Down On Their Luck

On a recent trip to Washington DC to bury my Grandmother, I couldn't help but notice the considerable amount of homeless people dotting the landscape of our Nation's Capital. Documenting these people, who for one reason or another have been displaced from their homes, via photograph is a task that requires walking a tough line between what is right and wrong. Is it exploitation to take pictures of these people? Am I an asshole? What is my reasoning for taking these pictures? The questions mount up, leaving very little room for good excuses. Why would one take pictures of homeless people?



Upon my return, I came across an article on CNN about a taxi driver from Istanbul who, during his breaks, would take pictures of the underbelly of the city. Homeless people, hookers, drug addicts, and other riff-raff were his subjects. I found the work to be quite interesting. I was left with a positive impression of this fellow, even though I have no idea what his ulterior motives were.

Back to DC, I found my camera constantly connected to my body. I took over 600 exposures in the three days I was there. There was one occasion where I regret not photographing while a man was being taken to an ambulance. He was clearly in mental dispair, and maybe I was wrong for wanting to document what I thought was relavent to today's society. Maybe more like what is wrong with today's society. Regardless, a tug at my sleeve keep my shutter in check. I regret it.




One day later, I captured this photo while investigating the outlet of an elevator to the subway. I'm not sure I was concentrating on the irony of this photo. There is a solid chance that I didn't even realize the background until later when I was reviewing the days photos. I do find my positioning and mood that morning to not be coincidental, as much as I find it to have been odd. I had been witnessing homeless people throughout the previous two days. Here, on the last day, I find my lens scoping what seems to be a cry for help. Surely this person didn't randomly pick this bench without the knowledge of the potentially strong message it could send to any of the hundreds of passing pedestians that morning. A cry for help? Possibly. A cry for justice? Maybe so. Or perhaps it could just be something else. What are these people missing? Why are they missing?

Once the weekend was over, I relished in the fact that I had joined my Grandmother, my Mother, and my Aunts in a journey to rejoin and reunite all of them with my Grandfather, a gentleman that I had never had the pleasure to meet. A man who had been been over 38 years removed from my family. It was difficult to take in. Difficult to understand. Grandma is home now. She's back with Grandpa in one of the most revered resting places in the world. For that, I am happy.