Of Easy Chairs and Warmer Places By Chip Marks
It’s actually quite a comfortable easy chair, that 06 Civic of mine, purchased in better times, when the American Dream seemed a bit more alive and real for me. As a photographer here in Kansas City, I drive around a lot photographing people and places. I find myself drawn to the places that are a little more run down, a little more forgotten. I pass by the usual places where they stand with their signs of need. If I have any spare change or a dollar handy I will look at them, if not I pretend I am very busy and have places to be but really I just don’t have anything in my pocket. It is difficult to see these people and not give them something. Even half of what I drop at the coffee shop in the morning would be welcomed with gratitude.
Driving down 8th street that day the sun was on its way out and I saw a man lying against the wall of an incredible old church. Its days of glory long since past. It didn’t seem out of place for him to be there, he actually fit the scene. The church was so beaten down and it was obvious it had been quite a creation in its day, much like the man lying there, I suppose. The man almost seemed to grow out from the cracks in the sidewalk, much like the weeds that soften the blow of concrete under our feet. He was part of the landscape, part of the church landscape, a tug that calls out to the part of us where compassion and caring are buried away. That part we don’t want to show too much of these days considering how many people of questionable need have their hands out. He did not have his hand out. I wanted to photograph this man, who was either passed-out or halfasleep, though I was not sure how I would do it. I tend to feel like I am stealing something from a man by taking his photograph when he is at his lowest. This man’s name was Carl. I went around the block and parked my car, pumping the meter full of change. The amount could have easily fed a man, woman, or child living on these streets for a day. From across the street I tried to access the scene and how to shoot a meaningful picture of Carl, when two African American men walked by, oblivious to me and heading down the street towards Carl. As they got closer to him, I turned and shot some photographs from a distance. It seemed a strange scene and I wish I could have heard these men and what they might have said as they passed by. Carl clearly had nothing they wanted, but as they approached, he perked up and it seemed clear that they had something he wanted. I wondered what it could be: a buck, perhaps, or just an acknowledgement that he exists. It reminded me a bit of the old woman who goes to the beauty shop, not because her bluish hair needs to be cut but because she just wants someone to touch her and let her know that this is all real and she does exist in this world. The world she was once young and alive and attractive, where she danced and celebrated the end of world wars and celebrated Christmas with the ones she loved now scatter to the four corners of this American Dream. Alone, with no one to help, winter is colder than she ever remembers. The two men passed Carl with a nod and I saw him sink as if all the air had been let out of him. From across the street I could almost feel his loss, my loss, our loss. I walked south past the church, trying to find the best way to approach Carl, to get a more personal picture of him. I looked around me and I saw the wonderful architecture of Old Kansas City. These buildings, once so amazing in their dreams of greatness, now stand empty, just a future condo-vision in a developer’s head, fit for the wealthy who wish to live close to the culture and the nightlife. I shot some of the buildings because they moved me in their beauty. I panned across the street and saw a bank. There was a single window, perfectly framing a lone businessman sitting inside. I wondered who he was and who he had waiting for him at home. It was a stark contrast to Carl slumped in the alley. Somehow, though, there was a thread between them, and it could almost be physically seen.
I photographed the man through the window, his hand on his chin, immersed in worries I could only imagine. I turned back again, and before approaching Carl I stopped to take a peek in the window of the old church. I wondered what was happening inside and if anyone in there was aware of what was happening outside. I was startled then by a man who asked if he could help me. I told him No, I was just looking but actually, I did wonder about this church. He proceeded to tell me about how the pastor helped the people of this area. He said the church was a women’s shelter at night and provided a warm meal between eleven o’clock and one o’clock every day to people with nothing but tattered clothes and the cold sidewalk. I told him my name and he said he was Tim. He looked through his sunglass at me and told me how the pastor said to the police that the perimeter around his church was protected and that the people could sleep there if they wanted to or just take a rest from what I imagine could be a very long day for some of them. Tim proceeded to show me a secret place that did not seem to be much of a secret until he showed me the small heating vent there that could save a person’s life on one of these cold February mornings. He told me some nights he actually woke up sweating and that he was okay out here. In fact, most of the people he knew out here were okay. We discussed the economy for a bit and Tim said, looking up at the ornate buildings, that he expected people to start jumping from those windows one day soon if the market kept sliding. It seemed reminiscent of when President Hoover told the good bankers and investors, in 1929, that the market would straighten itself out very soon. I wasn’t sure about all of that but I did think of the businessman in the window, and again I wondered where his mind was, moreover where he stood with his mortgage. His window was on the first floor, so I imagine he wouldn’t have much more than a broken ankle if he jumped. It would be just as easy to escape down the rabbit hole of Vicodan, Ambien , 12-yearold scotch or even T V these days. I told Tim that I had hoped to take photographs one day that might move people to look beyond their lives of security and truly see the people out here and maybe help, or at least try to. And yet it is interesting to realize that these people on the street are not affected by today’s economic tsunami that we are all preoccupied with. They have lost it all already and they are the ones watching us now, shaking in our boots. They will be okay long after the markets have recovered and the bonuses are taken in the millions. I glanced at the warm spot Tim he had just shown me and I realized it didn’t even matter. I thought of Edward Steichen, the great photographer from the forties who tried to show, through his photographs, the horrors of war in hopes that maybe he could change something. Steichen realized back then, that people turn away from such horrifying images. Today, the marketers that sell us our shiny cars and diet aids cannot show us the cold truth of what happens on the ground in Iraq. Or the reality of what bombs and bullets do to innocent woman and children who somehow have gotten in the way of our righteous plans for their country. If we saw these things, the truth, we would be aghast and not have the stomach to buy any products. We are the engine of global prosperity. How many will starve if America’s appetite is spoiled? We must not be horrified. Mr. Steichen decided to photograph the uplifting Family of Man series instead and hoped that the joy of living and the connection of all men to each other would elicit the change he desired to see. I am not convinced that either extreme was correct, but perhaps a subtle mix of the two would be just fine. I asked Tim if I could come down here sometime, maybe buy him a cup of coffee or a burger and we could talk some more. He said absolutely and smiled broadly, and I wondered what the weather forecast for tonight was going to be. I handed him a five-dollar bill and thanked him, he nodded slightly and thanked me and we turned and went our separate ways. Just as I turned, there was Carl. I went up to him and stooped down to talk to him. I introduced myself and asked him how he was doing. He smiled as if it was just another day and said he was very good. I handed him some bills and asked him to please, stay warm tonight. His smile and thanks were genuine and I saw a grateful man, a man that would be okay tonight, with my help or without it. I said good-bye to Carl and walked back to my easy chair, with way too much time left on the meter, wondering some more about the pale man in the bank window. The man with the worried look on his face.