One night my American friend John Clifford, who owned the best bar in Cambrdige, took me into the middle of Boston to where the civic centre and other administrative buildings now stand. These buildings were built in the 1960s on top of the old tough working class district of Scully Square, where John and his brother were both born and raised.
John pointed out to me streets that no longer existed, telling me who had lived where and in which house. Who had died in Vietnam, who had worked for the mob, who had gone to prison or ended up in politics. When I interrupted his narrative to tell him how great it was that he was telling me the history of this place he spun around, gripped me by the throat and pushed me against the wall. With his raised fist clenched he said, “I don’t know nothing about no fucking history, I am telling you what happened.
I honestly believe that photography has never had the opportunity to do such important work, link us all, unify us all, as in the right now.
I don’t like TV, so I don’t own one, I don’t dig narcissism, so I don’t look at that work or swim in those streams.
Art school taught me a lot about the strata of class within art, I avoid it at all costs within photography.
I’m drawn to those that give a fuck, and make work with that as their fuel, and there are many, many editors, curators, bloggers and photographers that do.
The rest, still have not figured out that we all die, all they will leave are vacuous shadows, totems to the self, not much of a legacy, cause/effect.
To have, at our disposal, the internet, mass communication, coupled with the photographic story, such a blessing, such an opportunity, we are very, very lucky.”