Posts tagged: photographer

A lady is hitting a skinhead with her handbag; she had been in a concentration camp during World War II. Växjö, Sweden, 1985. Photo by Hans Runesson

A lady is hitting a skinhead with her handbag; she had been in a concentration camp during World War II. Växjö, Sweden, 1985. Photo by Hans Runesson

Pieter Hugo: from the series The Hyena and Other Men .

Can you spot the “invisible animal”?

Can you spot the “invisible animal”?

A monk prays for an elderly man who had died suddenly while waiting for a train in Shanxi Taiyuan, China.

A monk prays for an elderly man who had died suddenly while waiting for a train in Shanxi Taiyuan, China.

50.000 teenagers with flip-charts create the skyline of Shanghai. Pyongyang, August 2011 © Jeremy Hunter

50.000 teenagers with flip-charts create the skyline of Shanghai. Pyongyang, August 2011 © Jeremy Hunter

Havana.

Havana.

Photo by Chris Arnade.
"This is my story. I don’t give a fuck what happens. I’ve seen everything, and I want to tell it." 
Emily approached with Zariah, vampiric contact lenses emanating from down the sidewalk. The odd couple seemed fast friends, having met each other minutes beforehand — Zariah on the way to meet friends and Emily on the way to dance at a taxi club, or, in Spanish, bailadero. While I spoke to Zariah, Emily ran across the street to a bodega, to buy “dental dams” for the two of them, latex used for protection during oral sex. 
Upon returning, she asked to speak alone, away from male passerby and eavesdroppers. The story began tentatively, asking what I did, why I cared, which melted into a sweeping and manic form of storytelling. Emily oscillated between tearful and angry. She told me tales of anger, sexual abuse when trying for a modeling career, and prostitution. She begged for more time, maybe a coffee, to talk, as conversation turned increasingly desperate. 
Throughout it all, her intelligence shone through: she said she’s planning on taking her GED test and just received word of passing a psychology course at a local college. Though she seemed eager to blow off work inside the music-deafened club, she eventually entered, eyes sad despite the contacts, through the neon-lit doors at the nod of the bouncer outside.

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Photo by Chris Arnade.

"This is my story. I don’t give a fuck what happens. I’ve seen everything, and I want to tell it."

Emily approached with Zariah, vampiric contact lenses emanating from down the sidewalk. The odd couple seemed fast friends, having met each other minutes beforehand — Zariah on the way to meet friends and Emily on the way to dance at a taxi club, or, in Spanish, bailadero. While I spoke to Zariah, Emily ran across the street to a bodega, to buy “dental dams” for the two of them, latex used for protection during oral sex.

Upon returning, she asked to speak alone, away from male passerby and eavesdroppers. The story began tentatively, asking what I did, why I cared, which melted into a sweeping and manic form of storytelling. Emily oscillated between tearful and angry. She told me tales of anger, sexual abuse when trying for a modeling career, and prostitution. She begged for more time, maybe a coffee, to talk, as conversation turned increasingly desperate.

Throughout it all, her intelligence shone through: she said she’s planning on taking her GED test and just received word of passing a psychology course at a local college. Though she seemed eager to blow off work inside the music-deafened club, she eventually entered, eyes sad despite the contacts, through the neon-lit doors at the nod of the bouncer outside.


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Foodscapes by Carl Warner.