interesting, I think, and I go on my way.

It isn’t until I get home in front of my computer screen that I realize one of my images captured a glint of sunlight reflected from the cross dangling against the prophet’s chest. If I believed in any of the man’s hoo-ha, I might take the glint of sunlight as a sign. It’s an alignment of sorts, like the alignment of Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. Only in this case it’s the alignment of sun, flat surface of the cross, and my image sensor. Either way, it must mean something, no?

Then comes the all-important question: colour or black and white? In this instance, the answer is determined by the fact that the whole point of the image is the fiery cross. My choice will depend on which format shows up the glint to best advantage. Does colour or black and white do a better job of directing the eye to the centre of the preacher’s chest?

There are no absolute rules, of course. Every fresh photograph presents a fresh context for a decision. In this instance, colour is a distraction. It draws our attention away from the only thing that really matters in the context of this image. All of this highly subjective, of course. On another day, with my stomach rumbling after a dinner of spaghetti, I might have decided the image makes more sense as a riot of colour, signifying something else, like the vibrancy of urban living. But as it is, I had lasagna for dinner and I made my choice.

Categories
Street Photography

Good Will Hunting

A woman in a winter coat walks along the sidewalk past a giant poster of a woman dressed in fur.
Advertising Poster on Bloor Street West, Toronto

I have a small wooden display case for Hohner mouth organs. It’s old and scuffed and my wife wishes I’d throw it out. But I can’t bring myself to get rid of it because it belonged to my great grandfather. Frederick (Fred) Barker, who died long before I was born, kept a small general store in a small community in a backwater of New Brunswick. This display case comes from that store.

I don’t imagine his store was much of a going concern, but it was enough to sustain him and his wife Mary and their four sons. Back at the turn of the (20th) century, Fred sold the sorts of goods that people living in the town of Sheffield might need. He didn’t advertise. I’m not sure it would have occurred to him that he could advertise his business. Even if he had advertised, I doubt it would have made any difference.

Fred relied almost exclusively on good will to attract his custom. He fostered that good will by being an active member of the community. He attended the local church (in fact, two of his sons grew up to become clergy). And when people entered his shop, he spoke to them by name. He expressed an interest in their lives, and in turn they expressed an interest in his life. Good will.

Nowadays, it’s almost inconceivable that somebody could rely exclusively on good will to sustain a business. It may have something to do with increasing urbanization. Maybe the way capital swallows up small businesses and integrates them into large organizations. Maybe it has something to do with changing cultural expectations. Or maybe it’s a combination of all of those things along with other reasons I can scarcely imagine.

Today it’s a matter of scale. When Fred ran his general store, it was a modest concern that fit hand-in-glove with the community it served. Now, retail concerns have grown so large, the customers appears as ants by comparison. It’s no longer the case that the customer is always right. Instead, the customer is always small.

Categories
Street Photography

The Advantage of Photographing Scenes that Disappear

One of the great advantages of living in a place where the cityscape is disposable and buildings are routinely demolished, rebuilt, and demolished once again, is that if you get a decent shot, the light just so, a person passing through the light just so, a thunderbolt above the person’s head just so, no one else can replicate your shot. The building that served as your backdrop is now a 60 story condo. And another 60 story condo across the road forever blocks that perfect sliver of morning light. Condo killed the photo star. Or something like that.

Fuck Ansel Adams and his photos of eternal natural majesty. El Capitan and all those other enduring scenes from the American southwest. Now, tourist photographers from all over the world show up at these sites, pick out the three holes in the ground where the previous photographer set up their tripod, and set up a shot that exactly replicates all the shots that have gone before. Boring. Worse than boring. All that tourist traffic to popular photographic sites is posing an environmental threat to the natural landscape. At least when I’m tramping through the city streets, there’s not much I can do to make the environment worse than it already is.

That’s why I say fuck Ansel Adams. Not because I dislike his work. I like it very much. But because we need only one Ansel Adams. We don’t need 20,000 tourist Ansel Adams. Be something else. Be you. It’s easier to clarify who you are in a landscape that changes before anyone else can replicate your shots.

Categories
City Life

The Human Scale

A tiny construction worker stands in front of a large upright slab of concrete as the last of a building is being demolished.

There’s a story—I can’t remember where I heard it and I have no idea if it’s true—about loggers in the late 1800’s cutting down trees in an old growth forest, maybe in California or the interior of British Columbia. They fastened guy wires to the top of an enormous tree, at least a couple hundred feet high with a trunk of such girth that it took a dozen loggers holding hands to circumvent its girthness, and they used block and tackle rigging to pull down the tree.

Once the tree was laid out on the ground, the loggers took up their enormous saws and set to work cutting it up, starting at the trunk. It took all morning to make a single cut, but when they were done, they had freed the tree from its upended root ball. Time for lunch. The loggers gathered in the shade of the root ball, made themselves a little fire for their tea, pulled out their sandwiches or whatever it is that late 19th century loggers ate for lunch, stretched out their legs, settled in for a short snooze. Ah!

The problem with pulling down a tree is that half the roots are still in the ground, bent at a 90º angle, but not broken. Those roots are under enormous pressure, but held in place by the weight of the tree. When the loggers cut the tree at the trunk, there wasn’t much left to hold the roots in place. Without warning, the roots snapped back to their original position, flipping the root ball flush with the ground and effectively swallowing all the loggers underneath it. Lunch. An entire logging crew vanished beneath an enormous redwood root ball.

When I heard this story, I think the teller intended it as an environmental parable, a case of tree revenge. The moral of the story was that, ultimately, we must pay for the ravages we inflict on the natural world. Something like that. But I was a kid at the time and didn’t care for parables with environmental messages. I evaluated all stories by their gross factor. By that measure, this was a good story. Almost as good as a dead baby joke.

Logging crew, Camp 3, Waite Mill and Timber Company, ca 1920
Logging crew, Camp 3, Waite Mill and Timber Company, ca 1920

Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons.

Categories
City Life

Psychic Readings: What Does Your Future Hold?

Man walking along sidewalk gazes back at sign advertising psychic readings.
What Does Your Future Hold? Sign on Yonge Street south of Bloor, Toronto

NASA has released a photograph of the black hole known as Sagittarius A* which spins at the centre of our galaxy. With a mass of only 4.3 million suns, it is relatively small for a supermassive black hole, especially when you consider that the black hole at the centre of the galaxy M87 has a mass of 6 billion suns. Strictly speaking, the photograph doesn’t show us the black hole since a black hole captures all information and releases nothing back to observers outside it; more properly, it’s a photograph of illuminated gas surrounding the black hole.

Whenever I read news stories like this, it sends my mind reeling, partly speculation, partly existential musing. Thankfully, neither of these tendencies need be limited by the fact that I know absolutely nothing about theoretical physics. In fact, my general ignorance probably makes the speculation more fun and free-wheeling.

What I do know is that the technical term for a black hole is singularity. Extreme gravity pulls matter to a single point in spacetime. Because we’re talking about spacetime and not just space, the extreme gravity also affects the flow of time. Observed from outside, as something approaches the singularity’s event horizon, time appears to slow. Beyond the event horizon (the boundary beyond which no information returns to outside observers), it’s impossible to say how time flows within the singularity. This is where speculation comes into play. Maybe time stops. Maybe time flows backwards. Maybe time flows randomly. Maybe we get time soup.

Another speculation that occurs to me: maybe we already know what happens inside a black hole because, in effect, that’s what our universe is. Like a black hole, the universe has a limit beyond which no information can escape. It’s limits appear to us dark and empty, not because there’s nothing there, but because whatever is there is unknowable. And if our universe is like a black hole, then maybe the flow of time in our universe is likewise fluid.

In his book, A Brief History of Time, Stephen Hawking wonders why time appears to move in only one direction. There doesn’t appear to be a reason why time can’t move backwards. An incidental consequence of Hawking’s observation is that the physical laws of our universe offer no reason why psychics shouldn’t be able to do what they claim they can do. This suggests a different kind of singularity: a convergence between theoretical physics and theoretical psychics.

Categories
City Life

To the Museum or Bust!

Further to yesterday’s museum post, I note that museum exhibits serve as an obvious reminder about the fleeting nature of life. We who are gaze at those who were but are no more. Dinosaur fossils. Mummified remains. Roman busts.

Whenever I visit the local museum, the Royal Ontario Museum, I pay a visit to the gallery of classical busts. I like to pretend I’m schmoozing with people from the past. Afternoon drinks with old (really old) friends. Selfies to post on the ancient Roman social media site, VoltusLiber. Unfortunately, after a few drinks, their eyes start to glaze over.

Sculptors have always had difficulty with the eyes. They look blank and eerie. In fact, Roman sculptors working in marble had no trouble at all with eyes because they painted them in. They had no scruples about painting their work to make it as lifelike as possible. But in the intervening years, the elements have worn away the paint. It was the sculptors who came later—Renaissance and Neo-Classical artists—who complained about the eyes because it never occurred to them that classical artists had painted their marble. Even where they did suspect that their predecessors were more relaxed, conventions had become so entrenched that later artists couldn’t persuade their patrons to try new things. And so blank and eerie eyes gaze back at us across the centuries.

To my way of thinking, blank and eerie eyes may be more realistic than carefully painted irises and pupils. They say eyes are the window of the soul. It’s impossible to say who the first “they” is, but people have been saying this since at least the days of Cicero who, ironically, is the subject of many blank-eyed sculptures. The problem is that no matter how precisely we represent a person’s eyes, the sense of an essential personality conveyed by that representation is illusory. Maybe our belief about eyes has something to do with empathy. Humans are keyed to feel something when they look into another’s eyes.

However, personal experience (and rational thought) contradict this belief. People with visual impairments give the lie to the “window to the soul” conceit. When I gaze into a person’s injured or unseeing eyes, their eyes tell me nothing about them as a whole person. Conversely, the fact that they cannot gaze into my eyes in no way hinders them from perceiving me as a whole person. Whatever mysterious alchemy constitutes the self does not depend on eyes. Similarly, the belief that we can learn something about ancient cultures by gazing into representations of ancient eyes is silly. In fact, ancient sculptors may have done us a service by leaving us with blank and eerie eyes; they force us to seek out more credible sources for our convictions about what our predecessors were like.

Categories
Street Photography

Continuity Is For Wimps

A middle-aged woman with glasses carries a plastic tray with some plants and wears a white T-shirt with the words: "Continuity is for wimps"
Woman buys plants in Kensington Market, Toronto

I don’t know what it means to say that continuity is for wimps. I do know that I am capable of reading a four word sentence—almost any four word sentence—and egregiously overinterpreting it. Sometimes what makes a sentence great is that it provides fertile ground for overinterpretation. Without that possibility, it would be just another boring sentence.

In the context of words, continuity may have something to do with flow. In turn, flow may be related to the passage of time. When we read a good paragraph, we say it conveys a sense of continuity to the extent that it carries us seamlessly through time from start to finish. The conjunctions and, but, and or (language’s logical operators) contribute mightily to that sense of flow. But the use of conjunctions by itself isn’t enough; their use has to be apt. “Montezuma shouted at Mary, but the dog had died.” This may be a fine use of a conjunction. However, we can’t know this without context. The dog might have no connection whatsoever to the relationship between Montezuma and Mary. A dishonest author may have tried to falsify the existence of a relationship.

The word but can anticipate a reservation, too: “I like you, but … ” Nobody wants to hear the second half of that sentence. In situations like this, we cry out to the speaker: if you feel a compulsion to make your sentences flow, now would be a good time to resist; chop things up like a fresh green salad.

Speaking of fresh green salad, I think of all the times during Trump’s term in office when I heard people complain about how the orange wonder’s speech came off sounding like word salad. America’s foremost pussy-grabbing toupee wearer has a mind remarkably untroubled by concerns for continuity. The stuff in his brain at the beginning of a sentence may not be the same stuff in his brain at the end of a sentence. Pit him against a consummate prose stylist, Julian Barnes, for example, and the difference is stark. Reading Barnes is like drinking a smooth 21 year old single malt. Listening to Trump is like drinking screech scraped from the sides of a barrel and boiled in a tin bucket.

Even if we suppose continuity is for wimps, I’m inclined to think it still depends on who’s pulling the levers. There are extraordinarily discontinuous writers—most notably poets—who still manage to produce compelling work. It’s not so much that they’ve turned their backs on continuity so much as that they’ve foisted responsibility for it onto their readers.

Categories
City Life

The Breitling Bombshell

It isn’t always the case that we should mourn the disappearance of things. Some things that disappear were best gone in the first place. Sometimes things best gone have stayed in plain view for so long that we’ve come to view them as part of the landscape, as fixed in place as a mountain. It’s strange, then, when they disappear and we don’t even notice they’re missing.

One of those things is the Breitling Bombshell. To adapt a phrase from T. S. Eliot, I might describe the Breitling Bombshell as an objective correlative, the physical manifestation of a broader—and perhaps mostly unconscious—cultural trend. She has an emotional heft to her that means so much more than just a girl in a skimpy red dress straddling a bomb. For the boys in the service, she was hope and freedom, and she presaged the sexual hope and freedom of the 60’s that arrived courtesy of second wave feminism and the birth control pill.

One evening late in 2015, I stand by the window of Breitling’s store on Bloor Street long after closing. A cleaning lady appears with her duster, a little stooped as she works her way around the perky blonde. Seventy years ago, Breitling provided the fly boys with precision timepieces so they could coordinate their flying missions, and it adopted, as part of its branding, the fly boy practice of painting pinups on the noses and the sides of their machines. Now, most of those fly boys are gone. And so is the world and way of life they thought they were defending. This is a new world now, one in which timepieces no longer serve a practical function when an iPhone tied to an atomic clock is more accurate; instead, their chief function is to declare the wealth of the wearer. Meanwhile, the vendors rely on wage labour that creeps out after dark like the Morlocks in H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine.

After making this photo, I get home and post it along with my usual commentary. Call it cultural criticism if you like. A few months later, they’ve removed the bombshell. A cursory search on YouTube suggests they’ve taken down all their classic nose-art nostalgic commercial spots featuring fly boys with wrist watches. Maybe you remember them; they doubled as breast augmentation ads. I find it highly unlikely that anybody at Breitling saw, much less heeded, my post. But I do think there’s something in the air, something Breitling understood and acted on.

Lately, on social media, a certain subgroup of white men has been going on about how it is being discriminated against by others who want their fair share too. They say the white male gaze is being threatened. I hate to be the bearer of bad news: but when major corporations have, for years now, been treating the white male gaze as over, it’s time to accept it as a certainty.

Categories
Street Photography

Photographs of what was but is no more

As is my habit, I start each month with a fresh theme. For the month of May, I will feature images that represent things / people / buildings / neighbourhoods / objects / ideas that were but are no more. All photography seeks to freeze time. All photography fails in this because time carries on; we gaze at the frozen photograph and can’t help but note how much things have changed. Far from freezing time, our photographs underscore how quickly it flows.

Nothing alerts me to this flow quite like a visit to the local archives. For me, that means the City of Toronto archives, but most cities have an archival service. What shocks me is the speed at which my own photographs become “archival.” The word “archival” calls to mind old black and white prints of people wearing dated fashions and crossing streets where the only mode of transportation is horse-drawn carriages. But my own photographs are quickly becoming archival because the world they portray is vanishing, and at an accelerated pace.

Part of it may have to do with a cultural shift. Once upon a time, we were outraged to learn that General Motors had adopted a principle of planned obsolescence as a way to guarantee a future market for its products. But we’ve grown complacent, allowing the practice to drive consumer demand for everything from new clothes to new phones to new intimate partners. This cultural shift has even crept into municipal planning so that now we treat large buildings, even entire city blocks, as if they were disposable. As a result, it takes only a few short years for our urban geography to become unrecognizable.

I pass a homeless man I’ve seen at different corners throughout the downtown core. Shirtless. Body covered in a chalky white powder. A helium-filled foil balloon says Happy Birthday and reminds me that another year has passed me by. At the man’s bare feet are a dozen or so shopping bags—the universal symbol of consumerism—stuffed with all his belongings. In the background I see scaffolding at a construction site. Today, this is the site of a 76 story condominium residence. I can’t remember what stood there before the demolition.

Most troubling of all is the fact that, today, 7 years after making this image, I no longer see this man anymore. Even people are disposable. Some more than others.

Categories
Street Photography

Saying goodbye to a month of candid photography

This is the final post in a series of candid photos that ushered us through the month of April. This is by no means the last word on the matter given that the possibilities for candid photography are as varied and as interesting as the people on this planet.

As I see it, there are only two circumstances in which I run out of candid photos. The unlikely circumstance is that the government passes legislation prohibiting this kind of photography. At least in Canada, this is improbable because the ability to photograph in public is intimately tied to constitutionally protected conduct. One day, we might become the creatures of an authoritarian regime that doesn’t feel constrained by constitutional principles. Trump could get re-elected and decide, like his buddy Putin, to invade a neighbouring country. But until such a day arrives, I view the opportunities for candid photography as limitless.

The more likely circumstance that could put an end to my candid shooting is that deep fakes become so widespread they render photography meaningless. I see that a year old video of Bill Gates sporting breast implants has retrended on Twitter. Snopes declares that the video is digitally altered, but debunking it isn’t enough to make it go away. Like the boy who cried wolf, the more unreliable our digital ecosystem becomes in its documentation of the real world, the less likely we are to believe anything is true.

As people assume digital manipulation as their default approach to online images, those like me who make such images will move on to other kinds of image making. Maybe we’ll manufacture backdrops for dystopian sci-fi virtual reality games. Or we’ll produce animal porn. But it’s a losing game. In time, even these specialized areas will be taken over by AI image-making engines.

Eventually, we old-school documentary photographers will grow old and tell tall tales of the amazing and improbable things we’ve seen. No one will believe us, of course. Anything we’ve seen, AI can do better. So we’ll drink ourselves into oblivion instead.