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.