Melodies at Browdis Place

He sits outside a neighborhood furniture shop, Browdis Place (owned by his friend, Browdis), playing his keyboard, singing lounge-type melodies to the traffic skirting by and helping out whenever there are customers. Walter is from New Jersey (where he received an associate's degree in music) and has been living in Miami for 20 years. He spoke about his daughter with a father's pride and love, a daughter who graduated from Rutgers University with a criminal justice degree.

"I play the music in front of the store because it attracts the customers." He's laid-back, comfortable, parked in front of his keyboard, work gloves shoved in his back pocket, singing and playing, seeming only to use the music pages as reference or inspiration.

He's there all the time, singing and playing, or simply helping out at Browdis Place.

Janice

South Beach, February 2010


The day was warming up in South Beach. It was a pleasant 70 degrees with blue skies. I saw her from a distance, sitting on the grass across from the beach, taking off a sweater. I thought to myself: perhaps she is waiting for someone, or perhaps she is a local, taking a break from her day. As I walked nearer to her, she turned to lay on her belly, completely unaware that I had spotted her from a distance. As I approached, I wondered if I would be disturbing her, but I said hello and asked her name. She looked up at me and simply said, "Janice." I asked her where she was from - she did not answer. I asked if I could take her picture - "Yes." She lifted herself to her elbows to reveal her breasts, fallen out of her low-cut swimsuit top.

She reached in her bag then looked down at her exposed chest. I turned away to give her privacy. A moment later I turned around, and she was standing next to me. I discovered what she was rummaging for: flip flops, proper beach attire. I asked again where she was from - Miami? Miami Beach? She said something, but I did not understand. Then she told me about her bathing suit. She told me she liked them low-cut and modeled it for me, holding back her button-up, striped shirt so that I could have a better look.

She asked where I wanted to take her photo, and I asked if we could talk as well. She agreed but said to take the photo first and then talk. Her breast was still out of her low-cut, black swimsuit, which seemed a bit small for her. I gestured that she cover herself, noticing the pedestrians as they passed by. She looked down and pulled her shirt closed, but quickly let it go again.

She suggested that we go over to the phone booth, so she could pose for me there and that she could act like she was talking on the phone. She wanted to model - this was South Beach. I reminded her to cover herself again, looking around to see another pedestrian or two approaching. She pulled her shirt closed then simply let it go again, so I mimed that she should tuck her breast into her swimsuit. She did, then followed with a fuchsia-colored flower to accessorize, commenting that it was pretty. The flower perfectly matched her nail-polish, and her fingernails were perfectly painted, immaculately trimmed. I noticed she had smooth, clear skin.

She picked up the phone and made her pose. I took her picture - twice. She asked me if I got my shot, and I told her I did. She came over to me, looked at my camera, and told me it was nice then patted me on the arm to say goodbye. We never got to have that conversation.

The Bright Side Lights My Way

Design District Neighborhood, April 2010


Foxy is a licensed cosmetologist, who cannot find work in any salon: "These people don't want it done the right way anymore. They want it quick…"


From the moment I announced myself, she jumped into conversation with me. (Carmen, a neighbor, tells Foxy to tell me about her house being on a slant): "She don't need me to tell her that. She can see that herself when she looks at it."

Foxy is from Jamaica. (How long since she's been there?) "Not long enough!" She laughs and jokes that they don't want her back. She's Americanized.

(She tells me things, private things.) "I had everything done to me. I had a mastectomy, a hysterectomy…"

She paces back and forth on her tiny front porch, telling me about the owner who won't fix the problems with these homes: "He only cares about money."

She paces as she tells me about the building inspector who placates them with words, yet does nothing. She tells me about not being able to get food stamps because she refuses to declare herself as homeless - she has a roof, after all, even if it's attached to a house that's sinking on one side. She continues to pace, waving her arms in irritation, seeming to be relieved to get it all off her chest to someone who isn't a neighbor, who isn't the owner, who isn't a building inspector.

"Cars drive by and the people just see that our houses are shabby. They just see what they look like on the outside, but they don't see what they look like on the inside. They don't see that they're clean on the inside. I keep my house clean. We all - all of us on this street - keep our homes clean on the inside. But they can't see that when they drive by." She took me on a tour of her tiny home to prove it.

Her 3.5 room house had no hallway. Each room was connected to the next by a central doorway, with the bedroom in the middle, and the kitchen in the back. She had a large, cozy-looking, king-sized bed adorned with a massive bed frame, a thick comforter, and decorative pillows: "Let me tell you something. I'm 61 years old, and I've always had a comfortable bed. You always have to have a comfortable bed, no matter where you live. You need a comfortable place to rest your body."

(She sleeps in her bed alone.) "I live alone because I don't want a man to take advantage of me. I had a mastectomy (she tells me again, clinching her breasts). That's also why I don't have a man. I don't want them to feel sorry for me."

Foxy does what she can to get work, and she reminds me that she keeps her house clean. It is clean. And she has a roof over her head, and a tiled floor beneath her feet, even though it's slanted. It's her floor, and it's her roof, and though she wishes they were in better condition, she is thankful for having them both, and she keeps her house clean to show it.

Whipping in the Wind

Miami Beach, April 2010


From a great distance I saw a man unraveling something from the top of his head, whipping it so that the rope-like objects caught in the wind like tails of an elaborate kite. Something told me that it was his hair, but it just didn't seem possible; I had to take a closer look.

His name was Lucas, and when I asked to take his picture, he picked up his locks, holding them in his hands like a pet boa. He then dropped his thick, black ropes of hair from his arms, and they fell like bungees, sweeping the sand floor. I looked down at this and fleetingly thought: Ah, but he's getting sand in his hair!

He was working to put away the beach equipment from the day, so I was not really able to talk with him. He paused to tell me that it took him 26 years to grow to this length. I wish I could have learned more, but he was too busy. At least he allowed me those few moments to admire such fascinating ropes of hair.

Stalking with Purpose

Fashion District, March 2010

 

I was in my car just entering the Fashion District when, rubbernecking, I spotted one of them in bright red pants. I made haste to find a parking spot and then took to stalking them both. I stood outside a storefront, half a block away, waiting for them to head towards me. I watched as they lingered about a clothing shop, chatting it up with a friend. They were quite the social beings, and it seemed they knew everyone on that block of the District. I assumed they would continue their social stroll in my direction, so I patiently waited for them to finish their conversation, passing the time with the Black Eyed Peas in my earphones.

When they looked as if they were wrapping it up, I assumed a pose of nonchalance and looked off in another direction, lest they catch me watching them. A few moments later when I figured it was safe to look up, I saw them jetting off in the opposite direction to my dismay. Without hesitation I set off at a Summer Olympic-contender speed-walking pace, chasing them up the Fashion District sidewalk (with my earphone musical score accompaniment), before they were out of my life forever…

Their names were Rob and Travis, both from Jamaica. Rob had not been home since 2006 and Travis since 2008. They recently opened a Bob Marley-themed store in Naranja (near Homestead, FL), called Revelation Flee Market, where they sell beads and necklaces, Bob Markey shirts and cds, African dvds, and clothes.

"Big up, Urban Street." That's what one of them said into my phone recorder. These guys were fun (even though I couldn't understand half of what they said, and sometimes I wasn't sure if they were talking to me or to each other). These two were definitely into the shoot. When I spotted them, they had the air and swagger of two dudes hungering for an audience, which is why I staked them out for so long.

Travis told me he was a "gu-liss." I couldn't quite figure out what he was saying through his thick Jamaican accent, but then he explained what it meant, and it all became clear: "I'm a girl-ist. It means I like girls." So, girls were his trade, his occupation; he let out a chuckle at his own joke. I tried not to let him see my eyes rolling as I let out a sarcastic giggle of my own.

After a short recorded interview, one of them said what I thought was, "Enough, enough," and our encounter was over. With their performance energy expended, limelight hunger quenched, they darted off to catch up with a friend, no doubt to regroup for their social plans for the night.

Impromptu

Washington Ave, South Beach, March 2010


He walked by me in a rush, talking on his cell phone. He did a double-take just before he crossed the street, looking back over his shoulder, a bit bewildered, to ask me if I was taking pictures of the building wall. I said, "Well, now that you ask, I'm actually taking pictures of people I meet when they walk by."

It had been months since I did a photo shoot for an actor's/model's portfolio. On some of those shoots I would see a random person and think something like, "Now that's a person I would love to put in front of my lens. Authentic. Gritty." Teavin was that sort of person with a cool, urban vibe, and this was my chance to put my theory to the test - that I could snag a "real person" and get them to be my subject and that the result would be very cool.

I felt as if he welcomed the chance to strut his own stuff on the streets of South Beach, where commercial photo shoots occur on any given day. When he agreed to participate, he said, "Okay, I'm gonna go change." He was carrying a plastic grocery-type bag flung over his shoulder, stuffed with a few shirts, a florescent green jacket (with a Haitian emblem on the back), and a baseball cap.

I actually did not want him to change. It would detract from the random person mystique. As he added layers of clothing out there in the hot 79 degree sun, I wasn't worried; I knew he would eventually change back.

I could tell he was loving it, loving the attention from my medium format, machine-of-a-camera focused only on him. However brief our shoot was, it was meant to be - this random encounter. After all, he was traveling with a wardrobe sack flung over his shoulder, just as he happened to walk past a photo shoot, set up, but in need of a subject.

(His name is Teavin, and he is from Haiti, and he now lives in South Beach. He has not been to Haiti to see any of his family in 10 years due to citizenship laws. He was able to call home after the earthquake, and all of his family there is alive and okay.)
 
 

A Series of Encounters

Wynwood District, May 2010


There is a vacant lot in the Wynwood District of Miami that I frequently drive past on my quests for my next encounter. The half asphalt, half grassy lot covers the full width of the block. Next to it is an old, l-shaped white building in which a Cuban sandwich shop is the only operating business. I was immediately seduced by this crumbling, gritty scene, when one day I saw an old man standing in this lot with a young boy, who I guessed to be his grandson. Even though that happened to be a day that I did not have my camera with me (because I was just leaving work), I nearly slammed on my breaks to soak in the marvelous scene, and I knew I would have to return another day.

…And return I did, in mid-May. I was excited when I saw the old man and the boy standing outside the sandwich shop again, this time with a woman and a girl. So, I practically dove head-first from my Jeep, medium-format camera in hand, so as not to miss this opportunity. Though the little boy was exceedingly adorable, I had my photographic sights set only on the old man.

His name is Pancho, and he is Cuban. He's lived in Miami for 30 years and speaks sparse English - about as much as I know Spanish. The woman who owns the shop is the mother of the two children. I originally assumed that Pancho was the grandfather and the woman his daughter for as familial as they all seemed (but more on that later).

Pancho seemed to be a bit ornery, muttering in Spanish, probably wondering why I was taking his picture and why the woman and her daughter were making him do it. Yet, he did it anyway and allowed me to take as many as I wished. I even dare say he cracked a half smile or two in the midst of it all. To save him the wonder, I counted down: "Dos mas," "uno mas," until I'd used the last of the roll.

As I thanked them all and started to leave, I didn't feel like I'd had my fill of that building and lot. I wasn't done with it…and I'm glad I listened to that little voice in my head that insisted I go back…

Three days later, during another excursionary drive about town, I once again found myself in the neighborhood of that old building, so I thought I'd drive by to see if anyone was there.

It was almost noon, and the sandwich shop was closed. Then, there I saw him, crossing the street, holding a shirt in his hand, apparently about to put it on. Although he was leaving, I just knew he would have to return, so I decided to wait. I made a u-turn to park in front of the building, and in doing so I stopped my Jeep to allow a small dog without a collar to cross the street, heading in the same direction that Pancho had just gone. It wasn't the busiest of main streets, but I still felt a twinge of worry for the little dog, who obviously must have been a stray. Relieved to see him make it safely across, I resumed the duties of my stakeout.

As anticipated, several minutes later I saw Pancho crossing the street again (in the same outfit of three days prior), walking with another man. The two of them paused in the middle of the street to allow the approaching cars to pass, and I saw Pancho turn to see the same collarless little dog in the middle of the street behind them. He bent down and grabbed the dog by the scruff of his neck, causing him to stand on his hind tip-toes. He held him like this until the cars passed, deli bag in one hand, dog in the other. When it was safe, they all crossed the street, landing safely onto the half gravel-strewn, half grassy lot, at which point Pancho began waving his arm demonstratively at the other man (in the same manner of expression as he did the day when the woman jocularly prompted him to pose for the camera) as if to say, "Ackh!" in response to whatever the man had said.

Then, as if cued by a director in a movie, I saw the woman and the two children walking towards the sandwich shop. I waited until she unlocked the back door and went in before I decided it was time to make my move. I announced my presence at the back door, and through limited Spanish and pantomime, I informed the woman that I was back to see if I could take more photos of Pancho.

While this was happening, Pancho and the man were sitting on some stools across the lot, under a lofty tree. The grassy field where they were lounging had accumulated with garbage and debris, most of which was piled off to the side against a chain-link fence. Their grassy domain was decorated with some wooden dining table chairs and bar stools, and a plastic bag full of clothes hanging from a tree branch. Upon seeing me and hearing the woman and girl's beckoning, Pancho placed his deli bag in a cooler (which also contained cans of cold beer), gesticulated and yelled something in Spanish, and then hastened over to us. I then gave him five bucks as a way to thank him for agreeing to participate twice, to which he smiled and gladly accepted. This day he was quite obliging to be photographed and even wanted to introduce me to the dog that I initially took for a stray. He kept saying, "Pooch-o!" calling to the dog, while gesturing to my camera.

I ended up staying there quite a while that day and also photographed the man who'd accompanied Pancho across the street…

I was satisfied that I would leave with some good exposures of Pancho, and it must have been evident that I was wrapping it up, because "the man" approached and spoke only the following sentence in English during our entire encounter: "You only take pictures of him?" He said it jokingly as he gestured to Pancho, arm stretched out, palm up. I knew I had plenty of rolls of film in my car, so I obliged his jovial request thinking, "Why not?!"

His name was Juan, and he was Pancho's friend. He suggested in Spanish that he sit on the benches, and he placed himself in his own poses and seemed quite comfortable doing so. From the moment he walked over to me, he was warm and friendly, and when he posed, he cocked his chin high up in the air as if to say, "What's up?!" to the camera or pending viewer.

Then, I met another man, who probably came out to inspect the source of the unfamiliar voice speaking in halting, toddler level Spanish. This third man spoke English, and as it turned out, it was a ripe day for encounters.

Daniel, 53 years old, is a Native American of the Apache Tribe (direct lineage through his father and grandfather) and has lived in Miami his entire life. He's been drawing since he was 16 years old and has several paintings, which he mounts on copper board.

As it turned out, Daniel was the official owner of the little dog, who I initially assumed to be a stray. Daniel took a couple pictures with his dog, after having chased him around the lot, but when "Pooch-o" (Pucho) decided he'd had enough, Daniel brought out one of his chalk pastel paintings of a woman he was interested in years ago. He told me that he painted her the way he felt about her at the time: he painted her like a goddess of serenity.

While Daniel was inside his house, searching for the painting of his past love, I decided to ask the girl about the three gents' situation. The girl told me that Pancho lived with Daniel in the house adjacent to the lot, which was in need of maintenance and manicure, and Juan lived in his own place.

There was a gap in the chain-link fence that Pucho always escaped through, there was debris in the field, and garbage piled against the fence, yet, the little, feisty dog, Pucho, seemed to enjoy his existence as much as they all did - together in the shade, nestled in their private domain.

Case in Point

Vizcaya Metrorail Station, January 2010


On the heels of last week's post, let's take my father-in-law, Nick, who visited Miami this past January.


Back home in Colorado, during a typical Sunday afternoon at Nick's house, my husband and his brothers would poke fun at him for various reasons that only an offspring can get away with, such as his style of dress. Yet, his clothes aren't old and ragged; he wears regular "guy" shirts, like from Old Navy. What brings on the good-humored mockery is the ensemble - his eclectic manner of dressing: Birkenstocks with wool socks, whilst wearing shorts revealing his "extra lean" legs…and speaking of socks, paired with every sandal or sneaker are the calf-length variety with the tops cut off, because he complains that the ribbing is too tight on his (extra lean) calves. He also wears perfectly good sweaters with the collar [jaggedly] cut off (and sometimes, cut down the middle to make his own "v" neck), and in the coldest weather, the shining jewel: his authentic moon boots, circa 1970 of which he is quite proud, with jeans, sweatpants, or Old Navy exercise pants stuffed into them. Definitely not a dapper dresser, yet in Boulder, he blends in. Transport him to his visit in Miami, and even I was stunned by how differently I viewed his appearance here. Place a man in one city, and he's perfectly normal; drop him in the middle of a city bedazzled by labels and image, and the residents think he's homeless.

I had a very interesting outing with him to a local, Whole Foods-style grocer's market. A lover of good, crunchy bread, he wandered around the store asking this employee or that where the bread was, and after being sent to the bread loaf isle, he asked another employee, describing exactly what he was looking for. The second employee sent him to another part of the market, and I could sense the uneasiness of the employees and shoppers by this ex-hippie (or is it hippie for life?) searching desperately for ciabatta bread, like a man who hadn't eaten a full meal for days. (In the end, he settled for buying the ingredients to make his own bread at our house - molto deliziosa!)

At a glance he was, perhaps, donned in the same fashion as one might see from a Miami man "without abode," but the good people of the market did not take a closer look to see that he was freshly showered and that his clothes were completely stainless. The looks of perplexity were quite obvious - and now even, rather absurd. Before that day, my husband and I told him that the people of Miami might mistake him for a homeless person. Perhaps after that outing, he began to understand what we'd been telling him, and I think at some point he probably just wanted to escape from this Oz and go back to his real world of Boulder, Colorado.

 
Here is the piece I wrote on him, shortly after that visit. I originally planned to use his story and likeness for my thesis project, but it has since taken on a different form, and so he no longer fits. So I share it here, instead:
 
Meet Nick. (Nicola as he now prefers it.)
 
I didn't have to interview him. I already knew him. He asked me what he should wear, what he should say, what he should do. I told him, "Just be you."
 
A retired architectural engineer. A tailor. A hippie. In Boulder he blends in. In Miami they think he's homeless.
 
He avoided the draft to 'Nam. They told him he was too thin.
 
He can punch a line from a song into any conversation. It's usually a blues song. The oldies. The goodies. Real Blues.
 
His laugh is infectious - unique. His pauses make you wonder: has he finished? Nope. Just thinking.
 
He is from Campobasso, Italy. He lived there until he was three. Moved to Canada and loved it there. Then moved to Detroit, and hated it there. "What was 7 mile in Detroit like?" "I wanted to go back to Canada. I cried to my mother everyday. Finally one day she said, 'We ain't goin' back.' And that was that." And she said it in Italian. She didn't speak English.

I asked him to tell me some stories. The real stories, ones I'd heard many times.

I asked him to talk about his friendship with Kanjuro Shibata, Sensei. The official bow maker to the Emperor of Japan. Nick had been a guest in Sensei's home. Nick had Sensei as a guest in his home. Sensei's yumi and ya are hanging in my home. A wedding gift.

"Tell me about the time you were sent to deliver a message to the Dalai Lama."

My father-in-law met the Dalai Lama.

Introduction

What is Scratch the Surface? When I first began this project, I wanted to express that judging others based on nothing more than a glance is absurd, pointless, and unfair. Stereotypes are nothing more than excuses to be socially lazy, yet I am not convinced that anyone - including myself - is guiltless of it. Scratch reminds me daily to pause a little longer, look a little deeper, and assume nothing. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then what is a refusal to make eye contact based on - fear? uncertainty? innocent nonchalance? or pure disregard for a fellow human?

How accurate can a dismissal based on circumstance actually be? The clothing shell does not define one’s thoughts, beliefs, hopes, or dreams, and I have learned in my life that anyone has the potential to surprise, regardless of how they are dressed, where they live, or what their situation in life is.

The purpose of this project is not to change anyone’s engrained habits, but I at least want to share that it is okay to voyage beyond those social dividers. The other side can be quite enriching. In my encounters, not only do I continue to be surprised by the people I meet, but I continue to enjoy my conversations with them as well.

Up next: Meet Nick. Stay Tuned...