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Mostly True Stories, Places

Maine Media Workshop

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First of all, this is not an advertisement; however…

A week ago, I spent a week in Rockport, Maine, attending the Maine Media Workshop. Maine Media has a number of workshops, most of which I would love to attend. In fact, I met several people who were spending their entire summer attending many, if not all the courses. I can understand why. Rockport is beautiful. The Maine Media workshop is exciting. The subject matter is engaging. And, most importantly, the people you meet are inspiring.

I was attending the Director’s Craft workshop, under the tutelage of Alan Myerson (look him up on IMDB, or, google him). I wanted to brush up on my directorial skills after spending the last few years exclusively working on documentaries. Alan was wonderful to work with. Under his direction, we spent the week working with some amazing actors. Alan took us through the process of auditioning, rehearsing, blocking/staging scenes and finally, shooting a scene. There were nine of us in the workshop. We had plenty of individual attention. We were able to explore our vision with the actors, and help the actors reach a level of performance that was awe inspiring. Alan was perceptive and insightful in helping us expand our directorial skill set. He was kind as he shepherded nine aspiring directors with widely varying skills and experience. And, he was responsible for bringing some amazingly talented actors.

Third Floor Sunset
The summer days are long. The sunsets are beautifully impressionistic.

Our days in the workshop were long, exhausting and invigorating. Each morning and each evening, I had a ten minute walk from my hotel to the campus, through a forest and past New England homes and farmhouses. One evening, long after dark, I stopped to consider the day. As I looked through the darkness enveloping a meadow, I saw hundreds, maybe even ten-thousand fireflies. Completely magical. Owl city must have been there before me. The next morning on my way back to campus, I stopped again, to consider the wild flowers where the fire flies had been.

Wildflowers
In a meadow near campus, wildflowers flourish.

On our last night of the workshop, Maine Media put on an all-you-can-eat lobster feed. There really isn’t anything quite like Maine lobster. After dinner, we watched a show of the weeks production work and then went out with our workshop group for a wrap party. I don’t think any of us were anxious to go back to the real world. However, we all knew that we could go back to our real lives and carry with us the gift of renewal and inspiration our week of hard work had brought.

I came to Maine with a hope to increase my skill set. I gained a wealth of new friends. I left Maine inspired by possibilities.

On my last day there, I turned on my still camera.

I don’t think I have ever seen such vibrant green as in Maine.
All you can eat lobster feed on the last night of our workshop.
70 Camden Street, Rockport, ME 04856
Spider webs are an indication that this hydrant doesn’t get a lot of use. It rains a lot in Maine.
Not sure what it says, but I like it.
In a meadow near campus, wildflowers flourish.
Although they say that if you don’t like the weather in New England, wait a minute. Fortunately, I liked the weather.
Time for a new coat?
I hope the roof doesn’t leak.
Even with more information I still couldn’t figure it out.
The summer days are long. The sunsets are beautifully impressionistic.
Not sure what it does, but it looks kind of cool.
The setting sun creates interesting shapes and lines on the third floor staff residence building.
The weather in New England is harsh. Anything with or without paint is weathered.
In the summer, the weather is inviting. In the winter, wood burning stoves are essential. I’ve never been so cold in my life as the winter I spent in Maine.
Places

Brazilian Sunset 3

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By this point, you might be wondering why I’m not in Brazil. For that matter you might be asking yourself why you’re not in Brazil. I can’t answer that question for you, except to say that if you have to see a spectacular sunset, Brazil is a great place to do so.

Brazilian Sunset 3–enjoy.

IMG_2866_Recife Sunset

Mostly True Stories, People, Places

Faces of Brazil

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I’m usually shooting video on assignment. Too often, stills are second priority and I never have enough time. However, when I go out in the streets, I have this compelling desire to capture the essence of the street–documentary style–a story in every frame–a thousand stories in a single image. I don’t consider it stealing, although, I try to take the spirit of a place with me.  I try to be invisible so that I and my camera don’t interrupt the realness of the moment. I rarely succeed. At least, that’s how it feels. Sometimes I get lucky and freeze the moment I was seeing in my mind.  People are my favorite and hardest to shoot. I love to capture the stories that are written in the lines of faces and hands, or, deeply etched on the soul through the eyes–stories I can only invent–stories you will see differently. Perhaps our own stories are written by the ways and means with which we see the world.

Brazil is exciting, vibrant, constantly moving. The scenery is diverse and beautiful. So, too, are the people.

Elbow grease, or just paint, Sao Paulo, Brazil.
Relaxin’ at the Sao Paulo Opera House.
Could be their next album cover–On the steps of the Grand Theater, Sao Paulo, Brazil.
So, so weary. Homeless in Sao Paulo, Brazil.
Officially watching traffic in Sao Paulo, Brazil.
This man waits for the bus in Curitiba, Brazil.
Speed and motion in Curitiba, Brazil.
There are many ways to stretch in Curitiba, Brazil.
Product placement? Or just an ad for Adidas?
A mother and daughter aren’t pleased in Olinda, Brazil.
Waiting, just waiting on the street in Olinda, Brazil.
Windows without glass, Olinda, Brazil.
Sao Paulo Brazil has a colorful mix of ethnicities.
Sittin’ on the dock of the bay…Recife, Brazil.
Brazilian boys wait for the right moment to jump in to the Beberibe River, in Recife, Brazil.
A family takes a boat ride on the Beberibe river in Recife. Brazil.
Rowing and relaxing on the Capibaribe river, Recife.
The King still lives on the streets of São Paulo.
Music is not just a part of life in Brazil, it is life.
These street singers make up the lyrics to the songs they sing, as they sing them.
Musicians advance the rich heritage of Brazilian music on the streets of Recife.
Colorful murals are a part of the landscape in Brazil.
This indigenous street vendor is happy to make a sale in Olinda, Brazil.
A Brazilian family out for a stroll.
Mostly True Stories, Places

Recife Brazil, Beautifully Dangerous

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“Don’t go in the water,” my friend said.

“Why not. It’s so beautiful.”

“Sharks.”

“Sharks?”

SHARKS!

Yet, as I looked around, people were happily and ignorantly swimming in the warm inviting water. Worth the risk? I don’t think so. I didn’t need to speak Portuguese to understand the signs.

The beaches in and around Recife are some of the most dangerous in the world. People regularly ignore the colorful warning signs, especially when intoxicated, and risk life and limb, literally, by going in the water. Shark attacks are a common occurrence.

I had the privilege to spend a few days in Recife, prior to World Cup. I enjoyed tremendously the beauty of the city, and, the beaches. There were no shark attacks while I was there. However, twelve people were killed in riots during a police strike in the city. So, I guess you take risks there, in, or out of the water.

Even though the beaches in Brazil are beautiful, they are extremely dangerous.
Watch out for sharks and don’t go in the water in Brazil.
Beautiful beaches can be found in many Brazilian coastal cities, including Recife.
Beautiful beaches can be found in many Brazilian coastal cities, including Recife.
Olinda, Brazil, by the sea.
Brazilian Palm trees.
Brazilian Palm trees.
Beautiful beaches can be found in many Brazilian coastal cities, including Recife.
Mostly True Stories, People, Places

Strikes in Brazil

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Fish for lunchWorld cup was still a few weeks away. We were eating lunch in a little cafe in Recife. The food was delicious. My new Brazilian friends were delightful. The lights in the restaurant went out and the cafe owner approached our table. He spoke rapidly and seemed agitated. I don’t speak Portuguese, but my friends look concerned.  I looked around and noticed that the cafe was empty. It wasn’t, just a moment before.

São Paulo PolicePolice Strike.

Gangs were coming. People were rioting. The situation was dangerous. The cafe was closing and we needed to leave.

São Paulo public transportationA few days later, in São Paulo, our taxi driver told us the bus drivers were on strike. We were so close to the hotel, just one block left to go. Traffic stopped.

Let’s walk, I said.

Too dangerous. With your equipment, the taxi is the best option.  Cars stopped. Buses blocked roads. It took us  an hour to go one block. The city was in turmoil.

São Paulo PoliceThe next morning, another strike. The Police, again, in eleven Brazilian states. We may not be able to get the shots we were looking for. Crowds. Riots. Craziness.
Street MusicianStreet performers playing cool jazz. Just another crazy day in Brazil.

I stood on the roof of an old hi-rise building,in downtown São Paulo,  taking pictures and shooting B-roll video of the city. Police Strike, Sâo PauloBelow me I could see Police–all of them. On Strike. When I took their pictures, they were friendly and seemed rather pleased. They had nothing else to do, World Cup was still a few weeks away.Sã Paulo Police

Street Musicians

Mostly True Stories, Places

Goblin Valley

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Not long ago, a group of scouts ignored the prime directive and damaged one of the non-carbon based life forms. The results went viral. We were investigating. Goblin Valley.

M class. The air was still. Breathable. Quiet. The terrain was foreign. Alien. Forbidding. Frozen figures watched, waited. Goblins.

Would they come to life? Would they reap havoc in the night? Best to visit in the light.

I can not say if a captured image contains a portion of the subject’s soul. The rocks must answer the query when sentience returns. Or perhaps sentience remains and only mobility has been taken. I could not tell. The figures were staring, watching. The hairs on the back of my neck stood. Chills. I was moving too fast. I perceived that age had slowed their movement, but not their purpose. Perhaps if I was careful, reverent, I could take with me their spirit and they would not bear witness of my own destructiveness. For, it would seem, that with more visibility, their demise is assured.

Three Goblins stand watch at the entrance to Goblin Valley, Utah.
Goblin Valley, Utah.
Goblin Valley, Utah.
Goblin Valley, Utah.
Goblin Valley, Utah.
Goblin Valley sentinels.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Goblin Valley.
Patterns in the sandstone.

 

Mostly True Stories, People, Places, Things

Real Mongolian Barbecue

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There are no fast food restaurants in Ulan Batar.

Our driver, a native Mongolian, took us to what he said was the original Mongolian Barbecue. I looked at the menu, most of which I didn’t understand. Some of the dishes had English translations next to the Mongolian. My choices, among many others:

Rendeers wigwam

Baked Sheep Head

Ox Tongue

Fried Ox Tongue

Horse Meat Assortments

Fried Liver

Mongolian Khuushuur stuffed with mutton

We ordered an assortment of dishes to share. When they brought the baked sheep head, our Mongolian friend looked rather anxious. He waited for me to go first. I wasn’t sure I was hungry anymore. The sheep was sitting in the serving tray staring at me–literally.

“Do you want the eyes?” He asked. “Or the brain?”

“No thanks. It’s all yours.”

With gratitude and zeal, our friend speared the eyeballs from the sheep. Then, he lifted the skull from the sheep’s head and scooped out the brains.

I went for the Khuushuur. It seemed safest.

As we ate, and shared stories, I began to forget our differences. I began to relax and enjoy a culture I knew so very little about. I began to appreciate the food which had a very different, yet pleasing taste–that is–until I looked–again–at the eyeless sheep staring back at me.

The real thing, staring up at me.
Mongolia is known as the Land of Blue Skies; however, with an average annual temperature 27˚ƒ, the skies are frequently much more ominous in Ulan Batar, the world’s coldest capital city.
With a population of over one-million, Ulan Batar, or UlaanBataar, is the largest city and capital of Mongolia.
Where cars are rare and fuel is expensive, walking is the predominant means of transportation.
No longer nomadic, many Mongolians still prefer the comfort of the yurt, along with alternative housing.
Outside of the main city of Ulan Batar, running water and sanitation facilities don’t exist. Outhouses are bathrooms for many Mongolians.
Clean water and sanitation are key tenants of modern life. For many Mongolians, it requires constant daily effort to haul water for critical needs.
In spite of the abundance of garbage and lack of sanitation, this little stream is the primary water source for a large community outside of Ulan Batar.
Two boys play soccer near the family yurt, just outside of Ulan Batar.
Without baskets, and old basketball makes for a pretty good soccer ball.
On the steppes outside of Ulan Batar, boys love to play ball.
Each spring many Mongolia yurt dwellers pack up their home and move to greener pastures. Apparently, it helps to take the bus.
Even on a sunny day, cuddling for warmth is a good idea in Mongolia.
Still dressed in her traditional costume, this Mongolian grandmother protects her little grand daughter outside the family yurt.
Life isn’t easy when you’re small, in Mongolia.
The Lines and wrinkles hint at struggles and adversity; yet, the smile reveals her love for life in Mongolia.
The ceiling in the average yurt is just over 6 feet high. With a hole in the center to vent the wood burning stove, and a thick canvas flap which can be pulled back to let in the sun, the yurt is surprisingly comfortable.
No running water; but a generator for electricity supplies the power for entertainment.
The bucket with spigot above the wash basin is the water supply for hand washing and showering.
This sweet woman was baking bread in her wood stove when we arrived. It was delicious.
A wood burning stove for heating and cooking dominates the circular yurt one-room living room, dining room, bedroom, playroom.
Gathering wood for the stove occupies time during the warm months, in preparation for the minus 40 degree fahrenheit winter temperatures outside the yurt during winter.
Thick carpets and warm blankets make for ideal napping conditions when you’re small.
It’s a big wide world outside the yurt near Ulan Bataar.
Rickety makeshift fences separate squatter’s lands while dirt roads between yurts also double as trash dumps.
In the city, you can find great bargains on beautiful products. I purchased a beautiful cashmere scarf for my wife.