Real Pictures for Real People: No Bullshit

New York, NY. 18 June 2008
Long moments of respectful silence were punctuated with soulful reflection, confessions, dreams laughter and even some arguing: Philip Jones Griffith’s memorial at Aperture on a recent night was as anarchic and enjoyable as the man himself.

The 72 year old photojournalist and warrior of peace died in March after an eight year battle with cancer. He was no stranger to death, having photographed its ravages in Vietnam, Cambodia and in other conflict zones around the world since he began working as a full-time freelance photographer in 1961.

In the course of his career he accumulated many thousands of negatives, some of which were reproduced into books as epic as the tragedies they depicted. Perhaps his most famous is Vietnam, Inc., published in 1971, exposed a reality that has existed in times of war for centuries, yet in his singular way, Jones Griffiths framed the ravages of war in such a way that helped turn the tide of American public opinion regarding the war.

Through Jones Griffiths’ subtle but poignant black and white images, he draws the viewer in rather than repulses with the vulgarity typical to images of war. A pacifist and fierce opponent of the war, Jones Griffiths never considered himself a traditional reporter or war photographer.

The photograph of the Vietnamese woman cradling a babe in her arms while a US soldier stands behind watching her, cradling his machine gun; or of the young boy who lay on a bare mattress, contorted, chained to the metal post of his bed with his pants pulled down below his knees (he lost his mind when he lost his mother to the war), are just two such images on view the other night.

The memorial at Aperture opened with documentary photographer Donna Ferrato asking the one hundred or so gathered to embrace silence, even during moments of tempted hilarity, as we embarked on a journey of remembrance on screen. In typical fashion, Ferrato had gathered up whomever happened to be around when it came time to interview Jones Griffiths’ pals for the film she was making as memorial to her past lover, and managed to pull together a splendidly intimate and fittingly offbeat portrait of Jones Griffiths from his images, his words, and the responses to both by friends and colleagues.

Although I never met him, I learned from the film that Jones Griffiths was the kind of man you want on your side in the worst situations because it would ensure: (1) his methodical nature would get you out alive; (2) his argumentative nature would distract you and keep you thinking; and (3) his comedic delivery of even the worst news would leave you uplifted no matter the circumstance.

While he lost pints of blood from a constant nose bleed in the final days, suffering paralysis in the hand that he forced to sign hundreds of his photographs as he lay dying, Jones Griffiths asks his and Donna’s daughter, Fanny, to hand him a collection of Welsh poems. Jones Griffiths, who was born in Wales in 1936, in the film lies in what appears to be a hospital bed with a Wales-London rugby match (his beloved Welshman win) playing on the television. From the book Fanny retrieves him, Jones Griffiths reads an ode to rugby that includes the line, “Sing no song of rugby when the match is over they’re at the bar in throngs.”

In the movie he says he will start from the beginning, as if to say, “Here: listen. This is what I want you to remember.”

With grave tone he begins, “Good orgasms are hard to find. This is something we should care about.” As the audience erupts in laughter, Jones Griffiths waxes on about how fidelity is for the weak-willed who have fallen victim to the mores of a society that, “is all fucked up – it’s all done to make us feel insecure…love is always something you give, never something you take…love yourself first and have faith in yourself.” Throughout, Jones Griffiths comes off as deeply funny and deeply serious. Simultaneously.

In the film he is described by photographer Elliott Erwitt (think black and white photos of little dogs on the streets of New York) as a “moral compass” of how photography should be done (straight, unadulterated), and by Eugene Richards (a photojournalist known for his portraits of drugs, gangs and other gritty experiences) as a “forensic scientist” of history.

A contemporary of Jones Griffiths, the respected war photographer Don McCullin, perhaps considering his own legacy, sums up that of his deceased friend in terms of how people will continue to respond to his work. To the sound of the shutter release click-clicking as Donna takes Philip and Don’s last photos together, McCullin intones, “He tried to make a difference. Generations to come will be holding Philip’s hands and saying, ‘thank you’.”

After the credits roll and the lights get turned on (and then quickly turned off after Ferrato grabs the mike and shouts, “Lights off! Lights off! You jumped the gun, lights off!”) Alex Webb, an American photojournalist, offers the wisdom given to him by Jones Griffiths when Webb was first applying for membership in Magnum. At meetings of Magnum when you’re a nominee, he’s told, you say nothing. When you’ve become an associate member, you say nothing. Once you are a full member, then you say (and Webb pantomimes the appropriate arm motions to go with the phrase), “‘Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!’.”

Jones Griffiths pissed off a lot of people in his years. He could also take apart a Leica and put it back together. He also built his own industrial-size enlarger and, according to David Burnett, installed the landing light from nothing less than a 707 airplane as his light source. Everything with Jones Griffiths was larger than life, and not surprisingly, left unforgettable impressions on the people he knew.

Bring a group of passionate photographers and powerful women together and you’re bound to create a little friction. The night did not disappoint in this regard, with one particularly tense exchange between Ferrato and a woman named Alberta who stood up in protest after one of Jones Griffiths’ past assistants, Lila Lee, told of a dream she had in which a bed full of women (a theme running throughout the night was that Jones Griffiths loved to surround himself with women who are easy on the eye) were fighting in the deceased’s apartment on West 36th Street.

Alberta pleaded with the sound of disbelief mixed with disgust, “Can’t we have some boundaries? This is out of hand,” to which some snickered, others nodded their heads in agreement and Ferrato, who held the mic at the time, responded that Lee’s comments were beautiful and desirable, and others were welcome to follow suit.

Perhaps the most memorable commentary, for me, came from Tom Keller, a former director of Magnum, the picture agency where Jones Griffiths also served as director from 1980 through 1985.

Referring to the Biblical creation story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, wherein Adam eats the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge and is thus banished from Paradise, Keller suggests what remains for me, days later, the defining reflection on Jones Griffiths.

Through the lens of Milton’s version of the Fall in Paradise Lost, Keller describes how Jones Griffiths lived and moved and made choices. Without Eve Adam does not want to stay in paradise and so consciously chooses to eat, chooses to see, chooses to leave Paradise. Keller chokes back tears as he speaks:

“Philip spent his life eating from the tree of knowledge and knew an awful lot. I’m pissed off he left us here.” Keller pauses, and then adds, “And this isn’t Paradise.”

I still feel the lump in my throat that I felt when I heard his words, maybe because I hope to leave a legacy that stimulates and challenges, that brings Truth, or at least begs others to question what is Truth, where is Meaning, to the table.

As if in response, a young man and aspiring photojournalist who did not know Jones Griffiths personally, stood up to speak and offered, simply, “How can we live up to it? How can we not try? [Looking at Jones Griffiths’ work] inspires me to try a little harder because he did it so well.”

When Jones Griffiths stopped breathing the clock read 10 to 2. No more debates, no more soliloquies. No more poetry. No more photography. His daughters, Fanny and Katherine, lay in bed beside him not wanting to let go. In Donna’s words, “Philip believed being a photographer was an honor and that there’s no room for bullshit. Real pictures for real people. With Philip you got as good as you gave, and he always gave more.”

Proud in Jackson Heights, Queens

In its 16th year, the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender Pride parade and festival brilliantly tramped down the streets of Jackson Heights in Queens earlier today. Demonstrating the great diversity of this neighborhood of more than 100 languages, parade participants, festival vendors, performers and spectators hailed from a multitude of countries and New York City neighborhoods.

Queens native and Italian-American Vinnie Barone said he, “must be famous somewhere,” given the number of times his photo has been taken over the many years he has been selling his shop’s wares at street fairs in the City. The yellow tent of his and wife Selma’s Ipanema Girl cast a soothing shadow in the early morning sun as they stocked their tables with green and yellow soccer jerseys, orange flip-flops and other brightly colored items one could imagine teenagers flocking to. Referring to his store in Astoria, Barone quipped, “everything’s imported, including my wife!”

Many of the crews setting-up on Sunday morning were family affairs – including a Colombian couple selling grilled corn on the cob and “fresh” lemonade (juicy lemons accompanied by ample amounts of boxed corn syrup). Father and son duo John and Michael Chan were expecting Mrs. Chan at any moment to help with the display of what Mr. Chan called “authentic gem stone” sculptures. The elder Chans were born in China and are raising Michael in Flushing.

Another father-son team have been hauling equipment from their large Islamic community in Ozone Park to this parade as well as many others for over a quarter century. NY Chair Rentals proprietor Waheed Khan, who was on hand to direct his son, Omar, and a crew that included an Osama, an Antonio and a Fernando. They had the main-stage tent up by 9am.

Russ and Paul Feddern, brothers in more ways than one, were on hand to assist with the first booth their group had staged at the event. Members of Chapter 32 of the Vietnam Veterans of America, the Feddern brothers did tours from 1966-1967 and 1967-1968, respectively. At the festival to educate and fundraise for their group, the veterans laid out $10 ball caps, an assortment of trinkets and kept busy sweeping their area. “We’re a place where vets can go for help – vets helping vets,” said first vice president Paul Narson.

Brothers and family of another sort were excitedly unpacking their car of give-aways. 2008 marks the 25th anniversary of the LGBT Community Center in Manhattan where, “300 groups meet monthly and 6,000 people are served weekly,” according to Rob Zukowski, pride coordinator for the Center. When asked if they look forward to the day or if it’s one long drain in the sun, intern Sterling Taylor responded that the pride season, which runs from June through August, is a great time. Arriving at a big day like the Queens event is like Christmas in June; “this is the easy part, like unwrapping the present,” said Taylor who also called Zukowski the “coordinator of all things prideful.”

Speaking of gifts, non-alcoholic drinks were being freely distributed and eagerly snatched up at the Englewood Cliffs-based Fuze Beverages booth. In a small attempt to “go green,” (or more likely meet the non-green demands of a grab and go culture) Fuze is transitioning from glass to PET plastic, the easiest plastic bottles to recycle. Marketing rep Joey Hodges was on hand to coordinate his team of Fuze-enthusiasts promoting "Plastic on the Outside, All Natural Inside" campaign, many of whom were eagerly looking for somewhere to relieve themselves of all the Fuze they’d drunk in the almost-80-degree weather.

In addition to the usual restaurants of Little India, a multitude of food vendors heated up 37th Road between 73rd and 77th streets. Cheesey corncakes were frying at Mozzarepas where Brian Leon and Ed Gonzalez were flipping the popular twist on a Colombian mainstay. The scent of Italian sausage, onions, peppers and fries cooking under the able supervision of John Thornton and Wess Charles at the Brooklyn-based Ned’s booth drew a large collection of NYPD officers, pregnant women pushing strollers and multi-tattooed and pierced women and men carrying rainbow flags.

A mix of parade and community party, the day also made room for the usual politicking of the local elect and candidates. Congressman Anthony Weiner (D-New York), State Assemblyman José Peralta (D-Corona) and City Councilwoman Rosie Mendez (D-District 2) were among the many politicians who shook hands, shouted into blow-horns and, in the case of Mendez who is an out lesbian and one of the grand marshals of the event, rode in an old convertible while waving to the crowd.

District 24 representative Rosemary Parker and other marchers from the United Federation of Teachers spoke out against what they are calling, “decades of chronic under-funding” of New York City schools. Claiming that Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s administration has taken $450 million promised to the schools out of $600 million from the New York Senate, they chanted to spectators to call the Mayor and demand he, “keep his promise.”

Danny Dromm, the event’s founder, who is also a public school teacher and a candidate for City Council, detoured off the purple-marked parade route to embrace the parents of a young man who was beaten to death in August of 2001 after leaving a gay bar in the neighborhood. Leonor and Armando Garzon carried a large photograph of their son Edgar Garzon, joining the parade at the corner marked with his name and remembered as the place where he was slain. The grief over a similar hate crime that took place one block away but eleven years earlier, when Julio Rivera was beaten and killed in a schoolyard, is considered to be the original battle cry that rallied the local gay community to action.

Since 1993 when the parade was first staged, it has continued to grow, reaching an estimated crowd of 30,000 in 2007. This year, more than 75 vendors and some 100 parade participants, according to Harry Roach of Clearview Festival Productions, who puts on the event, offered something for everyone. Kids shrieked and parents cheered approval of the folk dancers from Raices de Mexico, male baton-twirlers and cartwheel-turners, and the award-winning music by the Lesbian and Gay Big Apple Corps marching band.

For a day that started before 7am with members of the traffic division relocating cars illegally parked on the parade route along 37th Avenue and ended with the Sanitation Department’s street sweeping machines making the rounds as police officers removed the street barricades after 7pm, it was a good, long, hot, proud, peaceful addition to the history of Jackson Heights.

Additional photographs with captions can be found on my Pride'08 Flickr page.