Both of these films were produced on a 1930’s Bolex Camera, processed, and edited by hand.
The only digital technology involved was through the digitization process, so that the tapes can be circulated through the internet.
Enjoy 🙂
Central Asian Landscapes
Suusamyr, Kyrgyzstan
Jyrgalan, Kyrgyzstan
Kara Say, Kyrgyzstan
Lenin Peak Base Camp, Kyrgyzstan
Buhkara, Uzbekistan
Sary Chelek, Kyrgyzstan
Toktugul, Kyrgyzstan
Portraits: Personal Quips
Dallas 2019.
I was walking around downtown with a camera. This man stopped me.
“Hey take a picture of me. I’m from Cincinnati. I’ve been drifting my whole life. I’m gonna make a change in america. I want people to remember my face”
Latvia 2019.
I met Vladimir while hitchhiking just outside of Riga. He graciously invited me for tea, showed me around his house, and village.
“It’s not easy for ethnic Russians in Latvia. Regardless, this is our homeland. There’s no where else to go.”
Lyaksh, Tajikistan 2019.
I was invited to spend the night on the outdoor veranda of his family house. It was a long night- giant bugs, barking dogs and humidity made sleep difficult.
“The Moscow underworld drags you in. I went to my friend’s apartment. There was a body covered in blood. The man was dead. It was time to go back home to my family”
Buhkara, Uzbekistan 2019.
Without exaggeration, one of the most stressful moments in Central Asia. I couldn’t lose the game- it’s my dignity!
“Chess isn’t over until you finish the game”
Dallas 2019.
“Honey that’s enough taking pictures. Have a cookie. Are you hungry? Let’s go get some nachos down on Elm street.”
Garam Chasma, Tajikistan 2019.
A few minutes after getting into the van, he instructed me to hide below my bag as we passed a checkpoint. It was to avoid paying the entrance fees.
“Let’s go to the springs. Get some minerals. Wash off. Then keep going.”
Haft Kul, Tajikistan 2019.
I’m hurrying to my homestay, anxious of the coming darkness. He catches up behind me on his donkey, “chai?”. I politely decline. He asks again, I refuse, pointing at the sun. He persists, several times over. I glance at his scythe, he looks at my pace.
“Get on donkey!”
Dallas 2019.
I met this man across the street from the Dallas public library.
“Yes please, go ahead and take my portrait. I wanna talk. Im DC. I wear tigers hair so everyone knows my part of street. I keep it clean. No drugs my whole life man”
Haft Kul, Tajikistan 2019.
Our exchange was commonplace, a friendly little back and forth of pleasantries. He graciously allowed a portrait, exclaiming with pride,
“Share my face with America!”
Buhkara, Uzbekistan 2019.
She’s such a sweetheart.
“Isn’t our city beautiful”
Dallas 2019.
She was standing outside of a small chicken restaurant with her husband.
“I’ll just talk about politics and you take pictures”
The Balkans — expressions of a grim past, & impressions of a bright future
For my photography class, we were instructed to draw inspiration from a famous artist and reinvent their style into a personal project.
When I first opened Jim Goldberg’s Open See I certainly felt his power of storytelling, connections with people and ties to a geographic location. With more research, his art opened to a greater expanse; it’s a sort of misconstrued journalism. The subjects of his photos were not necessarily relating to the story told. Quotes were transferred, photos manipulated. While his stories were true nonetheless, it’s about presenting them in the most emotionally powerful way possible. His outlook on his subjects really spoke to me.
The grim, heavy and humbling histories of the Balkans affected me deeply. Witnessing the physical damage with my own eyes, hearing people’s stories, it all draped clouds of melancholy in the air.
I only felt only a tiny snippet of war’s tragedy.
For this series I combined pictures I took last summer with old Soviet relics from my heritage to give across the dark sensations I experienced.
Those are the feet of my father and grandmother on the first day of school
In Mostar, at the hostel Majdas (really really recommend staying there, the tour is incredible), the owner told me about how he was on the verge of being sent to a concentration camp. This was 1991
The little boy is my dad — who was in no way involved in the Balkan wars, but the photo gelled with my concept
The man from Mostar left Herzegovina by paying someone to smuggle him in the trunk of an ambulance, and later inside of a sailboat headed to Italy
I burnt up pieces of paper and realized they resembled the flowers in the photo– the tones of this photo showcase it as the emotional climax of the series.
To my non-Russian friends the cassette plays fairy tales of Hans Christian Anderson.
I still feel shivers remembering the first time I saw the military poster in the top of this image. It’s draped along a massive partially destroyed building (the ministry of defense) in Belgrade, Serbia. Certainly sends a strong message.
Here is the building itself. Unbelievable to see it like this in 2018. The politics of the region are still affected by the events of the past decade. I pieced together that 6 11 2012 is November 6th – the day Obama was elected.
Speaking of American presidents in the Balkans, nothing humors more than the Kosovars love for Clinton. During my first 10 minutes in Kosovo, I was greeted with incredible warmth, doubly so when my bus neighbor founded out I was American, “Ahh the great land of the Clinton’s”. I thought it was a comment about the most recent election and didn’t think much of it.
I realized I was very wrong once I arrived in Prishtina, the capital.
Yes, that’s Clinton spelled with a K, because the C letter makes a different sound in their language (as a side note I think the makers of the statue could use some practice with hands)
It doesn’t end there! Across the street you can find some Hillary Clinton apparel which thankfully looks nothing like her wardrobe (because who would wanna wear that?).
For many individuals, Kosovo seems to yield images of war, ethnic tensions, and such a backwards part of Europe it’s barely even Europe anymore. Granted the continent’s youngest country did undergo a devastating recent history, I found it to be one of the most beautifully optimistic destinations.
It’s one of the few corners of nearly completely untouched by tourism, especially in Prizren (pictured above) many locals were very eager to talk to me and explain their political situation.
Around town, I remember encountering an old schoolmaster taking his kids out on a walk. He greeted me in english when we crossed paths, and once he recognized my American accent, his face erupted with warmth. “Thank you for visiting my country, you are always welcome here.” The little kids encircled, yelling “hello, hello’ with abundance of enthusiasm.
Kosovo inspired hopefulness – in recovery, through people, towards the future. The individuals I met appeared thrilled to move forward from tumultuous recent history. Nevertheless, perfection is far from being achieved. The country’s dreams rest upon induction into the European Union, something which may not happen for quite a few years. Tensions with Serbia still exist, and recognition of independence is not universal.
A beautiful Ottoman style home in Prishtina.
Alas there are always two sides to every story. To the Serbs, Kosovo is an unfair dissension, an example of unwarranted nationalism.
In the center of Kosovo stands a derelict Orthodox church, deliberately in ruins and encircled with cow shit.
A powerful message, the Kosovar Muslims seek to remind who is in control.
Besides tumultuous history, there is another thing that unifies all of the Balkans – Rakjia.
Basically various flavors of moonshine, the ubiquitous liquor can never be purchased, and is always found in either wine or plastic bottles.
In many ways it’s a symbol of Balkan hospitality, a warmth I encountered on my 20th birthday.
I was hiking to one of the tallest peaks surrounding Sarajevo, Bosnia. Climbing the hills out of the city, I encountered an abundance of derelict buildings, shelled out residences from the war.
The destruction continued, as I reached the first landmark- the abandoned bobsled track used during the 1984 Sarajevo Olympics.
Continuing upwards, I reached the summit of the mountain, from which I took in views of the whole Sarajevo. My 4 hours of hiking were certainly rewarded.
I didn’t want to use the same trail to get down, and had heard about an alternate route.
Unaware at the time, my life would intersect with the stranger building the cabin pictured on the ridge.
In the hut, I was treated to rakjia (served in a wine bottle) from a Croatian mountain man and his dog. Upon learning that it was my birthday, the shots only continued pouring. He told me about his life, fleeing Croatia during the wars to become a ski instructor in Norway. He continues to work there in the winters, and the income is enough to sustain himself in the Bosnian mountains.
He described his daughter, who was getting married. Upon learning it was my 20th birthday, he decided to call her, as we were the same age. She was completely disinterested.
He’s a jovial man, and told me to come back and visit.
Most intensely, I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when he exclaimed “War is for stupid, look at beauty around” as he pointed out the window.
(some miserable phone photos below)
From the Serbian grit, new felt optimism in Kosovo, and the Bosnian hospitality, the Balkans offered a variety of cultural experiences. Shaped by a tumultuous past, and moving ahead in the European environment, it’s all a fascinating testament to human resistance.
Hong Kong – Towers of Neon
It was my last stop, adding sentimentality to my nostalgia adoring mind.
I wanted to savor every moment, that had passed, passing, and about to come.
The thrill of a modern, mega-city buzzed each step. Fragmenting crowds, flashing lights, whizzing taxis.
The city pulsed, people weaving in and out of shop walls plastered with Chinese hieroglyphs. Once the sun came down, the rain fell. Glowing neon burst through fog.
Lives unfolded, romances developed, broke, and shattered into drops on the pavement. 7 million chests rising and falling, a breath, a heart beat, swept by time. Water flowed into the sewage, while crowds haggled over produce. Meat hung in shops, the rawness exaggerated in red light. Despite the weather, the bustle didn’t slow.
A city of trade, the Hong Kong Dollar is the 7th most exchanged currency globally. From a group of fishing villages, the deep waters of the bay brought thousands of ships. The British, the Chinese, a global mesh emerges.
Commerce rang in the streets, shoes, radios, glasses, food. Steamy tofu, loaded into a glass. Spoons clanging, the heat of a wok. The smell of sugar caramelizing. Steamed Dim Sum, chicken feet.
Anything can be found here. Waters bring in products from all around.
The economy stretched into the skies, finances grasping at the clouds. Money stacking towards a new future- one with China.
Behind the facades, the Hong Kongese stand apart, bred in a more liberalized system than their neighbors. Artistry prospers from an open-minded core.
The color palettes, moods and tones heavily reminisce Wong Kar Wai’s yearning romance. His work never left my mind.
13 hours left.
It’s 11 pm and I wander til my energy burns through.
A passing gallery owner senses my spirit and invites me in for an open night. I find myself among other transients, sharing talents, beers, personalities.
From radically varying trajectories we find ourselves at the same crossroads. speaking Russian, English, French, Chinese.
The natural spontaneity hit me especially hard. I knew it’d be an occurrence I would grow to miss.
I’m an outsider here.
They’re outsiders here.
A communal curiosity brought us together.
Street signs, spoken tongues, stares; completely nonsensical
Everything came together in Hong Kong, all my memories, experiences, moods
Roaming the streets recalled all the intersections I passed.
Every encounter altered my life.
There remain many unknown, unseen qualities of human existence.
I couldn’t wait to search for more.
kiwi hippies, surrealist beaches, and the shiniest part of NZ
first of all I gotta say, Golden Bay is an incredibly good looking place
a friendly farmer told me some unique minerals are found in the soil, which cause brighter colors in the landscape
not to mention they used to find a lot of gold here
this part of the island is also known for its alternative atmosphere, something I encountered on my second ride in the region
a lady, dressed exactly like a Joni Mitchell cover, finally got me moving towards the town Takaka
her vibe only intensified when she told about her move from Canada to pursue crystal healing. I was in love with this place.
she was really friendly, and offered me a delicious vegan-raw-gluten free treat housed in an ice cream mold.
funnily enough, I was in her car because someone recognized her. absolutely exhausted from completing the Abel Tasman Great Walk, I wanted to get back into civilization as fast as possible. unfortunately, the trail end spit me out on a dirt road with no cars.
i always had some optimism during such times, especially after surviving some of NZ’s most dangerous terrain
seriously if you’re up here you gotta do this whole track, I especially loved the parts near the finish in Golden Bay. so happy I walked from start to end
surprisingly a car going the other direction stopped for me. they said they’d take me to a tidal crossing so I can get on the main road faster.
before we’d driven to the spot, a car heading the right direction appeared. my driver rolls down her window “hey nancy (note: I dont actually remember her name)! how you doing? mind giving this young man a lift?”
i love my introduction to Golden Bay, it suits the place perfectly
i recognized a windows’ wallpaper upon my arrival to the north western tip of Te Waipounamu.
surrealist is definitely the word that comes to mind when I recall Wharariki Beach. I was set on finding a place to camp so I could spend the whole day
perhaps I wasn’t fond of the idea of paying for a campsite, so I snooped around and found a hidden forest on the creek. it was right by the beach, and I made sure to leave no trace
only the next morning I started hiking near the beach, quickly enthralled by NZ’s brightest colors, combined with generous sprinklings of little white specks
especially when the sun came out, I’d never seen such bright hues- the greens, blues and whites all contrasted with vibrancy
another famous landmark in Golden Bay? Takaka river hippie commune
a rather friendly hitching couple advised me to freedom camp there. apparently it was very international, and renown for its ‘agricultural produce’
i thought it would be tricky to find until I opened my maps.me and learned it was 5 minutes from town
the commune features an international demographic, most staying 4-5 months a year. some Germans were happy to show me a spot, and I later met a few of the more permanent settlers
I was curious to learn about the residents, as I’d heard hippies hung around Takaka since the 70s. I envisioned ole dreaded kiwis jamming to grateful dead
sadly few of the residents were there, but I did meet one of the ‘chiefs’ who shared some of their elusive product aimed for export
he explained most citizens weren’t kiwi, and transitioned between famous communes around the world
this was one of them
I made an amusing friendship in the morning. long hair with dreads, even longer beard, absolute swagger with biker glasses. comes hopping up
“ya got any beers man”
i didn’t
“ya know, I think you reallllly need this flashlight. It’s a good flashlight. Ya should give five bucks for it ”
“nah I’m all good man” I replied
however, I offered a trade. get me a handmaid wooden piece, and I’ll give ya enough beers to he happy
he told me to meet at the infamous hippie gathering place in town: the library
(gotta give a culinary shotout here…if you’re cruising around the island and need the best breakfast place….make sure to stop by De-Lish Delicatessen. It’s across the street from the Takaka library)
by the time I arrived, he’d already found the beer he needed
I thought I’d wouldn’t see him again, and I didn’t…until my dad and I used a car camping spot down the road
we pull in after a long day. rains dropping, so we take care to not park by the river in case of flooding.
not five minutes later there’s a knock on the window.
“ya got any beers man?”
he stares at me for a prolonged 30 seconds.
“I reeeecognize youuuu. sorry couldn’t get you a piece man”
“No worries. we dont have any beer man” I reply
“ahhh well welcome to the other river camp” says the most pacifist lookin pirate I’ve ever seen
speaking of traveling with my dad, when I took him to Golden Bay we caught one of the most spectacular sunsets I’d ever seen
I swear the colors looked just like this, if not even more intense. It was stunning!
i’ll leave you with the most terrifying wildlife encounter I experienced in New Zealand
it featured the Arctocephalus forsteri, also commonly known as the fur seal
these guys may look all lazy and cuddly. and sure, people may drive all the way to Wharariki beach to say ‘awww’ at the seal pups
but when you awaken them they are not happy campers. our relationship wasn’t improved when (s)he decided to sleep on the trail.
they got a growl and some fangs to them. totally made me jump out of the way
Distant Dirt Roads–Osoam, Cambodia
The sun rays burst through the tin roofing, revealing the ubiquitous red dust. Untreated rectangles served as walls, upwards planks battered by time.The rigidity of the bed broke my comfortable haze, proceeded by dried mud floors hitting my soles. Every morning I wake up and must recollect where I am. Here it hits quicker–it’s much harder to forget.
The Cardamom Mountains hid Pol Pot’s cronies until the late 90s. Everything feels distant; vegetated peaks, neighboring villages, civilization. The world conceals for you.
The sky flattens along the expanse of the horizon. Clouds press downwards, mountain ridges punctuate the sides. The lake provides much needed coolness.
Mr. Nim always rises before the roosters screech loudly, already working while the light uncloaks the shadows. His motions energetic, arms move animatedly, a small bandage secured to his calf.
‘Good morning’ he says, gently patting any visitor on the shoulder. Two eyes reveal his tired state, only from afar youthful energy seems apparent.
It’s understandable. He’s building a new future for the village, one day at time. From Osoam Cardamom Community Center, he’s working against flames.
The fires clear the jungle, providing villagers with fast farmland and timber profits.
It’s not sustainable, however every material carries worth.
The grass cracked sharply with every step forward, any tenderness scorched away. Black ash clung to my shoes, darkening them heavily. A dusty cloud permeated the air, a suffocating mixture of dirt, smoke, and heavy humidity. Every breath required more effort than a step. Sometimes I’d take a sip of water, careful not to empty my supply too quickly. For brief moments the drops would cool the back of my throat, aiding against the dryness. In my mind jungles were lush, wet environments.
Not anymore.
Droplet of sweat snaked down my face, tickling my nose, falling through hairs on my chin. The local’s course of walking also followed a winding trajectory in the clearing. Upon entering the bush, every molecule of water is pulled away by plants, by air, into the skies above. An unattractive stream flows below, muddy, dirty remnants of what the earth didn’t need. Vines cling tensely to the trees, dangling lifelessly. Life holds a firm grip around these parts.
He promised crocodiles, sloths, water bears, but only encountered leeches stuck to his legs. The guide seemed disoriented, we were rolling marbles in a basin. Occasionally, he plucks a leaf, unearths a root, offers a sample. It’s barely edible, bitterness seizing the tongue. Proceeding forward is difficult. So is living.
Villagers survive off of 1$ a day.
Regardless, a heart of positivity beats in the village. Children roam with smiles on their face, eager to wave hello. Families gather, enjoying company over meals. A lack of material wealth hardly stands for a lacking of communal richness. Quite the opposite, Osoam teems with life.
The villagers connect to outsiders with remarkable openness. Eager to share words, gestures, emotions. Osoam instills remarkable faith in the universality of the human spirit. Altruism, community, impress gratitude witnessing this part of the globe.
Osoam is located in western Cambodia, not distant from the Thai border. A painfully slow, bumpy road leads north to Krong Pursat. I made the journey on a shared 4X4, 10 people squished into a 5 seat car (with the driver sitting on someone’s lap).
Conversely the road south to Koh Kong glides through 100 km of new asphalt, albeit only one lane wide. I was curious to know why a construction of such quality had taken place.
Mr.Nim told me of the Chinese investors constructing dams in the jungle. They burn for short term contracts, providing free electricity for 5 years, investments for the horizon. Constricting rivers, destroying habitats, all for personal profit downstream.
Flames of various sizes surround Osoam.
The sun rays burst through the tin roofing, revealing the ubiquitous red dust. Untreated rectangles served as walls, upwards planks battered by time.The rigidity of the bed broke my comfortable haze, proceeded by dried mud floors hitting my soles. Every morning I wake up and must recollect where I am. Here it hits quicker–it’s much harder to forget.
The Cardamom Mountains hid Pol Pot’s cronies until the late 90s. Everything feels distant; vegetated peaks, neighboring villages, civilization. The world conceals for you.
The sky flattens along the expanse of the horizon. Clouds press downwards, mountain ridges punctuate the sides. The lake provides much needed coolness.
Mr. Nim always rises before the roosters screech loudly, already working while the light uncloaks the shadows. His motions energetic, arms move animatedly, a small bandage secured to his calf.
‘Good morning’ he says, gently patting any visitor on the shoulder. Two eyes reveal his tired state, only from afar youthful energy seems apparent.
It’s understandable. He’s building a new future for the village, one day at time. From Osoam Cardamom Community Center, he’s working against flames.
The fires clear the jungle, providing villagers with fast farmland and timber profits.
It’s not sustainable, however every material carries worth.
The grass cracked sharply with every step forward, any tenderness scorched away. Black ash clung to my shoes, darkening them heavily. A dusty cloud permeated the air, a suffocating mixture of dirt, smoke, and heavy humidity. Every breath required more effort than a step. Sometimes I’d take a sip of water, careful not to empty my supply too quickly. For brief moments the drops would cool the back of my throat, aiding against the dryness. In my mind jungles were lush, wet environments.
Not anymore.
Droplet of sweat snaked down my face, tickling my nose, falling through hairs on my chin. The local’s course of walking also followed a winding trajectory in the clearing. Upon entering the bush, every molecule of water is pulled away by plants, by air, into the skies above. An unattractive stream flows below, muddy, dirty remnants of what the earth didn’t need. Vines cling tensely to the trees, dangling lifelessly. Life holds a firm grip around these parts.
He promised crocodiles, sloths, water bears, but only encountered leeches stuck to his legs. The guide seemed disoriented, we were rolling marbles in a basin. Occasionally, he plucks a leaf, unearths a root, offers a sample. It’s barely edible, bitterness seizing the tongue. Proceeding forward is difficult. So is living.
Villagers survive off of 1$ a day.
Regardless, a heart of positivity beats in the village. Children roam with smiles on their face, eager to wave hello. Families gather, enjoying company over meals. A lack of material wealth hardly stands for a lacking of communal richness. Quite the opposite, Osoam teems with life.
The villagers connect to outsiders with remarkable openness. Eager to share words, gestures, emotions. Osoam instills remarkable faith in the universality of the human spirit. Altruism, community, impress gratitude witnessing this part of the globe.
Osoam is located in western Cambodia, not distant from the Thai border. A painfully slow, bumpy road leads north to Krong Pursat. I made the journey on a shared 4X4, 10 people squished into a 5 seat car (with the driver sitting on someone’s lap).
Conversely the road south to Koh Kong glides through 100 km of new asphalt, albeit only one lane wide. I was curious to know why a construction of such quality had taken place.
Mr.Nim told me of the Chinese investors constructing dams in the jungle. They burn for short term contracts, providing free electricity for 5 years, investments for the horizon. Constricting rivers, destroying habitats, all for personal profit downstream.
Flames of various sizes surround Osoam.