From the Archive - Real Cowboys, Minneapolis, MNLake Street USA (1997 - 2000) [When I met this man he had lost the use of his vocal chords and was using a device that he held to his throat called an electro-larnyx, which amplifies the tissue to create a synthesized, sort of electronic-sounding voice.] Most of ‘em here call me cowboy and that’s it. There must not be too many around. At least not real ones. I’m from El Paso, but I’m here because I’ve had two cancer operations at Abbott. When they found the cancer everything happened so fast, I didn’t have time to think about it long. By the time I went to the hospital they told me we’ve got about thirty minutes to cut you open or you’re going to be gone. The cancer had wound around my vocal chords. Now I have tubes down there that I breathe through. But I feel lucky. When I get up in the morning and my feet feel the carpet I know I’m still here. I can still communicate. I don’t even consider this much of a handicap. I made most of my living as a heavy equipment operator. But music was my passion, still is, but I can’t find one of these things that sings [points to the electro-larnyx]. I sang with Bill Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys out of Nashville, Tennessee. Sang for 35 years. In a month I’m going to Chattanooga. I’m just going back to see if some of those people are still around. I miss singing. It was a big part of my life. I also trained horses when I was young. I still do, even though I’m not supposed to be doing it. I don’t know if I would want to live if I couldn’t have something to do with horses. Most of my family, my dad and my brother–well they’re all dead now–we were all horse people.
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From the Archive - Real Cowboys, Minneapolis, MN
Lake Street USA (1997 - 2000)

[When I met this man he had lost the use of his vocal chords and was using a device that he held to his throat called an electro-larnyx, which amplifies the tissue to create a synthesized, sort of electronic-sounding voice.]

Most of ‘em here call me cowboy and that’s it. There must not be too many around. At least not real ones.

I’m from El Paso, but I’m here because I’ve had two cancer operations at Abbott. When they found the cancer everything happened so fast, I didn’t have time to think about it long. By the time I went to the hospital they told me we’ve got about thirty minutes to cut you open or you’re going to be gone. The cancer had wound around my vocal chords. Now I have tubes down there that I breathe through. But I feel lucky. When I get up in the morning and my feet feel the carpet I know I’m still here. I can still communicate. I don’t even consider this much of a handicap.

I made most of my living as a heavy equipment operator. But music was my passion, still is, but I can’t find one of these things that sings [points to the electro-larnyx]. I sang with Bill Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys out of Nashville, Tennessee. Sang for 35 years. In a month I’m going to Chattanooga. I’m just going back to see if some of those people are still around. I miss singing. It was a big part of my life.

I also trained horses when I was young. I still do, even though I’m not supposed to be doing it. I don’t know if I would want to live if I couldn’t have something to do with horses. Most of my family, my dad and my brother–well they’re all dead now–we were all horse people.

From the Archives - Father and Sons, The Springs, CaliforniaInside The Springs (2007) Several years ago, in an area called The Springs (adjacent to wine-rich Sonoma), I took this photograph of a father and his two adult sons—all migrant workers— sitting on a bed in a small, low-rent apartment they shared with a dozen other men who also worked in the wine fields. Each is holding a photo of loved ones still back in Mexico. Behind them on a wall is one lonely indulgence—a poster of Disneyland, in front of which a votive candle was carefully placed. Through an interpreter I asked why, of all things, are Mickey and Minnie placed in such altar-like reverence? The answer, of course, was that when they were in Mexico their dream was one day to visit the home of the famous mouse. Only then would they know they had truly arrived. They were still waiting.
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From the Archives - Father and Sons, The Springs, California
Inside The Springs (2007)

Several years ago, in an area called The Springs (adjacent to wine-rich Sonoma), I took this photograph of a father and his two adult sons—all migrant workers— sitting on a bed in a small, low-rent apartment they shared with a dozen other men who also worked in the wine fields. Each is holding a photo of loved ones still back in Mexico. Behind them on a wall is one lonely indulgence—a poster of Disneyland, in front of which a votive candle was carefully placed.

Through an interpreter I asked why, of all things, are Mickey and Minnie placed in such altar-like reverence? The answer, of course, was that when they were in Mexico their dream was one day to visit the home of the famous mouse. Only then would they know they had truly arrived. They were still waiting.

From the Archive - I Like To Be Smooth, Minneapolis, MNLake Street USA (1997 - 2000) I love to get my stomach and chest waxed. It makes me laugh. I like the feeling of smoothness against my clothes and raw skin. I just don’t like hair. I like to be smooth. The pain almost feels good in a way. It’s like a sexual experience. You want it to happen and you don’t want it to happen. It’s kind of weird. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. One moment it can hurt, and the next moment it can make you laugh. It’s also kind appetizing to the mind to see all the hair removed. Like when you play Pac Man. You want to get rid of all the little dots. And you can’t stop. Then it kills you.
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From the Archive - I Like To Be Smooth, Minneapolis, MN
Lake Street USA (1997 - 2000)

I love to get my stomach and chest waxed. It makes me laugh. I like the feeling of smoothness against my clothes and raw skin. I just don’t like hair. I like to be smooth.

The pain almost feels good in a way. It’s like a sexual experience. You want it to happen and you don’t want it to happen. It’s kind of weird. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. One moment it can hurt, and the next moment it can make you laugh.

It’s also kind appetizing to the mind to see all the hair removed. Like when you play Pac Man. You want to get rid of all the little dots. And you can’t stop. Then it kills you.

From the Archive - Joe’s Barber Shop, St. Paul, MNFrogtown (1993 - 1995) I first started coming here in the 30s when I was 16. It was called Nick’s Barber Shop then. Haircuts were 35 cents. Now they’re $7.50. Still a good buy. Joe here has been cutting my hair since 1950. I’ve been a good customer. I get it cut every three weeks. If you can stand his bs you’ve got it made. That’s a lot of bs over 40 years. I guess that’s why I come here.
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From the Archive - Joe’s Barber Shop, St. Paul, MN
Frogtown (1993 - 1995)

I first started coming here in the 30s when I was 16. It was called Nick’s Barber Shop then. Haircuts were 35 cents. Now they’re $7.50. Still a good buy. Joe here has been cutting my hair since 1950. I’ve been a good customer. I get it cut every three weeks. If you can stand his bs you’ve got it made. That’s a lot of bs over 40 years. I guess that’s why I come here.

Changing Lenses is the product of an ongoing conversation between eminent sociologist Doug Hartmann, Ph.D. and myself. In each post, we exchange what’s seen behind a camera lens and what’s seen through a sociological lens to get at the diversity of perspectives and cultivate a unique look at the human experience. Below is my perspective. Read Doug’s reaction here. From the Archive - Politician, St. Paul, MN Frogtown (1993 - 1995) I haven’t photographed that much in the political sphere. I’m not sure why. Partly perhaps because the circus surrounding politics are often orchestrated media events and I’m interested more in what is usually not covered by the press. Also I’ve been apolitical most of my life, just as I’ve been areligious, although I’ve photographed in a lot of churches and faith-based places, so I guess I can’t use that as an excuse.  I’m more interested in the sociology of politics than politics itself. For instance, do aesthetics determine political beliefs or is it the other way around? Why do liberals and conservatives dress the way they do? Can knowing whether or not you like to color outside the lines as a kid be a predictor of your opinion on abortion? I assume that sociologists are plagued with the same biases that challenge every field of study that supposes objectivity, unlike artists who are expected to flaunt their point of view. I guess in that sense I’m more like a sociologist than an artist, in that I want my point of view to seem transparent.  This photograph doesn’t have much of a back-story. The image is really my only memory of it. I went back to the contact sheet and realized it was on one of the first rolls I shot for Frogtown, which was my first project. It put me on the artistic map, so to speak.  I believe I was just walking around and bumped into this scene. I only took two shots of the politician, both from the back. Amazing how few of the children, who became unwitting political advertisements, are actually looking at the politician. 
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Changing Lenses is the product of an ongoing conversation between eminent sociologist Doug Hartmann, Ph.D. and myself. In each post, we exchange what’s seen behind a camera lens and what’s seen through a sociological lens to get at the diversity of perspectives and cultivate a unique look at the human experience. Below is my perspective. Read Doug’s reaction here.

From the Archive - Politician, St. Paul, MN
Frogtown (1993 - 1995)

I haven’t photographed that much in the political sphere. I’m not sure why. Partly perhaps because the circus surrounding politics are often orchestrated media events and I’m interested more in what is usually not covered by the press. Also I’ve been apolitical most of my life, just as I’ve been areligious, although I’ve photographed in a lot of churches and faith-based places, so I guess I can’t use that as an excuse. 

I’m more interested in the sociology of politics than politics itself. For instance, do aesthetics determine political beliefs or is it the other way around? Why do liberals and conservatives dress the way they do? Can knowing whether or not you like to color outside the lines as a kid be a predictor of your opinion on abortion?

I assume that sociologists are plagued with the same biases that challenge every field of study that supposes objectivity, unlike artists who are expected to flaunt their point of view. I guess in that sense I’m more like a sociologist than an artist, in that I want my point of view to seem transparent. 

This photograph doesn’t have much of a back-story. The image is really my only memory of it. I went back to the contact sheet and realized it was on one of the first rolls I shot for Frogtown, which was my first project. It put me on the artistic map, so to speak. 

I believe I was just walking around and bumped into this scene. I only took two shots of the politician, both from the back. Amazing how few of the children, who became unwitting political advertisements, are actually looking at the politician. 

Changing Lenses is the product of an ongoing conversation between eminent sociologist Doug Hartmann, Ph.D. and myself. In each post, we exchange what’s seen behind a camera lens and what’s seen through a sociological lens to get at the diversity of perspectives and cultivate a unique look at the human experience. Below is my perspective. Read Doug’s reaction here.From the Archive - Roosevelt High School Students, Minneapolis, MNLake Street USA (1997 - 2000) When I took this photograph in 1998, nearly half of the student population at Roosevelt High School, located in the urban core of South Minneapolis, was Somali. Perhaps school district officials thought it best to keep all of the refugees together; that’s what they’d done with Southeast Asians in the mid-‘70s, too. All of the students pictured here are Muslim and, as required by their faith, pray five times a day. This could be problematic during school hours, and they’d pray as discreetly as they could under stairwells or in bathrooms. Whether it was the separation of church and state that legally prohibits prayer in schools or the distinctly not Christian spectacle of prostrated Islamic worship, the Somali students banded together to find an alternative place to pray. Racial tensions flared between these students and both white and other black students at Roosevelt. Ironically, Our Redeemer Lutheran Church (across the street from the school) became the safe haven for these kids. Every Friday during their lunch hour, Somali students transformed the basement of Our Redeemer into a mosque. First the boys prayed, then the girls. Fourteen years later, I wondered if a Muslim prayer group still meets. I was surprised to see that the church marquee now reads: Our Redeemer Oromo Evangelical Church. The cultural cross-pollination continues: the Oromo, ethnic refugees from Ethiopia, now occupy the sanctuary and hold services in both Oromo and English (for the young Oromos who don’t speak the mother tongue). The Roosevelt Muslim student group is still going strong and has moved its services several doors down to the YMCA. One school administrator told me that they are now joined by a significant African American contingent that has converted to Islam.
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Changing Lenses is the product of an ongoing conversation between eminent sociologist Doug Hartmann, Ph.D. and myself. In each post, we exchange what’s seen behind a camera lens and what’s seen through a sociological lens to get at the diversity of perspectives and cultivate a unique look at the human experience. Below is my perspective. Read Doug’s reaction here.

From the Archive - Roosevelt High School Students, Minneapolis, MN
Lake Street USA (1997 - 2000)

When I took this photograph in 1998, nearly half of the student population at Roosevelt High School, located in the urban core of South Minneapolis, was Somali. Perhaps school district officials thought it best to keep all of the refugees together; that’s what they’d done with Southeast Asians in the mid-‘70s, too.

All of the students pictured here are Muslim and, as required by their faith, pray five times a day. This could be problematic during school hours, and they’d pray as discreetly as they could under stairwells or in bathrooms. Whether it was the separation of church and state that legally prohibits prayer in schools or the distinctly not Christian spectacle of prostrated Islamic worship, the Somali students banded together to find an alternative place to pray. Racial tensions flared between these students and both white and other black students at Roosevelt.

Ironically, Our Redeemer Lutheran Church (across the street from the school) became the safe haven for these kids. Every Friday during their lunch hour, Somali students transformed the basement of Our Redeemer into a mosque. First the boys prayed, then the girls.

Fourteen years later, I wondered if a Muslim prayer group still meets. I was surprised to see that the church marquee now reads: Our Redeemer Oromo Evangelical Church. The cultural cross-pollination continues: the Oromo, ethnic refugees from Ethiopia, now occupy the sanctuary and hold services in both Oromo and English (for the young Oromos who don’t speak the mother tongue). The Roosevelt Muslim student group is still going strong and has moved its services several doors down to the YMCA. One school administrator told me that they are now joined by a significant African American contingent that has converted to Islam.