Shutter Sisters

How It Is

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It was our second day in Nepal. Jen and I placed ourselves in the hands of our friend Renu Bagaria. We said things like, “Take us where we need to go. Tell us what we need to hear. Show us what we need to see.” This is how it is when we land in a new country for Picture Hope. We move in the moment. We trust our friends, and we trust our instincts. So when Renu said that she’d like to take us into some of the largest slums in Kathmandu to give us an opportunity to meet some of her students and their families in their homes, naturally, we were eager to follow her.

Laxmi welcomed us into her home with “namaste,” introduced her children, and stood quietly beside the family bed. We exchanged a handful of eager smiles and heartfelt words through Mukesh, Renu’s previous student and now right-hand man at Koseli School. Our time was short. The space was dimly lit. Laxmi seemed a little unsure about what to do in our presence. But I remember feeling blessed at this moment – to just stand there with my camera and the desire to share the light of such a strong and beautiful woman in her home. To watch the way her son looked up at her. To see her daughter reach for her brother’s hands. To witness love and get a good glimpse of hope.

As a documentary photographer, I strive to blend in with my surroundings – to give myself ample time and space to make my way past the barrier of a new connection, and establish a level of trust with my subjects so they feel comfortable in my presence. Like a scientist, my desire is to conduct a thorough study of who they are by watching their expressions, listening to their stories, and following the moves they make in a variety of spaces and scenarios. In fact, it’s best if they don’t even look at me. But more often than not, there is no such thing as ample time and space. I might only have five precious minutes (as I did here) to establish a strong-enough connection with the individuals beyond my lens before I grant myself permission to click. It’s just how it is.

Do you require a connection with your subjects? How do you make that connection? What can you do to make someone feel comfortable in your presence and at ease before your lens when time is of the essence? There might be tricks of trade, but I’ve discovered that the only thing I know how to do is to just be myself (not the photographer I think I need to be, but the woman I am) and hope they do the same.

Found: Orange

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I love it when a shot of color finds me, like these orange pants hung out to dry beside my friend Sabi’s house in Pokhara, Nepal. How could I miss them? How could I not shoot them? Does a shot of color in a landscape of gray stop you in your tracks? Give us a shot of your color today.

More Questions Than Answers

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Shortly after we arrived to Pokhara, Nepal, a friend introduced us to several children known as “street kids” living in the hotel downstairs. As I watched these young girls washing dishes outside the restaurant, they seemed content, even happy on first glance. Intrigued with our interest and big cameras, they giggled and exposed henna designs on the palms of their hands. I was relieved to see them smile because it helped me convince myself that they were okay.

Our friend explained that these children were sent away from their homes to work at this hotel… to earn a place to live, food to eat, and money that would be saved on their behalf when the time came for them to go out on their own. She explained that some street kids are sent to school. Others are not. It broke my heart to learn about this way of life. To really see it and look in their eyes. To wonder what it feels like… to be far from home, to accept what’s been given to you without question, to have a job at age 10, to appreciate what little you have, to wish you had been given the chance to wear a school uniform and walk to school.

“But this is a way of life,” they say. “It’s just the way it is.” And who am I to judge? I’m just a curious American woman with a camera who stepped in for a closer look one day. What do I know? Just because my children don’t live this way, does it make it wrong? If these children didn’t have this chance to live and work at this hotel, what would become of them? Is there hope in this scenario? Does someone love them? How do we help poor families keep their children at home and make it a priority to send them to school? What should I do? I have the questions, but none of the answers at this moment. I have to trust they will come.

To Stand on Broken Ground

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I dreamed about this place several months ago… stepping slowly through mud and feeling a little tentative on broken ground. In my dream it was dim. I walked with people I didn’t recognize and sensed curious eyes upon me, but I felt comfortable. Like I was meant to be there. I felt peace.

So it was oddly familiar when Jen and I walked with new friends, Renu (pictured above), Mukesh, Subhash and Sabi through one of Kathmandu’s largest slums, home to many of Renu’s students at Koseli, the school she founded. It was a gift to be invited here. To walk on this ground, step in these homes, and hear “Namaste.” To share a glimpse of this reality.

I don’t really have words yet to describe all that we experienced throughout Nepal. I could relay the sequence of events, identify the geographic destinations, share the motion sequence of steam lifting from a glass of chai on a worn wooden table beside a bumpy road, and show you the lighthearted iPhone images I made along the way… but the real weight of the experience sits in my images of the people who shared their lives with us. Jen and I are eager to introduce these Nepali people to you over the next several weeks, maybe even months… but for now, I want you to picture yourself standing on broken ground. And I want you to imagine what hope might look like.

When People Fit

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In April, as many of you know, I spent several days and nights with Jen and Odette and her girls from Rwanda to document their reunion after four years of seperation. I cherished this experience so much. What strikes me about my collection of images from this period of time is the instant and vivid, very visible connection between Odette and her daughters. It was as if there had been no space between them. After four years of being apart, I expected some distance. Hesitation. Barriers. Yet none were visible. They just seemed to fit.

Let’s see some connections today. Share an image of two people who just seem to fit.

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Congratulations to the winners of the Hello Summer contest:

The Grand Hello goes to Kelly Lagner Sauer.

And the 2 runners up are Lisa G. and Jenny Modesitt.

Thanks for all the summer goodness everyone!

And don’t forget to order your canvas from Hello Canvas before the end of June for 40% off!

get your mobile moment on tv network ovation

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Two years ago I was hard at work on Project 365, hauling around my hefty digital SLR in a backpack that served as my purse each day for 365 days. And while that experience taught me to move through the day in a more observant way, the weight of that camera held me back, though I didn’t realize it at the time.

When I saw something that moved me, I’d have to take the backpack off, fumble with it to extract my camera, turn the camera on and take off the lens cap, manually adjust the settings, make a few images, turn the camera off, figure out where I put the lens cap and put it back on the camera, squeeze the camera back into my backpack, and put the pack back on my back. And the images had no where to go. They sat on my camera until I got home and squeezed in the time to plug in my USB cable, download the images to my computer, process them, export them, and then upload them to my blog to share the experience. And if I remembered, I might tweet a link to the post to my Twitter followers. This process could easily take 24 hours or more.

Since January, I’m once again shooting everyday but in a very different way. I’m shooting, processing and sharing images exclusively with my iPhone. Now, don’t get me wrong, my iPhone has not replaced my SLR, but it’s expanding my creative capacity. It’s freed me up to make and share images more spontaneously as I move through the day. So now, when I see that fleeting magic moment, I can very quickly lift my iPhone, shoot, process, post the image to my iPhoneography journal powered by Posterous (via email), and see a link to the image automatically appear as a tweet in my Twitter stream. This entire process takes less than 60 seconds and keeps my creativity firing more frequently each day.

In fact, had it not been for my iPhone, I wouldn’t have been able to share real-time images documenting Odette’s much anticipated reunion with her daughters from Rwanda and the tenderness of a heroic Jen Lemen with all of you on Twitter. Sure, I made my best images from that week-long documentary experience with my SLR, but the iPhone images served a critical purpose… they connected nearly 3,000 of us in the moment as the moment occured.

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So now it’s your chance to document the corners of your world with your iPhone or your cell phone for Ovations Framed Art Race 2010 competition. Upload your most creative cell phone images to the Ovation community for a chance to be showcased in a My Art spot on air. But you’ve got to move fast, the deadline to get your shots in is tomorrow, May 8! Good luck

Let’s Bring These Girls Home

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Jen Lemen with Odette’s daughters, Grace and Lilian, shot by Stephanie Roberts in Konombe, Rwanda

“You’re writing your story everyday,” she told me. “You just need to decide what happens next.” It was precisely what I needed to hear at that moment from my friend and Picture Hope partner, Jen Lemen. It reminded me that the act of living one’s life on purpose is nothing like reading and everything like writing. And the work of writing a story most often begins as a whisper or a quiet feeling of knowing from within. It may not make sense, but you just have to learn to let it guide you.

So when Jen called to tell me that she and our Rwandan-native friend Odette had decided it was time for her to leave home and join Odette’s daughters, Grace (age 15) and Lilian (age 12), and their guardian, (Odette’s brother Innocent) in their temporary housing situation in Uganda on a moment’s notice, I knew there was no need for my predictable dose of questions and analysis. “How long will you be gone?” I asked tentatively, knowing we had more than two handfulls of planning to prepare for our next Picture Hope commitment in Nepal.

“I don’t know… but I’m not coming back without them.”

So she went.

She went because Odette has been apart from her daughters for four long years, not by her plan or choice. She went because the girls need their mother. She went because Odette needs her girls.

After several years of hopeful wait littered with road blocks and wrong turns… and the most recent several weeks of unraveling red tape, triggering slow into action, plotting what-if scenarios, traveling dusty roads and crossing sketchy borders, texting on battery fumes, rubbing coins for food, and painting hopeful stories in the dim of a future that is to come for Odette’s young daughters… Jen will very soon guide Grace and Lilian into their mother’s arms here in the United States.

And this story, a story of Turikumwe (meaning “We are together.”), is one that must be written. I’m honored to be a witness and to document and share this experience for you as it unfolds, with Odette as my guide. I will join her on Saturday to help prepare for their arrival.

But we can’t do it without you. Please chip in to help us decide what happens next.

It Takes Two

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Documentary photography requires patience, sharp reflexes, auto-focus, and most often a series of shutter clicks to convey the complete story. While I’m shooting, there’s often a period of wait… when I study the dynamics between individuals; connect those observations with the influence of the environment; and attempt to anticipate the composition of impending action. It thrills me, requires every ounce of brain power I can muster, and often frustrates me.

It took two boys to complete this jump. One wouldn’t go without the other. Best friends. They plotted their approach, anxiously pacing the top of the deck like baby birds on the edge of a nest. Then, with little warning, courage escalated for one, and off went the other… click… click.

Sometimes, a sequence of images (like stills from a film) form the ideal visual narrative. Let’s start this week with some action.

A Sliver of Calm

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As much as I love being together, I love being alone. Craving that slim stretch of time in the dark when my house downshifts into a state of calm. I tiptoe up the steps to my little office and sit before a window of images, strolling through moments and getting lost in thoughts that hover and lilt like butterflies. I set them free in the quiet space and wonder if they’ll land before it’s time to lasso them back behind the mounting list of tasks waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

Do you crave that sliver of calm? Let’s see a quiet space.

These Things I Need to Know

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Oh, how I love this man, Dr. Nix. My Photography 101 professor. I didn’t intend to pursue photography as a career at the time, but was intrigued with it enough to take the class as an elective en route to my BFA. Dr. Nix taught me how to make a pinhole camera with balsa wood to emphasize the importance of learning to control light with the simplest of tools. He taught me how to develop film and make prints in the darkroom. But beyond all the technical stuff, he encouraged me. And hearing him say, “you’ve got a great eye” is (to this day) one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.

We reconnected a few years ago when I realized that he lived just 30 minutes from my door. Spending time with him in his home with his wife is such a gift for me. Last Friday, we talked about the start of his photography career as a photojournalist and the excitement of being called in the middle of the night to capture news in the making. “Have you ever seen an ole’ 4×5?” he asked. I hadn’t. And so my lesson began. Within minutes he returned to the sofa with a black box, pieced together his Crown Graphic 4×5 press camera (weighing in at a hefty 8 pounds), and demonstrated the very manual process of making images “on the fly” back in 1953. And giving a sweet glance in the direction of his beautiful wife, he even told me about the time he had to change his film under a sorority girl’s lengthy skirt.

I’m grateful for this time with him. The wisdom of his life. He gives me a window into a past I’ll never know. Share a portrait of wisdom with us today, or make it a point to seek it out.