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ggukkiedae · 4 years ago

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❝𝕀𝕟 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕠𝕠𝕡❞

𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜:

⇢ Episodes 3-4

𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜:

⇢ conversations written in italics are spoken in english. requests and feedback are highly appreciated!

⇢ script form (name: lines) are the interviews

EPISODE 3

she was shown tucked under her purple blanket still sleeping while the others were starting to wake up

while jin makes his way to the upper house’s kitchen, she slowly gets up and checks her phone

“11? already?”

the next cut you see is of her in lounge shorts and a big shirt instead of her pajama set waddling her way to yoongi and attaching herself to his side

“oppas,” she wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking herself under his arm, “how do you guys have so much energy right now”

“aigoo, our makdungie just woke up,” seokjin cooed while hoseok just squished her cheeks in an attempt to help her regain her senses

“wake yourself up, princess, then come help me with ingredients” “okay”

she helps yoongi with the vegetables, him making sure to take the onions away from her

she was giggling with hoseok at yoongi’s face when he was cutting up onions

hoseok had her in a back hug with his chin on her head while yoongi stirred the ingredients together. her job, despite being the best cook in bangtan, was adding the cheese

miya: i’m actually pretty good with meals, but if i don’t cook alone, the oppas usually make me do the minimum. something about it being dangerous?

the older members passed her off to jungkook as soon as he got there

aaaaand the two maknaes disappeared

a clip of them talking while walking towards everyone else played. their conversation was hushed, though, and the background music just played over it. the subtitles read “maknaes are quiet in the morning”

she headed over to the grass in front of the main house where she started doing stretches. she did basic stretches then went on to a few more advanced ones

namjoon saw her from a distance

“yoon-ah, are you okay over there?” “i’m okay!”

after her stretches she just ended up lying on the grass and scrolling through her phone

eventually she just plays music and puts her phone in a safe spot then entered the trampoline

she shook her head amusedly when she saw jungkook, taehyung, and hoseok jogging past her

she starts hopping around the trampoline to build up momentum and, next thing you know, she’s practicing different gymnastics tricks

you don’t see her for a while

she’s next shown in the main house sitting next to yoongi, excitedly bouncing in place while opening a box

“i can make makeup! oppa, look!”

the editors replayed the clip, emphasizing on how all four boys in the room turned to her

she excitedly took stuff out and started setting up while animatedly telling the boys about everything she could grab a hold of

yoongi was just nodding and humming in response every now and then while the other three did the same but while doing their own activities

until she eventually became way too focused to talk

around the time jungkook and taehyung are boxing each other, she turned to jimin

“oppa, sit still!”

and she places something on his lips with a grin. it was lip gloss with pink glitters

“ooooh it looks nice” jimin poked at his lips while checking his face in his phone

“i should sell these,” she laughed and closed the containers

then she heads off somewhere with the box holding all the cosmetics

the next clip of her is when it’s raining. she’s sitting on the roofed area of the deck on the boathouse with her guitar and a notebook. she’s just mindlessly playing the guitar while watching the rain

miya: there was something calming about watching the rain hit the water… i guess i just don’t see it too often nowadays. not much in the past few years, actually

she’s next seen when yoongi stops by to bring her with him over to come with him to get his recording equipment

“we’re making a theme song?” “looks like it.”

she just laughs and follows him after setting her guitar and notebook down in her room

she’s in giggles when namjoon’s recording “in the soop” and hoseok’s kinda just coddling her and laughing with her

she’s lying down on the floor while jungkook was building toys. hoseok comes in and tosses them both a pair of sweatpants and calls them for food. she could smell the food when she opened the door.

“pajeoooooooooon!”

she comes running to the tarp and shouting excitedly. the older members laugh fondly

you can see her and jungkook cheers makgeolli a few times on the side

she smiles at taehyung when they’re telling him he can flip the pajeon next “oppa fighting!”

the steam from the soup goes towards her face and she scrunches up her nose “it’s so humid wait”

she applauds when taehyung successfully flipped the pajeon and when jungkook did the same

“can i cook beef tomorrow?” and yoongi just looks at her “you and me in the kitchen tomorrow” and she just sits back with a satisfied smile

they’re all singing and she’s giggling on the side “you guys sound like drunk ahjussis”

somehow she’s curled up on hoseok’s lap all giggly and he looks at her “our makdungie is tipsy from the looks of it”

EPISODE 4

at the start of the episode you can see her curled up in yoongi’s side and playing a game on her phone

“how much makgeolli did hobi sneak you to make you tipsy?” “honestly, oppa, i don’t know”

the next you see her, she and jungkook are in his room, a bottle of soju between them, and just talking

“you know, i didn’t expect that we’d be this close at first”

yoonmi laughed at his statement “neither did i. you came and were kinda scary”

“it was completely new to me having a girl around,” he defended himself while pouring them another shot each, “but i found my best friend that way”

they clinked their shot glasses together and downed their current shots

“it’s a little funny, isn’t it?” she asked him

“what is?” “the fact that we became best friends. most guys your age at the time would have found it weird hanging out with a little girl”

he scoffed “i’m different! besides, i think it’s because the hyungs said it takes a while to get close to you, and i wanted to be the fastest”

she poured them their next shots “your competitive streak never died down”

they took their shots and sat in silence for a little bit just letting their music play from jungkook’s phone

the captions read “the two maknaes are communicating through the silence” while they just sat there and drank their soju

“hey, have i ever thanked you?” she asked all of a sudden

he raised an eyebrow at her, “for what?”

“everything,” she laughed, “taking care of me, being on my side, being someone i can talk to”

“many times, yeah,” he chuckled “you do the same thing for me, anyway. that’s why we’re best friends, remember?”

“then why do you always toss me around like a doll” “you look like a doll, face it”

she laughed while pouring them the last of the soju

“cheers to best friends and being bangtan’s maknaes,” she held her shot glass up “sleepover today?”

he laughed and clinked their glasses again “sleepover any time”

miya: ggukoo oppa, we’ve been friends since we were kids. we grew up together, so i guess we understand each other a lot? sometimes we have deep talks, sometimes we sit in silence. sometimes we fight, and sometimes we team up against the other oppas.

jungkook: i think people don’t understand that mimi and i have a deeper kind of dynamic rather than just the childish image we usually have together on screen. us talking like this is something we do a lot, and it brings us both a lot of comfort. clarity, too

then there’s a mini montage of them talking, but their words are muted and music played over them. there are bits of them laughing, drinking, and maybe letting out a tear or two before they just got into jungkook’s bed to go to sleep

when taehyung goes to the boathouse to sail his rc boat, he checks on them. the editors put a clip of jungkook and yoonmi sleeping with the caption “maknae siblings are tired from talking until 4am”

a while passes, and there’s a clip of jungkook sitting up in bed, yawning and rubbing the back of his head. he looks around the room a little before shaking yoonmi awake

“hmm?” “come with me to the main house” “okay”

the scene cuts and you next see them in the main house, jungkook working on his glider with yoonmi lying down next to him, her head on his lap and still half-asleep while namjoon and jungkook talk

“sleep late, yoon-ah?” “ggukoo oppa and i stayed up until four i think”

her mumbling was slightly incoherent, though and namjoon just laughed and patted her head

when he gives up on the glider, his hand rests on yoonmi’s head, lightly massaging for a bit before transferring her head to namjoon’s lap and heading to cook

“joonie oppa?” “hmm?” “are you reading?” “yeah, why?” “could you read out loud?”

namjoon’s just reading stuff out loud while she’s listening intently to every word

namjoon and taehyung headed up to the upper house first while she sat by the kitchen and waited for jungkook to finish what he was cooking

she opened her mouth as he turned around, just in time for him to pop a piece into her mouth “let’s go”

she settled into taehyung’s side and slowly began to eat after thanking the older members for the food. yoongi chuckled at her sleepy demeanor

“you’re taking a while to wake up today, princess” “ggukoo oppa and i had soju before sleeping”

“i like the melon,” she noted, making taehyung grin at her and nuzzle his forehead against the top of her head

she took over drying the dishes for namjoon and kissed him on the cheek “stay safe on the way back, oppa” “you, too”

she ended up cleaning up with jimin, humming a little song. she was telling him about the dream she had where they all performed live again. once they finished, she went off to sit with hoseok and read while he customized his shoes

“oppa, if it turns out good, you’re going to have to make one for me, too!” “ooooh matching shoes? you’ve got it”

jimin came and started customizing his shoes as well after briefly petting her hair

she went inside so jimin could use her chair and sat next to taehyung who pulled her into his lap. he rested his chin on her shoulder while she read

when it came to packing up, she was muttering to herself while folding things into her carrier “should i have done more? i feel like i was too boring… oh well”

jimin walked into her room and leaned against the door frame

“need help, aegi?” “... yes, please” he helped her carry the bag with her clothes and the bag with her recording and producing equipment while she carried her guitar out

she ended up playing a vr game with jungkook where they had to break boxes to the rhythm of songs

there was a lot of giggling and laughter while they tried to distract each other with jimin on her side and taehyung on jungkook’s side

“ggukoo oppa’s cheating!” “uh huh, get your revenge later, let’s eat first”

she pouted at seokjin’s words but took of the vr goggles and skipped outside

“thank you for the food!” and she digs into her jjapaguri

she laughed at the reactions part until hoseok turned to her “why are you laughing? you can’t hide it the most!”

“only to you guys! but to everyone else, i can fake it”

she put her bags and guitar into the car yoongi drove and was surprised when yoongi told her to her to get in shotgun. she did and saw seokjin walking towards them and the car in front driving off

“pretend you’re asleep, princess”

she quickly closed her eyes and faced yoongi, struggling to hold in her laughter when she hear seokjin trying to open the door

she just lost it when yoongi drove off

#yoonmi.inthesoop #bts 8th member #bts female member #bts female addition #miya #yoonmi #kim yoonmi

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idreamofdraco · 4 years ago

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jess what about the sex toy fic

From the “Send me an ask with the title of one of my WIPs and I’ll post a snippet or tell you something about it” meme thing.

Mar.... I’m so glad you asked. XD So the sex toy fic is about Ginny trying out different sex toys so she can write reviews of them for other people to try out. Originally it was going to be a Draco/Ginny fic, because that’s my default, with Draco owning or working at a sex shop. But I stopped writing the fic because I just couldn’t make it make sense. So in putting this post together, I realized it’s not a Draco/Ginny fic at all.... It has to be a Pansy/Ginny fic!!! I got way inspired, but smut is really hard to write so I don’t know if this will go anywhere still. BUT I made some notes in my phone so that if I do decide to come back to this, I’ll know where to go. :)

Also, I’m really sorry, y’all, but my funniest work is all in WIPs that no one will get the chance to read.

Here’s a potentially NSFW snippet??

~*~

Ginny startled when a copy of the Daily Prophet flopped down on top of her desk, smearing the ink of the article she’d been struggling to write all morning. An outraged remark died on her tongue as she looked up to find Lavender Brown standing on the other side of the desk, her expression a mixture of anxiety and anger. Tears sparkled in her eyes, threatening to fall and ruin what was left of Ginny’s writing.

“Look at this!” Lavender said, her voice pitched high enough to burst eardrums.

Ginny peered down at the paper, scanning the headlines and column titles facing her for the trigger of Lavender’s distress. Nothing seemed amiss. Dominating the page were a continuation of an article from page A2 about a garden gnome that had saved a woman’s life, a letter to the editor concerning the Prophet’s lack of Oxford commas, and the relationship advice column, Dear Madam Lovegood.

“What is it?” Ginny asked, stupefied and growing more impatient by the second. She had been on the verge of a breakthrough with her article—she just knew it!—until Lavender’s interruption had scattered her thoughts.

Lavender bent over the desk and jabbed her finger at the advertisement in the middle of the page. “This, Ginny! Look at this wretched thing!”

The ad featured a photo of a desktop fan. Every few seconds, the image would pause, revealing exposed blades that lay flat and faced upward instead of laying vertically and facing outward. The design was strange and it didn’t look very practical.

Before Ginny could ask what was wrong with the ad, words in a swirly font emerged amidst a cloud of sparkles over the photo of the fan.

The Fanny Flicker

For the unhitched witch with an itch!

Ginny’s cheeks heated as she realized the advertisement did not depict a fan at all but a toy intended to simulate oral sex.

“There, you see!” Lavender’s voice strained with emotion. “Do you see my dilemma now?”

“Er….”

“That advertisement is ruining my column! How dare Barnabas approve for this monstrosity to be featured in the very middle of Madam Lovegood’s sage, wholesome advice!”

Ginny would have laughed at Lavender’s theatrics if her deadline hadn’t loomed quite so closely. Instead, irritation prickled just under her skin. While moving the newspaper to check how badly her article had smeared, she asked, “Didn’t you tell someone to castrate her boyfriend just last week?”

“Nooooo, if you read my column at all, you’d know I told Cheated And Defeated that had I been in his shoes, I would have castrated my boyfriend.”

“I hope Ron didn’t read your column either, then,” Ginny muttered under her breath as she siphoned up some spilled ink with her wand.

Lavender had once sent a letter in to Ask Adaline, the defunct relationship advice column that Lavender’s column had replaced. Adaline’s response to her letter had been generic and pale, much to Lavender’s dissatisfaction. After doing the complete opposite of what Adaline had advised in order to win Ron’s affection back, she had sent another letter in to the column, this time critiquing the advice given to other submitters in the previous week’s issue of the Prophet. Lavender’s weekly rebuttals had grown so popular, the Daily Prophet’s editor, Barnabas Cuffe, had had no choice but to let Adaline go and hire Lavender on to run the column instead. She’d taken up the name Madam Lovegood as her pseudonym, purposely overlooking the fact that the name belonged to a former classmate and her magazine-owning father (“What do I care if it’s Luna Lovegood’s name! That name is perfect for an advice column about love and relationships! What name should I use instead, Ginny? Madam Lovebad? I don’t think so.”).

The new column had been a big hit, mostly due to Madam Lovegood’s wild and colorful opinions. As silly as the whole column was, Lavender took her work very seriously.

Maybe a little too seriously.

#my stories #ask idod #czaaritsa #ask things #meme things

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fugafromtheworld · 2 years ago

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Au delá des étoiles translation practice!

a practice translation from french to english and portuguese!

i reaalllyyy loved the songs from Belle specially the french versions! Louane sings so well and the lyrics are so simple and powerful! and since i talked about translations in my last post it gave me an immense desire to make a translation of some songs to learn more french or just to have fun and post here!

as a disclosure, i'm still a begginer in french! so if you have any corrections or suggestions pls share! this is just for practice and learning new words! (specially that there were 2 lines i had no clue how to translate!)

ps: i know there r formatting mistakes but im tired of fighting against the editor for a post thats way too big for it to handle from the start, he's innocent and did it's best

Titre

Au delá¹ des etoiles

To beyond the stars

Á além das estrelas

¹ i'm going to be honest, this "delá" was new to me so i had to do some researching but that too was hard, all i found was "de la". so i resorted to deepL, so if you have any more info about this please tell me, i'd love to learn more about this

Paroles

Lalalaï, lalalaï

Au delà des étoiles

To beyond the stars

Á além das estrelas

Quand nos coeurs se dévoilent

When our hearts are revealed

Quando nossos corações são revelados

Et battent à l'unisson

And beat in unison

E batem em sincronia²

je t'enmène la oú tu n'est jamais allé

I take you where you've never been before

Eu te levo aonde jamais foi

Lalalaï lalalaï

J’irai chercher ton âme

I will search for your soul

Procurarei por sua alma

Au delà de la lune

To beyond the moon

Á além da lua

Si tu l’as abandonnée

If you have abandoned it

Se você a abandonou Ne détournes pas, dis-moi ton nom

Don't turn away, tell me your name

Não vire de costas, me diga seu nome Lalalaï, lalalaï Lalalaï, lalalaï

Tu voudrais fuir le monde

You want to run away from the world Você gostaria de fugir do mundo

Effacer chaque seconde

Erase every second Apagar cada segundo

T'échapper de la ronde³

Escape from the crowd Escapar da multidão

Où plus personne ne te vois

To where no one can see you

Aonde ninguém pode te ver

fermer les yeux, remonte les images, change les mots

Close your eyes, recreate the images, change the words Feche seus olhos, recrie as imagems, troque as palavras

et tourne la page

And turn the page E vire a página

tout au fond de ton cœur tu peux trouver le passage

From the bottom of your heart you can find the passage

Do fundo do seu coração você pode encontrar a passagem

C'est comme un jeu,

It's like a game É como um jogo

entre dans la danse

Participate in the dance Entre na dança

saute dans le feu avec moi

Jump in the fire with me Pule no fogo comigo

Où tu le veux, si tu deviens toi (??) ^4

Wherever you want, if you become yourself Onde você quiser, se você ser você mesmo

Allez debout rejoins la danse

Get up and join the dance Levante-se e se junte a dança

c'est ici passe de l'autre coté

It's here that we cross to the other side

É aqui que se cruza ao outro lado

la magie et la chance vont pouvoir opérer

The magic and luck will be able to work A mágica e a sorte vão ser capazes de operar

Lalalaï, lalalaï

jour et nuit je m'égare dans la galaxie

Day and night i go astray in the galaxy

Dia e noite eu me perco na galáxia

où est la clé d'un amour infini

Where's the key to an eternal love Onde esta a chave de um amor infinito?

Lalalaï, lalalaï je vais suivre les ombres

I'm going to follow the shadows Vou seguir as sombras

dans une autre vie

To another life

Para uma outra vida

où s'emmêle nos vie

Where our lives get tangled up

Onde nossas vidas se embaraçam

ne perd pas de temps

Don't waste any time Não perca tempo

c'est maintenant ou jamais

It's now or never É agora ou nunca

c'est le début du voyage

It's the start of the journey

É o começo da jornada

c'était écris dans les nuages

It was written on the clouds

Estava escrito nas nuvens

sens tu la force nouvelle

Feel your new strength

Sinta sua nova força

d'un nouveau monde qui nous appelle

Of a new world that calls us

De um novo mundo que nos chama

dans cet univers ou tout est né

In this universe where everything is born Neste universo em que tudo nasce

je t'en supplie reste a mes coté

I beg you to stay by my side Eu te suplico para ficar ao meu lado

on sauveras tout le monde

We'll save everyone Nós salvaramos todo mundo

oh ne me quitte pas

Oh don't give up on me

Oh não desista de mim

C'est comme un jeu,

It's like a game,

É como um jogo,

entre dans la danse

Participate in the dance Entre na dança

saute dans le feu avec moi

Jump in the fire witrh me Pule no fogo comigo

rejoins la fête sois fière

Join the party, be proud of yourself Junte-se a festa, tenha orgulho de si mesmo

et dans le cercle regarde comme on danse

And inside the circle watch how we dance E dentro do cìrculo assista como dançamos

ca commence a tourner la tête

Your head starts spinning Sua cabeça começa a girar

tout tourne autour de toi

Everything spins around you Tudo gira em torno de você

avec moi où tu le veux si tu deviens toi ^5

With me we can go wherever you want, if you become yourself Comigo iremos aonde você quiser, se você ser você mesmo

Allez debout rejoins la danse

Get up and join the dance Levante-se e se junte a dança

Danse ton futur

Dance away your future Dance o seu futuro

Oublie les voix du passé

Forget the voices of the past

Esqueça as vozes do passado

Nous avons l'aventure

We have the adventure Temos a aventura

Un nouveau monde à inventer

A new world to invent Um mundo novo para inventar

Verse 1 repetition Verse 2 repetition

je crois que c'est le moment c'est maintenant ou jamais

I believe that's now or never Eu acredito que é agora ou nunca --------------------------------------------------------------------------- ² i know theres the word "uníssono" in portuguese, but i personally don't see it ever used compared to english where ive seen unison being used a few times, i decided to use another word that meant the same but wasn't too alien to the point of being distracting. ³ i used routine cause from what i searched "ronde" means something circular or a type of dance where people make a circle, so i interpreted it as being the crowd, taking the meaning of the dance where there's a bunch of people around you and you get uncomfortable like being in a crowd, but it could also be repetitiveness/routine cause circles also relate to that, but considering the next line, unlikely.

4 this phrase makes no sense to me, i tried the most literal translation i could but still makes me so confused 5 still got no clue how to translate this and this time got even worse

#gosh this was a long LONG song #but it didnt repeat itself in long chunks for me to just be lazy enough #langbr #french #french langblr #french learning #portuguese #langbr portuguese #this was an editing hell #a formatting hell even #langblr

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douchebagbrainwaves · 4 years ago

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OK, I'LL TELL YOU YOU ABOUT CHANGE

The path it has discovered is the most popular online store builder, with about 14,000 users. Indeed, almost pathologically so. There is a parallel here with the first microcomputers. Com, which their friends at Parse took. If Microsoft and AOL get into a client war, the only way to deliver software, but for Web-based applications can be used for constructive purposes too: just as you can trick yourself into looking like a freak, you can write a spreadsheet that several people can use simultaneously from different locations without special client software, or that can page you when certain conditions are triggered. And not only did everyone get the same thing the river does: backtrack. They don't have time to work.

They felt a two-party system ensured sufficient competition in politics. With the rise of new kind of company. But in retrospect you're probably better off studying something moderately interesting with someone who isn't. An essay you publish ought to tell the reader something he didn't already know. And increasing economic inequality means the spread between rich and poor is growing too. Web-based applications, these two kinds of stress get combined. At $300 a month, we couldn't afford to tell them. At the time IBM completely dominated the computer industry. The test drive was the way we work: a normal job may be as bad for us, like a dangerous toy would be for a toy maker, or a car in the street playing thump-thump music. The form of fragmentation people worry most about lately is economic inequality, and if you do something to the software that users hate, you'll know right away.

The effect was rather as if we were visited by beings from another solar system. If users can get through a test drive successfully, they'll like the product. I've discovered a handy test for figuring out what you're addicted to. And since the customer is always right, but different customers are right about different things; the least sophisticated users show you what you need to sell it to them. But not the specific conclusions I want to examine its internal structure. It happened to one industry after another. Up till a few years do seem better than the ones straight out of college, but only one step. You needed to take care of you. Originally the editor put button bars across the page, for example. For me, interesting means surprise.

That is a fundamental change. Back button. I'd much rather read an essay that went off in an unexpected but interesting direction than one that plodded dutifully along a prescribed course. Their search also turned up parse. Also, you've never been to this house before, so you must. Today a lot of them wrote software for them. On the surface it feels like the kind of people who are good at writing software tend to be running Linux or FreeBSD now.

Plus there aren't the same forces driving startups to spread. Patch releases. Among other things, they had no way around the statelessness of CGI scripts. When Rockefeller said individualism was gone, he was often in doubt. Whether or not computers were a precondition, they have certainly accelerated it. When finally completed twelve years later, the book would be a 900-page pastiche of existing popular novels—roughly Gone with the Wind plus Roots. But we could tell the founders were earnest, energetic, independent-minded people. He has assistants do the work for him. There's nothing intrinsically great about your current name. The eminent feel like everyone wants to take a bite out of them, and after that you don't have to be. And the second reason is that if you want to pay attention not just to things that seem wrong in a humorous way.

Magazines published few of them, and they're worried about some nit like not having proper business cards. By the time we were bought by Yahoo, I suddenly found myself working for a big company. With the centripetal forces of total war and 20th century oligopoly mostly gone, what will you miss about being young and obscure? Industrialization didn't spread much beyond those regions for a while. They might even be better off if they paid half a million dollars for a custom-made online store on their own servers so they can focus on growth, many of the big national corporations were willing to pay a premium for labor. Indeed, helps is far too weak a word. Programmers and system administrators have to worry about the servers, and in practice the medium steers you. And a program that attacked the servers themselves should find them very well defended. This worked for bigger features as well. Don't be intimidated. In another conversation he told me that what he really liked was solving problems.

I also spent some time trying to eliminate fragmentation, when we'd be better off thinking about how to mitigate its consequences. You can see every click made by every user. An essayist needs the resistance of the medium. In his autobiography, Robert MacNeil talks of seeing gruesome images that had just come in from Vietnam and thinking, we can't show these to families while they're having dinner. I was about as observant as a lump of rock. And so in the late 19th century continued for most of what happened in finance too. This doesn't always work. I suspect the best we'll be able to coordinate their efforts, and you want to work in groups of several hundred. And if you manage to write something balanced. Certainly schools should teach students how to write. When a company loses their data for them, they'll get a lot madder. You can also be in closer touch with your code.

When I grew up there were only 2 or 3 of most things, and since there was nothing we could do to decrease the size of group that can work together, the only thing sure to work on. And the models of how to look and act varied little between companies. And then there was the mystery of why the perennial favorite Pralines 'n' Cream was so appealing. And in retrospect, it was a team of eight to ten people wearing jeans to the office and typing into vt100s. In life, as in books, action is underrated. Web-based software will be good this time around, because startups will write it. I spend most of my time writing essays lately. To some extent, yes. By the time we could find at least one good name in a 20 minute office hour slot.

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yespoetry · 7 years ago

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Mother Said, Nobody Becomes An Artist Unless They Have To

By Claire Rudy Foster

My mother said she’d kill me if I wrote about her. She laughed, because it was a joke, because of course she’d never actually kill me. She’d just make me wish I was dead.

As an adult, I have written about many kinds of mothers; I have become a mother, myself. But I have left the place in my heart where my real mother lives wild, unexplored, and dark.

I believe that she wants it that way.

My mother, for better or worse, finds her way into my stories. I’ll start a new story and there she is, looking at me over her glasses. She’s a great reader, my mother, perceptive and sharp. She misses Michiko Kakutani’s column in the New York Times and hasn’t bonded to the new book review editor yet. My mother is a critic, like me: she’s impossible to impress.

She doesn’t read my writing. It upsets her too much.

Yet, when I write, she is often the reader I’m envisioning. I practiced my first stories on her, after all. I keep offering her things when I know she won’t take them. I can only make one thing, sentences, and I bring them to her like dead birds, watch her step over them, watch her carefully bury them in the rubbish heap.

I revisited the unidirectional relationship between mother and child when I picked up a battered copy of White Oleander from a free library box this summer. I read the novel in 1999, right before it got selected for Oprah’s Book Club and became a #1 national bestseller. It represented everything that I wanted: everything I wanted to experience, everything I wanted to be as a writer and a person. Janet Fitch and I were alumni of the same college: she graduated in the same class as my father, when he went there. Her prose was fiery, floral, packed with images that dripped like LSD trails. Astrid, the main character in White Oleander was the same age I was when I first picked it up, and as I read it, I felt myself maturing, hardening.

At night, I prayed for a life worth writing about. I didn’t know what I was asking for.

Yes, I got what I wanted.

What I didn’t get was a mother like Ingrid Magnussen: the white haired Viking poet whose bond to Astrid prevails through a decade-long separation. Serving a life sentence for poisoning a lover who jilts her, Ingrid sends Astrid letters from prison. Her sections of the novel, I remember, felt flat to me, and when I first read White Oleander I admit that I skimmed those scenes, flipping through Astrid’s visits to the prison and the strange notes she received from her mother at her many addresses. I didn’t realize it at the time, but those letters were missives from my future.

She writes, “Remember, there’s only one virtue, Astrid. The Romans were right. One can bear anything. The pain we cannot bear will kill us outright.”

When I revisited this novel, I realized that Ingrid was the mother I wanted, back then. She was also the mother I had become.

My teens and twenties were the kind of miserable that breeds artists or suicides. I overdosed on heroin at 18, lost my virginity to a rapist in a Mediterranean hotel, saw a few gunfights, learned how to take a punch. I survived myself, as Astrid did, and those experiences became a patchwork of scar tissue that covered my heart. Like Astrid, my pain protected me from the way the world continued to batter me, the way the first slap will numb your whole face, overstimulate your nerves, so that the next one and the next one feel like nothing, not even when his ring catches your lip, it’s nothing, just impact, and you’re used to that, you know the feeling, you’re tired of it before it even gets going.

When I was 19 years old, I came home from college and went to a party, where someone put a roofie in my drink. Drinks. I remember standing near the bonfire on the beach, surrounded by people I used to know, and then the next thing the whumph of my body hitting the sand, rough hands hauling me up, touching under my arms, my breasts. I remember trying to find my feet as they pulled me down an alley; who did this to me? I stumbled, and then everything was grey, and then everything was black.

I came to with my friend Scott on top of me. It was dark, early morning.

“Scott, are you fucking me?” I said.

He didn’t answer. He hauled me on top of him and continued, although I pushed him back and turned my face away from his kisses. He put his mouth on my breasts. He smelled like leather that has been soaked in speed and salt, dried in the sun. I knew he was injecting---I tried to think about HIV transmission, Hep C, how the barriers of my body had been breached without my knowledge. I could be dying, right now. This could be the thing that killed me.

My voice shrank in my throat. This is my friend, Scott, I said to myself. What had I done to deserve this?

When he was finished, he said, “Be grateful I didn’t cum.”

He hadn’t used a rubber. My physical self woke up one limb at a time. There was the nightmare feeling of panic, and being trapped in a body that is not responsive and can’t run when you need to get away. I eased myself out of bed, onto the floor. It took a few minutes to stand up, and although I was ashamed and wished I could wrap myself in the sheet at least so that he could not see my nakedness, I felt a terrible, tearing heat between my legs and it was more important to get away so I did, and there was some blood on the toilet paper and on my lip where it had split, how did that happen, what did I do? What was done to me?

I put my hands on the bathroom sink for balance and tried to wash my face without looking in the mirror. I didn’t want to see myself as a sick animal. Next to my right hand were the dozen hairpins I’d used when I got dressed up for the party. They were laid out in a perfect line, each one square and symmetrical to the others. Who did that? I scooped them into my palm and held them. More than anything, I wanted my mother.

Scott walked me home, as though we’d just been on a date, and when I staggered into the house my mother saw me and asked me and I told her. It was not my first rape, or my last one, but it is the only one she helped me with. She called the police, and she rode with me in the squad car to the place where they scrape cells from the inside of your body to see if they can find any incriminating DNA. My mother, who said nothing, sat by me and held my hand while the person collecting evidence from me - me, I was a crime scene - slipped a tiny speculum into my ass to swab for semen.

“Wow, yours is so easy,” the person said. “Most people, it takes more than one try.”

I was ashamed. Because my ass opened easily, maybe I was easy, maybe I was built for all kinds of violation. My mother passed me a piece of candy and I put it in my mouth, trying not to cry. We never talked about what happened. I blamed her, of course. I thought of all the things I wished she’d said or done. When I hear other people’s stories about their supportive mothers, I quivered with jealousy. My mother was not like other people’s mothers.

I didn’t understand that, in my moment of pain, she was as vulnerable and scared as I was.

Probably, she wanted her mother.

Nobody came with me to give my statement to the police. I brought a stuffed toy my mother had given me, a pudgy wad with string bean arms and legs and a Muppet nose. There was an advocate sent by some nonprofit, who sat next to me making faces of disgust when I described what I’d experienced.

“Did you say ‘no’?” the detective asked. She was young and pretty, with a high curly ponytail. She looked like she was going to coach a cheerleading practice after this. She made notes on her clipboard.

“I couldn’t speak,” I said.

She put the pen down. “In the state of California, it’s not ‘no’ unless you say ‘no.’”

“It was rape,” I said. “I’ve been raped before, I know what it feels like.”

The detective shook her head and closed the book of mugshots. Scott’s was in there: I’d pointed to him, identified him, and repeated my story into the detective’s tape recorder. I said things I couldn’t say in my mother’s presence, about my drug use and the other people who were there. Exactly the positions. Exactly the feelings. Yet, I resented her for not leaving work to be with me. The detective stood up.

“Are we done?” I asked. “That’s it? You’ll arrest him?” “You didn’t say ‘no,’” she repeated, and left the room. I was numb. I sat outside the police building for a long time, crying and holding this silly, stuffed animal. The advocate stayed for a few minutes. I tried to put my head on her shoulder and she scooted away, until she was sitting a good three feet away from me on the concrete bench. Then, she also got up and left me alone. I was 19. A child. I needed my mother; where was she?

Ingrid said, “Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment.”

I cried until the bus came, and then I went home and lay down in my bed. When the winter break ended, I went back to college. I have never talked about this, or any of my sexual assaults, with my family. I believed that their silence meant that they did not care what happened to me. I treated myself accordingly. It was not the last time I woke up with someone raping me, or the last time institutional justice failed me. Like Astrid, I was hardening, losing faith. Every time I was hurt, my armor got thicker. I drank more. I was never not ready to die.

But now, when I revisit that memory, all I can think about is how my mother silently watched me bear the pain and humiliation of that exam. It never occurred to me that she was suffering too. I didn’t think about this until I had a child of my own. Loving him introduced me to real vulnerability. I couldn’t be weak anymore: I had someone to protect. For the first time, I understood how my mother felt about me, when I was new. It was an animal feeling. I loved him so much, I could have committed terrible crimes.

The first words I said to him, into his new, perfect ears, were, “If anyone ever hurts you, I will fucking bury them.”

My son has a ferocious mother. Before he existed, I was a victim: at best, someone who would survive. Six rapes, heroin addiction, overdoses. It was the kind of life that pounds you into the ground like a wooden stake. Then, I got pregnant, and my entire outlook on life changed. I had someone to stand up for, so I had to learn to defend myself.

Imagine my discomfort at opening White Oleander again, and seeing Astrid not as a reflection of myself, but as her ferocious, unforgiving mother. I saw her monstrousness and her total disdain for human weakness, but this time, I wondered what she’d experienced that made her so hard. I was learning how to be a single mother, an easy target for unscrupulous men. I knew what it meant to walk around in a woman’s body - the price the world exacted from us from being beautiful. I wondered where Ingrid’s mother was.

Part of being a good mother is letting your child learn to bear their own trouble. I couldn’t be with my son every moment: I couldn’t stand between him and the bully at school. I had to let go of him in small ways, at the right times, and it burned me like coals. I felt like my one hand reached for him and the other restrained it.

At the same time, I went through my own processes. My son saw me messy, tired, crying, out of money, scared. He saw me asleep and awake, laughing and mourning. He witnesses my vulnerability. I think that is the fear of all mothers: that we will raise a child who sees our weaknesses and shares them with the world. We trust them to keep our shortcomings to themselves. Yet, always, they see us and they hear us and our failings make indelible marks on them.

By the time Astrid reaches adulthood, she’s covered in scars, inside and out. She’s been chewed up by the foster system. She’s had many mothers. As I finished White Oleander this time around, I wanted to hug her. Pass her a piece of candy.

“You poor thing,” I’d say. As though she hadn’t just given birth to herself. As though she hadn’t studied, her entire life, how to be a survivor.

Claire Rudy Foster's essays on addiction, queer issues, and writing are featured in The Huffington Post, The Rumpus, and Racked, among others. Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, her fiction can be found in McSweeney's, Thrice Fiction, and many other rad journals. She is a book reviewer and very gentle rabble-rouser. Claire lives in Portland, Oregon.

#essay #lgbtq #me too #claire rudy foster

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caveartfair · 6 years ago

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These 20 Women Are the New Faces of Photojournalism

The visual stories populating major newspapers and magazines have historically been chosen, assigned, and told by men. But more and more, the tide is shifting, with the belief that a variety of voices means richer perspectives on world events.

Today, young women comprise the majority of students in college-level photojournalism and documentary programs. Women have climbed the ranks and lead the photo departments at major publications like the New York Times, Time magazine, and National Geographic. Photographers, fed up with the excuse that photo editors don’t know enough contacts outside of their networks, have spearheaded databases like Women Photograph, Diversify Photo, and Native Agency to offer up more voices in the industry. Still, the gender gap persists: Last year, Women Photograph reported that in half of the major newspapers it analyzed, women only made up single-digit percentages of lead photo bylines. And while many publications are assigning more stories to photographers of different backgrounds, wire agencies—who supply breaking-news images to all major outlets—seem far behind.

Here, we present 20 female photojournalists and documentary photographers who are on the rise. Each of them herald change to the field in their visual style, unique perspective, and focus on underrepresented topics.

A young man turns to run away from the National Bolivarian Police during a demonstration in support of interim president Juan Guaidó in El Paraíso, Caracas, Venezuela, on January 30, 2019. Photo by Andrea Hernández. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“The Nightmare in Venezuela Finally Has the World’s Attention. Can the Opposition’s Gamble Pay Off?” Time, February 2019“Short of electricity, food and water, Venezuelans return to religion,” Washington Post, April 2019

Andrea Hernández compares the first time she held a camera in her hands to the first time Harry Potter handled a wand at the Ollivanders wand shop. “[It was] as if it had chosen me,” she said.

Hernández began her career as a text journalist for El Estímulo, an online publication based in Caracas, Venezuela, after graduating with a degree in journalism. A photographer for the past three years, she has contributed stories largely about her home country to publications including BuzzFeed News, the Washington Post, and El País. This year, she was named one of PDN’s “30 New and Emerging Photographers to Watch.”

Wendrys Hernandez, 12, floats in a well where she bathes every afternoon in San Isidro, Caracas, Venezuela, on April 16, 2019. Photo by Andrea Hernández. Courtesy of the artist.

Roxy Guerra carries her daughter after bathing her in a well in San Isidro, Caracas, Venezuela, on April 16, 2019. Photo by Andrea Hernández. Courtesy of the artist.

Yuri Chacon, 37, sits on her children’s bed after she leaves them at school in San Isidro, Caracas, Venezuela, on September 26, 2018. Photo by Andrea Hernández for the Washington Post. Courtesy of the artist.

A boy moves on top of the debris from a fire in San Isidro, Caracas, Venezuela, on February 18, 2019. Photo by Andrea Hernández. Courtesy of the artist.

An unoccupied bed at the University Hospital in Caracas, Venezuela, on November 19, 2018. Photo by Andrea Hernández. Courtesy of the artist.

A man holds a molotov during a protest at El Paraísoin Caracas, Venezuela on January 23, 2018. This was one of the first of a series of demonstrations in support of Interim President Juan Guaidó and against dictator Nicolás Maduro. Photo by Andrea Hernández. Courtesy of the artist.

What drives Hernández is the profound gap in Venezuela between those with power and those without. She is interested in exposing not only the corruption, but also the kindness this disparity engenders. She recently captured a woman who feeds an entire community of children from her home using scant resources. “The simple act of giving me a hot plate of food startled me,” she said.

Ultimately, Hernández would like photography to help heal the divided country. “I hope that respectful and powerful work will spread empathy, and eventually tolerance will come along,” she said.

Irene Sonia, 17, wants to become a bank accountant, but in Bidibidi refugee camp they do not have the right subjects in school. Her mother, Esther, has been fighting for better education in the refugee settlements to provide their kids with a better future when the war in South Sudan is over. Photo by Nora Lorek. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“In Uganda, a unique urban experiment is under way,” National Geographic, April 2019

“See the ingenious toys made by refugee children,” National Geographic, December 2018

Nora Lorek believes that there are more ways to show the reality of war than to cast those who live through it as victims. Photojournalists have a responsibility to show them as survivors, too.

“To me, it’s striking to see the strength of the women from South Sudan who’ve fled civil war up to four times,” she said. “But a sad face still seems to sell better than the face of a proud woman, happy for the life she’s built up after surviving another war.”

Farida Sunday, 35, and her one-month-old daughter Blessing Happy, born in Bidibidi Refugee Settlement. In August 2017, the one millionth refugee from South Sudan entered Uganda to escape the war. Bidibidi, with more than 270,000 people, is considered one of the world’s largest refugee settlements. Photo by Nora Lorek. Courtesy of the artist.

Rebecca Ameri, 75, with her grandchildren in the Bidibidi refugee camp. “I’m here with my 35-year-old daughter who lost her husband,” Rebecca said. “She has eight kids and collapsed of Malaria yesterday and was taken to the hospital. I had twelve children, of which six died. Five are still in South Sudan.” Photo by Nora Lorek. Courtesy of the artist.

Lea Kadi, 67, makes bags of coffee to sell to neighbors. A small bag of coffee is sold for 500 UGX (Ugandan Shilling), and in the end she earns 2000 UGX (less than one dollar) a week. In South Sudan, she worked as a midwife in Yei Hospital for 35 years. Now she’s going blind but is happy to have her daughter, Emelda, take care of her. Photo by Nora Lorek. Courtesy of the artist.

Susan James, 10, holds her clay doll. According to UNHCR, 83% of the refugees fleeing South Sudan are women and children. Leaving their homes suddenly, the clay phones, trucks, and dolls they make become the children’s only toys. Photo by Nora Lorek. Courtesy of the artist.

A phone made out of clay by Julius Caesar, 8, from South Sudan in the Bidibidi refugee camp in Uganda (left). Gottfried Ataba, 6, from South Sudan uses a water pipe to sing for his friends (right). Photo by Nora Lorek. Courtesy of the artist.

Martin Salah, 11, shows his toy car made out of food boxes in Bidibidi Refugee Settlement in Uganda (left). Simon Ayole, 13, shows his clay doll with strands of braided hair (right). Photo by Nora Lorek. Courtesy of the artist.

Lorek, who has been freelancing since 2016, joined the agency Panos Pictures in 2017. As a photographer focused on human rights and migration, she sees inequity in her own status—a German migrant who sought citizenship in Sweden—and the refugees she has photographed. “Why should we…be able to move around the world while others are stuck between borders, not knowing if they’ll ever see their home again?” she asked.

Lorek goes beyond her role as a photographer: Her portrait series of South Sudanese women in front of their embroidered milayas—which they carried to Uganda while fleeing war—garnered so much interest that she co-founded the nonprofit Milaya Project to help refugee women in the Bidibidi settlement sell their crafts online.

A homeless man poses for a portrait in Mbale, Uganda, on July 24, 2015. Mbale District has a high rate of homeless children, and access to clean water, food, medical services, and education are often lacking. Photo by Esther Ruth Mbabazi. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“Diagnoses by Horn, Payment in Goats: An African Healer at Work,” New York Times, March 2019

“Picturing the dreams of South Sudan’s new generation,” Washington Post, April 2019

The most magical moment in Esther Ruth Mbabazi’s career didn’t come from institutional recognition—though she has received plenty, including being named a National Geographic Explorer and a Magnum Foundation fellow—but instead when a girl in the slums of Kampala, Uganda, noticed that she was carrying a camera, and shouted: “Look, the cameraman is a girl!”

“This melted my heart because I believe, in that moment, a young girl’s idea of what she can do was broadened,” Mbabazi said.

The recovery room at a rural health center in Bududa, Uganda, where women rest after giving birth, on November 11, 2016. Photo by Esther Ruth Mbabazi. Courtesy of the artist.

An expectant mother rests outside a rural health center in Bududa, Uganda, as she prepares to give birth on November 11, 2016. In 2010, the government banned the practice of Traditional Birth Attendants (TBAs), but did little to improve modern maternal health services in rural areas of Uganda. Photo by Esther Ruth Mbabazi. Courtesy of the artist.

A young mother bleeds excessively after giving birth in a rural health center in Bududa, Uganda, on November 11, 2016. Postpartum hemorrhage is a leading cause of maternal mortality in rural centers across Uganda. Photo by Esther Ruth Mbabazi. Courtesy of the artist.

A mother breastfeeds her newborn child in the recovery room of a rural health center in Bududa, Uganda, on November 11, 2017. Photo by Esther Ruth Mbabazi. Courtesy of the artist.

A portrait of a woman hawking bananas at the Old Taxi Park in Kampala, Uganda on September 22, 2017. Photo by Esther Ruth Mbabazi. Courtesy of the artist.

Onduparaka Football club fans sit on a fence during the Uganda Premier League tournament in Arua, Uganda, on March 10, 2018. Uganda has one of the world’s youngest populations, with 78 percent of Ugandans under the age of 30 as of 2012. Photo by Esther Ruth Mbabazi. Courtesy of the artist.

Mbabazi, who is self-taught, has been shooting professionally for three years, and already has contributed to publications such as the New York Times, the Washington Post, and i-D. Some of her coverage has included photographing traditional birth attendants who help women in rural Uganda; the traditional healers who are battling the Ebola epidemic; and the youth in her home country, where nearly half of the population is under 15.

Mbabazi loves being able to represent her home to the larger world. “When you’re from a certain community,” she said, “there’s an unsaid sense of connection, respect, and responsibility that applies to the work you make, which in turn makes the work outstandingly strong.”

Kat, 16, in a drive-thru on Halloween night. “She checked her phone and started to cry but wouldn’t tell me why,” Bottoms said. “All I could do was sit there and comfort her. I asked if I could take her photo. She said yes and looked right at me. Sometimes her resistance to communicate is hard.” From Bottoms’ ongoing story about the relationship between her mother and Kat, who has autism and prodromal schizophrenia. Photo by September Dawn Bottoms. Courtesy of the artist.

September Dawn Bottoms only recently began pursuing a career as a photojournalist, yet she has already amassed recognition for her self-assigned work, earning a spot in the volume American Photography 35 this year.

Bottoms tells stories that she feels invested in. She has turned her lens on her mother and teenage sister as they grapple with mental illness; the residents in Boley, Oklahoma, a once-wealthy black town in decline; and the daily lives of three women who dance in strip clubs in Los Angeles.

Ashley and her son, Dantae, hang out in the bathroom while Ashley does her ritual bath before her shift at the club. Ashley, 30, has nearly quit stripping all together to focus her efforts elsewhere. However, she finds it hard to leave the lifestyle behind and isn’t sure what to do to replace her income. Photo by September Dawn Bottoms. Courtesy of the artist.

Ashley started working the day shift during the summer while Dantae, her son, goes to summer school. She steps outside to get a break as a man drives past looking at her. Photo by September Dawn Bottoms. Courtesy of the artist.

Ashley gets ready backstage at the Gentleman's club in Los Angeles during a night shift at the strip club. Photo by September Dawn Bottoms. Courtesy of the artist.

Prayer in the African Methodist Episcopal Church in Boley, Oklahoma on the church’s 117th birthday. Some of Boley’s remaining residents blame lack of jobs, drugs, or mishandling of funds for the town’s steady decline. This project highlights the beauty of a small, forgotten town that refuses to give up. Photo by September Dawn Bottoms. Courtesy of the artist.

Once one of the wealthiest all black towns in America, Boley, Oklahoma, has been on a steady decline since losing its school and nearly all of its businesses. Chase, pictured here with his daughter, was part of the last generation to graduate from Boley Middle School. Photo by September Dawn Bottoms. Courtesy of the artist.

Lisa, 51, poses for a portrait. She picks at her face for hours to distract herself from past sexual trauma. From Bottoms’ ongoing story about the relationship between her mother and teenage sister, Katherine Grace, who has autism and prodromal schizophrenia. Photo by September Dawn Bottoms. Courtesy of the artist.

“The reality is that I’ll never completely understand someone else’s situation,” Bottoms said. “But it’s important to tell a story not just from a place of empathy, but of camaraderie.” She believes her own background provides that. “Although I come from a place of privilege as a young white woman in America, I also come from a place of hardship, poverty, and mental illness,” she said.

Bottoms hopes that poverty will no longer be a barrier to entering the photojournalism field, for those who cannot afford to attend top universities. “There are other paths that aren’t so direct,” she said, “and I think that if you put your heart and soul into a project and you are persistent as hell, you can beat those odds.”

Julie Aman, who is transgender, dances to a folk band at the Aurat March event celebrating International Women’s Day in Islamabad, Pakistan, on March 8, 2019. Photo by Saiyna Bashir for Reuters. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“This drug can stop mothers bleeding to death in childbirth — so why can’t more women get it?” Mosaic Science, March 2019

“Chinese Presence in Pakistan Is Targeted in Strike on Consulate in Karachi,” New York Times, November 2018

Saiyna Bashir primarily documents gender inequality and sectarian violence in her images. Her work is driven by her experiences growing up in Pakistan, where laws don’t support women nearly as much as they do in the Western world. She has photographed women who survived acid attacks stemming from domestic violence, as well as the achievements of transgender people in Pakistan.

Fareeha Saleem (left), Aqsa Nawab (right) and Noor Tariq (center), who are visiting from Dubai, dance with traditional anklets to classical music at the Classical Dance Academy in Lahore, Pakistan, on December 10, 2018. Photo by Saiyna Bashir for the New York Times. Courtesy of the artist.

Qasim Hussain, a vegetable vendor and former kite maker, shows his kites that are hidden at his house after he was arrested recently for kite-flying due to the strict ban in Lahore, Pakistan, on February 16, 2019. Photo by Saiyna Bashir for Al Jazeera. Courtesy of the artist.

Dr. Shahana Ali treats a patient who was hemorrhaging during labor at Holy Family Hospital on March 6, 2019, in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. Photo by Saiyna Bashir © Wellcome Trust. Courtesy of the artist.

Sobia Sajid’s meets her newborn baby at the high-risk postnatal ward after suffering from postpartum hemorrhaging at the Holy Family Hospital on March 6, 2019, in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. Photo by Saiyna Bashir © Wellcome Trust. Courtesy of the artist.

Sobia Sajid with her newborn Ahmed Sajid at their residence, nine days since her delivery where she suffered from postpartum hemorrhaging on March 14, 2019 in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. Photo by Saiyna Bashir © Wellcome Trust. Courtesy of the artist.

Sobia Sajid with her children and in-laws at their residence, nine days since her delivery where she suffered from postpartum hemorrhaging on March 14, 2019 in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. Photo by Saiyna Bashir © Wellcome Trust. Courtesy of the artist.

Though Bashir herself has been subject to personal harm while on assignment—last year, she was groped while covering a Diplo concert in Islamabad for Reuters, and in 2014, she was tear-gassed while covering the Ferguson riots in Missouri—she emphasizes the importance of the field she has chosen. “Photos are something that most people can relate to,” she said. “It is the most objective form of insight into a certain place or culture.”

Bashir has contributed to outlets including the New York Times, Al Jazeera, The Telegraph, and NPR. She said that photojournalism still looks like a “big boys club,” though she credits the platform Women Photograph for “working tirelessly to lessen this gap everyday.” Bashir mentors female photographers in Pakistan—even if that change is only one small step in correcting disparity.

Horse whisperer Oscar Scarpati in the farmyard with a wild foal in Villa de Merlo, San Luis, Argentina, on July 27, 2017. Photo by Erica Canepa. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments: “How Doctors And The Church Conspired To Stop An 11-Year-Old Girl From Having An Abortion After She Was Raped,” BuzzFeed News, April 2019

“Warrior for Women’s Rights,” Time, October 2018

Before she received her master’s degree in photojournalism eight years ago, Erica Canepa was an art restorer, and she believes she joined the field at just the right time. Photojournalism, she said, is changing. “Stories are no longer only told by white men, but there are many voices, many realities and ways to see things,” she explained.

Though Canepa has been shooting since she received her degree, she said that her photojournalism career really began in 2014, when she was living in Egypt. There, she photographed the Zabaleen people, who pick up 4,000 tons of Cairo’s waste each day. Among the piles of trash, she encountered a wedding. “I learned [that] beauty is everywhere, and looking for it can be a balm,” she said.

A young girl looks out of the window of horse whisperer Oscar Scarpati’s home in Villa de Merlo, San Luis, Argentina, July 25, 2017. Photo by Erica Canepa. Courtesy of the artist.

Pincén, the youngest son of horse whisperer Oscar Scarpati, plays with his pony in Villa de Merlo, San Luis, Argentina, on July 28, 2017. Photo by Erica Canepa. Courtesy of the artist.

Oscar Scarpati riding a horse near his home in Villa de Merlo, San Luis, Argentina, on July 29, 2017. Photo by Erica Canepa. Courtesy of the artist.

A wedding in the Garbage City community of Cairo, Egypt, on July 6, 2014. © Erica Canepa 2014. Courtesy of the artist.

Since then, Canepa has photographed a broad array of subjects, from impoverished country girls driving taxis in Bolivia to a community that self-identifies as elves in Pistoia, Italy. Her work has appeared in publications and media outlets including the New York Times, Bloomberg News, and the BBC.

Lately, Canepa has begun to turn her camera on herself, documenting her life in Buenos Aires in a series entitled “Sapucai,” which translates to “an ancient prayer” in a language indigenous to Argentina.

Nika, 24, a sniper for the Ukrainian army, on September 2, 2016, posted on the frontline of Debaltseve, a separatist-controlled region. Ukrainian forces troops were forced out of the region during a battle in winter of 2015. Photo by Sarah Blesener. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“High School Shooting Teams Are Getting Wildly Popular — And the NRA Is Helping,” Time, March 2019

“The Art of Crowdfunding War,” Bloomberg Businessweek, January 2019

In a news landscape that feeds instant culture, Sarah Blesener is focused on “slow journalism,” where the story is carefully dissected from all angles.

“I think there is a deep desire for storytelling that moves beyond headlines, beyond black-and-white and linear thinking, and offers challenging, hard-to-digest questions,” she said.

Curtis, Kate, and Jude lay in their backyard in Watford, North Dakota on July 6, 2017. The Long family has five children whom they homeschool. Watford, like other rural towns in Western North Dakota, faces unemployment and overdevelopment since the decline of the oil industry. Photo by Sarah Blesener. Courtesy of the artist.

Students at the "Inspection of Singing and Marching" competition at the gymnasium of School #6 for students in Dmitrov, a suburb of Moscow, Russia, on Dec 14, 2016. Photo by Sarah Blesener. Courtesy of the artist.

Students from School #18 perform a dance at the local theater in Sergiyev Posad, Russia. Photo by Sarah Blesener. Courtesy of the artist.

Alexandria Villasenor is a 13-year-old climate activist who striked in front of the UN building for 12 weeks, and, along with Greta Thunberg and fellow young activists around the world, organized a global “school strike for climate” on March 15, 2019. Photo by Sarah Blesener for The Washington Post. Courtesy of the artist.

16-year-olds Molly Elmer, Annemarie Roscoe, and Emily Elmer from Richfield pose for a portrait before competing at the annual trap shooting championship, on June 13, 2018, in Alexandra, Minnesota. Photo by Sarah Blesener for Time Magazine. Courtesy of the artist.

Christine Shevchenko of American Ballet Theater takes a final bow with Alban Lendorf after her debut performance as Kitri in Don Quixote at the Metropolitan Opera in New York on May 17, 2017. Photo by Sarah Blesener for The New York Times. Courtesy of the artist.

Ashley Coleman lives in the Thelma Burke building, housing for Section 8 tenants, in the Lower East Side with her husband and 21-year old son, taken on May 19, 2018 in New York City. Photo by Sarah Blesener. Courtesy of the artist.

In only three years, she has brought a keen eye to in-depth stories about war, nationalism, inequity, and education for publications like Newsweek, Time, and the New York Times. In each instance, she searches for “the off moments; the quieter, more poetic side to the story.”

Blesener’s particular area of focus is adolescent culture and identity, which combines her background in youth development with her love for narrative storytelling. Her most recognized body of work, on patriotism camps and education in America and Russia, shows two cultures historically at odds with each other that share commonalities in the political beliefs instilled in children. Through that series—which earned her a World Press Photo award, as well as major grants from CatchLight, Alexia Foundation, and the W. Eugene Smith Fund—and her other work, Blesener ultimately strives for nuance. “I’m interested in what is left when we peel away the many layers that are most often times portrayed in the news,” she explained.

Men are seen saying their prayers inside a mosque in the Manila City Jail in Manila, Philippines, on October 31, 2018. In the Philippines, men with pending cases spend months, sometimes years, in overcrowded cells waiting to be charged, sentenced, or tried. Photo by Hannah Reyes Morales. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“At 14, She Hunts Wolves and Takes Selfies With Cherished Eagle in Mongolia,” New York Times, December 2018

“Where 518 Inmates Sleep in Space for 170, and Gangs Hold It Together,” New York Times,January 2019

Over the past six years, Hannah Reyes Morales has grown from an unknown photographer to a regular contributor to the New York Times, covering the violent war on drugs in her native country. Growing up in the Philippines was an insular experience, and photography was her way “of learning, of asking questions,” she said.

Morales believes that digital platforms have helped democratize photography, including her own entry into the field, but she added that diversity within photojournalism still has “a long way to go.” While including more voices is a start, “it requires more rebuilding and more listening.”

A Filipino girl climbs a tree branch in Tondo, a district in Manila, home to hundreds of thousands of shanty dwellers. “My dream is to become queen,” she proudly declares in Tagalog. Photo by Hannah Reyes Morales. Courtesy of the artist.

A soldier in Marawi’s Grand Mosque, which was destroyed during the Marawi siege in 2017. More than a year after the Philippine military declared Marawi “liberated” from ISIS-linked militants, the ravaged city is still waiting for billions in promised infrastructure and aid. Over 100,000 people remain displaced, leaving the city vulnerable for militants to return. Photo by Hannah Reyes Morales for the Washington Post . Courtesy of the artist.

Altai Kazakh youth on horseback during the Golden Eagle Festival in Bayan-Ölgii, Mongolia. In Bayan-Ölgii, Mongolia, the once-dwindling art of eagle hunting is passed on to a new generation of youth who are embracing the tradition as part of their identity. Photo by Hannah Reyes Morales. Courtesy of the artist.

Talap Zamanbol, 14, with Bazarbai Dinismal, a younger relative training to be a falconer in Bayan-Ölgii, Mongolia. Zamanbol learned how to hunt with eagles through her late grandfather, whose eagle she later inherited. Photo by Hannah Reyes Morales. Courtesy of the artist.

Cadets at a merchant marine academy near Manila train for one of the most prestigious jobs for workers in the diaspora. Those who succeed are ensured a path to a middle-class life for their families. A quarter of the world’s seafarers come from the Philippines. Photo by Hannah Reyes Morales. Courtesy of the artist.

Men show off their tattoos in the Manila City Jail in Manila, Philippines on October 31, 2018. In the Philippines, men with pending cases spend months, sometimes years, in overcrowded cells waiting to be charged, sentenced, or tried. Photo by Hannah Reyes Morales. Courtesy of the artist.

Morales often takes on local or diasporic topics for publications like the Washington Post and National Geographic, but she has also delved into other cultures, like an assignment on eagle hunters in Mongolia. One of the most powerful moments she has witnessed was during a medical mission where hundreds of Filipinos recovered their vision through cataract surgery—a typically unaccessible procedure within the country. Morales photographed a husband tenderly hugging his wife, her eyes covered by bandages.

“I carry the stories of those I photograph with me,” she said. “To be entrusted with someone’s story is an incredible privilege, and I try my best to honor that.”

Recent assignments:

“Four fires and six souls,” Gli Occhi della Guerra, June 2018

“Bees Above Our Heads,” National Geographic, December 2018

Looking through Camilla Ferrari’s work is not a static experience: She tells her stories by experimenting with the interplay of stills and video. As digital media outlets look to create more interactive experiences, Ferrari’s practice seems to herald a new direction in visual storytelling.

Civita di Bagnoregio lies in the middle of the Calanchi Valley, Italy, surrounded by a sea of mist. The village, populated by six people, is eroding every year. On Tuesdays, at 9 am, Tony takes his small car and leaves the village to go grocery shopping. Photo by Camilla Ferrari. Courtesy of the artist.

Public toilets in the Shichahai area, Beijing, China, in August 2017. Photo by Camilla Ferrari. Courtesy of the artist.

Antonio in San Donato’s church, in the middle of Civita. Civita di Bagnoregio, a village of six in the middle of Calanchi Valley, Italy, is slowly crumbling away. Photo by Camilla Ferrari. Courtesy of the artist.

Interiors of San Donato’s church, in the center of Civita di Bagnoregio, a village of six in the middle of Calanchi Valley, Italy, that is slowly crumbling away. Photo by Camilla Ferrari. Courtesy of the artist.

An abandoned chair on a hill facing Civita. Civita di Bagnoregio, a village of six in the middle of Calanchi Valley, Italy, is slowly crumbling away. Photo by Camilla Ferrari. Courtesy of the artist.

Ferrari’s work most often deals with humans’ relationship with their environments, as well as vanishing cultures. One of her published multimedia series looks at a tiny village of only six people, built on an eroding tufa rock in central Italy. “The traditions and culture of the village are as fragile as the ground that supports it,” she said. “It was important to have a testimony of them, to understand in depth their love for the place and the fear of seeing it vanishing in front of their eyes.”

In a crowded field of storytellers, Ferrari doesn’t feel the need to make her work loud. “For me, it’s really important to have an element of delicateness and gentleness in my images and videos,” she explained. “In a world where images often scream at the observer, I truly believe that there is also a powerful dignity in silence.”

Shimika Sanchez, 34, nurses her newborn son Antonio Sanchez on September 1, 2018. Antonio is one of 11,234 children under age 6 living in New York City’s homeless shelters. Photo by Gabriella Angotti-Jones for the New York Times. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:“Baby Antonio: 5 Pounds, 12 Ounces and Homeless From Birth,” New York Times, October 2018

“‘My Whole Heart Is There,’” New York Times, July 2018

Gabriella Angotti-Jones—who is half-black, half-Italian—has embraced her background as a source of strength. “My ethnicity does not hold me back; it propels me forward,” she said. “My perspective is a gift and is needed.”

Angotti-Jones first started taking photographs while interning in husbandry and research at the Ocean Institute in Dana Point, California. “Climate change is the story of our lifetime,” she emphasized. “I want to tell stories that are action-oriented, as opposed to ones that feel hopeless.”

Bella Sanchez, 4, has her hair braided in her family’s shelter in Brooklyn on August 17, 2018. Photo by Gabriella Angotti-Jones for the New York Times . Courtesy of the artist.

Shimika Sanchez, 34, waits for the E train to Jamaica Center to go baby shopping on Saturday, August 18, 2018. Photo by Gabriella Angotti-Jones for the New York Times. Courtesy of the artist.

Janey Pearl Starks, left, opens the car door for Yeni González, to a hoard of media and supporters at welcome rally held in González’s honor at Central Park on Monday, July 2, 2018. Photo by Gabriella Angotti-Jones for the New York Times. Courtesy of the artist.

Fernando, 5, son of Rosayra Pablo Cruz, plays with American flags on a rooftop on Friday, July 13, 2018. Earlier in the day he was released from Cayuga Center in Harlem and reunited with Cruz, who had been held separately at the Eloy Detention Center in Arizona. Photo by Gabriella Angotti-Jones for the New York Times. Courtesy of the artist.

The Cheyenne High School Glamourettes wait for the football game against Canyon Springs to start at Cheyenne High School in North Las Vegas, on Friday, September 1, 2017. Gabriella Angotti-Jones for the Las Vegas Review-Journal. Courtesy of the artist.

The Las Vegas Nova youth cheer squad performs before a football game at Cheyenne High School in North Las Vegas, on Friday, September 1, 2017. Gabriella Angotti-Jones for the Las Vegas Review-Journal. Courtesy of the artist.

After graduating with a degree in environmental studies, Angotti-Jones landed a string of internships, including at the New York Times. There, she shot assignments that included a story about children born into homelessness, focusing on baby Antonio and his parents, Shimika and Tony Sanchez.

Angotti-Jones treats her subjects as collaborators rather than objects of fascination. “So much of practicing documentary photography is taking from the people we photograph—their time, patience, energy, and likeness,” she said. “I try to destroy any power structure that’s present as much as possible.” She also aims to empower women of color by showing the strength they exhibit in their lives. “Showing everyday situations is a really powerful storytelling tool, especially with low-income or historically disenfranchised communities,” she added.

The National Dance Ensemble, just before a performance in Sukhum, Abkhazia, on May 17, 2016. Photo by Ksenia Kuleshova. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“Germans First? A Food Bank Bars Migrants, Setting Off a Storm,” New York Times, March 2018

“‘All of Africa Is Here’: Where Europe’s Southern Border Is Just a Fence,” New York Times,August 2018

“As a photojournalist, it’s exciting to avoid cliches…and to give people the opportunity to tell their own stories, not create the story for them,” said Ksenia Kuleshova, a Moscow-to-Germany transplant.

Kuleshova entered the field with a sustained series on Abkhazia, a former tourist destination that lost its status and identity amid the violent reshuffling of territory following the Soviet Union’s collapse. She has called the small region “a country that is caught in a two-decade-long sleep”; her images reveal a place knitted together by tradition, but caught in stasis.

The road to the village Pskhu in Abkhazia, on May 9, 2015. In the summer of 1942, Nazi armed forces occupied the village. Photo by Ksenia Kuleshova. Courtesy of the artist.

A regional festival in Baierbrunn, a municipality near Munich, Germany. Traditional outfits are gaining greater popularity in Bavaria, even among young people. Photo by Ksenia Kuleshova. Courtesy of the artist.

Potatoes are stored on a floor in order for them to stay dry in Eshera, Abkhazia, on July 7, 2017. Photo by Ksenia Kuleshova. Courtesy of the artist.

A portrait of Hegumen Ignatij in St. John Chrysostom’s Monastery, Kamani village, Sukhum, Abkhazia. Photo by Ksenia Kuleshova. Courtesy of the artist.

Etluhov Islam (38) celebrates his victory in horse racing. Sports like horse racing and horse football take place twice a year in Abkhazia on May 9 and September 30. Photo by Ksenia Kuleshova. Courtesy of the artist.

In the village of Ilor, Kuleshova recalled knocking on a door and being welcomed by a woman, who said she had waited for a journalist to come for 20 years. “For several hours, she showed me everything she had and told me her family’s story,” Kuleshova said, emphasizing that it’s a privilege to enter a person’s life in such a way.

For about four years, Kuleshova has balanced documentary work with assignments for publications including GEO France, the Wall Street Journal, and Die Zeit.

“I don’t rush in the attempt to catch the daily news event,” she said. “I’m keen to…build real relationships and to develop [the story] deeply.”

Chan Hak-chi goes swimming in Hong Kong, on May 25, 2017. Photo by Yue Wu. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:“Chinese boxer trounces stereotypes to become ‘Queen of the Ring,’” Reuters, April 2019

Yue Wu experienced the power of photojournalism after her story about Chinese medical tourists was published online. Her subjects, who traveled far to China’s cities for treatments, received donations to cover their expenses.

“Journalism doesn’t just change the world; it also changed me,” she said. Wu believes that images have the ability to act like a mirror. “I see myself in the story,” she added. “Even if we speak different languages, we all love, hope, and suffer.”

Li Lin poses for a photo while holding her 4-year-old daughter Xinyi at their home in Shanghai, on August 19, 2016. In three months, Li and her husband have spent nearly 150,000 yuan on their daughter’s leukemia treatments. Photo by Yue Wu. Courtesy of the artist.

Gu Lin poses for a photo with her 8-year-old son Yuang at their apartment in Shanghai, Aug 17, 2016. Gu and her husband have spent more than 300,000 yuan on treatment during their six months in Shanghai. Photo by Yue Wu. Courtesy of the artist.

Li Lin tries to persuade her daughter Xiaoyi to stop watching video and go to sleep, in Shanghai, on August 18, 2016. Photo by Yue Wu. Courtesy of the artist.

Hao leans against his mother, Jiang Yueshu, while she prays before bedtime, in Shanghai, on August 7, 2016. Photo by Yue Wu. Courtesy of the artist.

Nursing home director Du Liuhua stands behind Chen Ouhong’s wheelchair one evening before the elderly resident heads to bed. Photo by Yue Wu. Courtesy of the artist.

Parts of the former Versailles Hotel have been renovated, but it still features decor from the building’s past life. Photo by Yue Wu. Courtesy of the artist.

Working as a photojournalist since 2013, Wu has contributed images and videos to the San Francisco Chronicle, Reuters, and The Guardian, and interned at Sports Illustrated and the Washington Post before returning to her native China. Today, she is a staff photographer for Sixth Tone, an online, English-language publication based in Shanghai.

Wu has turned her lens on an array of local stories, including China’s child models; a former sex club on the outskirts of Dongguan that has been converted to a nursing home; and a massage parlor in Chongqing that exclusively employs blind people. As the only child in her family, Wu is fascinated by the inner workings of other communities. “I am always curious about how other people live,” she said.

A father holds his daughter after she was killed by a mortar in the fight against ISIS in West Mosul on March 11, 2017. Photo by Alexandra Rose Howland. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“The Explosive Battle to Build an Iraqi National Park,” National Geographic, March 2018

“A Mossoul, il n’y a pas une famille qui n’ait des morts à pleurer, des disparus à déplorer,” Le Monde,January 2019

Four years ago, Alexandra Rose Howland was working out of her Los Angeles studio as an abstract painter. One year later, after starting a documentary photography practice, she moved to Iraq.

“What I have learned since moving to Iraq is that there are oddities of working in a war zone that make this job impossible to understand,” she said. “Being in a war zone does not always mean being in war. Life continues right next to an active frontline.”

Ahmed stands for a portrait by his booth with a fish market on February 21, 2018. Before the Mosul Offensive, the market was in Old City just across the river. Photo by Alexandra Rose Howland. Courtesy of the artist.

Having fled Anbar just days before, a mother of two stands outside the Medic Center inside Hamam al-Alil Refugee Camp in Iraq waiting for treatment on March 15, 2017. Photo by Alexandra Rose Howland. Courtesy of the artist.

A young boy sells cotton candy to passing cars near Hamam al-Alil Refugee Camp in Iraq, on January 10, 2018. Photo by Alexandra Rose Howland. Courtesy of the artist.

A family carries buckets of water with them back to their home within Western Mosul. As most of the city has been entirely destroyed, residents who have chosen to remain inside Mosul as the conflict continues, are left without easy access to water or food. Photo by Alexandra Rose Howland. Courtesy of the artist.

A federal police soldier takes rest and sifts through Facebook while his unit holds the line on the outskirts of Old City Mosul on April 7, 2017. Photo by Alexandra Rose Howland. Courtesy of the artist.

A view of the West Side of Mosul. The majority of Old City West Mosul remains in ruin nearly a year after Mosul was liberated from ISIS. Photo by Alexandra Rose Howland. Courtesy of the artist.

Howland doesn’t consider herself a formal photojournalist; instead, she uses photography as a tool to “translate a larger concept,” she explained. When she does take assignments—for the New York Times, Le Monde, and the Wall Street Journal, among others—her painter’s eye is always present. In her coverage of the Battle of Mosul, from 2016 to 2017, Howland wielded color and landscape as a narrative tool to show scenes seemingly more familiar within the gritty, recondite atmosphere of war.

“I have been very lucky to work with editors who hire me because I am looking to work in a different way, not in spite of it,” she said. “We are all eager to continuously redefine the visual language we are accustomed to, and the fact that’s possible is exciting.”

An expectant Bibi Aysha Valiallah clutches her belly while praying at the Zawiya Naqshbandi in Baccleuch, South Africa. Photo by Gulshan Khan. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“How Did Rifles With an American Stamp End Up in the Hands of African Poachers?” New York Times, December 2018

“Zimbabwe economic crisis drives cross-border cargo shuttles from South Africa,” Agence France Presse, March 2019

As a photojournalist who grew up in apartheid-era South Africa, Gulshan Khan has experienced when injustice is sanctioned by law. Khan’s first long-term documentary series turns the camera on her own Muslim community. “Apartheid divided us in so many ways, including putting us into reductive racial groups: Black, Colored, Indian,” she said. “We still have these stratified, ghettoized ideas of trying to understand each other through the oppressive lens of these different boxes.”

Birds scavenge from the waste at Robinson Deep landfill, Johannesburg’s largest landfill, on June 29, 2018. Photo by Gulshan Khan. Courtesy of the artist.

On June 2, 2018, clothing hangs on a washing line of a building called Bekezela (Patience), a former school that has since become the home to many informal waste collectors in Johannesburg. Photo by Gulshan Khan. Courtesy of the artist.

A “reclaimer” waste collector, sometimes called “silver surfers,” pulls his load of waste on a trolley into Mudimu Recycling, a buy-back center in Selby, Johannesburg, on June 27, 2018. Photo by Gulshan Khan. Courtesy of the artist.

A girl rides the carousel at the Sultan Bahu Fete in Johannesburg, South Africa. The Sultan Bahu Center is a Muslim community-based NPO that runs a home for vulnerable children, a drug rehabilitation centre, and specialized medical care. Photo by Gulshan Khan. Courtesy of the artist.

Residents stand on rooftops and use water supplied by the emergency services to subdue a fire in the informal settlement of Stjwetla in Alexandra Township, Johannesburg on March 05, 2019. Photo by Gulshan Khan. Courtesy of the artist.

A resident signals to others while using water to subdue a fire in the informal settlement of Stjwetla in Alexandra Township, Johannesburg on March 05, 2019. Photo by Gulshan Khan. Courtesy of the artist.

In less than three years, Khan’s work has been published by publications including Al Jazeera, El Pais, and the New York Times; and she became the first woman from Africa to be a stringer for Agence France Presse. Last year, her image of a woman at a pro-Palestinian demonstration in Johannesburg was named one of Time’s top 100 photos of the year.

Khan wants to see a greater shift in ethics in photography. “There is still a big difference in the way in which white people are photographed compared to black and brown people, and most people in the upper echelons of this industry still don’t even see it,” she said. “Consent by a person to be photographed is not enough, and often this is used as a justification to produce imagery that is disrespectful or compromising of the person’s dignity or safety.”

A portrait of Rubeilis in the Los Olivos neighborhood, on the outskirts of Cúcuta, Colombia, on May 11, 2018. Photo by Fabiola Ferrero. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“Hungry and Desperate, but Away From a Country in Chaos,” New York Times, April 2019

“‘Maman, hier j’ai rêvé que je mangeais,’” Le Monde, April 2019

Fabiola Ferrero explores stories of trauma and healing in her home country, Venezuela, amid its economic crisis. She balances assignments for Bloomberg News, NPR, and the New York Times with work that goes beyond traditional reporting. Her series “I Can’t Hear the Birds” combines her images with diary entries and archival family photographs of those who have fled their homes. Instead of addressing what is happening in the country, it asks the question: How is this affecting our souls?

Protesters look for protection from tear gas and rubber during a confrontation with the National Guard on April 6, 2017 in Caracas, Venezuela. Photo by Fabiola Ferrero. Courtesy of the artist.

A young protester waits for the water cannon to come to him during an opposition demonstration in Caracas, Venezuela, on April 6, 2017. Photo by Fabiola Ferrero. Courtesy of the artist.

Kids bathe in a public fountain on March 11, 2019, during a nationwide blackout that left the capital with no water service. Photo by Fabiola Ferrero. Courtesy of the artist.

Johanna Codallo poses for a portrait with her daughter inside her home in Petare, Caracas, on March 20, 2019. Photo by Fabiola Ferrero. Courtesy of the artist.

People bathe in the contaminated Guaire River, in Caracas, Venezuela, on March 11, 2019. Photo by Fabiola Ferrero. Courtesy of the artist.

Oriana Mavarez (center), her mother, and other Venezuelan migrants in “The Parking Lot,” their home for two years, in Riohacha, Colombia, on April 2, 2019. Photo by Fabiola Ferrero. Courtesy of the artist.

Ferrero grew up in violent unrest and revolution. “It has become my responsibility to document it,” she said. She has begun covering other Latin American countries, too, such as coca farmers in Colombia. There, she asked children to draw something that represents their lives, and a seven-year-old girl drew a landmine.

“War can be subtle like that, too,” Ferrero said. “It is not just the bullets; it is people adapting to a hostile reality that eventually becomes normal.”

Ferrero, who is a Magnum Foundation fellow, said that selective empathy is one of the biggest challenges in journalism today. She asked, “How can we make an audience engage with a reality different from theirs?”

Briana at the beauty contest “Miss Arcoiris,” an organization that advocates for LGBTQ+ rights in Honduras. Photo by Francesca Volpi. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“The Vatican Is Talking About Clerical Abuse, but Italy Isn’t. Here’s Why.” New York Times, February 2019

“Italy Allows Illegal Homes to Be Rebuilt, Earthquake Zone or Not,” Wall Street Journal, March 2019

Whether she’s covering the war in eastern Ukraine or the struggles of the LGBTQ community in Honduras, Francesca Volpi likes to focus on the stories of people who aren’t covered by major media outlets. “I think it is a great moment historically to challenge the status quo and talk about gender identity,” she said, “as well as help people to see how environmental issues affect the world’s population.”

Shantal, who is transgender, gets ready for a beauty contest in San Antonio de Cortez, Honduras. Photo by Francesca Volpi. Courtesy of the artist.

Sharpey at a beauty contest in Tegucigalpa, Honduras. Though the country has pride parades and beauty contests for the LGBTQ+ community, it is still a dangerous climate for them to live in. Photo by Francesca Volpi. Courtesy of the artist.

A member of the audience is kissed during a beauty contest in the Dubai Discotec in Tegucigalpa, Honduras. Photo by Francesca Volpi. Courtesy of the artist.

Darwin mourns the death of his brother at his funeral. Photo by Francesca Volpi. Courtesy of the artist.

A woman in Maidan square in central Kiev during the Ukranian revolution on February 18, 2014. A fire broke out in the Trade Union House, protester’s headquarters, and first-aid station. Photo by Francesca Volpi. Courtesy of the artist.

A woman holds a photo of her husband, who was killed during a sniper attack, on February 18, 2014 in Maidan Square, Kiev, during the 2014 Ukrainian revolution. Photo by Francesca Volpi. Courtesy of the artist.

Volpi has been working as a photojournalist since 2013, and she admits that the industry is tough. She has survived in large part because of grants and fellowships from nonprofits and NGOs, including the International Women’s Media Foundation, Women Photograph, and Women Equality Center, all of which have funded her projects in Honduras.

Volpi is almost constantly on the move, chasing assignments from Egypt and Mexico to the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Lately, she’s been particularly interested in showing the ways that violence and abuse leave mental scars on survivors. “It think it is important to see what other people go through to make us understand how important is to be united and supportive with each other rather than divided,” she said.

A view of a school window blocked with sandbags to protect from shelling in Verkhnyotoretske, Donetsk, Ukraine, on November 28, 2016. Photo by Anastasia Vlasova. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“This is what it’s like to live through freezing winter in a war zone,” United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, January 2019

“Women on the Front Line,” International Committee of the Red Cross, March 2018

In 2014, when Anastasia Vlasova was just 21 years old, she began covering the Ukranian revolution that ousted President Viktor Yanukovych. Since then, she has covered the Russian annexation of Crimea and the effects of conflict. She chooses to focus on the lives of people instead of war images. “My photography is about quiet and unspoken sorrows and joys of individuals and communities on the front line,” she said.

Anastasia Sarancha hugs Yana Kapusta, a Ukrainian soldier who serves in the area, before the prom in Shchastya, Luhansk, Ukraine, on June 24, 2017. Photo by Anastasia Vlasova. Courtesy of the artist.

Classmates Ilya Gudzovatiy and Ilya Shlykov, decorate the school’s assembly hall in Shchastya, Luhansk, Ukraine, on May 31, 2017. Shchastya translates to “happiness.” Photo by Anastasia Vlasova. Courtesy of the artist.

Students at the school year opening ceremony at School No. 23 in Velyka Verhunka, a suburb of the self-proclaimed Luhansk People's Republic, on September 1, 2017. Photo by Anastasia Vlasova. Courtesy of the artist.

A woman sits on a bus after evacuating the embattled town of Debaltseve, Donetsk, Ukraine. Photo by Anastasia Vlasova. Courtesy of the artist.

Yulia Novomlynets,18, waits in line to receive humanitarian aid in Mironovka village’s Palace of Culture, which is being used as a bomb shelter, near Debaltseve, Ukraine.Photo by Anastasia Vlasova. Courtesy of the artist.

Relatives attend the funeral ceremony of 11-year old Artem Lytkin, who was killed from shelling in Debaltseve, Donetsk Oblast, Ukraine, on January 19, 2015. Photo by Anastasia Vlasova. Courtesy of the artist.

Vlasova—who was a Magnum fellow in 2015 and has shot for Newsweek, Spiegel Online, NBC News, and The Guardian—finds that visual storytelling can be more powerful than text journalism. “Ideally, it strikes you and stays with you, while words can be lost in translation and interpretation,” she commented.

Vlasova believes that photojournalism boundaries are blurring, and that photographers can choose to be more than a fly on the wall and begin interacting with the people they photograph. She cautions against those who don’t take the ethics of their profession seriously.

“As a war photographer myself, I always keep in mind that I will leave the area, but the people I photograph will stay, and the choices I make can influence [their] lives,” she said.

Noor, a Rohingya refugee, was gang-raped by soldiers in Myanmar. Photo by Rebecca Conway for the New York Times . Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments: “When a Baby Is an Everyday Reminder of Rohingya Horror,” New York Times, July 2018“Investors Are in Retreat, and the Poorest Countries Are Paying for It,” New York Times, December 2018

Before Rebecca Conway was a visual journalist, she was a writer, and then a photo editor. She believes that images have an immediacy that other mediums do not. Learning how to take photographs required a steep learning curve; Conway was helped by advice and guidance from fellow photo editors and photographers.

A pregnant 20-year-old woman receives a checkup at a maternity clinic in the Kutupalong refugee camp in Bangladesh. Photo by Rebecca Conway for the New York Times. Courtesy of the artist.

The Kutupalong refugee camp in Bangladesh. Photo by Rebecca Conway for the New York Times. Courtesy of the artist.

A Pakistani labourer rides a bicycle through a brick factory on the outskirts of Islamabad. Photo by Rebecca Conway. Courtesy of the artist.

Pakistani labourers prepare to start work at a brick factory on the outskirts of Islamabad. Photo by Rebecca Conway. Courtesy of the artist.

A Pakistani labourer is silhouetted as he walks across the top of a kiln at a brick factory on the outskirts of Rawalpindi. Photo by Rebecca Conway. Courtesy of the artist.

Within a short amount of time, Conway was shooting stories for the New York Times, The Guardian, and Reuters, among other outlets. In particular, she has a talent for connecting with her subjects—whether they are Rohingya women who are victims of rape, or bonded laborers working in brick factories in Pakistan. Conway especially appreciates the opportunity to spend time with her subjects when she is on assignment. “People often invite journalists into their homes and their lives despite personal risk, and that’s something I always try to remember—that we’re trusted to tell people’s stories respectfully and accurately, without putting them at risk,” she said.

Conway is particularly interested in the stories of those whose lives remain invisible to many. “We’re living in increasingly polarized societies, and the gap between those who live in safety and security and those who don’t is terrifyingly wide,” she said.

Bianca Castillo cradles her newborn son, Eliseo, on March 21, 2018 in Fort Worth, Texas. Behind her hangs a photo blanket of Ama holding her other great-grandson, Jack, when he was a newborn. Photo by Desiree Rios. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

“‘I Had Finally Found the Right Place for My Son,’” New York Times, March 2019

“The Cities Where The Cops See No Hate,” BuzzFeed News, December 2018

Desiree Rios is deeply suspicious of the long-held notion that photojournalists must keep themselves at a distance in order to remain objective. Instead, she believes that connecting with subjects brings out a more truthful—and compassionate—story. “I try to approach storytelling by listening and understanding the people I photograph before picking up the camera,” she said.

Ama poses for a portrait shortly after receiving ashes at her church on Ash Wednesday in Fort Worth, Texas, on March 6, 2019. Photo by Desiree Rios. Courtesy of the artist.

A framed picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Ama’s living room in Fort Worth, Texas, on March 14, 2019. Photo by Desiree Rios. Courtesy of the artist.

Eliseo sleeps in Ama’s bed on Easter Sunday on April 1, 2018 in Fort Worth, Texas. Photo by Desiree Rios. Courtesy of the artist.

Ama holds Isabella’s hand post appendectomy surgery on March 29, 2017 in Fort Worth, Texas. Photo by Desiree Rios. Courtesy of the artist.

Zabrina Contreras braids her daughter Isabella’s hair in Ama’s room on March 23, 2019 in Fort Worth, Texas. Photo by Desiree Rios. Courtesy of the artist.

While covering the aftermath of the Coyote Creek flood in San Jose, California, in 2017, Rios got to know Julia Mata, a woman who lost her rent-controlled apartment after it was damaged. Rios photographed Mata as she moved from a hotel to temporary housing, all the while being treated as a member of her family. “I would not have had that access or trust if I wasn’t who I am as a Latinx woman,” Rios said.

Rios has only been working as a full-time photojournalist since 2018, but in that short time, she has contributed to the New York Times, CNN, and The Guardian, among other outlets.

She credits her success, in part, to the Women Photograph Mentorship Program, which has connected her with editors and seasoned photographers committed to amplifying female voices in the industry. “In order to decolonize the lens and reclaim narratives, we need more representation,” she said.

Nirma, 16, plays with her friends and cousins in Shravasti, Uttar Pradesh, India. Nirma is married to Rakesh from a nearby village. Photo by Saumya Khandelwal. Courtesy of the artist.

Recent assignments:

Dalai Lama and the Tibetan community in exile, National Geographic, upcoming

“The City of My Birth in India Is Becoming a Climate Casualty. It Didn’t Have to Be.” New York Times, July 2018

Born and raised in Uttar Pradesh, India (where the Taj Mahal is located), Saumya Khandelwal almost never sees her home accurately represented by Western photographers. “The nuances of cultures are hard to achieve, and it’s very easy to get stuck in the colors and depictions of the region,” Khandelwal said.

Sheela and Sanju Sonkar show their tattoos, symbolic of their marital status, in Shravasti, Uttar Pradesh, India. Some girls are not accepted in their husbands’ homes if they don't agree to be tattooed. Photo by Saumya Khandelwal. Courtesy of the artist.

Children participate in a school activity in Shravasti, Uttar Pradesh, India. On the wall is painted, “Education is the essential of life.” Photo by Saumya Khandelwal. Courtesy of the artist.

Muskaan, 14, is dressed up by family and friends on her wedding day. She discontinued her school when her wedding date was set because her father thought it wasn't appropriate for her to attend school anymore. Photo by Saumya Khandelwal. Courtesy of the artist.

As part of the ceremonies, Muskaan, 14, walks around the fire followed by the groom, Raju, on their wedding day. One in four girls in Shravasti, India, is married before she turns 18 years of age. Photo by Saumya Khandelwal. Courtesy of the artist.

Anjani, 16, sits in a corner of her husband's house during the Gauna ceremony. In this part of India, a bride does not start living with her husband right after marriage. Photo by Saumya Khandelwal. Courtesy of the artist.

On average women in Shravasti, India, have at least 5 children during their lifetimes. Photo by Saumya Khandelwal. Courtesy of the artist.

Khandelwal brings nuance to her own work, turning her lens on child brides in Shravasti—an ancient city in her home state—and on the polluted banks of the Yamuna River in New Delhi. She has received multiple accolades, including the Getty Images Instagram grant and the National Foundation for India Award, both in 2017, and she participated in the World Press Photo 6x6 Global Talent Program in 2019. She has been published by the New York Times, Vanity Fair, and Bloomberg Businessweek.

When Khandelwal first started working as a photojournalist in 2014, she found herself in a boat on the Yamuna surrounded by hundreds of migrating Siberian birds. “I was stunned by the view and did not know how to respond—whether I should shoot, or just experience,” she said. “I chose the latter. I realized that I did not want to stop experiencing the world because of my photography.”

from Artsy News

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meraenthusiast · 4 years ago

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Secrets To Raising Your Money Savvy Family

[Editor’s note: Today’s guest post comes from Doug Nordman. He retired from the U.S. Navy’s submarine force in 2002 at the age of 41. He and his spouse, a retired Navy Reservist, reached their financial independence on a high savings rate. Doug wrote the book “The Military Guide To Financial Independence And Retirement.” He and their daughter Carol Pittner wrote “Raising Your Money-Savvy Family For Next Generation Financial Independence” and published it with ChooseFI Media.]

Take it away Doug….

*********************************************************

Financial Independence

“How did you raise your daughter to reach her own financial independence (FI)?”

I started hearing that question from my audience over three years ago.

I speak about financial independence at conferences and meetups, both in person and online. I’m not a financial advisor, and our daughter can confirm that I’m certainly not an expert on child development or parenting.

However Carol has been hearing about FI for her entire life, and she was nine years old when I stopped working for paychecks. She’s keenly aware of the benefits of the FI lifestyle.

Today, the Internet is full of advice about paying off debt and saving for financial independence. Instead of being asked about savings rates or investing, I’ve heard from hundreds of parents who are concerned about motivating their kids to reach their own FI.

The problem is that their kids aren’t interested in saving or investing. They want to spend their money!

It turns out that kids have to learn to manage money before they’ll develop any motivation to save or invest it. They achieve this skill mostly by making mistakes with money. The bad news is that there are lots of mistakes.

The good news is that you can help them work through those mistakes with small amounts of money at home, instead of with thousands of dollars in their first 401(k)… or with tens of thousands of dollars of consumer debt.

You’re spending your hard-earned dollars to raise your kids anyway, and you can give them a tiny portion of it to manage on their own. The money wasted by a kid is a lot cheaper than letting them grow up to be financially ignorant adults.

David Owen says it best in his book “The First National Bank Of Dad”: kids think that parents are crazy about money.

Kids grow up watching their parents spend money, and they want to practice this adult skill too. Yet whenever a kid gets birthday money from Grandma, their parents try to convince them to “save it for college.” To a six-year-old, college is two lifetimes away– and who wants to save money for more school?!?

When kids encounter this ludicrous attitude, the only way they can control their money is to spend it as quickly as possible– before it’s confiscated by the parental authorities. Ha!

Money Conversation

In our family, we struggled to change that money conversation.

Two years ago, my spouse and I attended a CampFI meetup and then visited our daughter and son-in-law for a couple weeks. Over dinner (they’re excellent cooks), I mentioned that we’d had the questions (again!) about next-generation FI. We asked Carol about her money memories, and she lit up with stories.

Carol had plenty of kid memories about money. More interestingly, as a young adult she had a new perspective on those experiences and what they taught her.

By the end of dinner I was taking notes. By the end of dessert we had a book outline. A week later Carol had written most of three chapters and I was scrambling to hold up my end of the co-author deal. Six months later at another CampFI, the founders of ChooseFI asked us to sign up for their editing and publishing. You can find that book at your local public library, or ask your librarian to order it

Carol’s first clear money memory was her preschooler play with a toy cash register and its stacks of plastic coins. We found that toy at a garage sale because Carol was intensely interested in how we spent money at the grocery store. That’s probably because she wanted all the candy in the store, and our perpetual debate led to a few meltdowns.

Eventually (out of parental desperation) we negotiated an agreement for the grocery trips. We’d give her four quarters, and if she behaved then she could buy One Special Thing. (Even today we still pronounce it with capital letters.) If she didn’t behave, though, then she had to put away the money and try again on our next grocery trip.

Her behavior immediately improved, and that money talk changed our family relationship. Instead of fighting with us (exhausted) parents over spending money, she was full of questions about spending her money.

Grocery trips turned into teachable moments. We started giving Carol an allowance so that she could carry her own money to the grocery store for One Special Thing.

David Owen writes that parents have to brace themselves with a mental image of their kids waving flaming $20 bills like 4th of July sparklers.

While kids are wasting money by lighting it on fire (as if it grew on trees), they’re also learning what wasting it feels like.

It’s an opportunity for parents to guide the discussions about money feelings and choices and what the kid could do differently with the next flammable $20 bill.

We can help our kids understand those money feelings by sharing their joy at everything they could buy, and discussing their choices with an abundance mindset, and helping them with the transactions. We can also share their sad feelings when they’ve learned that the candy or toy didn’t live up to their expectations. How did they make that choice? What else could they try next time?

No lectures, and no judging. Parents can help their kids develop their internal money dialogue by talking them through the issues and brainstorming new ways to recover from the inevitable financial disappointments.

Our money conversations with Carol spread from the grocery store to garage sales and thrift stores. Instead of pushing for saving, though, we talked about what things cost and what she could buy. Carol got an allowance “for being a good member of the family”, although we parents really gave her the allowance for her chances to make choices.

In her mind, she had enough money to afford anything. As parents, we kept her allowance small enough that she couldn’t afford everything and had to make good choices. She had enough for One Special Thing but she had to save for the awesome stuff, and that led to more discussions about deferred gratification.

Putting Kids To Work

American consumerism runs rampant, and in our family it led to many teachable moments. Carol developed proficiency at her spending choices, and she was ready to learn to manage more money.

As she grew older, we parents finally had the opportunity to sneak in a few financial incentives to earn and save. How do you get more money for the awesome stuff? Why, you work for it.

There’s plenty of jobs to help with around the house, and we parents were always happy to pay a few dollars for good effort under our training and supervision. Before Carol could earn money at jobs, though, she had to finish her homework and do her chores. Neglecting chores meant losing privileges (because you’re not helping the family), but– even worse– it meant you couldn’t earn money at jobs.

The positive incentive of job money turned out to be much more powerful than the negative consequences of avoiding your chores.

Compound Interest

When Carol learned elementary-school math, we taught the miracle of compound interest. Kids struggle with percentages, but they understand “free money” very well.

Carol’s money was hers to spend or save however she wanted, but if she deposited her money with the Bank Of Carol then every dollar earned a penny of interest per month.

She could withdraw her money from the bank any time she wanted it, but the catch was that it only paid out at the end of the month.

She tested the bank’s policies and financial strength many times. Eventually she decided that she had outstanding customer service and she trusted our custody of her cash. We followed up with glowing monthly reports on her earnings and many more happy discussions about what she could do with her growing wealth.

Raising Your Money Savvy Family

By then a lot of it was wasted on toys. Wow, there were a lot of teachable moments from those years.

Behind the toy frenzy, though, we parents were establishing new financial incentives.

Every time Carol found a coupon for (healthy) food that we bought at the grocery store, she got half the savings. (Or she could find coupons to use for her One Special Thing.) If she packed a (healthy) lunch from home, then she could keep half of the money that we saved from school lunches. If she rode her bicycle to school then she kept half of the bus money. (But if she dawdled on school mornings and missed the bus, then she had to pay us to drive her to school.)

She could help us with menial jobs for the minimum wage– but if she agreed to let us train her to do those jobs on her own then she earned a higher wage.

For her ninth birthday, Carol got a real checking account from her local credit union. (She even got an ATM card– although today we’d use a debit card.) Balancing that checkbook led to many tears until we showed her how to track her spending in Quicken. The Bank Of Carol moved to online transfers and Quicken reports, too. By age 13 she was an authorized user on one of my credit cards (I never used it), and that was a powerful lesson on corporate financial marketing tactics.

We parents made our share of mistakes. In 2006 (the year before the iPhone) we didn’t see the point of “letting” her buy a cell phone, but later that year she turned 14 years old. She got her state work permit and a part-time job, and she bought her own darn cell phone with her own darn money. As we now know, that made it much easier for her to stay in the loop on her school group projects and study sessions.

Our parental financial incentives continue through her teen years and even college. If she was a good steward of the college fund, then after graduation there was profit-sharing. Her campus was full of entrepreneurs, and she learned from them.

Today Carol’s launched from the nest and she’s achieved orbital parameters. She and her spouse are on the cusp of their own financial independence. (They have a high savings rate!) Better yet, all of her money-savvy family skills are paying off for a very personal reason: they’re raising our baby granddaughter.

We can’t wait to see how they raise their money-savvy family for next-generation financial independence!

Want To Learn More?

[You can read more about the book at childFIRE.com. You can reach Carol through [email protected], and Doug at [email protected].

The post Secrets To Raising Your Money Savvy Family appeared first on Debt Free Dr..

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albanlakepublishing-blog · 7 years ago

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February Alban Lake Spotlight

Mike Morgan, Author

For our very first interview, we have Mr. Mike Morgan, a prolific and excellent author. He was kind enough to take time to answer our questions; but first, a quick bio for Mike:

Mike Morgan lives in Iowa with his wife, two children, and increasingly infirm cat. After careers in the UK, Japan, and Texas involving accountancy, freelance illustration, non-fiction writing, and teaching, Mike now does improbably complex things on computers for a living. When he's not worrying about the cat or tidying up his kids' toys, Mike gets overwrought about politics and attempts to write short stories. It's possible his two hobbies get muddled up from time to time. He has written for several publishers in the UK and the USA, with pieces in anthologies, comics, and magazines. Follow him on Twitter as @CultTVMike, where he posts about all things sci-fi. Oh, OK, it's mostly Doctor Who.

My website is: https://perpetualstateofmildpanic.wordpress.com/

My latest project is this month's Outposts of Beyond.

And on to the interview . . .

Q: When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

A: I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. I looked at book covers as a young child, maybe five or six, and thought, "I want my name on a book." When I got into comics with 2000AD and then Star Wars Weekly, this would be when I was 7, that desire spread to wanting to be in the credits boxes in comic books, too. Unfortunately, as I got older, it became apparent that selling work wasn't going to be as easy as I'd initially thought.

I tried for a sustained period in my twenties to break into comics, but never got anywhere. At one comics convention in Bristol, while hauling my portfolio around, I got chatting with Matt Brooker, who was brutally honest with me. "Look," he said, "There's nothing particularly wrong with the way you draw, but there just aren't any openings. We hire on maybe one or two new freelancers a year and they have some quirk. You draw well, but there's nothing unique. To develop that style, you need to put in thousands of hours of practice, and you're not going to get paid for that. You don't strike me as independently wealthy, so I doubt you can afford to do it for free. So..."

He was right. I was dirt poor. I got a job in accountancy, which I hated. But at least I could go back to affording food.

Later, after years of doing things I loathed, and then teaching for several years in Japan, I immigrated here to the U.S. Starting a new career in Texas, I worked for seven years as a technical writer and editor, which helped me fine-tune my knowledge of English grammar and punctuation and gave me first-hand insight into how hard it is to express complex ideas in plain, no-nonsense sentences. I got enough feedback to sink a fleet of Titanics and developed a tough skin to criticism. I also learned how important it was not to treat my fellow writers the way I was treated, and I became a mentor to some of the newer team members. Although the working environment was hostile, I did love the act of writing and I found joy in helping others improve their written work.

While all that was going on, I was continuing to put out one or two pieces of my own writing. Teaching in Japan gives you a lot of spare time, so I'd started floating a few things past publishers. Moving to Texas, I was determined to keep that up, but stuck in a car for three or four hours a day on a hellish commute, working tons of extra, unpaid hours, and starting a family didn't leave a lot of spare time. It was only with our move to Iowa, where I still am now, that I found a better work-life balance and was able to kick the writing into high gear. To my inordinate surprise, I discovered that publishers wanted to print my short stories. Not only that, but readers showed every sign of liking them. I was flabbergasted.

I look back now and I see my name on a book cover and my name in a comic book credits box and I'm glad I never completely gave in. One of my best friends, Kath, said this to me years ago and it stuck with me: "What I like about you, Mike, is that you keep on trying." I'm sure she's forgotten ever saying that to me, but I remembered, and I've tried to stay that way.

Q: What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

A: Oh, a 'quirk'! I have yet to develop one with my drawing, but with my writing...? Editors have often told me, in withering tones, that I over-write. You only have to glance at the length of this interview...

Also, as part of over-egging a box full of puddings in every story, I tend toward the proliferation of pleonasms. And uncalled-for alliteration.

If you catch me doing it, slap me.

Q: What do you like to do when you're not writing?

A: I watch lots of science fiction and read comics. I really enjoy reading stories to my two kids at bedtime, too. Honestly, with two young kids in the house, I spend a lot of time taking endless delight in everything they say and do. I try to carve out a few moments every day to remind my wife how much I appreciate her.

Q: How many books have you written? Which is your favorite?

A: I've had 10 short stories published professionally, with two more coming out in the next couple of months. A couple of those were my Titanville stories, which were published together in an e-book by Nomadic Delirium Press, getting me my first solo front-cover credit. I have a dozen more stories in slush piles as we speak, so one or two more will probably work their ways through to acceptance this year – that seems to be the typical ratio of stories sent to stories accepted.

I've also had a few stories in charity anthologies, and a couple of poems (one was about Star Trek and was printed by Iron Press in a collection sold throughout a major high-street chain of bookshops in the UK), a few non-fiction articles about the long-running BBC TV series Doctor Who in various tomes, and a comic strip script in the British small press comic Futurequake. Another comic script is being drawn now, as it happens, for Futurequake. We're hoping it'll be included in the Spring issue, but we'll see how that goes.

Oh, and I worked for a short while at an online word mill, putting out articles about sci-fi. You can find them at WhatCulture.com. They accumulated about three million page-views, I think.

Q: What inspires you to write?

A: I am drawn to the act of wrenching something into existence through the blunt application of imagination and willpower. I am compelled to create. For better or worse, you guys are on the receiving end of that compulsion.

When it comes down to deciding what I'm going to write about, I think there are some themes I keep returning to: the beauty in the world, the triumph of love and kindness over indifference and cruelty, the eternal fight against injustice, how any attempt to simplify the complexity of the real world down into stark black-and-white concepts will lead to hate and death...

Also, I love writing characters who are flat-out wrong. There's nothing more fun and more human than someone who is utterly convinced about the rightness of a cause, and that cause is based on an utter misunderstanding. Really, that type of thinking characterizes most of our species' history. People who are wrong deserve our sympathy, our help, our love, not our derision. Anyway, that's some entertaining stuff to write about.

One final thought – I don't want to be a downer but I do feel time pressing on me. Nothing like worrying I'll be dead in a few years to spur me to get some writing done.

Q: Do you set a plot or prefer going wherever an idea takes you?

A: I try to have a clear idea of what the story's about before I get too far down the rabbit hole of writing. Preferably, I have an end worked out as well, even if that ending changes by the time I get to it. Sometimes, I'll start the story with the end and work my way backward to the beginning. But there should always be a purpose to a story, even if that purpose is to have fun.

Every time I carve a tale out of the disorganized mess of my thoughts, the process seems different. One time, the whole story will spill out of me in a rush. Other times, I have to sit down and think through what I'm trying to express.

Every now and then, a neat idea will occur to me, but I can't find a way to get a coherent plot out of it. Then, a second, entirely different idea will come to me, and I find mashing the two disparate strands together into the same reality brings the whole thing into focus.

For example, someone having giant spiders in her home and not being bothered by them because they're not in any way dangerous is a neat mental image, but it's not a story in itself. But, add a second strand: imagine there's a neighbor whose job is to twist facts to meet political dogma and that neighbor comes into contact with those spiders... what happens? Does she believe the objective truth that they're completely safe to be around, or does she react with emotion and twist reality to meet that baseless viewpoint? After all, that's her job.

Boom – you have conflict. The wrong-headed, fact-denying neighbor suddenly at war with nice, harmless giant-sized arachnids. For no other reason than she can't see the truth in front of her face, which is a very common and very plausible failing. What's more, the story takes on a greater message: we shouldn't twist facts to meet our prejudices, no matter how tempted we'd be to do that if we were in the neighbor's shoes.

That's where A Spider Queen in Every Home came from, the mingling of two ideas that, on the face of it, can't coexist in a single narrative; but, they can, and that story was picked up and published in More Alternative Truths by B-Cubed Press.

Lastly, some publishers require that you pitch ideas. There, you have to submit a complete plot, along with character notes, up front. If a pitch is accepted, there's no scope for changing details along the way as you write the actual story. For all you know, by altering the agreed-upon tale without consultation, you might be encroaching upon territory occupied by another story in the same collection.

When fleshing out a pitch, it can feel like you're working while wearing a straightjacket. But it's an opportunity to find ways of making the piece as entertaining as possible without venturing beyond the plan you gave your word on. I've written a couple of stories based on pitches. Unto His Final Breath in Uffda Press's King of Ages: A King Arthur Anthology was created that way, and it garnered some nice reviews. I really like the world building I got to do in that short story.

Q: What types and forms of writing do you do? If you're also an editor, what is your niche?

A: I mostly write short stories these days, but I toy with novels. I do have a novel I'm working on (doesn't every writer?) - but, it's the short stories that sell. I am sneakily putting together various stories that work as elements within a greater whole, so that by the time they're all published you'll find they're a novel-length narrative printed in discrete parts across multiple publishers, books, and media. That's the idea, anyway.

For example, the Titanville stories stand alone as individual tales, but the intent is to have themes and sub-plots that build as time goes on, without requiring the reader to be familiar with every installment. The Age of Asmodeus stories have a similar approach; there's a history to that world, and each story explores a different sliver of it. As those stories go on, readers will see various characters moving in and out of segments of the series or they'll be referred to. Again, the readers won't need to read every story, but there'll be a sense of events moving forward for those who do.

With the tales featuring Professor Lazarus, the cumulative narrative will unfold using text-based stories and comic strips. Again, that's the hope. Futurequake, a British comic, has printed one story so far and has another one being drawn at the moment. With the short stories, I've had some luck; Flame Tree Publishing printed Fishing Expedition a while ago. I've written a couple more Lazarus stories since then that I'm waiting to hear back on, so we'll see how that goes.

But you were asking about types of writing. Occasionally, I have a poem published. More often, I'll get non-fiction pieces accepted. I contribute on a semi-regular basis to the range on media and culture put out by Watching Books. This year, they're printing a volume called You on Target about the Target series of Doctor Who novelizations, and I have two essays in that.

With editing, I offer my services to small presses who print my stories, with regards to proofreading or checking formatting. I'm always willing to help put out the best publication possible.

Q: What is your area(s) of subject matter expertise? How did you discover this niche? What intrigues you about it?

A: With living in Japan for several years, I found writing stories set there pretty easy. Not much research required! There's a story of mine being printed soon by you fine people at Alban Lake Press set in Japan. Kuro no Ken (The Back Sword) is slated for the next issue of Outposts of Beyond. The scenes in Ise City take place twenty minutes down the road from where I lived for three years, and the part in the vast cemetery—I've visited that cemetery and it really is that creepy. I love Japan. Those were some of the happiest years of my life.

Having said that, I lived for longer in Stoke-on-Trent in the UK, and that was the setting for Reverse Horror Story. Your fine company published that piece in Bloodbond just last year. I had way too much fun putting Stoke-themed jokes into that monster-mash-up. I guess, to answer your question, I'm an expert at shoe-horning places I've lived into my stories. I find having a deep knowledge of the settings makes them feel more authentic.

But, to be clear, I've never lived on the enormous asteroid Ceres, the setting of The Library of Ice in this month's Outposts of Beyond. I'd be willing to give it a try, though.

Being serious for a moment, I keep writing about people who are struggling because I've been through that. Want to be an expert on the poor? Try being unemployed for years on end, not having enough to eat and worrying about losing the room you're renting. That'll give you an understanding of what that life is like. Newsflash – it's really stressful and depressing.

Q: How do you balance your creative and work time?

A: I have yet to find any balance, but live in hope. I get the kids to bed in the evening and then try to write. Sometimes, I even succeed.

Q: Where have you been published? Upcoming publications? Awards and other accolades?

A: Other than the things I've already talked about, I'd like to mention Nomadic Delirium's Divided States series, which explores a post-USA North America. My contribution to this excellent range was The Wall Is Beautiful. I hope to finish a second story in this shared universe. I was also fortunate enough to have submissions accepted in their Martian Wave and Disharmony of the Spheres collections.

One other project I'm very proud to have participated in was Metasaga's Futuristica anthology. I had Something to Watch Over Us included in that amazing collection. I can't heap enough praise on that spectacular book; if you like science fiction, you need to own it.

As far as upcoming releases go, that I haven't already called attention to, I have a story called Buddy System accepted in Myriad Paradigm's upcoming Mind Candy anthology. The intent is for that book to be released in the next few months. I also have something in the editing pile with Red Ted Books, which should be advancing toward publication this year.

And, yes, it's a fanzine, but I like fanzines, I'm working with the wonderful people who put out the Doctor Who-themed Fannuals to see what they might want from me for their next volume. I'm so in love with the Fannual project; it's incredible fun. It's actually what I'm starting work on after finishing this interview.

Q: What are you working on now?

A: Well, Alban Lake announced they were going to do something with ghost stories, so, you know, I thought I'd try to submit to that. *Grins*

In the pipeline are more Age of Asmodeus tales, more Titanville, more Lazarus, more space opera antics, more of everything I'm obsessed with.

Q: Who are your favorite characters to write? How did they come into being, and what do you love - or loathe - about them?

A: I love writing about Professor Lazarus. She gives her life in every story, usually to save the world from some terrible fate. Then, next story, she's alive again, in a world that's transformed. It forces me to reinvent her and her milieu every time. And there's a point to all her deaths; it's leading to something.

She came into being because I thought, "Hah – killing the lead character every time would be funny." Then I thought, "What if it's the same lead character every time, and there's a reason she keeps coming back?" How does knowledge of her deaths affect her? Where, at a character level, does that propel the over-arching storyline?

Another fun character was Silas Smith in The Man Who Killed Computers (published in Disharmony of the Spheres). He's able to lie to computers and have them believe what he's saying. Once you realize how he's doing that, it's less amusing, because you also realize that he can manipulate the humans in the story. I love the ambiguity of his character. He tries so hard to convince everyone he's a hero—the story revolves around how others respond to his claims.

Q: Any advice you would like to give to aspiring writers?

A: If someone says you need to improve, he or she is probably right. Every writer needs to improve, every day. It's a process that never ends.

Don't take rejection personally. It's the work that sucks, not you.

Keep trying. Stories are only published if they're written and then submitted.

Realize that even after you've had a pile of stories published there will still be more defeats than victories. And that it's OK.

Anything else you’d like to add that I haven’t asked? For example, what would you like to see more of in your specific genre? In the publishing field?

We all like to get things for free. But—! Readers: try to pay for that fiction you're consuming. The more the publishers earn, the more they can pay the writers. The more the writers earn, the more they can write. It's a virtuous feedback loop. If you can't find good fiction out there, it's because you won't pay for it.

Or, you know, you haven't been to Alban Lake's store. There's lots of good writing there.

Once again, we’d like to thank Mr. Mike Morgan for his time and to thank all of you for supporting Alban Lake and all of these awesome authors and artists.

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lineatura · 7 years ago

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Issue #8: Lars Lerup

** **

Peter Koval: You said we tame objects by giving them names. It sounds like a little death.

Lars Lerup: Yes. When you sit on a chair, it dies. It becomes what its name denotes and you are just following the implied instructions: “sit on me.” In fact, the chair is behind you and you cannot see it. But when you step away and look at it, the object comes alive again. If you look beyond its name, you can suddenly see new potentials. Discoveries that rely heavily on formal mimetics. I call these "strange familiarities” – look alikes. In turn, suggesting hidden links between forms, their connotations and uses. The title of my future book that seems never to be completed is “The life and death of objects”.

PK: But it’s also a question of designing things, not only looking at them. You can create a tamed chair, but you can also design a chair with a crazy hijack inscribed into it.

LL: We should be willing to let objects take us away. However, design is the next step – then you actually animate the objects by some “artificial" mean. Obviously, if you can make use of at least some of its hidden dimensions and express them in a material way, you enter a very fertile territory for exploration. It belongs, of course, to the domain of designing but also the domain of using the objects. We are quite strictly programmed in our errands. Sometimes it is necessary to release ourselves from the demands of the world. This idea touches on developing a new respect for objects; speak to them. We have worked so long on liberating the individual. We now need to go further, following the forward-thinker Bruno Latour’s appeal to the liberation of nature, and scientists to be its spokespeople. In turn, the designer becomes a spokesperson for the hidden capabilities of objects and, of course, of form itself.

PK: I’m wondering about the possibility of “untaming” the objects. It seems to be connected with a specific kind of reflexivity. The chair isn’t looking at itself…

LL: (Laughs) Since I’m not particularly superstitious, you’re probably right! Of course. What happens when I suddenly see a ladder in an object that is not intended to be (used as) a ladder? If I already have had some experiences with ladders, they take me on a trip, a narrative journey. Remembering myself climbing up the ladder to pick olives from a tree in a small village near Rome. Things like that. But if you hadn’t any experience with a ladder before and you discover that you can walk up that object – as my son did when he played with it – then it’s a discovery. You discover something that literally extends you. Design is not just a “will to an object” but a discovery in form. With a bookcase that is also ladder, you can reach the books at the top that you thought were inaccessible before. In other words, the reflexivity points forward and backward.

PK: How do you discover, invent or design the strange objects?

LL: Well, what I’m going to say is only partially true. The built-in linearity of language is both fortunate and unfortunate: It works well for some purposes, but it just doesn’t represent the way the designer-mind works.

Let’s say I decide that I’m going to design a table. I immediately begin exploring “tableness”: What is a table? What is tableness? This can be used as a table, (editor’s note: Lars points to a soft sofa he is sitting on.) however, not as a very good table – it’s a little bit wobbly… But if you lay down to eat and drink like the Romans, skateboards are also tables! I guess that’s how it starts. Or maybe that’s just my post-rationalization of the creative process. Maybe it doesn’t start like that at all and I just sit there to let form take me away. Obviously there are certain forms that I might like more than others. By seeing my son’s skateboard, by observing all the toys the kids play with – the transformers! – suddenly there is a drawing and I’m discovering the surfboard in the drawing.

You know, back in the days when I was teaching at Berkeley, I studied design methodologies together with people like West Churchman and Horst Rittel. As a trained engineer – I really admire the engineering way of thinking even if I can’t call it mine – I discovered that all the methodologists were basically bent up people that wanted to be enslaved by the methods. While I really like the liberty of drawing itself – in practice rather than theory. So I’m nervous about suggesting that there is a methodology. (Unless you count Salvador Dali’s Paranoid-Critical Method, then I have one.) I would say there is one long tradition of working as a designer – and that’s sketching. Isn’t it peculiar that we are only now starting to be able to sketch on computers? Because engineers wrote the program! In the old days, you would draw, draw and draw on a transparent paper and draw over and over again. But I also know that I draw in my mind. Actually, I do a lot of drawing in my mind. It feels so real. It’s like I have a drawing board in front on my eyes and I’m drawing lines. And I’m quite surprised about the outcome of the objects that I’ve drawn in my mind, they are very precise…

For me a drawing is very liberating. I guess because it points back to me. I am distributed in the objects that I have made. My brain is in my hand. I understand myself as a designer who leaves traces of my thoughts out in the world. If people were interested in finding out, they would have trouble reconstructing my path, but they might discover the potential hiding in its form. But there’s no such message, not really. It’s not the intention. There is a material presence that occupies space. I literally put wheels on the object so that it can be moved – everything must move – life is always in motion and, therefore, so is discovery.

Yet, I like to find complexity in simple things. I’m not really interested in making overly complex forms but rather to find complexity in the assemblage itself. It’s nice to use simple forms – almost dumb – to hide complex content. The simplicity may slow us down and give us time to think. After all, designed objects are built thought.

PK: Your objects are very poetic, not only because of their seemingly simple formal language. There is a rupture in each of them.

LL: Leonard Cohen, the Canadian singer said: “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” Which is a beautiful proposition. You have to let the light get in and that’s why you cannot make closed objects. It goes back to the work by Umberto Eco, who I knew from the times I was involved with semiotics. Every time I met him, in Vienna, Rome, Florence and other places, he was always greeting me with: “Hey! How is architecture?” Anyhow, he wrote a book called “The open work" which has been very important for me. It says, when we build something we always have to leave the door half open. In form, openness is a built-in multi-variance – a generosity. Yet, form is by its very ambiguous nature always open, that is why it’s always kept in “the prison house of language.”

PK: Is there a line we should rather not follow?

LL: People who are rational or precise – like I think I am – we often tend to imprison ourselves. I always have to remind myself that I have to step out of the prison – the prison house of language (naming), of customs (this is how it’s used), or of history (this is how we have always done it)…

PK: What do we know about the things we don’t know?

LL: (Laughs) That’s a tough question! While I was serving in the Swedish navy, we had to dive in very dirty, polluted water in the Baltic. It felt like being almost blind down there. I developed severe claustrophobia at that time which is a very mysterious anxiety disorder. When it hits you, you know that it’s there, you know that you are incredibly scared, but you have no idea where it comes from. We tend to think that claustrophobia has to do with the closeness of the spaces around us, but even among psychologists a consensus doesn’t exist – some people think it’s probably something different, it may be a hidden trauma that is triggered… I’ve written a chapter in a new book (the Continuous City, 2017) about Pantheon in Rome which is, if you will, a story about phobia – agoraphobia, vertigo, claustrophobia, all embedded in the architecture. Through the strange muteness form it is the perfect locus of the unknown.

We all live in a topology. When we are born, we enter a topology that we are first not aware of. And we are living in that topology our whole lives. We cannot escape it. Now let’s go back to Bachelard. He says that we always can only see that part of the topology that we bring with us, that we know. We don’t see the unknown. But we know that it’s there. So what can we do about that? Well, we learn how to live with the fact that the topology is never going to be fully explored. Wherever we push on it, it’s going to move away. In other words, when we try to find its horizon, it will just always leave us with a distance.

PK: Do you have plans for the future?

LL: I’ve just finished a book project on the continuous city. “Life and death of objects” lingers. Fragments will probably appear in a catalogue for a future exhibit in Madrid. Recently I had a show of my drawings in London. I think I’m about to slow down with my writing while focusing more on drawing and painting. It would be really cool to see some of my “strange objects” being produced and used as furniture-of-thought!

Credits Interview and photo: Peter Koval Photographs of strange objects: © Frank White (http://www.fswphotography.com) English editor: Julie Anne Miranda Brobeck

Did you know that you can support Lineatura Magazine by buying the very original Lineatura notebooks? Get the same notebooks that all our interviewees use for their creative ideas and read more inspiring interviews in the future!

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mavwrekmarketing · 8 years ago

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Image copyright Getty Images

As the survivors of Grenfell Tower will be finding out, rebuilding your life when you’ve lost everything takes a while. After the initial shock wears off, and you’re left with nothing – literally nothing – what do you do?

There are both practical and emotional hurdles to overcome. Three people to whom it has happened have spoken to the BBC.

Maria De Vita

Image caption Maria De Vita’s neighbour died in the fire

When Maria De Vita heard glass smashing at her home in Princes Risborough, Buckinghamshire, she thought it was someone outside doing a spot of late-night recycling. She later discovered it was one of next door’s windows exploding in a fire in which her neighbour died.

Ms De Vita woke her two young daughters and they left the house with nothing. The girls even had to go to school the next day dressed only in their pyjamas.

“The school was so kind, they gave them some spare bits of uniform,” says Ms De Vita, who did not have any contents insurance.

“Everything has gone. Just gone. We’ll have to start from the beginning again.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m very appreciative of the fact we’re all here and alive. But dealing with the aftermath is horrendous.

“We stayed with various friends for a bit, and now I’ve got housing benefit and we’re in a B&B 40 miles away from our hometown. It would take the kids four hours each way to get to school, so they’re not going at the moment.

“We’re staying in a quite a rough area and my kids were threatened when I took them to the park, so we don’t want to go out. They’ve both been affected. They’re clingy, and we can’t talk about the fire as it upsets them so much. They have taken to calling it ‘erif’ – which is ‘fire’ backwards – and can’t speak the word fire aloud.

“I suppose we’re managing because we have no choice, but to be honest, we’re struggling. We will make it but I can’t yet see the light at the end of the tunnel.

“People have been so generous – one lady offered me a sofa – but because we don’t have anywhere to live I have to turn down offers of help.

“On the one hand, it’s restored my faith in humanity, but then I have to reject their kindness.

“All I want is to go home.”

Psychological Analysis

Image copyright Getty Images

Our homes and belongings tell the story of who we are, where we’ve been, and the people we love.

Research into the psychology of ownership has shown that we come to see our possessions as extensions of ourselves. We place more value in something just as soon as we own it, and at a neural level, when we think about our stuff, the same regions light up in our brains as when we think about ourselves.

Although it may seem trivial to worry about physical objects in the context of such a tragic loss of human life, when disaster survivors lose their homes and belongings, they often experience a profound sense of personal bereavement, as if a part of their “selves”, their identity, their story, has gone forever.

This is especially likely to be the case for any possessions that have come to be imbued with personal meaning, such as gifts received from loved ones, items acquired on cherished holidays, or family heirlooms.

Indeed, part of the reason that many of our things mean so much to us is that we think about them in an almost magical way – for instance a gift from a loved one may feel as if it is imbued with the essence of that person, such that a physical replica would be no substitute.

This magical thinking may also apply to the home itself, especially if it is filled with poignant memories of family events that have taken place there.

Dr Christian Jarrett, editor of the British Psychological Society’s Research Digest

Michelle Drew

Image copyright Michelle Drew

Michelle Drew’s home in Bath went up in flames in May. She was in her house with her three children when a fire started in her autistic son’s sensory tent. The fire spread to the nearby sofa and blind, across the living room and eventually the whole house.

She and the children all escaped the fire without physical injury but lost all of their possessions.

“We just had the clothes were were standing in,” Mrs Drew says. “We didn’t even have shoes on. I just stood outside the house and watched the fire go up through the roof.

“We were without anything. We lost our home. We had nowhere to live.”

Fortunately, the family had insurance, but until some money was released, they made do with what other people gave them and lived with friends and family.

Valuables such as jewellery and her husband’s extensive film collection were destroyed, along with sentimental items including a hospital scan of a pregnancy that ended in miscarriage.

But the main impact has been on the children.

Media playback is unsupported on your device

Media captionWatch: Michelle Drew returned to the scene of the fire

“With autism, routine and ritual is so important. My son really had problems dealing with any changes. I mean, he couldn’t cope with having a new pair of shoes and here we were telling him he’s got a new house and all of his clothes and toys are gone. He’s really feeling the effects of it – it’s chaos.

“We’re in a new home now but he’s still suffering – he’s badly behaved, has sensory problems and is really destructive. But everyone’s been really great, his school has been really helpful.

“My youngest daughter has hypermobility syndrome and has difficulty getting about – and someone gave us a pushchair. My other daughter needed asthma medication and the head teacher of her school came and opened up especially so we could get the medicine from the supply she keeps at school.”

Mrs Drew says it took a couple of weeks for the impact to hit her: “The reality of what could have happened is terrifying. I’m just grateful my kids are alive.”

Does she have any advice for people who may find themselves in a similar situation?

“Surround yourself with people who care about you. Concentrate on what you’ve got. Try not to think of what you’ve lost, no good will come of that.

“But you know, the thing that will stick with me is the kindness we experienced. Everyone was fantastic. People went out of their way to help, not just on the day it happened but for weeks afterwards.”

Martin Sigston

Image copyright Getty Images

Image caption People should donate practical items such as toiletries and rucksacks, suggests Martin Sigston

Martin Sigston lost all of his belongings in a fire just before Christmas in 2001.

“There was shock and horror and emptiness. When you see your home on fire it’s partly panic but at the same time you know you can’t do anything.”

When the Grenfell Tower fire happened, he was moved to post some advice on his Facebook page, letting people know the best ways they could help survivors.

Speaking from experience, Mr Sigston pointed out that the things people need are not always obvious.

“It’s a daily grind. You’re trying to organise yourself and you don’t even have basic things like a pen and paper. And you need something to carry it in.

“And there are things you’ve lost that you don’t remember until you need them, and it all really adds up. It sounds silly and petty, but even things like ink cartridges for printers need to be replaced.

“I was insured, but it was still a nightmare. Very difficult. Some of my friends said it could be exciting and a new start. I remember standing in the middle of Ikea and just being too drained, I didn’t know where to begin.

“The thing is, I didn’t want new furniture or a big TV. I just wanted my own stuff.

“It’s like being bereaved. You don’t actually get over it but you learn to live with it. It’s a long slog, but it does get easier.

“If anyone was in my position I’d say: ‘Just let it go, It’s gone.

“It’s really tough but you’ll get there’.”

Image copyright Martin Sigston